Canvas of a Life

K

Kitti

Guest
Original poster
This challenge is about observation and details. The challenge is to write as though your character is observing the skin of another person, be that other person a stranger sitting next to them on a train or a lover or any person in between. Write about the skin, its facets and characteristics, but also about what these things mean and what your character can learn from the other person based on their skin.

You can post your answers here. That's cool.
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Re: Writing Exercise: Canvas of a Life

Where would you like this posted? Here? Blog? Etc?
 
Re: Writing Exercise: Canvas of a Life

I'll give it a shot, not the best with skin, but hey.
 
Re: Writing Exercise: Canvas of a Life

Must people aren't Rhom, its okay. =)
 
Re: Writing Exercise: Canvas of a Life

We laid in the sheets as the morning glisten crept in to bathe us in gold. I stared, contently at my other, who still slept peacefully and undisturbed by the pleasant arrival of dawn. My eyes drifted from her face, whose eyes had the faint creases along her eyes. I even smiled to myself when I looked at her laugh lines. Her skin wasn't quite as vibrant any more-- the glow of youth had long faded away. But as I look again, I see all the memories we shared. I remember every pore on her body. Every wrinkle, every crease. She was a map of history, knowledge. Beneath her eyes, they looked weary. Tired. But they smiled all the same to me even as her eyes were closed.

I looked past her chin to her neck, which too, felt the stress of time. I took my hand and I stroked her cheek, feeling the softness she had. It traveled from her cheek to her neck, and departed so as to hold her hand in mine. My thumb ran across the back of her hand, where I felt every lump and curve that protruded through her skin, feeling every callous of her palm against mine. She had a scar near the crook of her elbow where the doctor put her IV. There were dark patches along her arm, each varied in different size, shape and color. They appeared in random places along her body. On her legs, her arms, her chest and back.

My love was a fighter, and this much was for sure. As she laid in the bed peacefully, dreaming what she dreamt, I could each and every day a blessing to have her here.
 
Re: Writing Exercise: Canvas of a Life

His body looked like hell. There was so much discoloration and cracks that I was afraid it might crumble. The handshake felt like I touched a cooling, cooking pot. This man had to have used those palms, all his life.

My teary eyes investigated his body. Freckles were enviable. You would never know he was balding, unless you knew him. So stiff and so life less was the skin. The draft could have withered him away. Anyone could see that the amount of courage, this man possessed, could not be out done.

Damn those flames.

If only he could have made it home for Christmas. If only Dad made it home, one more time...
 
Re: Writing Exercise: Canvas of a Life

The 6 o clock train...

The bumped and rattled through the city with dark already descending around. The dim light from the dirty dumps left a yellow light like oil over everything, too dark to read the case files on my lap, the best I could do was find something inoffensive to stare at.

My gaze though instead of the back of the chair was drawn to the back of the neck of the woman in front on me. Her hair was short, shorter than that of most men, that alone was unusual but there was something there. Something i wasn't seeing. My instincts pricked like the scratch beard of a vagrant.

She was well tanned but there was no sign of sun damage, in fast her skin has a shine to it that spoke of cosmetics and pampering, this only deepened the puzzle to it's length. The olive tone I could only deduct was from her ethnicity, Mediterranean perhaps but without seeing her face it was impossible to tell.

I was startled bu a bump in the track and the car jolted was we rounded a corner wit the screeching of metal on metal, and as the setting sun caught her skin a chill ran down my spine. Old and faded form are there was a pattern in ink, a pattern I recognized. My hand suddenly trembling I opened the folder in my lap and sure enough...

The crime scene photo showed it clear as day, drawn in the victim's own blood. The chill was replaced by movement, I stood determined to get off at the next station. My investigation into the symbol had revealed it to the the sign taken by a shadow organization in the catholic church, people you didn't want to get on the wrong side if you take my meaning. Gone were the days of weighing people against bibles and dunking them in lakes but they were still there, still keeping information hidden through extreme means. Some of that information now sat in my lap.

"Not so fast detective Tooms." the voice was young, accented. I turned to see her looking at me, the itallian face serene, I almost felt unworthy looking at her. The picture of beauty, and it didn't come from her bone structure of the arrangement of her features. Yer skin was a flawless olive time that spoke of both itallian and spanish blood. Of innocence and fair fields, of an age past. So struck was I that I didn't notice her lips curl in a cruel grin a moment before the man behind me mave his move and I knew no more.
 
Re: Writing Exercise: Canvas of a Life

He glanced at her hand; outstretched to take the coins, the skin was a pale shade of cream, freckles dotting it over the dainty frame of the hand. Her skin was clean and smooth, meaning she had enough money to wash and even more to spend on oils or creams to smooth it. His heart quickened beating faster then it should at his age. Her skin tightened as she picked up the coin to inspect in the light; he swore her skin had sparkled like a freshly polish opal, like the ones he sold in his shop.

He shifted slightly and blinked but it was gone. He hadn't heard of anyone with shiny skin, or maybe it was simply his old mind playing tricks on him. She turned her hand back and forth inspecting the gold piece, her eyes appraising. Her skin was so thin and pale he swore he could see the very veins in her skin, but they looked blue; not the normal deep blue of blood that rests within the body, but the blue if icicles hanging of his shop's roof when he gets to work in winter. He could see her muscles defined underneath the skin and she moved her hand slowly, but gracefully.

