This is actually a pretty ordinary one, IMO.
Since I can only write, like once a week or so, and since I am unable to put mind to this, I will just publish it and edit it later, IF there are any improvements to be made.
Okay,to the story. As I went to give my English language exam, we passed this absolutely amazing sunrise. It was astounding, and indeed, I have attempted to recreate the said sunrise in the story. It is accurate as far as the appearance goes, but the whole effect on it was hallucinatory in nature. It’s difficult to describe, really.
An artist is often stupid. Normal stuff like money, love and happiness offer no satisfaction to an artist’s depraved soul. No, all that can give them some degree of satisfaction is scratching meaningless words on a piece of paper, or sketching some obtuse diagram on a piece of paper, or blurting out the continuous orchestra in their heads on yet again, a piece of paper.
Wickard was an artist. A terribly amazing one, if you would ask him, but going by the state of his finances, his peers obviously did not think so.
The story begins when one day Wickard, nursing a hangover from the previous night woke up before sunrise. He moved up and began his nursing program when he stopped still. In front of his eyes was the most beautiful sunrise he had ever seen, and he had seen a few.
The sun was glimmering in the yet dark scenery, little orange baby like rays were trying in vain to pierce through the clouds. It seemed the entire sky was pushing down on the sun to make sure it would not rise. Slowly, slowly the sky yielded, inch by inch the sun pushed forward. The orange now mixed with the dark blue of the otherwise night time sky to give birth to mutant smoke clouds, purplish and reddish at the same time, and they too gave off their own baby orange rays that surrounded them with a celestial halo.
Wickard was transfixed. He quickly shook himself up and got out his canvas and water colours. And slowly, observing all the minute details as only an artist can, he painted an exact replica. In came the sun, growling and furiously exerting its hydrogen into the sky. In came the sky, still adamant, diamond’s shining in the middle, little sparkles and twinkles carried through the light years in a jiffy, filling the earth with warmth.
But as Wickard finished the sky and began on the clouds, he found the sun had risen up too much already, and the clouds had been destroyed by the angry rays. As the sun took control of the sky, he examined his painting. It was beautiful, he decided. In fact, if he had got the clouds in, it was masterpiece material. Then and there Wickard resolved to find the sunrise again and complete the masterpiece. Then he would sell it and earn lots of money.
But then, the celestial bodies seemed not so eager for another masterpiece to appear. No matter where Wickard went in the little town, he could never find the sunrise so beautiful again.
He searched for the town scientist who had the regrettable duty of informing him that a sunrise is never repeated, the scene is too random. It would occour only once in a lifetime. ‘Sell the damned painting already, pal’ he told Wickard.
Wickard was unconvinced. He decided to journey the world in search of the sunrise. After all, it was meant to be. All the randomness had agreed that day, and it was meant to be. He journey from place to place, only waiting for the next morning. In the next 30 years, the old vigourous Wickard transformed to a new shuffling, hobbling character. Completely and utterly broke, he begged on the streets for the rest of the day. Despite being unable to life his hands up his shoulder anymore he still searched for his sunrise, which he knew was just out of reach.
One day he reached the footsteps of a steep hill, two hours before the expected sunrise. The old man struggled to the top, coaxing a rapidly exhausted body to the top. Many he times he almost fell over and commanded himself up again with sheer mind control. When he finally reached, just on time for the sunrise, his poor body was convulsing with the stress of the climb. He desperately tried to calm his expanding heart down. Then, as if on cue, the sunrise appeared again. Little shards of yellow and orange pierced the dark sky, illuminating his wrinkled face with all the care of a doctor. His worn face twisted in a sneer of glee, and he reached for his painting. But, as he twisted towards his bag, he froze. His face turned red, his heart started panting, and Wickard lay on the top of the hill with the beautiful sunrise, dying. His masterpiece was tightly clenched in his hands. He smiled.
His body was found 6 hours later. The police officer examined the old man with the grotesque smile with contempt. With a little difficulty, he coaxed the painting out of the dead man’s hands. When he opened it, he openly gasped. The constable, surprised gathered behind him to see what had caused it.
‘It is sometimes astonishing how bad a painting can be,’ the inspector told them. ‘Throw it away, it’s useless. No one will want to buy that ugly a painting.’ The constable threw the painting away and they walked off the scene to go and eat lunch. The ambulance blared.
That ees it. What do you think???