fight the cliché



SUBJECT THIS WEEK: HEART

great contributions as always. i've started making the PDFs, you can find them in the master topic. let's see some more work!

the poem is great, I don't really know how to cc poems so yea.

@skarik: that's a good drawing and representation. It seems they are fighting over their heart? or did their heart unite from fighting. i don't know.
about the color, maybe a yellowish or orange background for the red dragon would make the whole image appear more balanced.

I'll send my own later, I might do somehting cliche,haha, i'm not really an artist.

In the directive of breaking the stereotype, I've tried to avoid traditional heart imagery. I've also tried a form that I've seldom written in - the short story. I don't really like my prose that much, but practice leads to improvement and I have improving to do. I don't know much anatomy but I think that makes sense in the story anyway. Kind of grossed myself writing this initially. I hope I don't come off like a, uh, bleeding heart.

The Heart

Autopsies have become a hobby of mine. I guess it's not really an autopsy if
the subject is still alive, is it? But that's how I see it. Every night before
I go to sleep I cut myself open and examine my internal organs. What killed me
today? It's in my mind, but it feels real.

I start by picturing my scalpel. I'm not a surgeon, I don't know what one looks
like so I can use any kind I like. Today it's practically a machete - a long,
wooden handled knife with a curved blade. I'm lying down on my bed as I make
the slit from the top of my chest down to my belly button. A hard thwack with
the handle and I can break my sternum to open the rib cage. I peel it back along
with some of the abdominal flesh and all of the organs I'm interested in are
exposed. I don't usually examine my brain because I'm worried my thoughts
will spill out.

I must have long veins because I can move things around freely without
disconnecting them. I've just eaten so I avoid my digestives. I can feel my
lungs inflate and deflate like an air-bed made of plastic lunch wrap. It's nice
how clean everything is. My blood stays in my circulatory system, leaving only
a thin layer on the outside of my organs. I reach past my left lung for the
problem organ, the heart.

I hold it above my head so I can see it in the dim light. I hope the neighbours
don't notice my shadow. It's hard to imagine that so many things could be
connected to one organ. My whole body feels the strings as I move it around.
It's got to be at the centre of things. It beats kind of off, not at a steady
pace and there's little wrinkled bits of fat stuck to the outside of it. Other
people's hearts are good and true and strong. Mine's a lump of flesh. I can
feel all the blood in my body being slowly moved towards and through it. If
only I could replace it. Maybe in the future they'll make prosthetic hearts.

The next morning, I wake, wash, dress, eat and leave. It's humid and I can feel
myself sweating on the bus. I try not to sit too close to anyone. It gets worse
as I walk down the pier to the ferry - my shirt is noticeably drenched. A girl I
knew at school a couple of years back is on the boat. Acquaintances always make
me nervous. I try to say hello, but she looks noticeably disgusted as she makes
a polite reply. I shouldn't have sat facing opposite her. There's nobody in the
two rows of seats between us.

Just as I'm sitting down, I notice it under my shirt. My heart is swinging
around, attached by a few veins to my chest. My shirt is bloody. I try to wipe
it. My hands are bloody. I'm sweating. It's so humid. I wipe my brow. Now
there's blood on my forehead. I must look like some kind of murderer, unshaven,
hair coming out of my plait. I can't get my heart back in. My chest is sealed
shut. I focus on the sea for the rest of the journey and pretend it's not
happening. I know that it is. I can feel the great pulsating prune staining my shirt
and I know that she can see. As the boat stops, I go to get up early and go
downstairs, but she gets up too so I sit back down. She goes downstairs and I
wait until almost everyone is off the boat to get up from my seat.

It's been about a month now and I haven't been able to open myself up since. No
matter which knife I imagine or how sharp the blade, my skin won't part. My
ribs are like prison bars, only my heart is free. I can't get it back inside
my chest again. I can't hold a conversation without it playing up or go out in
public without someone staring. I feel filthy. If only I'd left it alone.

I don't have access to my art so here is a poem.

Pretty
Obvious
Romantic
Temptation
Amassing
Lust

Someday, Someone Will Steal Me

You beat me like a begging drum,
not with sticks though;
not with sticks, no.

The tools you use are indigenous.
Not of the native lands,
nor of the carver's hands.

I am your final word,
but also a testing field;
your life-long battlefield.

You've never seen me, but
at times I've been embraced;
other times disgraced.

I'll never speak your name,
but I whisper softly.
You whisper to me.

I am blind but insightful.
I am mute but roaring.
I am deaf but listening.

You could describe me a billion ways
and never speak the same,
and if I stopped to talk,
you would never speak again.