The world may not be BLACK and WHITE, but it sure has a lot of gray, and that’s the kind of art I like to do. Charcoal, ink, and pencil are my favorite mediums, ignoring the abundant array of colors available to me. RoyG.Biv could never keep up with my amazing grayscale. I like concentrating on the shades of an object, seeing how the light highlights its point of impact, forcing all else into shadow. A few quick scratches with my quill and I create crosshatching, which although I only use one dark thick line, I somehow can make an assortment of tones. Who needs color when you can say everything in monochrome?
Grays are the hardest colors to make. First, start with two complimentary colors—let’s say red and green. Note, green in a secondary color, so first mix blue and yellow together, and then add red. After a nice brownish sludge appears, begin adding white. Magically, the color drains from the paint, but leaves hints of the reds and blues that once existed. Those little mistakes scream your secret: that no matter how much you see the world as gray, the color still shines through.
(Simply another piece I wrote for Creative Writing Nonfiction)
little turkeys watch with unblinking eyes from tables and cabinets. One stands proudly beside a
PAIR of PILGRIMS, made of wood and painted in exquisite detail. Another, made of plastic has a ?questionable? hole in its back. Perhaps it's supposed to hold a cup? Nah, too small. One hides
_________a philodendron
under
in the dining room, peeking out behind the heart-shaped leaves to watch those who pass by. At first, you might not notice these strange birds all over the place, but after you find them, you will see them every time.
My family bought my mother these littleturkeys as a joke, and every year the story gets told
again and again and again and again...
around Thanksgiving. My father tells it best, because he sat in the front passenger seat right next to mother. But I think I can tell a mean story as well.
In the summer of 2003, my family decided to travel around the continental United States. We drove across to
the G R A N D C A N Y O N,
up to BrYcE and ZioN Canyon,
then finally over to MOUNT RUSHMORE
before heading back towards back to Ohio. My mother and father were the only two who could drive, since my sister Maureen was the oldest at 15. I had only been 13 for a few months, and Micheal came in last at 10. We relaxed in the back of my father's seven-passengervan with a pop-up camper in tow. On top of our van, we had an extra storage container known as a BIG MAC to hold a few extra objects and give us a bit more leg room.
The night before we arrived at the campground near MOUNT RUSHMORE, my mother was driving. It was late, and the rest of us (including my father in front) were dozing off... I had put down my book awhile ago when the sun went down, and now only barely registered the headlights through the front windshield. My eyes
kept...
slowly...
closing... as sleep took over...
"I'm gonna hit it, I'm gonna hit it..." my mother hissed, her hands gripping the steering wheel. She had a tendency to repeat phrases when she became flustered and worried. My father shook his head to wake up and glared out the window. We three children in the back leaned to try and see better. A semi truck rumbled towards us, but it was on its own side of the road and nowhere near our van.
"The semi's not going to hit us, it's on the other side of the road," my father sighed. "Not that, THAT! The turkey!"Mother said, jabbing the air hurriedly before latching her hands back to the wheel. We all squinted our eyes and tried to see past the blaring lights of the truck. Sure enough, a small speck of a bird had just crossed the double yellow line and was heading into our way.
"Slow down!" Father said.
"I'm trying!"
"Swerve to the right!"
"I CAN'T!"
"SWERVE TO THE RIGHT!"
As my parents bickered, the bird came CLOSER and CLOSER. My heart raced and I stared in horror as finally the turkey disappeared from view. Suddenly a large shape leaped into the air, thudding into the top of the windshield with a
THUMP!
Then it s k i d d e d across the top of the van, hit the BIG MAC, and flew right into the front of the oncoming semi.
A moment of silence automatically occurred inside the van. We looked about in disbelief and wondered what to do. Sleep became the last thought on our minds.
By the time we came to the campground, we started to find the fowl-hit-and-run funny. As morning arrived, it was down-right hilarious. Who knewturkeys could jump so high? My brother climbed up onto the top of the van to check the condition of the BIG MAC, but also to see if any feathers got stuck. ever since then, we have told the story
times and my family jokes that my mother should never cook turkey, since as my father says,
"we all know she'll just go out and hit one with her car."
This year, a few remarks were made and mother even thought of using black licorice to make tire marks on top of the cooked bird. We told the story to my sister's friend who came to visit, keeping the joke alive. In my mother's defense, she always replies,
