https://docs.google.com/document/d/1hzRkRrp_qyLDh4LMLR4p1kx6Y3op-ge147LcZw4ZIhg/edit?tab=t.0
Short Story/Workshop
Elijah Brahmi
Professor Heinz Insu Fenkl
3/26/25
The Future is Bright in Avalore.
I sat facing my easel, stumped at how to start this particular deadline, I hated to think of something as sacred as art, as just another deadline but alas this was my last night to finish my painting for Russo.corp’s latest gala, and I hadn't even started. I tossed my paintbrush down, and just stared at my blank canvas. Insecure in my waning imagination, unsure of what to play god with, what to create. Everyone likes to remind me, art won't change the world, it will be replaced by AI, they say Art is arrogant, and a distraction from our true cause, to be a committed artist is to be a selfish,a soblsistic burden, someone who will do anything for your art, even hurt people - a type of pretentious, self centured aryctype, incopablde with their ideals of anarchsim, community and charity. That's how they come off to me, anyway.
My friends all say its a petty indugelce to be an autur, to remain loyal to your process, to making something new, above all else, above all their precious mutail aid, and anarchist causes they exuallut as the only true moral lifestyle.
But I know in my heart of hearts, desipite my peer pressure, and crippling imposter syndrome, that the world needs artists, machines cant replace us, the world would be impossible to bear without us, maybe even impossible to understand. What will they do, I wonder, when the fascists leave no artists behind, when we are outlawed, limited to pennies and progagdna. I can hardly focus on my work, these questions and incusruties about my own place in the world, my own art as my only tallent, my only worldview or way to live, I have no other life then art, but it is still…seen as so unserious and a constant need to justify myself as an artist clings to me. I wonder if the ancient masters, Devichini, Carviagio had these same demons. I wonder if the artists of the distant future doubted themselves, I wonder what art they will make, I wonder if my art will somehow outlive me, and survive even into the final age of humanity.
A million years from now I hope before my early death, I can make something worth preserving, something that can outlive me, and do some good to some people long after i'm gone.
I can take my time capsule from my closet, the first thing I would save in a fire, I wouldnt go for the Money, family photographs nor any rememence of me as an artist but simply my art, writing in my will to turn my ashes to pain in my wake, and turn me into a mass public murrel, a symbol of the imorirtlity of hope, and love.I coudlnt stop hoping my art, if it did last that long, won't be relegated to inaccessible museums or hidden away in basement archives, but will be splayed and replicated across graffiti walls, in public parks outside public schools and underground theatres, where freaks and lonely children will see it and feel inspired, feel evrything wonderful they seldom get to feel.
I wonder more than I think about my own survival, more laws against my kind passed and enforced every week, people have been saying the world is ending since the beginning of time, but never has such prophecies seemed more emanate, but I dont think the world is ending, I dont even think endings truly exist, I just think…evil people are going to do some evil things, history knowing no one will ever learned from it, has hit that time in the cycle again, for darkness and pain to take over, unimaginable pain we only ever see in Oscar bait tragedies, or on teh distant daily news. I dont expect to grow old, I have this unbreakable feeling my time is nearly up, I just…have run out of time, I did what I could, well, at least Id like to believe I did, it's easier that way.
But these things, my art, our art, is so much bigger then me, thats painfull but a liberating thought of how your death your life, after your gone the world will go on spinning and just might get better, just might finally change, you dont know it wont, you wont live to see it either way. I wanna know what the people of the future think of this time, if they romanticize it, revise the history or hold it with a tragic sort of reverence, I wonder every day, when im at coffee shops and public parks in a daze, what the poole of the future will think of us, will they even care.
