The Rising Dawn, # 3— "The Artist and The Language"
- Oct 2, 2023
- 6 min read
[Short stories. Images generated by hotpot.ai]
Little Brandon Shelver, or Brand, was also called the Gimmick(er). He now worked in Freedom Tower, where he finally had the life he always wanted, except for a 10/10 knock-out wife and nine children, whose needs he told himself he could provide for and more. He didn’t work nine to five, per se, but a good four or five hours every day his Force went into his artwork. A few people called it Cosmic Energy, more called it Psi Energy, and some high-minded intellectuals called it Ether, which they claimed was the scientific word. Brand the Gimmick still called it the Force, being raised on Star Wars and voracious for anything licensed under that franchise. One of the main bones of contention for moving to Freedom Tower had been whether he could keep his impressive collection of Star Wars memorabilia, his favorites being vintage framed posters of the original three episodes, along with figurines that were made the old-fashioned way, where you could step on them and they would still be intact. Not that Brand or anyone else would be allowed to do such a thing.
Force Language, he called it. If you were willing to draw the glyphs by hand, with sufficient quantity and adherence to the rules of the Language he was inspired to conceive, you could do anything. Anything you wanted, it would happen, but not always in the way you wanted or expected. Once he had tried to unleash a monster of a plague, and it worked, but it happened on the other end of the globe. That Gimmick (as it was called) had taken five days of all his strength to perform, all the while listening to podcasts analyzing his favorite movies and TV shows, which were plentiful on the internet. One glyph at a time, he made, hand-drawn, until there were hundreds of them on a broad canvas.
He had drawn an image of a frog, the focus of the glyphs, along with the rest of the canvas. Brand’s style of images were sleek yet simplistic, being just detailed enough that viewers didn’t consider them detailed at all, but they always liked it. Even subconsciously. They were more like tags of a graffiti artist more than anything else. But once he drew the frog that completed his Gimmick, it went viral online. Within three weeks, a monster of a frog plague took place somewhere in Africa, and Brand finally understood how powerful his Art was. Being an Outlier in the eyes of humanity, and yet child-like in his amusement of striking the Earth with plagues, he was urgently scooped up by the Sentinels, who were collaborating with the Rising Dawn.
Now, he spent his days knowing he’d have enough hot lunches, apples, cold sodas, hot showers, toothpaste and toilet paper. A maid in Freedom Tower even handled his laundry. But more than that, he would be able to spend the day doing what he loved, and he didn’t have to choose between thankless proximity to a greasy oven and living in a miserable project, which he lived in anyway.
Gimmick formerly had a painful life, being emancipated from his parents, with whom he needed to get his worker’s permit at age 13, and he was now 14. His growth was stunted due to the fact his mother used drugs while he was in the womb. His Star Wars collection emerged from simple over-spending by his financially reckless mother and father, who were both drug dealers and addicts. Gimmick vastly preferred doing art, and manual labor had been a rude awakening. He began burning out very quickly. Now, everything was different.
Wraith, Yahtzee, and Jeremic Fury (Pointer) made a wellness check on Brand the Gimmick, and were also checking to see what kind of progress he was making on his recent commission.
“You had enough talent to unleash a hailstorm in Des Moines,” said Wraith, “Why is this one thing so difficult?” Gimmick said thoughtfully, “The Wrath of the Force is easier to express than making good things happen.” “He still calls it the Force,” said Pointer. “Can we have a hot tub?” said Yahtzee, “Can we put that on his list?” “We can buy a hot tub if we need it, and no, we can’t,” said Wraith. There was silence, as though Gimmick was expected to give a detailed explanation as to what he was doing. “Do you like it, so far?” “It looks unfinished,” said Wraith. Brandon sighed, “That’s what my mom would say.”
There was silence.
“What about the last one? Did you like it?”
The group seemed perplexed, as though the awe his art inspired wasn’t apparent whatsoever.
“Of course we do,” said Yahtzee. “Then say something nice about it!” whimpered Gimmick.
