Creative Writing About a Work of Art
I trudged through the snow step by painful step. As soft and light as the new-fallen powder was, it might as well have been a pool of liquid mercury trying to take me down, well before I reached my destination. I lifted my arm, grazing the revolver on my hip as I attempted in vain to wipe away the frosty icicles hanging from my beard. I looked down and observed my blood-soaked palm, the red substance now brown and frozen like everything else out here. How had it gotten to this point? My eyes getting heavy and sore with every passing moment did not keep me from running the day’s events over and over again in my mind. How could this have gone differently? As I often did, I ran scenarios over and over again in my head, torturing myself over how things could have played out in a better way. But it was too late. My choices could not be taken back any more than I could have wiped the frozen blood off my hand. As I continued to fall down this mental spiral of regret and remorse, the stabbing pain that consumed my body reminded me of the inevitable task I had before me. I had to get to the cabin before I died out here. If I died, nobody would really know what happened. The only other witnesses out in this cruel, cold wilderness were the snow-covered trees and the desolate, aching mountain tops that could rip through your eyes at the sight of them. There was nobody else here. Nobody. The pain that had once consumed my flesh was now beginning to fade as my hands and feet began to go numb. The fact that I remained upright with every slow step was the only way I could perceive that my feet and legs were still working. Would the next step be my last? Suddenly, a wave of calm came over me, a feeling of warmth and overwhelming comfort, if that was even possible in this God-forsaken place. What if I did just die? The goal of getting to the cabin now didn’t seem all that imperative. Like a lost soul treading water on the open sea and just letting go, I considered the possibility of laying down where I stood and letting go of my mission. There were far worse ways to die than slowly falling asleep as my organs began to shut down one by one. Actually, a death of that nature would have been peaceful after the events that unfolded during this dreadful day. Quite frankly, I had no way of knowing if the cabin was five miles or 500 feet away at this point. Was I even still on the trail? Why wait for the cold to take you? I pried open the stiff flap of my leather holster and slowly lifted the ice-cold revolver out of its home. It took some work to open the cylinder as the snow that had been melted from my once warm body had now created a thin layer of ice over the frame and every mechanical feature of my gun. Finally, it had freed and I gazed down at what was left of my ammunition. Two rounds. I was now so weak and dazed that if I didn’t wound myself mortally, I would never get another shot off. As I jammed the muzzle into my temple to make sure there were no mistakes, I looked up expecting to see more trees and more snow representing my burial place when the moonlight revealed a distinct silhouette of a snow-covered roof. The wind flying through the leafless trees was twirling and having its way with the thin wisp of smoke coming out of the stone chimney. It was the cabin. I had already committed in my mind that this was going to be it: my end. I found myself surprisingly disappointed that my destination had been reached. What should I do? I already knew the answer. Laying eyes on the cabin sparked a moment of purpose, of duty, even of common sense. It had banged me out of my depressed stupor long enough for me to lower my gun and return it to the snowy holster where I hoped it would now remain. My first step on the old, wooden staircase let out an amazing crack that echoed over the frozen lake and even seemed to startle the wind for a moment. My remaining, labored steps eventually got me to the door of the primitive homestead. As I opened the creaky door wondering what my next step was going to be in these nightmarish circumstances, it seems the next step was made for me. A single blow to the back of the head caused searing pain for a brutal moment. As I crumpled on the porch and succumbed to the blackness that I felt would be my end, I now wondered only one thing. How were four bullets not enough? Silence.
Author’s note:
As I began the first few sentences of this writing, I thought to myself, “What the heck are you doing!? This is a Bob Ross painting! Happy clouds, happy mountains, happy cabin, right?” His art however is so good, I saw myself, or anyone else for that matter being able to put their mind to this painting and experiencing the emotions that winter often best represents. Cold. Sleep. Lifelessness. Darkness. As I stood in my driveway in New Hampshire on a cold, snowy February night seeking real-life inspiration for what this painting represents I found myself closing my eyes and gathering the other senses that this character was probably feeling. The wind on a cold, winter night in New England is so unique for us as the remaining three seasons of the year produce at least minimal vegetation on the trees to give us the impression that there is life. The wind can stimulate something that is living. In the winter, it rattles lifeless branches. Winter is a long sleep before a new life is restored. New beginnings. Perhaps for the character of our story, a second chance. A chance to tell his story. Will he have an opportunity to do that now? Perhaps not. We’ll never know.
