âłA well-known artist in his city, the fear of being past his prime looms over him. At one point in time, his work was beloved by many. He received offers from many just to purchase his artwork. But, recently, his newer works haven't been catching the public's eyes, hurling him into artist's block. It doesn't help that his cousin, Kâukâulkan, seems to have been picking up his success.
Okoye. [unavailable]
âłA work of art. Literally.
Kâukâulkan. 43
âłThe cousin of Attuma. For a long time, in the art world, Kâukâulkan felt as though his work was constantly overshadowed by Attuma. But, his time to shine has come. He just hates that it comes when his cousin is going through a rough period with his own art.
Ramonda. 63
âłAn art curator who constantly gives Attuma too many chances to return to his former state of glory. However, her patience for him is running out. And she's just losing too much money keeping his artwork around.
PLOT
Attuma, once a thriving artist, has become a starving one. His works just don't sell like they used to. They no longer catch the eyes of the buyers. Frustrated by his induced artist's block and the box he's been placed in by those around him, he's at his wit's end. Rent is only rising and he's running out of money fast--art is his only form of income.
Desperate, he prays to one of his gods for guidance, in search of a way out of this predicament. Help comes when a spark of inspiration leads him to his art studio. He's there for days, working ceaselessly to make tangible the image that had appeared in his mind.
An image of pure beauty; A sculpture. Marveled by his own hands, he knows instantly that it is his best work of art. It will be sure to catch the eyes of buyers. He invites Ramonda to come see his newest work, and to his surprise, she's utterly unimpressed.
Disheartened, he falls into a pit of deeper despair. But, he's pulled out just days when he decides to visit his studio, believing it to be better to just trash the sculpture. Only, there is no sculpture. In its place, a beautiful woman ... naked, in the middle of his studio. One who looks ... too familiar.
Could it be? Have the gods brought his creation to life? It was all too much to take in. He doesn't have much of a chance to be stunned, as he has a new responsibility on his hands. His art is long forgotten, and he takes the woman home, hoping to find some way to fix this.
Over a few days, he gifts her the name Okoye, teaching her how to walk amongst humanity. Attuma finds himself happy for the first time in a long while, having something else to look forward to other than his failing art career. Someone.
But his infatuation turns to obsession as he begins to devote too much of his time to Okoye, practically worshipping the ground she walks on. And he doesn't realize it until Kâukâulkan stops by his apartment, worried for his cousin who he hasn't heard a word from for the last month.
Neglecting to tell his cousin of the supernatural occurrence--because how can he explain this without sounding as though he's truly lost his mind within the month he has disappeared--Attuma hides Okoye's existence from him. He allows his cousin to pull him out of the house and get him reacquainted with society.
But, Okoye, still new to all the complicated emotions and feelings that come with being alive, grows jealous. Her jealousy only drives him away, until she decides she's had enough. Overcome with the emotion, she plans to end Attuma's life.
His apartment becomes a mess as they fight to the death. Ultimately, Attuma wins the fight, as he drives a decorated spear (art he'd received as a gift years ago) through her heart. Regret hits him like a truck immediately. Before his eyes, she returns to her old form--a sculpture, frozen in time.
It takes him days before he leaves his apartment, too shaken up by the event. That is until he finally decides to get rid of her. And how does he do it? He smashes the sculpture to bits and pieces, hoping to crush any chances of her coming back to life.
FIRST DRAFT ; incomplete (written before finalized summary' details are subject to change)
Thereâs an endless sea of people in the exhibit. Every corner he comes up on, a new hoard of folks appears. And they move with the pace of a sleepy tortoise.Â
And their conversation; Every last one of them is pretentious and shallow, just like the people they come from.
He could never pretend to like them, but he can remember a time where this many people here, in this space, would make him ecstatic.
Then he started caring less. It became less about them, and more about the artâit was always about the art, but, yâknow, ego and all.
But after a while, every piece started to look the same. The subjects were similar. There were less and less colors.