What Gimmick didn’t understand was that when the art was good enough, everyone was speechless. But being bullied in his school years, Gimmick couldn’t get enough praise, especially the right kind, which was what inspired him to do more art.
“We are paying you, Gimmick. Isn’t that enough?” said Wraith. Gimmick looked at samples of his recent art, as though dissatisfied. “I guess I keep waiting for the girl of my dreams to show up.” “That’s—” and Wraith didn’t quite know what to say. Pointer said, “Your work inspires awe, and is utterly unique. We don’t have enough good things to say, but we also don’t understand it.” Yahtzee said with enthusiasm, “Awesome and Unique art is the best compliment ever. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” Then he added, “And one day you’ll get a smoking hot babe, for sure.”
Curiously, the fact that they didn’t understand it was more satisfying than being Awesome.
At least for Gimmick.
“Yes. Well,” said Wraith, “Are you sure this one will work? The Rising Dawn will emerge victorious?” “It’s hard, because winning doesn’t always mean something good will happen,” complained Gimmick. “...How so?” said Jeremic. “If you want a really good one, it’ll take weeks.” “That doesn’t answer—” began Wraith, then thought better of it. “Well… can you make sure it will be good?” “That’s why I don’t like doing it. I want a cool TV show to watch,” he showed them another work in progress, different from the big one. Jeremic Fury’s anger was aroused. “I should rip it in half!” Both Wraith and Yahtzee said in unison, “DON’T!!”
Besides breaking Gimmick’s heart, ruining his artwork unleashed terrible events. Recently, as in three months ago, Gimmick unleashed a plague of grasshoppers without telling anybody. Furious upon discovery, Nightshift tore it in half, which unleashed the True Power of his Art. The resulting plague was ten times worse than it would otherwise be, in addition to unleashing an earthquake that rocked Freedom Tower and other natural phenomena, where it was unclear whether the drawing had anything to do with it.
“Gimmick. Sweetie.” said Wraith tenderly, “Why don’t you like doing good things?”
Gimmick was silent, as if unable to explain something obvious.
“Everyone knows why!” said Yahtzee, “Nothing is free! You gotta wait for something good, right Brand?” “My dad called me Brand,” said Gimmick.
This seemed like an inexplicable confirmation of what Yahtzee had said.
“Okay,” said Wraith, “Just checking in. Can we get you anything, sweet thing?”
Gimmick was unaccustomed to getting what he wanted.
“Is there lunch?” “Of course there’s lunch. There’s always lunch,” said Wraith. “Can I have jalapeno poppers?” “For… lunch?”
In truth, though Yahtzee had no measure of clairvoyance, his unconditional support and enthusiasm was the best medicine for Gimmick, even because Gimmick didn’t believe him. It made him feel good that Yahtzee had blind faith in the little artist, even because if it turned out he was wrong, then at least he wasn’t the only screw-up. In fact, Yahtzee was a legendary screw-up, his power being a Karma magician.
“I almost never get to have them,” said Gimmick. “Okay. Let’s get you some fruits and vegetables to go with it,” said Wraith gently. “Well, yeah. If I can have them. But I especially want jalapeno poppers.”
The other three Gifted looked at each other, then warmly assented.
Work was going well.
*-------------------------------------------*
Think about it: I’m resolved to write 30+ short stories a month, complete with beautiful illustrations. Combined with my unique writing style, innovative ideas, and unlimited creativity, I’m making magic happen in your life. Two comic books cost eight bucks, and it’s the same stuff you’ve been hearing about for at least fifty years. Voluntarily pay me at least five bucks a month, and you’ll know you’re getting your money’s worth. Be a team player, and we’ll all make some magic happen together. Swain and the Rising Dawn Society can’t make it without you, fellas. Donate via Venmo, Paypal, or GoFundMe, and I’ll be all hands on deck. Hell, I could be doing 60 short stories a month if I had some motivation to do so
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