mOrE oF mY wRiTinG

Yes, you heard that right! MORE OF MY WRITING. I am going to share a short story I wrote for school. (Super short, because THEY PUT A TWO PAGE LIMIT) (but it’s four pages soooooo muahahahhahahahahhahahahahahahahhhh… I had to shorten it. :()

Anyway, I’m hoping to flesh it out, but here’s the bit I have written right now. (It’s not finished, so BEWARE)

“We have three last contestants of Artists of the Past, who will be competing in a massive painting competition! First, we have Leonardo Da Vinci, renowned artist of the renaissance period!” The camera panned to focus on a greying man, around his mid-fifties with a hooked nose and grizzled face. “Also of the renaissance period, we have Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni!” A man, around thirty years with a bearded chin and fantastic feathered hat posed for the camera. “And finally, we have Vincent van Gogh, a representative of the Impressionist Era!” Vincent tipped his straw hat, beaming. “You have one day to paint a life-size portrait of three people in your life.” The announcer leaned forward, a falsely excited smile smeared over his lined face. “Three, two, one, GO.” Turning to Mufasa, the cameraman, he said, “Gosh, I love time travel.”

Michelangelo beamed, his innocuous grin dripping with malice. He snatched the largest canvas he could hold and wheeled a cart of paints to a corner. Pablo Picasso, a former contestant hired to help Michelangelo, skulked after him, grumbling. 

Leonardo sat cross-legged, feverishly scribbling into a chalky notebook. Charcoal streaked his cheek and he swiped long strokes over the canvas, taking a couple more notes in his book, unaware of anything in his stupor.

Vincent squirted paints straight onto the canvas, fumbling his paintbrush in excitement. “I’m gonna have all yellows! And blues! And this lovely crimson! I can feel the rainbow!” Droplets spatter his face as he worked, set in manic determination. 

“It’s been eight hours, let’s see how our contestants are doing!” Mufasa approached Leonardo, who seems to have built wings out of two canvases and tried to convince poor Pablo to jump from the rafters. The abandoned painting laid askew on the floor. 

“It’s not going to work, you bumbling idiot!” Pablo reviled. Leonardo then shot back his rebuke in Italian, forcing Pablo into the dangerous contraption. Mufasa backed away, nearly bumping into Michelangelo’s canvas. Michelangelo delicately traced a man’s posterior in oily paint. 

“Woah, dude, what are you doing?” Mufasa asked.

Michelangelo turned, his fervid face contorted into a grimace and his eyes shadowed in an unworldly glint. “I DO WHAT I WANT,” he screeched, contouring the man’s abs. Mufasa stumbled back, color waning from his features. 

Mufasa spun to meet Vincent, who huddled on the floor and crying. “I’m a failure, I’m a failure, I’m a failure, I’m a failure, I’m a failure.” His hands are verdure and cyan which he clamped over his ears, one of which is missing. Pablo, scratches on his arms from where he escaped the clutches of Leonardo, placed a cautious hand on Vincent’s shoulder.

“Is everyone here insane?” Mufasa muttered, retreating to the safety of the closet, letting the placid lense of the camera register the cumulative chaos. Time travel, though a gift, opened their eyes to the humanity of past heroes. 

Sixteen hours later, the artists were called to present their masterpieces. The canvases, draped in thick white sheets, stood behind each of the artists. Pablo hid between Vincent and Michelangelo’s paintings. The announcer smiled at the camera, greeting the audience. Leonardo stepped forward, yanked the sheet off, and declared, “Famiglia!” The painting was a mess of charcoal stripes, yellow paint, and grimacing orange faces. 

The announcer did a double-take and observed, “Leonardo has not finished his painting.”

“L’arte non è mai finita, solo abbandonata,” Leonardo protested, folding his arms. 

“What did he say?” The announcer whispered. 

Mufasa did a quick Google search. “Art is never finished, only abandoned.”

Next, Michelangelo presented. His painting had three nude men, posing and frowning. Pablo’s bright blocks of color swirled over the offensive sections, saving poor children’s eyes. Michelangelo said nothing, and he only smirked and twirled a paintbrush between his fingers.

Finally, Pablo prodded Vincent forward, and he tugged the fabric down, revealing a beautiful rainbow of color, reds, and oranges culminating into dark greens and blues. Three faces protruded from the jumble.

“This is fantastic,” Mufasa breathed.

“This is awful. I don’t even know why I came,” Vincent muttered. “I mean, look at Michelangelo’s.” At his name, Michelangelo stuffed the brush behind his ear and stuck his tongue out at Vincent. 

After a couple of minutes, the announcer coughed. “One of you can win the prestigious painting prize. Leonardo, your depiction of ‘Famiglia’ was beautiful, but unfinished. Michelangelo, your painting was vivid and lifelike, but the colors weren’t there. Vincent, your painting was pure color, but the people aren’t as prominent as requested. The winner of Artists of the Past is…” Vincent bit his lip, Leonardo looked up from his sketch, and Michelangelo managed to stop posing for the camera as a drumroll thundered. “Vincent Van Gogh.” Vincent dropped his hat in shock. Picasso scrunched him in a huge hug. “Congratulations.” The announcer handed him the golden trophy, and Vincent held it over his head. 

Leonardo shrugged, muttered ‘congratulazione,’ and dug his nose into his book again. Michelangelo threw his paintbrushes down in frustration. “I DON’T LIKE PAINTING ANYWAY.” He stormed from the room, dragging his humongous canvas along.

And I didn’t finish it because IT’S FOUR PAGES I DON’T WANT TO DIE but I’ll finish it eventually with WRITERS, too! Ahhh this’ll be fun!

Anyway, this is exactly what I have written rn and at the time of writing this I have to turn it in two days from now. BUT I’ll let you know what I get (probably an eighty because my teacher hates me xD)

UPDATE::: I got a 101% after I edited it and all that


6 thoughts on “mOrE oF mY wRiTinG

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