How future historians will dissect our paintings, our stories, technology teh records of our expression, of our souls, will they read into it and what they will assume and project onto it based on the customs of their own time, as we hold reverence, mystery and confusion at the art of the ancient Estructans, 15th century monks, indigenous Inuit tribes of northern Canada, or the first prehistoric homo sapiens, drawings on cave walls we study with a holy sort of reverence, mere everyday scribblings of Ox, and battle with mammoths, now seen as so much more. The more years the art has endured, the closer to god it becomes, thousands, if not millions of years, if we last that long, what will they think of…Banksy? of Bo Burnum, of Chappel Roan, Luca Guadinio, Sean Baker, of I saw the TV Glow, Christopher Nolan and Ridley Scott, of South Park, MTV, of youtubers and twitch streamers, of every mad thing, that defines of our time, good or bad, what will they think? Will they even preserve it, will they even care, should they? Will anyone…really care about my art, or Anyones art, if were not famous worth writing down, are we too unremarkable to be kept alive by history,like how many artists from the past have we forgotten. But when your dead, who cares who remembers you and who doesnt. Maybe I just care about a legacy, about my art outliving me because it will be a consolation if I am inevitably completely shuttered and forgotten in my own lifetime. Witch now that I say it, is pretty depressing.
I think about legacy too much for a starving artist, someone who's never had a gallery show until this year after almost two decades at the grindstone, Some poor fool among a sea of other hungry, mildly talented, educated, unimaginative, sorry failures who has never had a lick of success and hasnt felt good about themselves since 1st grade when they won a game of pictionary.
How could I be thinking about things so abstract and soul crushing when I spent most of my days working the checkin counter at burger king, and my nights in bed with strange men, with ideals I don't understand, and does nothing but have anxiety and occasinsly prodcue medocaure paintings somewhere inebtween. But its unique everyone says, my work is like nothing else, they said and it needs to be seen! Evry flashy promoter, influencer, or art world snob says every time they see my portfolio or any of my work, it would be nice if any of that condescending praise ever translated into cash to pay rent, or the feeling of satisfaction from my work being finished,or my vision being realized, being good in my ever judgmental peers eyes, being good in the eyes of a public, I seem to be the last person on earth to respect the opinions of. And on top of all that I made the brillant decision to date a revtionary, who pressures me constantly to join his protests and orgnzing efforts and take pains to remind me my art won't save the world, it won't help people and it shouldnt be my pronrity, leading me to feel I have to choose, between my two passions and knowing myself, I never will.
And after all that, I still cannot think of what to paint.
Hold on maybe im missing whats right in frontg of me, my anxiety, my fears about legacy, my constant neverending cripping thought process that never fucking stops— that's what I should paint.
You know, if I had to sum it up into one concept um… the anxiety of legacy, yes! or purpose and sincerity of your own worth stretching across the fields of time, how memory and history are tools for erasure and fossiling people and peoples work who never got their due when they were alive. And if legacy is even something any non mentally ill mortal should waste their precious hours worrying about! Yes, To capture the unceirty, the impermanence, the holiness of…art, and life, and some other pretentious word I can't quite think of through the anxiety and migraines. Suddenly reinevorgrted with passion, I picked up my brush, adjusted my paint pallente hanging off the Isle, took and deep breath, and went to work.
First, I should start with a man, always a solid place to start. I painted his little body, at the center where the eye looks first, a man in the memory of another man, inside the memory of another man, standing his round head witch I painted black and blue, and that man is inside the memory of another man, but the fourth man, he resides inside the memory of a man who, can't remember him, and that's only three generations down, I can remember my grandfather, his face, his cruelty, his holocaust survivor branding number on his left wrinkled arm, but we don't have bloodlines,we don't have linkages to remember us, we just paint, and buy our time. And so I got to work painting, as I outlined the finale man in his memory fading man, I felt bad for him, I think he does not overthink himself into cynical corners like me, I think he believes earnestly in humanity's good, in love in his own life, I think he wants to be remembered and to inspire, but, he cant remember his face, who he loved, who he was, he is just a faded memory of a memory, and soon he will be gone. Because, alas, he cannot remember the man's name. They say you die twice, once when you're in the ground, and the second time, when nobody living can remember your name. I think that's what I’ll title this painting, Remember Your Name. Too on the nose, it's possible, best not to overthink.