A scar traced its across the back of her hand into and over the web between her pointer and thumb. She finally seemed to be happy that she was being paid the right amount, after all in a shake down one does not want to get in the business of taking false coin. She smiled scooping up the coin and settling it into her coin purse.

She got up and pressed her hand into the table her hand going taunt and the blood draining from her fingers turning them completely pale, and he now cold swear he could see right through them, even the dainty, but clearly defined bones where on display. His heart seemed thrum through his veins so fast he could hear it pounding through his eardrums. Human? She smiled at him her fangs glistening in the low light of the shady tavern. "I am glad you have decided to comply, Mr. Dune." He smiled faintly, his blood beating fast. His fears where confirmed. Vampire.

His heart stopped.
 
Re: Writing Exercise: Canvas of a Life

I set the barrel down on the hoist, waiting a moment for my back to stop aching before I went to grab another. The salt air was strong with the smell of oil from the nearby burning lamps as evening approached. I'd had been a long day and I just wanted to get this ship loaded so I could go have a pint with my friends. Finally, it seemed that I was finished. The hoist was lifted, barrels were unloaded, and we got to head off on our own ways.

I didn't see her at first, but when I did, I immediately wrote her off as someone to be avoided. Another rich tourist down here by the docks. Her skin was so pale, it was unlikely she'd ever seen a day's work in her life. Her clothes were rich, adorned with a brooch worth my week's salary. Pouting red lips were obviously painted and I figured her blush was painted on, too. I'd have dismissed her entirely as so much trouble if she hadn't stopped me.

"Excuse me, sir. I was just wondering, could you tell me where pier forty is?" She pulled out a map, unfolding it and showing it to me. I found myself staring, not at the map but at her hands. I'd always admired delicate hands on a woman. As I looked, though, I noticed something very wrong. The pale skin held odd callouses. There was a mark of dark grease smudging one hand. And as I leaned close on the pretense of examining the map, I could smell the faint whiff of gunpowder rising from her right hand. She wasn't who she was pretending to be. This woman's work had much darker motives, and now that I returned my gaze to her face, I noticed the few broken blood vessels that spoke of past fights or high heat.

I should have run, or called for a constable, or done something. Instead, I pointed out the pier in question, said my goodnights, and walked away. That was the last day of freedom, the last day of my life as a dock worker. My life would be turned upside down over the course of a few months, and all because I had ignored the truth of her skin.
 
In and out of the medical tents patients were being rushed, trying to save the lives of the ones who had fallen into the path of the mini atomic bomb which had only hours ago exploded in the middle of London, killing hundreds, and leaving thousands injured. There wasn't enough time to transport then all to a hospital, nor did they have the resources, so they flew in doctors from all over internationally to offer their services in temporary tents. At such a hectic time, there were many inexperienced staff scattered everywhere, for they didn't have the numbers as it was to deal with the catastrophe. Such circumstances brought a trainee nurse, Carl Wright, to the field.

Usually, he was a hardy man, but he had never dealt with anything quite like this. His stomach churned at the sight of every patient that came in, the sad reality being that a quarter of them would leave again in body bags. Raising his hands up to his lips, he breathed on them, hoping to take the edge off the chill. Then his name was called to assist, and his heart dropped right into the pits of his guts. Each step towards the nurse that had called him seemed to drag on for an eternity, gruesome thoughts of anticipation ran through his head like the aftermath of a late night horror movie. The sounds of others bustling around him seemed to fade... Muffled by an unknown cause, though he knew subconsciously it was only his nerves.

As he approached the nurse that had called him, he barely heard what they said, only paying attention when he pointed to the mattress on the floor, where a little girl lay, not making a sound. Carl knelt down beside the girl, taking note of her features. A soft shade of brown of an almost Indian American skin tone, her expression one of the utmost determination. Though he could see her puffy red eyes held tears, her azure irises had such a fiery hope within then it made Carl feel guilty that he was so nervous. In her eyes, he saw the reflection of his own pale, sweaty face, then gave a light sigh. If a girl this young can be brave, then so can I, he told himself.

Then his eyes averted to her chest... The site making him want to barf. The perfect texture her face held was completely different here, pale yellow and green surrounded a gaping wound in her chest, crimson liquid was spilling out of her at an alarming rate. Even a couple of her ribs were showing... The wound was far from shallow. Under her tiny armpits, shrapnel was piercing into her, how deep? He didn't know... Though he didn't think it wise to touch it just yet. Such a beautiful girl, one he would pick to grow up to be a right looker, with these sorts of injuries. Yet she was so brave... Shaking his head, he pulled confidence from her determined features, looking at himself. He was never the most handsome, orange freckles lined his face, his skin often oily. But it was then that he truly felt grateful for how he looked. To himself, he swore a secret oath to make sure he did everything he could for the eleven year old, so that one day she would enjoy her own beauty. A perverted mind though he had, never once would he dare act upon it. Yet this times... The little girls beauty was motivating him, and he was going to use that to do the best damn job he could. "Let's start by giving her a blood transfusion, or we'll loose her before we start." He said.
 
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