Thatâs when he stopped coming to this shit for the connections and the creativity. He shows up because he has to.
His rushed gait comes to a halt as yet another group cuts in front of him. He gives them five seconds.
Thatâs generous.
They havenât moved.
He breathes out through his nose, calling on the higher powers that are to give him strength.
And then he pushes through them, leaving them to suffer the fate of his broad shoulders brought upon them.
They mumble something. If it were important, they wouldâve said it louder for him to hear.
So entitled, thinking they can take up the entire walkway.
Tunnel vision only grants him the ability to see straight to the back of exhibit, fuck everything else.
Thatâs where he finds the man heâs looking for. A pain in the ass. His crutch for these things.
But he finds the man caught in the net of conversation of a younger, dark skin woman. His tired eyes light up as he speaks to her.
He canât help but scoff.
The man mustâve sensed his stare as his tired eyes shoot over the young womanâs short curls to meet his gaze.
He smiles with teeth.
His eyes fall back to the woman and his mouth moves, assumedly asking to be excused, as he makes his way over seconds after.
âAttuma!â He slaps a heavy hand on the shoulder he used to move that couple out of his way.
âCousin,â he greets lowly with a curt nod.
Itâs rare he addresses his cousin by his real name, Kâukâulkan.
âI could sense your presence with those harsh, brooding eyes of yours.â His lips quirk up.
Attumaâs grim eyes survey the scene of people. âIâm surprised. I thought that woman you were speaking to caught all of your attention.â
Kâukâulkan laughs in such a way that the corners of his eyes crinkle.
âItâs a sixth sense of mine.â
Attuma sighs out, finally settling his eyes back on the man before him. âThatâs a shitty superpower to have.â
Kâukâulkan rolls his eyes, hand dropping away from his cousinâs large shoulder. âYou want to know how I know whenever youâre here? Because itâs like this huge, dark cloud covers this room, threatening to rain on everyoneâs parade and ruin the day.â
He blinks.
âWhy do you come to these things? I know you hate them.â
With nothing to do with his hands, he stuffs them in his cargo pants pockets. âI wouldnât be here if I had the choice.â
âTrue, but you havenât put out any new projects in almost a year. Itâs not like you have anything to show offâno offense.â
None taken.
âIâm not showing my art here,â he grumbles. âJust so they can tell me theyâre not âlooking for work like mine right nowâ?â
Kâukâulkan hums understandingly.
It grows quiet between the two men for a handful of seconds as the two of them watch a crowd form around Kâukâulkanâs showcased work.
For his cousinâs sake, he makes no comment on it.
Attuma is thankful that he doesnât.
Kâukâulkan turns away from it all to face him. âYouâre still making art, right?â
Attumaâs eyes wander from that particular crowd to the tens of others. âYes.â
He nods, wordlessly.
Neither of them hear the soft clicking of heels against the concrete floor.
âAttuma.â
They turn, seeing the brown skin woman who comes their way, head held high. Her pure white locs are tied back, swaying with each step she takes.
âItâs nice to see you here, but it would be nicer to see your artwork accompanying you.â
He inhales, ready to respond.
âRamonda, hi,â Kâukâulkan says. âYou look lovely today.â His smile is wide and almost shaky as he hopes it would keep her attention off of his cousin.Â
Ramonda eyes him for only a second. Attuma remains her target.Â
âWe need to speak.â
He inhales and Kâukâulkan gives him a supportive pat on the back before leaving the two alone.Â
Ramondaâs eyes donât leave him to watch the other man leave.
âWalk with me, Attuma.â
He doesnât get a chance to object as she begins a slow-paced journey through the packed exhibit.
âKâukâulkanâs showcase is very impressive, wouldnât you think?â
âMmh.âÂ
âSuch creative pieces.âÂ
They come up to Kâukâulkanâs art, standing behind the steady crowd to admire it through the gaps in between people.
