The Art Examination

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
The main character wants to become a professional artist, but first he must pass the Art Examination.

Submitted: May 25, 2012

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Submitted: May 25, 2012

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He woke up once more in his cramped one-room dwelling. Usually he took his time getting ready, staring out the window or reading a book while he ate. But today there could be no dawdling. He must hurry to arrive at his examination in time.
From the moment of his birth, his aspiration had been to become an artist. Not one of those modern artists, the ones who just splattered paint on their canvases. They had no vision, no imagination. No, he wanted to create a story with his paintings. Not one important instant, but the whole story. The concrete beginning and end, the engaging middle.
But before any stories could be painted, there was the formidable obstacle of the Art Examination. He absentmindedly typed the Art Hall's ophicode into the ophitrans console and went to the proper first-class cab (all his travel fees were paid today because of his Examination), reviewing the various stages in his mind for the hundredth time since he'd applied.
First of all, there was the written portion. That was simple, just a preliminary to confirm what they already knew. Next came the oral portion, where an examiner asked him more probing questions. He was extremely nervous about this part, more so than any other. He hated talking to strangers. Then the easy part, the actual painting. While he was working, he was completely immune to distraction, not to mention his immense love for this hopefully future profession.
The cab's door slid open, and he found the Art Hall's great golden doors. It wasn't hard, he was almost directly facing them, but still he hesitated. . . .

After he passed the written test, he proceeded to the next room on his Itinerary. He tried to ignore his nervousness, but it was no use. A complete stranger - no, no, he shouldn't think that way, the examiner would be kind and considerate and. . . it was no use. He would just have to do his best. When he opened the door, the examiner (she had frizzy green hair and excessive makeup, not at all like the commercials) looked up as if annoyed, then gestured for him to sit down.
"Good morning. Your name is Mr. Reginald van Gogh? Good. Now, why would you like to become a professional artist?"


© Copyright 2019 Rin Young. All rights reserved.

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