Clive Barker Wants To Read Your Writing

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techgnotic's avatar
Men of the City by CliveBarker

Clive Barker Wants To Read Your Writing

You know CliveBarker as the master of horror fiction and young adult fantasy. But did you know he is also an acclaimed fine artist with paintings hanging in several galleries and art institutions?

For Halloween this year, Clive is going to take a break from writing stories for you—and read your original stories based on some of the artwork he's created.

As inspiration for your tale of horror or mystery or special wonder, Clive is providing the prompts of his own paintings that are to be your starting points.

What’s the story behind the painting?

Clive himself will judge the submitted imaginings and decide which work of prose best captures the untold story of the surreal image he created.

“Men of the City” is the first Barker work needing creative explication. These men don’t seem to “wear” their city well.  The buildings seem to oppress their minds, crushing down on their heads, or is it simply that men and concrete have become combined unhuman organisms. Is the man in shades blind?  Is he their leader? Their seer? Their victim?  Their sacrifice?  One of you out there knows, just perhaps not yet.

Meditate on the “Men of the City” and soon your mind will connect with Clive’s and then we’ll all get to know the “true” story…

Only DeviantArt can make events like this one a reality.  Here is a rare opportunity for the aspiring writer or painter to have his or her art critiqued by a true master of both art forms. Best of luck to those of you who will now try to write a Halloween tale to scare Clive Barker, a tale based on images he's artistically downloaded from his own head.

You can make the story as short or as long as you would like as long as it does not exceed 2,000 words.

Submit Your Deviations in the Comments Below

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Xanphre's avatar

OOOOpppsss...lost again--the ship sailed, and apparently I was late again, and, damn, I really wanted to be on the boat this time...oh--well, like the song says, "Some we win...some we lose...some were born to sing the blues...oh, the movie never goes on and on and on and on"...:o :o :cries:

Xanphre's avatar

So I am supposed to write 2000 words or less in this comment box to pick a story from one of Clive Barker's paintings? I think I can do that, it just seems a little extreme; printing or pasting 2000 words or less in a comment box. But here it goes. I chose to use the Deetha Maas painting for the inspiration of my story--which will considerably longer than 2000 words, but I will try to make it short, by offering a an excerpt from the work I am ultimately planning. I will say at this time that I sent an 800+ page novel to Clive Barker at the suggestion of a fansite. Now I guess I am doing something along those lines today. And of course, like everyone else. I am hopeful. I have been writing for over 30 years without a break to show for my work--I have published eight books now. However, my skills at marketing, or lack thereof, keep people from finding my work, which is currently available at Amazon.


Sitting upon the throne was an apparition cloaked in darkness, whose countenance was covered by an ever-changing masque, it appeared vague and distorted, as if it was forever trapped in a hazy fog. Shifting from one appearance into another.

“The loss of those that we love is a sorrow that is the most exquisite, the most sweet.” The voice of the apparition seemed as distorted as its changing visages, hollow, and deep.

“The warrior chooses those who will be sacrificed by the choices he makes.”

Behind the apparition were a small throng of dead things, or things that looked dead, standing upright, or bowed over, they were bipedal and appeared to be rotting where they stood. They were despicable things, designed by a god with a warped mind, they stood for the most part, in the shadows, staying close to one another as if for comfort. Lanny interpreted them as being the Deetha Maas, and they took their orders from the apparition.

Everyone slowly turned to regard the vision of darkness. They shivered in spite of themselves. At that moment their minds were burned with something which would never let them breathe easily ever again. They experienced a terror that they otherwise could not have conjured in their own imaginations. It was not known where the sensation came from, certainly the apparition was terrible, but it wasn’t enough to inspire unbridled horror, was it? In answer they may have all tried to blast it away into oblivion, but something stayed their hands.

“He who carries the Jha’pesh stone is the only sacrifice that we require. Those who choose to follow him will be considered no more than collateral damage however.”

