english,
He was a man of great ambition and untapped talent. Young and starry eyed, his heart was filled to the brim with sincere optimism.
Raphael was his name, and he was a writer. He was happy, and it showed. His work was filled with fantastic imagery and inherent happiness, each and every story ending with a smile. That is, until he met her.
Her name was Andrea. It was she, a woman small in stature but large of heart that had captured his attention. She was a sight to behold, so thought Raphael.
It was at precisely three forty-four in the afternoon when he first laid his eyes upon her. She had a smile on her face (as she so very often did) and as she smiled, her eyes would squint ever so slightly, partially obscuring her beautiful brown eyes. And she laughed, she flashed her opalescent white teeth, a stark and striking contrast against her dark tan and supple skin.
Raphael was captivated. He was compelled to move, his mind urging him to do something. And so, he did the only thing he knew how to do well; he wrote. He wrote of his emotions. He wrote of his descent into love.
And his adoration was not in the least bit shallow. From mere acquaintances, they, him and Andrea, became friends. They’d talk for hours on end, and he’d enjoy every minute of their conversations. He loved her dearly, though he never told her. And although they shared their secrets, he was never privy to the fact that she adored him as well.
And alas, Raphael, for all of his ability, for all of his ambition and talent, felt inadequate. So he worked.
He strived to improve, to be the best. In his mind he needed to be more worthy of Andrea’s love. And so he wrote. His work now held traces of insecurity, to which most of us can relate. His writing now noticeably darker, but still they bode well, for in spite of his morose disposition, Raphael had hope, and it showed in his work.
He mastered his craft. He gained recognition. He was awarded and gilded for his work, the majority of which instilled a carefully mixed brew of optimism and melancholy, and his writing was heartfelt and true. Truer than any romance or comedy there ever was. Finally, with his wreaths he had felt adequate. He felt like he could finally woo Andrea, so he came to her.
And as he approached, he looked upon her. Andrea seemed much happier. She appeared lithe and blooming as she greeted Raphael, and indeed she was, even as she introduced to Raphael her Fiancee.
‘Twas since then that all he had been able to write were tragedies as the residual hopefulness in his writing slowly faded away. He was still a master of his craft, garnering awards, and winning the hearts of many. Just not the heart of the one that mattered the most.
First published in the author's personal blog: http://lumulutang.tumblr.com/post/74161228224/a-master-of-his-craft
Literary (Submission): A Master of his Craft
He was a man of great ambition and untapped talent. Young and starry eyed, his heart was filled to the brim with sincere optimism.
Raphael was his name, and he was a writer. He was happy, and it showed. His work was filled with fantastic imagery and inherent happiness, each and every story ending with a smile. That is, until he met her.
Her name was Andrea. It was she, a woman small in stature but large of heart that had captured his attention. She was a sight to behold, so thought Raphael.
It was at precisely three forty-four in the afternoon when he first laid his eyes upon her. She had a smile on her face (as she so very often did) and as she smiled, her eyes would squint ever so slightly, partially obscuring her beautiful brown eyes. And she laughed, she flashed her opalescent white teeth, a stark and striking contrast against her dark tan and supple skin.
Raphael was captivated. He was compelled to move, his mind urging him to do something. And so, he did the only thing he knew how to do well; he wrote. He wrote of his emotions. He wrote of his descent into love.
And his adoration was not in the least bit shallow. From mere acquaintances, they, him and Andrea, became friends. They’d talk for hours on end, and he’d enjoy every minute of their conversations. He loved her dearly, though he never told her. And although they shared their secrets, he was never privy to the fact that she adored him as well.
And alas, Raphael, for all of his ability, for all of his ambition and talent, felt inadequate. So he worked.
He strived to improve, to be the best. In his mind he needed to be more worthy of Andrea’s love. And so he wrote. His work now held traces of insecurity, to which most of us can relate. His writing now noticeably darker, but still they bode well, for in spite of his morose disposition, Raphael had hope, and it showed in his work.
He mastered his craft. He gained recognition. He was awarded and gilded for his work, the majority of which instilled a carefully mixed brew of optimism and melancholy, and his writing was heartfelt and true. Truer than any romance or comedy there ever was. Finally, with his wreaths he had felt adequate. He felt like he could finally woo Andrea, so he came to her.
And as he approached, he looked upon her. Andrea seemed much happier. She appeared lithe and blooming as she greeted Raphael, and indeed she was, even as she introduced to Raphael her Fiancee.
‘Twas since then that all he had been able to write were tragedies as the residual hopefulness in his writing slowly faded away. He was still a master of his craft, garnering awards, and winning the hearts of many. Just not the heart of the one that mattered the most.
First published in the author's personal blog: http://lumulutang.tumblr.com/post/74161228224/a-master-of-his-craft
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