Artificially Invented

Jon Tribble Memorial Winner

So, when I was six, I drew a dragon and it was horrible. Lines poked through lines, circles carved through circles and the teeth were all just triangles. It was colored a blank red—no gradients, no shading. But I was six, and people liked it, so I was proud. So I kept drawing. 

By twelve, it was a habit. Every day, every hour, I drove a few teachers crazy—too busy drawing to pay any real attention, or so they claimed. And, yeah—I still had a LOT of work to do. The proportions, all wrong, jutted out from the page at awkward angles. I was still proud, though. So I kept working. 

At seventeen, I knew I wasn’t the best anymore. I’d learned proportions, and shading, and I’d taught myself to pose the characters well, but I could see the other artists. The beauty they created was incomprehensible—vast, unyielding, everywhere. And I was proud! Because I could grow. Because someday, if I kept working, I could be just like them. 

Now I’m twenty-one, and I’m learning. Backgrounds, dimensions, designs… new ideas pop into my head, some of which I still don’t have the skill to create. Worlds at my fingertips, if only I can harness them. 

And there’s something new, now. A tool, people call it. Built from my work. From the work of my friends, my peers, the people I’ve never met but looked up to for so long. And, pencil still in my hand, I see people using this tool. 

“Look at this beautiful ART I’ve created!” 

I’m twenty-one.  

I’m bitter.