Sometimes I do writing exercises to stretch my brain, or take a break from whatever project I’ve chained myself to. One of my favorite writing exercises is taking a piece of art and writing a quick backstory to it. Sometimes I’ll flip through an art book and land on one at random, and sometimes one will just pop into my head.
Eric York has created enough work to fill universes. My brain has been itching to play with his worlds and characters, and he and I have discussed that possibility. For the time being, I took one of his recent pieces featuring a recurring character of his, Uncle Tillinghast.
The goal is to only spend a few minutes and write something off the top of your head; let one idea flow into the next and culminate in a natural ending. Sometimes, you’ll find that little exercises like this can become full borne ideas for future projects.
It’s also a fun way to interact with friends and artists. Someday I’d like to evolve it into a collaborative exercise within creative communities, with writers and artists trading word and images for the other to interpret, like a variation on the Exquisite Corpse game.
Here’s Eric’s piece, “Locust Plague,” followed by my text. Eric has my favorite Deviant Art page. I urge you to go visit it: http://tillinghast23.deviantart.com/gallery/ (Contains mature content)
Uncle Tillinghast gazed into his window of the universe, and counted. He counted the stars to see which ones have died out like candles run out of wick, and which ones have been snuffed out by devouring darkness. For a great shadow lurked in the corners of the cosmos, reaching out with inky black tendrils to extinguish all light and life to feed a gnawing, aeon eternal hunger. It existed at the birth of this universe, and will exist even after its death, when it eats its own tail, like Ouroboros, leaving only one last flickering anus of light. And then it will shit out another universe with new gods, new devils, new rules. But no Tillinghast.
He watched the locust lights flit and buzz about his moon room. The soft murmur of their wings and luminescent bodies usually a calming presence. But the thought of a universe without Tillinghast plotting and scheming his way into the apex of ascension troubled him. He quite liked this universe, and him in it.
He stabbed the air with his cane and impaled one of the creatures. He watched its wings and legs wriggle frantically as its phosphorescence sputtered and oozed down his cane. Like a tiny, dying star.
Uncle Tillinghast pulled down his scarf and sucked the creature into his unseen maw. He chewed thoughtfully, and schemed.
He wondered what stars tasted like.
Christopher A. Taylor 