Suddenly my phone began to blow up, I picked it up wiping my paint covered hands on my white pants, of course I had to wear white today, when my smock is in the laundry. All the notifications came at lightning speed, more than I usually get, they were from social media sites, groundnews and other online news outlets, since nobody trusts CNN, or the New York times. Breaking News, it read, the protests in Washington Square Park, repurposed into riots this afternoon,property damage has been reported, police cars and government buildings have been burned and taken over by what people are now calling the Rainbow Mob, fires have broken out all over downtown and are spreading, a state of emergency has been declared across manhattan-”A talking head from every news broadcast station said, barely able to hold back their fear and rage, As I scrolled on twitter I saw more news and streamers cover the events in real time that had apprealty been a long time coming, I couldn't stop looking at scenes from the Riot, it looked like mayham. People were being brutalized by the police, but for once, they were fighting back, with guns and they outnumbered the cops, and the national guard, all of them, it was a full blown battle. I even saw a video of a three year old child who had been separated from her mother, being taken captive by one of the cops, holding her up like a trophy, until he was ambushed by protesters, taking the girl to safety, and beating the cop senseless tearing off his armor, and helmet, disarming and dismembering him, by running him over with their motorcycles and shooting him with his own gun before he could short first and ask later. I’d never seen protesters so angry, so violent, so organized and justified, it was vindicating, it was terrifying…knowing what they would do to all of us in the aftermath.
“Holy shit”I whispered, grasping my mouth., pacing around our dimly lit studio, as I obsessively scrolled for more updates. Before I knew it a red glow was coming from outside my closed blinds, I pried them open, only to see what I can only describe as a scene from a repressed Mormon kids nightmare, Hell had burned over. It reminded me of the final scene from Gangs of New York. The sky was a bold red, not mars red. I'm taking crimson, it was blood red. It sent shivers down my spine and unbalanced my stance, making me scared our building would be next. The Wildfires in California even couldn't compare to the skyline being set against the hellish glow of endless fire, born of fascism and injustice, consuming New York City, before my very eyes. I could see the flames rising in the distance, even spreading to Houston, flames dancing on the still river. I could see it all from my apartment. I had to stay calm, I was safe in here, I had to finish my painting, add the finishing touches, those are the ones that really counted. But My phone kept going off, more news about mass arrests, deaths, mostly of protesters, and having to bring in fire departments from out of state. I wondered how soon it would be till I would be taken prisoner as well. I wonder if I would survive in prison again, it wouldn't be like Juvi when I was a teen living in Provo, this would be a different kind of hell, being a political prisoner under this regime. As much of the art I've posted online, and had sold to gallery owners and people who are rich and influential obheticvley, was political in nature, there was no way I wasn't on one of their lists by now.
I was already panicking, but when a realization hit me that I somehow forgot until now, I went into a full blown panic attack.
Jace wasn't home yet, he said he would be back hours ago, he was going to a protest today in union square to the free speech march, protesting the new law arresting all political dissenters, outspoken or not. But, he was there today…oh no, he was there today. And the last conversation we had was a fight over nothing!
“HOlY FUCK!!! NO NO, NO NO, Please Pick up, Please Pick up” Please god, just let him be alive. The phone rang for a bit too long, usually when it goes that long it goes to voicemail.
“Jace, common baby, pick up, pick up, come on, just tell me you're safe” I wiped nervously into the phone, as if it would make a difference.
Of course, It went to voicemail. I quivered in fear as I let play his cocky funny little voicemail, saying he's too busy fighting the power to pick up the phone right now or something. I threw my phone onto the couch before slumping down the wall and sitting on the floor to rot, and to cry into my knees. As the red light of the fire outside flooded the room, as if it were in a red room. Suddenly from my head buried into my knees, of course forgetting to do my deep breathing again, I could hear the door unlock, holy shit that must be the secret police, I needed to hide.
