{"I always speak the truth. Not the whole truth, because there's no way, to say it all. Saying it all is literally impossible: words fail. Yet it's through this very impossibility that the truth holds onto the Réal" - Jacques Lacan... Today's post are three entries towards @vermillionfox's FoxTales contest, all in the three-hundred-mono-paragraph format. Have fun~... No music-aides for today, but, if yah want one, then look environmental music.}

A painting by the lovely @vermillionfox

- Drab face -

Some would just say she seen it all and wants nothing to do with life any more. Just look upon the face and tell a sane, living person that it doesn’t just evoke outright repudiation to the human soul. Any regular joe probably even just walk away and not even comment on the matter, yet there must be something to the face that inspires this awe qua disgust? Unfortunately, as reports showcased from what any data-monkey could analyze anyways, nobody was able to even force the face outta its tempting non-care of all life. From the high brows of STEM nerds gushing over new technology, to the Shakespeares of today singing their rhymes, to the hippy down the corner of this street and to the peers of what is assumed of her age, nobody could even change the emotion. Even worse, current reports just outline that she probably inched a centimeter in that arc; causing scientists all around the globe interested in this non-case to freak out. While the development we didn’t want to see, it certainly had given to an entire discourse of various schools of philosophy and a reemergence of a movement in Science to be more than empirical facts and be a movement of demystification. The, as they call themselves, demystifying scientists are calling to have the same allotted time the other groups have been receiving in order to crack down everything related to drab face as then to explain the reasons for this phenomenon. While the schools of philosophy overwhelmingly voted yes, the STEM communities are split on the matter itself. If there’s one thing for sure, then it’s just that people have lost it and forgotten what a frowny face was in these times when war is non-existent. But, interesting nonetheless; now to other stories.

With my eyes flipping open, now begins another day as my legs carry me forth to where I work. Oh say what you will, but I fancy the arts more than the art custodians around me can dare to utter. But that’s my fancy as my hands now make squeaks of this wooden chair to later my ærs making farce of that squeak as I ram-squeak it back into place. The staff opening up the museum with their mighty hands, the bright lights stroke my skin ever-so-softly and the taps of their shoes ever-so-softly making the floor wince in preparation to the mass of foots that shall stomp, scamper, swerve and sneak by. My ears hearing the first batch of art tourists, enthusiasts, locals and commoners, I wonder what they’ll do next this morning; I find it funny that the news called my look a “drab face.” My voice-box wanted to celebrate the accomplishment, my mind recognizes it well but it knows not on how to do so. Should I smile, should I cry, should I twirl, should I scream, should I, should I? But I know how to word it, yet I know not a language; I know how to draw it, for peck’s sake I made this chair and table; I know how to view it, else I wouldn’t have this pointless conversation as I await the first picture; I know that I am not angry, just disappointed. But disappointed at who and for whom, yet another meandering as to preoccupy my mind I guess. Hey! They’re finally pulling out the cameras and look at that lil’ cootie-patootie just strolling up. She’s picking up the chair so child-like and she just plopped herself, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! I wonder what she’ll do next~

As brush strokes strike the canvas, the oil drips sing a slow tune down, down the canvas skin. Oh how the canvas moans with each strike followed by a slow graceful slide across the skin. Yet the artist isn’t here to please nor give pleasure to the canvas, for the eyes are homed in on the illusive face gridlocked in the museum. The artist’s hands pauses, placing down the palette and brush, which allowed the body-n-legs to self-erect themselves and allow a stretch. A chair squeaking, a child was hoisted by the artist’s hands and plopped on the laps; now the artist’s eyes was directly staring at the lady who so much barely inched except for coughing or the occasional sniffs. The child’s hands tugging at the necktie of the artist, the artist’s hands patted her head as she uttered child-like love to both of them. Resting on the artist’s arms, the artist soon hoisted her up and carried her back to the canvas and began painting once more the portrait. Sprinkling in the lil’ perfections, the artist’s hands yanked out a sponge and began erasing all about. As the sponge soaked the paint and administered water all about the canvas which was still moaning while the water snickered when it struck the floor, the artist’s legs shot up and the lips curled up in glee to show the illusive sitting women. Twisting the canvas around, the artist shot an arrow at the dark with this showcasing of the work. The lady’s eyes saw the art: she moved not when seeing the complexities, she reacted not to her facial expressions, she inched barely with all the water still dripping and stayed the way she was. Yet, the artist’s voice-box screamed joyously as both the artist and the child left together.