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Surviving Man

Contemporary Painting in Post Civil-War Chernarus

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"Warm orange, cold yellow, a bit of red. Mix in olive green..."

A vastness of bristling trees engulfing a mountain near Kamyshovo. The sienna leaves illuminated by the setting sun. Making the sky a violet inferno. A dirt path surging through the valley, darting between houses. The local police station in the middle of the town overlooks the surrounding architecture.

"Grey, light blue, mixing white..."

Done. Nothing to be proud of, but a decent study. That was the last "pre-outbreak" landscape I painted.

I came here to paint. Sprawling fields that covered the country. I could find those anywhere. But here, here was a land still scarred by civil war. Maybe not literally, but it was in the air... Molecular in that it had no appearance but involved itself in everything and anything. It was in the people. It was in Chernarus.

That's what drew me here.

A dumb decision and terrible luck.

October 12

"No... Can't be." he said under his breath as the television transmitted it's message into the cellar turned studio located beneath another artists farm property. They'd decided to swap locales and have an exhibition of the work created during their time abroad.

Reports of 'riots' at Myshkino. Not too far from where he was staying.

The images on the screen were all to familiar. But from the wrong place. Like that of a horror film...

"This is really happening..." hardly prone to paranoia, this felt really... real. On the bright side this only cemented my plans. I locked myself in the cellar to complete a new series of paintings. With enough supplies to last a few weeks, maybe longer if I did it right. Away from distraction but more importantly now, danger.

Rushing outside I fortified the cellar doors with some impromptu carpentry and covered them with hay. Hopefully obscuring them from whatever wanted to make it's way in here.

The following few days

Over the days the reports intensified. Then sounds of gunfire, screams and every other sound you'd expect in a soundtrack of terror. I was foolish to think that horror films and binge watching zombie survival TV shows would provide me with the psychological fortitude for something like this...

"Just. Keep. Working."

All I did was paint. The first few days were... bearable. Distracting myself with work. Some were worse than others. The distraction of work eventually wore thin and my mental state deteriorated... I had to prepare for the worst. I was going to eventually run out of paint.

I began scrounging around for anything I could take in my bag, if and when the time comes that I have to leave this cellar... Lest it become a tomb. I sharpened my largest paintbrush to a point. I tore canvas to make bandages. I took pencils, pens, a watercolour kit and a sketchbook. "Gonna need something to do..." I took a bottle of Vodka meant as a reward for finishing my body of work.

"I'm sure you can sterilise wounds with this... I think. At the very least I'll just chug it when I'm at death's door and go out laughing..."

November 17

Down to two cans of peaches the situation was clear. It wasn't that help hadn't arrived or that nobody knew... Everybody knew. Help had come and help was not enough.

I took a swig from bottle of Vodka. Gripped the brush firmly in hand I tried to prepare myself for the worst... There I stood, a bandana around my face. Two jackets on complete with gloves, backpack and jeans.

"If the paintbrush fails, I have a hammer. If the hammer fails, I have a screwdriver. If the screwdriver fails... I'm getting ahead of myself."

It wasn't the ideal survival gear but I wasn't exactly spoiled for choice.

I pried the timber from the cellar doors and emerged... Cars ditched in the middle of the road, windows broken. Silence. Silence meant the worst had happened.

There it was. Reality set in instantly... Idling staring, lurching, heaving... Wounded but still upright... It became alert to my presence. Sprinting towards me.

It lunged at me, tackling me to the ground. I raised the paint brush and began frantically peforating it's head. All I remember was gritting my teeth so hard I felt my head would implode. It stopped moving after the third but I didn't... I kept stabbing it's head until my arm seared with pain.

I sat there trying comprehend what had just happened, what I had just done. Then it snapped, I threw the body off me. I panicked, checking for scratches, bites, anything.

Clean. I looked at it's demolished face as it lie there in the dirt.

"Dirty shades of

brown ochres, greys, blacks, blues, pinks and red... lots of red."

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Bumping in search of critique in regards to: writing ability, entertainment value and plausibility of the story.

Considering what has happened IG since then I have enough content to start adding to this. Watch this space.

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"I raised the paint brush and began frantically peforating it's head."

tumblr_nnrvj6QzkY1sofaoao1_r1_400.gif

Can't wait until you get to the part with the meat sculpture.

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"I raised the paint brush and began frantically peforating it's head."

tumblr_nnrvj6QzkY1sofaoao1_r1_400.gif

Can't wait until you get to the part with the meat sculpture.

Yeah I'll have to write an entire chapter on those short lived art lessons.

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Hebee    2683

Bumping in search of critique in regards to: writing ability, entertainment value and plausibility of the story.

Considering what has happened IG since then I have enough content to start adding to this. Watch this space.

Good read m8, I laughed at the preparing for the worst, running out of paint , write more my man ^^

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