Jason was the first to speak, albeit with trembling lip and gritted teeth, he said, “What the fuck are you supposed to be? And what the fuck is going on?”

“The fuck that is going on, are trials and tribulations.” The apparition said simply, if not cryptically. “You are surely familiar with trials and tribulations, for they are the integral link of suffering which beguiles the illusion that is life. And that is all that transpires now; the trials and tribulations of he who carries the Jha’pesh stone.”

“Yapesh…? Just what in the fuck are you talking about? Are we supposed to know what you are talking about? Who the fuck is the hero?” But Jessie had an idea that he already knew what the apparition was referring to. Who the apparition was referring to.

“The warrior seeks the halves to the Lance of Stra’vios. For only in acquiring them and assembling the weapon can salvation be assured.”

The dark vision stood up.

“The Gauntlets of Kegh’amesh are required to obtain the second halve of the Stra’vios, but the hero should already know this. I in turn hold the Third Piece. And I am willing to offer it freely to he who holds the Jha’pesh stone.”

Lanny stepped forward, walking up to the apparition in a bold manner that belied the fear that others felt. She stood two feet from it when she said, “It is “she” who now holds the Jha’pesh stone, you sick, twisted, piece of shit.”

A visage of a demon expressing slight wonder appeared briefly before the countenance of the apparition. “The warrior is a woman?”

“You noticed.”

“This is most irregular.”

“Look, fuck-face, I don’t give a good goddam what is irregular. I hold your fucking stone in the palm of my hand! It is I who quests for the Stra’vios. If you have the power, send my friends home; I’ve already lost more than I care to on this trip already.”

“They may return of their own volition. Or you may send them back by your power. I care not either way.”

Katsumi screamed at the shroud. “You killed my Ian, you bastard!”

“Alas no,” the specter countered. “I had nothing to do with the death of your love; it was my Lord’s doing.”

“You say that you have the Third Piece to the Stra’vios?” Lanny declared.

“I do.” The specter affirmed.

“And you offer it to me freely?”

“I do.”

“Then give me the damned thing.”

“But of course.” The apparition reached into the darkness that enshrouded its form like a cloak. The gauntlets that were worn by the specter did not go unnoticed before the scrutinizing eyes of those present. They were shod in a metal or alloy unfamiliar to any of them. And the digits on the gauntlets were segmented, elongated, and fashioned in such a manner as to give them the appearance of deadly claws.

The Gauntlets of Gilgamesh, Tyler thought to himself. Or whatever the hell this wraith said... He’s wearing them even as he speaks.

The gauntlet-covered hand disappeared into the darkness and retrieved a wand similar to the one that Tina had found.

“Here, it is yours.” The wraith tossed the cylinder into the air. It spun slowly, lazily in front of Lanny. It stopped less than a foot in front of her; she reached forward reflexively to grab it. “But first…” The floor vanished where Lanny was standing. Bones tumbled and fell inward, twirling and spinning into a wide open well. “Let us see how fast you can swim.” Lanny dropped, even as the sphere behind Jessie separated like an amoeba, following her swiftly down into the round channel. Without a second’s indecision, Katsumi chased it down, jumping into the well also.

“Lanny! Katsumi!” Tyler called out.

But they were gone.

Falling, falling…

The walls of the shaft rushed up and passed Lanny and Katsumi as they fell. Lanny saw the sphere as it seemed to chase her down. Somewhere behind it was Katsumi. Why did she follow Lanny down? What was going on inside her mind? Was she trying to kill herself?

Lanny wondered these things as she fell.

The sphere crashed into Lanny with the speed of a will-o wisp. There was no feeling or sensation of impact as it enveloped her. The sphere took on a new form, one which embraced Lanny, coruscating up and down the length of her body. It formed a thin aura around her.

Lanny could feel the rod in her hand, could now see Katsumi coming down almost on top of her. And then she plunged into the water far below the mouth of the well.