“Lyra, oh my god, you won't believe the day i've had!”
“Jace!?” I looked up from my knees, to see him, frazzle haired, a bit bloody, makeup smudged and pinned and patched up leather jacket torn and sliding off. He looked high, he simply gushed, went on ranting about how incredible the porestst was, and how this was the start of a new age, a new revaluation, as he showered the liquor cabinet and downed a whole bottle of Myers Rum. I had so much to tell, to ask, to yell at him about, but before I could I simply rushed into his arms, hugging and crying into him, just whispering, i'm so happy you're alive.
“Shhhhh, it's gonna be ok, they can't kill me, they'll have to burn the whole world down” He said, caressing my sweat-wet hair. I pushed him off me.
“What happened, how…where is Molly”
“She's still out there holding down the fort, caring for the injured,with everybody else. Since the state ordered hostails to turn away “The Terrorist Mob”causluties, they have to get creative, there's not enough doctors on our side, there's a makeshift clinic on a Boat near the Whitney, I heard they're taking people too. But it's not enough”
“That many huh” I crossed my arms, judging his jubilant attitude, of course, Classic jace, predictably unpredictable.
“We don't know yet, lots are alive though and their…gonna keep this going for days-just like a stonewall!”
“Stonewall? Stonewall didn't burn the city to the ground”
“Lyra, don't you see, This is incredible, after all those years of people telling us we shouldnt be violent and should just take any blow our oppressors wanna throw our way, we finally fought back, in numbers! We finally, with nothing to lose didn't just march, or carry a little sign, because no priests is peaceful in their eyes, we had enough, arresting dissenters will arrest anyone with a moral compass, they never taught us this in schools, because the american education system is a propaganda machine, but people fought back against the Nazis, people didn't just go down without a fight. The Partisans, for example. We finally fought back, not just one lone man, but all of us, people i've organized with for years were there, and we were all, fighting for the same cause, adn were prepared to sacrifice it all, it was…beautiful, you should have been there, but don't worry now, you'll have plenty of chances”
“I just…”
“Come here, we should take a picture, or something, this day will go down in history, I want future generations to see how we fought, and see me, fresh from fighting the fascists, with my hot boyfriend-” Jace snapped a selfie of us, I couldn't help but look scared, ghost white.
“I can't see why your so happy about this” I Said.
“How, – if there was ever a time to celebrate-”
“But the fire…our building won't be safe forever you know, we should escape the city while we can”
“Oh please, our building will be fine their keeping it conted downtown, the news is overreacting, fear-mongering, it as always, besides the pigs started the fire to try and scare us off, safe to say that one backfired for them”
“But, don't you see what you did, even if you covered your face, you guys are now enemy number one, and they’ll make an example out of you, out of us. They’ll hunt us down, and when we do no one will care, they will write us off as radicals, And I have told you a hundred times, I've never been as radical as you, but just by associating with you–my fate is sealed, I don't wanna go to prison, I wouldn't survive a day in there, but now thats where we're going, tell me again, why should I be happy?”
“Wow, you know I thought you had changed, but clearly you're still too stupid to know what's really going on, god—you are unbearable”
“Please, let's not do this again.” I sighed.
“How much do things need to fall apart for you to care, for you to open your eyes.”\
“I just wanna understand, what you think is gonna happen, do you think the world will suddenly change for the better, do you really think anything you've done will make things better? Do you?” I stared at him, longing for him to come back down to earth.
“Do you?” I whined, taking him by the color.
“It's a start, for far too long, we have been too scared to act, but now, the dam has been broken, not even the fascists in government or the big corporations are safe. The only way out of hell is through, no one can just sit by comfortably and do nothing anymore, this is about all of our survival, people need to stop accepting their oppression thinking there's no other option and start imagining a better world.”
