I need to start this week with a content warning: the genre prompt was horror/romance, neither of which I’m all that comfortable with, and I was surprised at the places my mind went under the pressure of the exercise. So, the following story contains obsession and stalker behavior, as well as themes of captivity and objectification of people.
As I said, I’m not sure what all this says about the way my mind works; but I suppose I’d like to emphasize that these are things that creep me out, that horrify me, not things that I find romantic.
In terms of actual craft, I swung back and forth between melodrama and satire, and I don’t think I quite accomplished either. That said, I do like the fact that I creeped myself out writing this, and that sensation persists every time I re-read it. Also, I’ve got a couple grammatical gaffes that bug me. I’ve been correcting obvious typos, but nothing else, to basically show a true first draft in these exercises. I’m not sure if it’s encouraging to you to see my mistakes, or if you’d rather see a more “readable” text. Please let us know in the comments.
As always, if you try this exercise yourself, we’d love to see your story! Post it in the comments! This week’s prompts are:
- Character: Art Student
- Object: Glue
- Genre/Tone: Horror/Romance
The third semester for art majors focused on experimental art: using anything except paint and pens, clay and wood, and especially not digital tools, to create colors and textures never seen before, to express feelings never felt before—at least, not felt outside the prison of the student’s skull. And of course, Hailey had never expressed this particular feeling. Never outside her skull, anyway.
Every expression needed an audience, but Hailey’s audience was one person only. Sure, her cohort and instructors would see her project, but the only eyes she cared about belonged to Mattheiu, a PhD student in psychology. His eyes alone windowed onto a soul that her feelings longed to express themselves to, and to connect with.
But how to capture those eyes? How to hold his attention and connect her feelings to his soul? The problem was that all media were dead, while her feelings for him were alive, living. Perhaps that was the key: living media alone could express her living feelings. So she went to the university’s medical school, to ask if there was a way to keep a heart alive on a canvas. No? Perhaps in a small glass chamber? Which she could, if she had a massive budget, and didn’t mind it looking like a sterile scientific equipment. No, she wanted something living, something that expressed her feelings. Nothing artificial or partially alive would do. And yet, it had to be something she could display in the gallery at the end of the semester.
The solution finally came to her when her sister complained about her pet parakeet that kept repeating everything she said to her boyfriend on the phone. All she needed was a way to keep him in one place, to a platform for display, at least long enough to turn in for class. Since most of her cohort were essentially creating some form of collage, there was an abundance of various kinds of glues available. A board, a waterproof fixative, and a few days’ close observation of Mattheiu’s shower schedule, and one morning he was hers. He was hers! She scrawled in her own blood on the board: “Behold my love!” and the project was perfect!
In hindsight, she should perhaps have looked into the permissions aspect of the project; but Mattheiu, who had never noticed her before, began visiting her in prison. She wore an unexpressive uniform, and spoke to him across a sterile plastic table, and at first answered only the pre-generated questions for his dissertation in abnormal psychology; but over time, their conversations grew closer, and closer, until her release, when he arrived to pick her up, with a board of his own, and a bucket of glue.