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More Assignments from Creative writing:
A Painting
A crisp, white canvas sits before me, it’s emptiness a call. Do something with me, it seems to say. Create something with me. The light source above blazes down on I and the canvas, making the pure white of the blank sheet seen even more pure and bright. Not a smidgeon of dust of dust lay upon the canvas, nor a single small black smudge. Such things would possibly mar my soon-to-be painting, and I want perfection. It is, after all, for a special someone…
I look around, wondering if I can begin. Old newspapers adorn the soft carpeted floor around me, a safeguard against any spills. I have been known for being passionate during my painting, and the last time I was left unattended, the rug and carpet was finely bespattered with blotches of paint. My mother had quite a mess to clean up. A few stains still lingered here and there, but my mother said there was nothing she could do about that. Still, I felt guilty-but not enough to stop painting.
I run my small hands across the table on which my soon-to-be masterpiece sits. Small marks and stains are scattered willy-nilly on it’s surface. The colorful crimson mark from when I attempted to paint the table, the midnight streak from when I tried drawing with a permanent marker, the pale silver glitter that stuck to the mahogany brown of the table, no matter how hard I tried to wipe it off, and my mother’s own hot glue, which was no cold and cemented to the table in a plastic mess. My mother loves art as well as I do, and I proudly proclaim that I gained my talent and fervor for the arts from her. She agrees with me.
The paints sit gently on the table, their vibrant colors and smooth, liquid-like texture both enthralling and soothing. In a small cup, a brightly colored, paint marked brush sits bristles first in the clear, pure water.
Finally, I am ready to begin.
Grasping the brush’s hilt in between my fingers, I pull its glistening wet bristles out of the water. I quickly bury the bristles in the paint, choosing first an azure blue. Then, pressing my paint to the canvas, I slowly, carefully, begin to paint the sky, a great blue expanse making a vivid mark on what appeared to simply be a field of blank snow. Satisfied with my sky, I dip my brush back in the cup, changing the color of the water to a hazy blue. Making sure my brush is clean, I then cover the bristles in a lush grass green, and this color soon becomes a rolling hill. My canvas is not so blank anymore, and I continue to fill it as I add many more colors and shapes. Laboring over my piece, I stick my little tongue out, as I had seen my mother do many times before as she worked on a piece of her own.
Finally, I finish.
My masterpiece is complete. In my picture, a brick-red house stands in the distance on a gently rolling hill. In the forefront of the picture, two girls play together, their wide smiles taking up more than half their faces. Up above, a puffy, cotton ball-like cloud gently drifts all alone in the great blue sea of a sky. The sun beats down on the scene almost happily, as if watching the two girls play together. Indeed, it seems as if the sun itself is smiling. All in all, it is a joyful scene, a perfect piece of art. Impatiently, I wait for it to dry, even going so far as to fan it with my small hands. Luckily, the paint dries quickly, and I gleefully grab it, crinkling it in my haste to give to that special someone. I find her on the couch, watching TV, the cold glow of the screen reflected on her face. I flip the switch to the fixtures, and instantly the room floods with light. My special someone watches me and notes my happy _expression. I cheerfully give her my masterpiece, and chirp out “Look, mommy! I made this for you! Is it good? Do you like it, mommy?” My mother looks over my crude, childish painting, the wobbly black lines and thick colors.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, her pleasure written on her face. “How about we put it on the refrigerator? “ I am overjoyed, and can’t nod my head fast enough. My masterpiece has been excepted, and put on the refrigerator hall of fame, quite an achievement for a little six year old girl.
A Painting
A crisp, white canvas sits before me, it’s emptiness a call. Do something with me, it seems to say. Create something with me. The light source above blazes down on I and the canvas, making the pure white of the blank sheet seen even more pure and bright. Not a smidgeon of dust of dust lay upon the canvas, nor a single small black smudge. Such things would possibly mar my soon-to-be painting, and I want perfection. It is, after all, for a special someone…
I look around, wondering if I can begin. Old newspapers adorn the soft carpeted floor around me, a safeguard against any spills. I have been known for being passionate during my painting, and the last time I was left unattended, the rug and carpet was finely bespattered with blotches of paint. My mother had quite a mess to clean up. A few stains still lingered here and there, but my mother said there was nothing she could do about that. Still, I felt guilty-but not enough to stop painting.
I run my small hands across the table on which my soon-to-be masterpiece sits. Small marks and stains are scattered willy-nilly on it’s surface. The colorful crimson mark from when I attempted to paint the table, the midnight streak from when I tried drawing with a permanent marker, the pale silver glitter that stuck to the mahogany brown of the table, no matter how hard I tried to wipe it off, and my mother’s own hot glue, which was no cold and cemented to the table in a plastic mess. My mother loves art as well as I do, and I proudly proclaim that I gained my talent and fervor for the arts from her. She agrees with me.
The paints sit gently on the table, their vibrant colors and smooth, liquid-like texture both enthralling and soothing. In a small cup, a brightly colored, paint marked brush sits bristles first in the clear, pure water.
Finally, I am ready to begin.
Grasping the brush’s hilt in between my fingers, I pull its glistening wet bristles out of the water. I quickly bury the bristles in the paint, choosing first an azure blue. Then, pressing my paint to the canvas, I slowly, carefully, begin to paint the sky, a great blue expanse making a vivid mark on what appeared to simply be a field of blank snow. Satisfied with my sky, I dip my brush back in the cup, changing the color of the water to a hazy blue. Making sure my brush is clean, I then cover the bristles in a lush grass green, and this color soon becomes a rolling hill. My canvas is not so blank anymore, and I continue to fill it as I add many more colors and shapes. Laboring over my piece, I stick my little tongue out, as I had seen my mother do many times before as she worked on a piece of her own.
Finally, I finish.
My masterpiece is complete. In my picture, a brick-red house stands in the distance on a gently rolling hill. In the forefront of the picture, two girls play together, their wide smiles taking up more than half their faces. Up above, a puffy, cotton ball-like cloud gently drifts all alone in the great blue sea of a sky. The sun beats down on the scene almost happily, as if watching the two girls play together. Indeed, it seems as if the sun itself is smiling. All in all, it is a joyful scene, a perfect piece of art. Impatiently, I wait for it to dry, even going so far as to fan it with my small hands. Luckily, the paint dries quickly, and I gleefully grab it, crinkling it in my haste to give to that special someone. I find her on the couch, watching TV, the cold glow of the screen reflected on her face. I flip the switch to the fixtures, and instantly the room floods with light. My special someone watches me and notes my happy _expression. I cheerfully give her my masterpiece, and chirp out “Look, mommy! I made this for you! Is it good? Do you like it, mommy?” My mother looks over my crude, childish painting, the wobbly black lines and thick colors.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, her pleasure written on her face. “How about we put it on the refrigerator? “ I am overjoyed, and can’t nod my head fast enough. My masterpiece has been excepted, and put on the refrigerator hall of fame, quite an achievement for a little six year old girl.