“Thats funny”
“No its not”
“Yes it is, “Imagine a better world” everyone says that, all the leftists we trust, their call to actions all lead to that, but they never seem to do it”
“Do what?” Jace backed away, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms.
“Imagine a better world, I never hear about it, caught in the extremes of utopia and dystopia, they say you can't imagine beyond capitalism, but you can imagine…anything, that's kind of the whole point of imagining”
“Well imagining won't help liberate us”
“Who says, if somebody, anybody doesnt at least try to imagine a better world, instead of passing it off to somebody else, what will you do if you win the war, fall into the same traps of the fascists, not to say your the same, you know I don't believe that, but nobody wants another soviet union-Revolutions don't lead to revolutionary society's unless people have mapped out what that society will look like, is on the same page witch will never happen but conscious of some kind must be aimed for- but not crippled by in its absence, you know, a world John Lennon might have sung about, maybe that's why he called it imagine, because otherwise nobody would do it. If one of us doesn't try to imagine a better world, how will we ever actually achieve it, I've read the disposed, I know i'm not the first person to suggest the importance of this, not by a long shot. I dont know a lot. But one thing I do know, is people need their shining city on the hill to be more than metaphor”
“Your being ridiculous”
“How? I haven't heard one of you, writer or not, imagine a better world for us, us, here now, in earnest, even in science fiction, nobody is doing it. No one is typing to imagine one in detail, one that's realistic, achievable not a utopia, just…better, learning from the mistakes of the past, of how best to organize a society to maximize human safety, liberty, and happiness. Can you name one person who has prioritized imagining a better world…one?”
“No.”
“Well maybe you should, maybe somebody-anybody should- so we have something nice to think about on death row, the way christians think of heaven.”
“Nobody is going to the death row, ok? Look, can we not argue, I really don’t have the energy, and the last thing I wanna do is argue with the man I love” He said, annoyingly grabbing me and pulling me back into his arms, as we swayed. I rolled my eyes, standing by all of my words, but just at the end of it all, happy he was alive. Afraid of how his confidence might be shattered by upcoming events, rarely do people truly defy the odds.
“I love you” He whispered anxiously like they were his last words.
“I love you too, asshole- Even if you were a crazy bastard today” I mumbled, with a sign into his leather shoulder, still annoyed but starting to cool down, as he ran his hands through my hair and kissed me, slow and tender.
Just at that very moment, the first one all day where everything seemed alright, the cops burst in, breaking down our door. and throwing us both to the ground boots on our heads, separating us by dragging us down the nine flights of narrow stairs by our hair, our frail bodies hitting every step with a painful thud before throwing us in separate cop cars, followed by armored tanks, we could hear choppers not to far off as the fire was at our doorstep.
I could hear Jace yelling and fighting back, as they stabbed him with some sort of Steve, I held back tears, helpless of what else to do before, crying even more realizing I left my art upstairs and wouldn't be able to meet my deadline, I guess none of that mattered now. They shot me with the same settive before I had any time to think.
Before I knew it I woke up, in an integration room, with two men, in black suits, dozens of military cops outside the small room on the basement floor of some maximum security prison, I couldn't tell. The first man was tall and thin. His partner was short and fat and had warts all over his body including a huge brown one right in the center of his massive, bulbous nose like a lumpy gord sticking out of a pumpkin patch. The integration went on for hours, I denied all involvement in the riots, but couldn't deny the anti Government messaging of some of my public art, nor my romantic involvement with one of the protests chief organizers, and put me in solitary I was there for weeks, held without bail, proper trail, or ability to call a lawyer witch seemed to have been common place for some time now, I beaten by guards every couple of days clearly just for fun, as they kept the lights to my closet sized dirty cell off, I remained literally and figuratively in the dark, as the weeks dragged on, time seemed to blend together. I was totally unsure of the news, the outcome of the riots, the fire, where Jace was, or how long I would be in here, for the rest of my sad, short life most likely, witch filled me with existential dread, and clapshorphic, periodic hysteria. I don't think there was anywhere left to go, I couldn't make art, not even in my mind, it wasn't helped by the knowledge or lack thereof, of just how many others had been locked up, disappeared killed, or worse, that in reality when all came down to it, we couldn't do anything about it.