No one above heard the splash.

Jessie had raced forward, even as he sensed that Lanny was in trouble. However Katsumi beat him to the punch.

The iris-valve that Lanny had been standing on closed over Katsumi, before Jessie made it five feet from where he stood.

Now he turned on the apparition with venom in his voice. “What have you done, you fucker!?”

“The matter is blatantly obvious--fucker,” the specter replied. “I gave the hero what she wanted.”

The apparition’s face changing and distorting into multiple countenances, Jessie couldn’t see the smile on its face. This time. But he detected the smile in its voice.”

“You sick bastard,” Jessie declared.

“You are all free to go back the way that you came.” The apparition said plainly. “And I suggest that you do so. For while you stay here, the portal to your realm remains open. There is no telling what will sneak through to your world.”

“He’s lying,” Tina said flatly. “Lanny needs the piece to the lance that we have.”

The countenance of a death’s head appeared momentarily among the collection of masques that the specter wore.

“I have a better idea,” Tyler said. Before allowing the apparition the opportunity to know what that idea might be, Tyler opened up on the wraith with the X9. “TTFN, mother-fucker,”

As if sensing Tyler’s intent, those that were able, followed his example, unleashing their weapons upon the apparition. It flew apart under the assault, scattering into oblivion. All save for its gauntlets which flew and clattered across the floor of bones.

The Deetha Maas stood where they were, as if assessing what had just happened to their leader. They stayed in the shadows, refusing to move forward.

Lanny and Katsumi were submerged in a watery world that would otherwise be dark, if not for the illumination of the auras that surrounded them. The area didn’t look much different than the cavernous environs that they had explored—if perhaps inverted. And it had its fair share of bones as well. Their area was massive, dwarfing them with its sheer size and weight of rock formations with numerous stalactites, stalagmites, and coral. Lanny knew in that instant that she was going to die, she was going to drown—and there was absolutely nothing that she could do about it. She knew this because she had no way of exploring her environment before she ran out of air. And in order to find a way out, she would need time to explore her surroundings.

Jessie was already gathering up the gauntlets of Kegh’amesh that had scattered, even before the dust of the bones had settled.

“I don’t think I need to tell anybody what I’m doing,” he said, as he placed the gauntlets on his hands. “I think that it should be self-evident.” Jessie felt a surge of energy—of power, course up the length of his arms, and he knew that he had decided properly. “But in the event that I do have to explain myself,” Jessie was saying as he examined the gauntlets, they seemed to fit perfectly. “I’m going back for the Second Piece to the lance.”

“Not alone, you’re not.” Tyler protested.

“Maybe not, Slim.” Jessie agreed, not giving his friend the chance to explain himself. “But you’re not going with me. The men are already a minority on this trip already. I have no intention on turning us into statistics. You stay here. That’s what you do. Look after your other half—look after Shannon. I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m going with you,” Raine said, stepping forward.

“So am I,” Debra added. Then went on to say, “Someone has to keep an eye on you two.”

“Ladies, I would prefer that you didn’t--” Jessie started to protest, and then suddenly wished he hadn’t.”

“Don’t go trying to pull any macho bullshit on us,” Raine interrupted. “We have to look after each other.”

“But the party has been separated more than it should have already.” Jessie pointed out.

The two women looked at him.

Jessie didn’t want to, but if he had to admit it, of all the choices of the women that he would want going with him on this suicide mission, he would have chosen Debra and Raine. On the other hand, he really didn’t want anyone to go with him. But, even as he found himself sighing at the reality of the situation, he knew that any argument would be useless.

“Alright, then.” Jessie said. “Let’s go.” Then to Tyler he said, “Give me two hours. If I’m not back by then, chances are I won’t be coming back.”

The women knew that Jessie spoke for them as well. It shouldn’t take more than two hours to return to the Tabernacle of Unholies and retrieve the Piece to the lance from the Ark—which was apparently enough to die for; even the sick specter realized that. And were they—for this reason, playing into the hands of the unseen god? Or was this the last thing that the fucker would expect?

