Gears

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been subtly OBSESSED with ballets.

One in particular, a less popular ballet called “Coppelia” has always kept my brain ticking.

“Dr. Coppélius is a doctor who has made a life-size dancing doll. It is so lifelike that Franz, a village youth, becomes infatuated with it and sets aside his fiancee, Swanhilda. She shows him his folly by dressing as the doll, pretending to make it come to life and ultimately saving him from an untimely end at the hands of the inventor.” – Wikipedia

The old inventor is lonely and wants a companion, so he creates Coppelia with the wish to make her living. He intends on transferring Franz’ soul to the doll, and his fiancee (who had snuck into the inventor’s home to tell Coppelia off for catching Franz’s eye (though she completely ignores him) pretends to be Coppelia to save Franz. In the process she breaks the inventor’s heart who think he’s finally brought his surrogate daughter to life, and runs off to be married.

Personally I never cared for the fickle Franz who would have easily run off with Coppelia if she were real, nor the vindictive Swanhilda who when HER fiancee decides to cheat on her, decides to confront the WOMAN as opposed to..I don’t know, him?

I always felt bad for the inventor and the doll whom would continue to live a life of darkness. And so, when I was given a prompt from a random word generator.

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I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

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With this, I had a week to execute the assignment, and after many clunky frames, managed to come up with something that summarized my idea. In future iterations I’d have smoother animation and more intimacy, but I believe “Love and Gears” has a certain charm.

Enjoy!

Gears from Sydney Adams on Vimeo.

Spoke the Thunder: Volume 5, Issue II

Spoke the Thunder-The Wake

ORIGINAL WORK PUBLISHED!

The Wake

With curtains of smoke, the tear blasted song

Rings out, deplorable in vibrant tune,

Hallejulah, to the Almighty One, and

The memories that wax and wane like the

Moon: like a mud puddle that never dries,

Or the sawdust that is never removed

From the floor by your armoire, seen once before.

I am mourning for the sake of mourning,

And for your sake I forsake all sun

But the day does not come, my skin begins

To sizzle under her tar black eyes, that

Cries I am a fraud, divinely punished

Sitting here in somber color, Your box

Steams with wil o whisps, Marlboro, New Port

To think your 3 thousandth poisonous gasp

Sits respirated within me, while you

Lie, guised beneath a curtain of smoke, that

Death cannot part, and tears cannot snuff out.

 

The Red Door

The Red Door:

There is a red door in our neighborhood. No one opens it because no one is there.

It stands stark and odd against the white house it’s affixed to, like a cardinal sitting in a snow storm. I knew a girl whose life died there once, whose dreams and schemes stayed behind that door when her mother passed and she moved to Brooklyn.

By some anti-divinity’s wishes, the house remains unsold. It seems cursed, haunted even. Maybe it’s not there at all.

The red door has never needed a second coat of paint. It never prunes, never withers, doesn’t sag; just lays flush, fluid, and smooth against the house frame like the immaculate skin of a young fresh fruit.

The girl who lived there had eyes like rubies and a diction riddled with holes that education couldn’t fill. But she stood in that vermilion doorway, and we used to talk.

Her phrases fed me like food, and before I met her, I didn’t know I was starving.

I could feel my teeth sinking into the crunchy, crisp skin of her colorful words.

I tasted it, that fresh, filling, feeling, of fulfillment, and friendship.

The snap of that sever, like biting into a bitter apple, when the first piece came flying free into my mouth, and it was best to swallow  and never bite again reminded me of that shiny, red door.

It held a terrible kind of knowledge.

If I opened it, would I find sweet meat?

Or a barren core?