The lighting, color, and texture sings dramatically so I’m tempted to do a concrete and descriptive info dump on this piece. The subject has a story built right in: bridges and a trail of people approaching nearly natural stone towers, arches, and gates. That would be fun I think—particularly because I’d like to roll back to yesterday’s line about ‘titan fists’.
Instead I’ll try to write about what’s happening here. I’m going to entirely disregard the artist’s text. Not that I don’t think they are fine (or technically correct), but I got a instinctive reaction to the piece before I read his words. I’d like to expand on that instead.
Old hands with pale papery skin griped the worn rail of the bridge’s balustrade. Grainmaster Holan held tight to avoid collapsing onto the walkway not to avoid falling the great distance to the floor. His legs trembled with age. They did not tremble for fear of the height.
“Myan!” A mother’s voice and tone called out. The Grainmaster perked from his drifting thoughts to answer the command of his name. He smiled gently when he realized it was not his mother’s voice, but a coincidence of the vent’s shape that brought the sounds of far below directly to his ear. Myan was a name popular for boys as well as girls these days.
The Grainmaster snorted amusement softly and spoke to an audience of only himself, “No gratitude to you old Myan Holan. No gratitude whatsoever.”
Word count: 248
This may not look like much right now, but it’s got legs in my head.