Okay—why? What was so important about this damned lance anyway?

The warrior seeks the pieces of the Stra’vios… Raine remembered the words of the wraith. For only in acquiring it is salvation assured…

Salvation for whom?

Those that followed the warrior?

The warrior herself?

One thing was certain; acquiring the Piece to the lance would put them ahead of the game.

Then again they could merely be playing into the hands of the unseen god. Already the bastard had managed to split them up.

This is the end for now. Not all horror stories have happy endings

Thank you for all of your time and the consideration of my work.

--Timothy Goodwin

FeindGottes's avatar
So it's been nearly a month, any word on a winner or when anyone will be notified? 
Congratulations to the winners, and to everyone who sent in a story. I share your passion. Well done. 
techgnotic's avatar
We should have the wrap up article out next week.  There were some incredible entries.  We have expanded to include runner up positions, etc. Clive is loving all of the wonderful interpretations of the work. :)
AWHendry's avatar
Any news yet? Am really looking forward to seeing the work that gets picked. :)
Great news. Much thanks!
The Rapture That Artists Sing Of

Some children died the other day. We fed machines and then we prayed. Puked up and down in morbid faith. You should've seen the ratings that day.
- Marilyn Manson, “The Nobodies”

There is nothing like the sight of a macabre work of art. It inspires and awes like no other. Often, it chills the spine like a brush of cold wind. And, if it's truly vivid, it can cause the viewer's perception to evolve and darken, as it begins to notice a resemblance between this world and that of the painting. Something it can go even further, such is the rapture artists sing of: Art as a hazard.

No such artist serves as a better example of these comparisons than the Master Legnani. Like fine wine, his work is subtle at first, until your palette begins to fully notice the true richness of it's flavor. Although the eccentric and elusive artist has only a handful of work to his credit, his cryptic paintings of hidden fright and devilish double meaning have amassed him a considerable following.

What's most interesting, is how simple Legnani's work first appears to be. In fact, they always seem to be deceptively simple landscapes, at first glance. But, a squint of the eye reveals a much more grotesque portrait. Take for instance, his first notable work: The Infernal Garden. It first appears to the viewer as an ordinary forest. Moss, foliage, leaves, you name it. However, if the viewer watches closely, the tricks of the macabre magician take hold. Those shadows near the trees are really hanging bodies with their entrails exposed. Some are even crucified. Others are so badly decomposed that it looks like they are truly one with the trees, such is the beautiful thing that awaits us all.

Another painting showcases what appears to be a city skyline. But, if the viewer flexes his brow, they shall see that the cityscape hides the impressions of demonic imps not unlike those waiting in the infernal circus below. One of his more controversial works is a painting of a church and it's parishioners. However, a closer look reveals what may be the darkest image yet. The church is on fire, and the attendants seen through the stained glass windows are not the holy servants of god. Rather, they are likely disrobed servants for a god below. Another controversial and enigmatic work is his snap shot of the stars above. Although some claim it's a darkly whimsical painting of the heavens above us, others have had more conspiratorial claims, stating that they've seen the face of Legnani himself in the constellation- and that it belongs in his self-portrait series.

Speaking of which, the most recent works are those of his aforementioned self-portraits. Odd self-portraits at that, as the first in the series showcases a pale skinned variant of Legnani himself, as he sits naked in a washed out room. But, a sharp eye reveals that a strange black substance is leaking from various orifices of the man's body, like he is bleeding night. The second portrait has Legnani's head and neck replaced by the starry blackness above. The third in the series has Legnani whole again, as he stands on top of a chair. But, if one looks closely, Master Legnani's arms are bound above him like that of a hanging meat- and there is a large open wound on his chest. Some have noticed the striking similarities between the subjects in this one and the victims in The Infernal Garden.