âHis art has attracted a lot of people to this exhibit.â
Attumaâs hands ball up into fists in his pocket.
âHeâs brought in a lot of collectors, and a lot of money.â
His jaw clenched tightly. She turned to look him in the eyes.
âThat used to be you, Attuma.â
The words call for a reaction of some sort. His face twitches but he quickly reigns the mini-expression in.
He keeps quiet.Â
He doesnât mention how Kâukâulkanâs art is like all the others sitting in this god awful exhibit.Â
How its colors are dull and the subjects seem to be lifeless.
How Kâukâulkanâs art never used to be like that. Attuma knows his cousin, knows he needs the money.Â
So heâll create anything the consultants want. Anything that will be bought by collectors.
âYou havenât submitted any art for the last eight months. Eight months, Attuma. Your last submitted piece was a masterpiece. You brought in so many buyers, people were fighting to own it. What happened?â
There it is.
His eyes fall closed as he sucks in a breath.
He pretends that her fake concern doesnât bother him as much as it really does.
She was the one who denied all of his last six submissions to the exhibit. Claiming they werenât âwhat the market wants right now.â
His culture wasnât what the market desired.
âI know youâre not working, Attuma. And the money you received from your last work was a lot, but you canât live off of that forever. Itâs going to run out.â
The corners of his lips twitch as he fights back a frown.
âAnd I cannot keep vying for you, Attuma. Sooner or later, Iâm going to have to let you go.â
His throat bobs as he swallows. Ringing echoes in his ears. On the outside, heâs as stoic as ever. And it drives Ramonda mad.
She turns to fully face him.
âTake this seriously, Attuma. For once. This is the last warning Iâm giving you. I donât want to see you go, but you canât be a dead weight.â
Her voice is low and sharp, stabbing him with each word.
âThe next exhibit is in two months. Thatâs all the time you have.â
She doesnât wait for him to agree or even deny. She walks off somewhere.
Finally, he pulls a hand out of his pocket and releases a sigh. He drops his head into his chest and pinches at his nose bridge.
âFuck.â
ă ¤ęęęę
A humble man he believes himself to be. He hopes that it is reflected in the size of his apartment.
Throwing his keys down in the ceramic bowl he purchased at an art fair, he kicks off his shoes. They fly in any direction, he doesnât care to see where.
His heavy footsteps echo throughout the apartment as he makes his way past the growing pile of letters in the kitchen and to the bathroom.
He doesnât even close the door. Standing over the sink, he opens the faucet to splash water on his face.
Each hand braces the sides of the sink and his hair falls past his shoulders.
His hair which hasnât been in the best state for the last month or so. Looking into the mirror before him, his eyes run over the fine details of his reflection.
The bags under his eyes, the worry lines on his forehead, the frown lines near his mouth. Is that a gray hair?
Iâm only 37âŚ.
Do people normally start graying around this age?
He canât look anymore. Turning away from the mirror, he dries his hands off on the towel hanging from the door and leaves.Â
Trudging into the kitchen, he yanks the fridge open to stare at its contents. When he was younger and there was no food in the fridgeâno real foodâhe would shut the door and walk away, only to return in hopes that something would appear.
Now, he just accepts the lack of contents in his fridge and decides to sleep for dinner, for the fourth night in a row.
So he leaves the kitchen, and walks past the heap of billsânot lettersâagain, ignoring it for the couch. He crashes down on it, throwing an arm over his face.
Maybe if he âmeditatesâ long enough, heâll come up with an idea that would please both Ramonda and himself.
That or heâll just fall asleep again.
ă ¤ęęęę
Nothing in particular stirs him awake. He guesses his body just believed it was time to wake up.
Hardly anything is invisible in the apartment for a minute or so. It doesnât take long for his eyes to adjust, he is in total darkness.Â
His eyes close again.
âFuck,â he whispers to himself.
I fell asleep again.
Dragging a hand down his face, desperate to get the sleep out of his eyes, he rises.