So I went to sleep, on the hard concrete floor, hoping, praying to never wake up.
Suddenly I heard a flash, I opened my eyes, to a massive crome bast-burrowing open a cosmic hole in the side of the wall. All of a sudden, a bldining rainbow reflected onto the floors in diamond fractals, a thousand rainbows like a Prism shown onto me covering me in rainbow lights, and lit up the dark cell like the night sky, an my own private araoa boralais. A sort of endless high powered wind suddenly swooped in and thrust be against the door, swinging for anything to grab onto. The cosmic hole suddenly turned to rainbow portal, opening up and dragging me into it with immense force, like 100x the power of jet engine, sucking me into its muticolored vortex.
I felt a hard smack agsint my skin as I fell from the skies above.
Was this a dream, was I being experimented on by the government, It didnt matter, the portal had made its choice for me. Now my life could truly begin.I was scared confused but in the end I just gave in, anything was better, the unknown even death, was better the the hell you know. It was darkness for, god knows how long, no dreams, no reget, just enduring the peaceful void, full of patience and mercy. That was, until my eyes slowly peeled open, slowly drifting awake, to the sound of children laughing in the distance.
Then before I knew it I woke up I woke up, somehwere else, somwhere that felt higher then a dream. I wondered for hours in the poppy feilds, shinning with the dew from last nights storm. The more I looked arround the more the world expanded, Mountains, far off Train tracks that looked more like black lines covering the distant horzion. I wondered forver, and all I could think was, this was beautiful am I in finland, or…the last perfect place on earth, deforstaion, oil, heck human cicvlaztion seemed it had forgotten all about this place, leaving it to bloom, the parries and hills seemed to go on forever, as I began to laugh and smile at the pureness of the scene, it seemd to melt something long harened within me. Little did I know this was just the tip of the iceberg, for what I would soon encounter. And I wasnt the least bit prepared, for any of it.
I took a break from roaming, searching, to roll arround In a field of flowers, all kinds, surrounded by new unrecockble spies of inetcts, part Bee part butterfly, feeding on every kind of flower you could think of, from Cartnations to Curstanathmums, before I knew it, it was night time, and…a full moon hang over us, as a swarm of fireflies came alive the second I wobbled to my feet.
I walked and soon bean to question if this verion of the world, was all like this. That was until I saw a small little glowing orb in the distance, at first I thought it was the sun on the harizion, but quickly realized it was a buldig of some sort, as I got closer I realized it was….a city, a city inside of a disco ball.
In the distine, I rejoiced even tired myself running towards that shinning light, coming into focus I could now see it was giant Glass dome, about the size of an airport, stretching as high as skyscrapers and glowing, changing color every second with a bumping beat it was sending out to shock the earth to the sound of its ememnating melody, it sounded like freedom, a new kind of music. I just ran faster.
I ran faster and pulsating multiclored like a massive eye in mounding out from an eldelss trees, more tree then I remember being in new york, then I realized I wasnt in the same place, I walked towards the futuristic looking dorm apretehsivley.
Only to be greeted by swarmes of alalrmingly happy people all dressed in bizarre clothes, a strange combination of clothing from every era, class, brand, and fabric, mismatched patterns, ball gowns, flapper dresses, on tan men with beards, children wearing shakespearean costumes, Elderly wemon wearing hoodies, and suits, and everything in between on the bodies you’d least expect it. Everyone seemed to be gender noncomforming, some pepole even appered to have animal and bionic like features, robot arms, torsors, ears and eyes, some had horns, antlers, tails, dragon fly and eagle wings, even traits of fictional creatures like unicorn horns or a cycopyse eye.
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