How Man Learned to Paint, a Short Story

  You know, I don't think I'm a bad writer but I've never thought of myself as amazing, I think I'm just alright.  And I think that's ok, I have so much to learn that's for sure.  Art of any type (I think writing is a form of art), is so subjective and I try to keep in mind that even if I'm able to get published and known through my writing I'll never be good, at least not to everyone.  Of course that means I will be good or even great to others.  But also, please don't tell me if you hate something I make.  Right now in my life I am writing and making things that I like and enjoy making and it's what's keeping me going.  I mean if I like it there's a chance someone else will too.  

Still, it's nice to hear it, that my writing is good every once in a while, from someone other than my mom (love you so much mom). I'm currently almost finished with a 4 week writing class, which I've really enjoyed and wish was longer.  The first week we got an assignment that we got critiqued on the next week.  The teacher and my classmate gave me some really good critiques and also some praise (on the story posted below) that made me think, hey maybe I'm not half bad.  It was incredibly nice to hear.  

Anyway, that doesn't mean it's perfect and it doesn't mean you'll like it but I hope you will!  

Thanks for reading. 

How Man Learned to Paint 

By abby m.

“When you were younger I believed you would grow up to be smart.” The boy’s mother drawled, having hardly looked at him once. It was the first thing she said, the first note of recognition towards him that morning.

“What?” the boy asked, but not because he hadn’t heard what she said, but she repeated it anyway.

“Son,” she continued after, “the same reason I know you are not smart now, is why I thought you would be when you were little. Stumbling along with your chin tilted up, you never even tried to avoid the mud puddles and you tripped repeatedly on roots because of it. What I thought was a good sign of your wonderment for the world turned out to be a sign of stupidity.” The boy left the tent without saying a word in response and ignored his mother’s sigh as he turned his back. He paused outside long enough to hear her mutter, “he expects me to say otherwise when he hardly knows how to hunt and hardly even likes the taste of meat.” And then she was silent and rose to clean up the leavings from breakfast.

The boy rushed away, avoiding as many of the people from the village as possible. Everyone was out and about early that morning, as there’s always so much to be done, but he avoided all of it today. He had a place to be, the creak was loud and waiting. A couple feet before it he stopped short, a bird was hopping around on a large rock next to the creek. The rock was mostly large and flat but it dipped down slightly in the middle and was filled with water that spat up from the creek below. The bird was slamming a seed against a fast crumbling rock, colored a reddish brown, that wobbled at the edge of the large rock. As it fell to pieces the water on the rock slowly turned the same reddish brown color.

The boy stared in wonder as the color bled throughout the entire little pool. When the bird defeated its opponent, broke into the nut, and flew away, the boy hurried near for closer inspection. He dipped his finger into the water and spread it onto a dry hot rock in two even strokes. He played with the liquid for some time, spreading it on hot rocks in shapes and spirals. This might seem strange, it was certainly not the first time the boy came across a pool of dirty water, but it was the first time he realized it could be more than that, as the water was one solid color with no sticks or bugs. The boy came back to this spot many times, he figured out how to crush rocks and make the substance thicker or thinner and how it would affect the color and texture of the pictures he drew.

It happened the day he learned to draw a tree. He was deep in his work, only glancing up every once in a while to peek at the tree he picked to draw when he looked down to see a huge muddy foot. His drawing was ruined.

“You!” That’s what they called him, other boys from the village, the boys who did what they were told. “My parents told us you were strange but what— what even was that!” spat the owner of the foot. The boy resisted looking up, but eventually did, into the faces of more people who hated him for seemingly no reason.

“What?” was all the boy said, but the others continued without repeating anything.

“We’ve noticed that you haven’t been hunting recently, I guess it turns out you’ve been playing in mud puddles instead.” The boys stomped and splashed across the creek. And then they were gone. All the boy could do was stare, for the longest time, until he heard a new voice. A kinder one.

“Tell me, why do you do it? Why must you make a picture of what you can see with your eyes?”

The boy whipped his head around until he was sure no one was around.

“Where are you?”

“Straight ahead,” it said, but all that was there were trees. “Yes, the tree,” the voice said before the boy could ask again, “the very one you were just drawing.” It finished, and now that he thought about it, the tree did look different when it spoke, it moved in a way that was hard to place and even harder to describe.

“I liked your picture, but why do you feel the need to make it?” the tree asked again. The boy had a hard time answering this question for two reasons. Number one, he was talking to a tree, he’d never done that before. And two, he didn’t have a solid answer.

“I think I like the way it looks and how it feels to make it,” he said finally, but he knew that wasn’t fully it, “I like being able to put something into the world even if it fades.” That wasn’t it either and he tried again, “I think it just makes me feel better, doing something like this, I’m not sure why.”

“I see. Is that really what I look like?”

“Oh, I think so, at least the closest picture of you even though I only have this thick clay and water to use.”

“Well, even if it’s not exact, I never would have known.” Just then a little bird came flitting through the branches of the tree. “Oh bird, bird!” called the tree, “what do you think of that drawing?” The boy was starting to fix what the other boy had messed up. “Does it really look like me?”

“Oh, yes, I think I think it looks quite like you,” the bird twitted in its high squeaky voice, “not perfect but very good.”

A squirrel, fox, another bird, and other animals were called over to confirm that the drawing really did look like the tree. It was true.

“Oh, would you, would you put me on the rock next?” twitted the bird, “I want to see what I look like!” And so he did, and while everyone agreed that, again, it wasn’t perfect it really did look like the bird. The same happened with the squirrel, the fox, the other bird, and many other animals. The lengthy gathering continued and grew but animals have a way staying invisible to humans when they want to be, and no one else noticed.

His painting continued, as well, in the days and weeks after. As the boy learned what he would soon call “painting” and “sketching,” he also learned how to act like a boy that the village and the humans wanted. He learned to hunt without killing, and when he could he would take old spear heads which he used to carve into rocks and fallen trees.

As the boy grew into a man, his pictures, paintings, and sketches grew too. He sketched stories into caves and kept drawing for the creatures of the forest too, and eventually he wasn’t the only human who liked to paint.

Now, his head was either tilted up in wonderment or down to his work. He constantly studied the forest, how the colors and shapes and textures all mixed and layered together into what amazed him and, he found, always gave him something to work with, look at, and learn from.

Maybe his mother was right, painting was probably not the smartest way he could use his time. It made life and surviving more difficult for him. As he wandered the forest, he realized he didn’t care. He was the man who learned to paint, and that was alright with him for he had found some creatures to share it with, he hoped the humans would love it soon too. And they did.

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