His back creeks, undoubtedly scolding him for choosing to sleep on the couch again.Â
Ramondaâs words are still on his mind. Sheâs giving him one last chance. As stoic as heâd been, as quiet as he was when it wouldâve been normal for him to protest, he knows heâs thankful that sheâs still giving him a chance.
A chance he desperately needs.
Pulling himself up off of the couch, he heads to his room to change into a pair of clothes he doesnât care too much about. And he puts on a pair of sneakers that have surely seen better days.
His hands move fast to grab a separate pair of clothes and small necessities, which are all thrown into a bag.Â
He slings the knapsack over his shoulder and grabs his phone, house keys, and wallet. A farewell to his small apartment is made before heâs out.
Itâs nothing but a ten minute train ride to get him to the large building, full of rented out spaces. The only way in is with a key code given to each renter. He punches in before stepping out of the cold and into the buildingâs warmth.
The warm yellow lighting isnât too harsh on his eyes and it gives the building a touch of coziness. Thereâs no doorman to make awkward greetings with, thankfully.
He takes the elevator up to the fifth floor and walks down the narrow hallway until his suite appears. Number 572.
Pulling out his keys, he searches for the special one on his ring and unlocks the door. Pushing it open, a smile graces his face as his eyes fall on his studio.
This is where all his moneyâs been going; Trying to keep his personal happiness afloat.
Shutting the door behind him, he fully steps into his oasis. Paint splatters stain the large canvas covering the floor. Art is all around him, completed, unfinished.Â
Heâs got paintings and sketches littering this place. The colors swarm him like a flurry of butterflies. His culture is stamped all throughout the room and he couldnât be happier.
This is art.
He sets his things down in a corner before heading over to the area of his unfinished works. Theyâre all paintings.
His smile wavers, but it doesnât fall.Â
Five paintings heâs started, and couldnât complete. Because as much as Attuma doesnât want to admit it, heâs been uninspired.
The exhibit hasnât been taking his other works, only pushing him to create something more like his old work.
But heâs an artist!Â
He shouldn't be put in a box or stifled by othersâ desires for him to create something they want.
Nevertheless, he is still human and naturally craves the praise of others.
In his attempts to emulate the energy of his last successful piece, he tumbled headfirst into a pit of artistâs block. And getting out felt like clawing his way through quicksand.
Attuma lets out a heavy sigh before setting down the canvas of the last piece he was working on. Yet another unfinished work, but never mind that because this time his efforts to create a finished piece will not be in vain.
Picking up a new canvas, he sets it on the easel. His materials are set beside it.
That's all! Started this one while I was out of the country as well, but I never finished it (ofc). Probably won't either. If you want to take this plot up, be my guest. Just tag/credit me for the idea and/or words of mine you use.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: Okoye has been in search of a new hobby to fill her free time, so she signs up for a pottery class (itâs Attumaâs shop).
âDo you mind if I show you?â Attuma asked. Heâd been to her station a few times before but those times he just gave verbal instructions.
She chuckled, thankful that he was putting her out of her misery, âI think that would help because whatever Iâm doing is getting me nowhere,â
âIâm gonna step behind youâ Attuma informed before stepping behind her, and encasing her with his arms, his hands atop hers. âThis okay?â
She nodded and then replied with a small âYes.â
With his fingers guiding hers he showed her the proper amount of pressure to put on the clay, wiping the excess into the little waste bucket at the side of her station.
âThe clay will do whatever you want you just have to guide it in the way you want it to go,â he spoke up after the moment of silence.
âLike a child,â she said with an airiness to her voice.
âLike a child,â he took his hands away, watching as she mimicked his previous movements perfectly. âSee, you got itâ
He stepped back once she seemed more confident in her actions. It was only when he took his eyes off her to wipe his hands on his towel, that he saw how her date had been side-eyeing their interactions.
âNeed help?â Attuma tilted his head in the man's direction
âNah, man. Weâre good.â He pressed back, making sure to emphasize the we.
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