It is after this that the art of Legnani truly morphs into something legendary. First, the master Legnani strangely disappears. Some even call it a suicide, but let's not discuss rumors here. Regardless, the mad architect's absence starts to spread like a contagion to those of his models. Why someone that paints deranged landscapes needs models is dubious at best, but use them he did. Like Legnani, they too succumb to an odd and near fatal strangulation by the hands of fate. Let it be told, if art is proof that we all make gods to mirror ourselves, than the following strange crimes are proof that we fall victim to them as well. Like the strange secret fate of Legnani, his models either kill themselves, or the failed attempts at doing so drive them mad. Even stranger, some recover from these ailments. Some do not recover at all. Some just disappear.

Nonetheless, rumors begin to circulate as to why this happened. A widely circulated one, that was never proven true, is that Legnani used some of his model's blood to mix the paint. Some have even argued that Legnani's blood was used as well. The purpose? For some kind of blood ceremony, to add more clarity to the colors, they say.

From this rumors, is where the most interesting of Legnani's legacy begins. It concerns a man, let us call him Famine, entering the scene of his nearly departed father. Although the old man is clearly suffering from exsanguination, if one notices his poor color and his lacerations, no blood can be found in the elder Famine's premises. After the authorities depart, Famine notices the strange self-portraits his father was making. They are so clustered together that they look like an idiot's collage, a crude imitation of Legnani's style with the elder Famine as the star. Young Famine also finds his father's easel with it’s fresh mix of paint, but, not familiar with the area nor it’s legends, he does not make a connection.

At the hospital, Father Famine strangely comes to and begins chanting an idiot's mantra. "Legnani, you lied," he states repeatedly. Young Famine runs to get some nearby nurses and brings them to his father, where they witness his odd performance. A gasp of breath precedes an odd choking sound, before the Father Famine drools and hacks up blood and dies, swallowing his own chewed off tongue.

It was right before the funeral when Famine finally notices the cheaply bound volume of Legnani criticism, which his father owned. Famine opens the book and flips the book's well-worn pages. He eventually stumbles onto the chapter that delves into the details of Legnani's blood pact. The sentences of said chapter are underlined, and the margined are crammed with manic black hand writing. For a second, Famine thought the writing was his- but he then remembers that he and his father did share a similar penmanship, as well as a similar appearance.

Famine continues to turn the book's pages, until he finally comes across the samples of Legnani's paintings. Although Famine is a tough man to scare, the paintings get to him. They arise the feeling of a cold winter breeze in his bones. Like a bad hangover, the paintings stay with Famine as he heads to the funeral. The church painting does so especially, for all too obvious reasons. That aside, Famine remembers never enjoying any kind of house of worship. He feels they're just glorified shrines built to honor those that died thousands of years ago- just so their ancestors can preserve the memory of those gone, because they died horribly. They didn't hold any great existential secret. They are just mass produced mausoleums.

These certainty weren't the best thoughts to think about during his Father's funeral service. Even worse, when Famine squints his eyes, he feels the denizens of that damned painting dance creep in front of his very eyes. When he blinks his eyes, the demons cease mocking him- but a just as horrid feeling rises up afterword. A feeling of burning rocks his insides, and it keeps rising like a fever. Worse, the infernal circus continues to dance with each squint of the eye, like puppets listening to their master. Famine has to leave the procession to get the abhorrent apparitions to stop. But even then, they don't really cease- and Famine must avoid any landscape similar to a Legnani abstract.

Upon finally coming home, Famine notices the lunatic's collage painting dripping blood, like the Devil's tears.

The rain of blood is quickly clogged by Famine's skills of quarantine with a heavy shroud like cloth, and they do not rain their pestilence for some time after. During which, Famine becomes more obsessed with this art of Legnani and believes he is the cause of this rapture artists are slain to. Through impressive means of endurance and research, thanks to his continuous analyzing of the book, Famine is able to contact one of the surviving models of Legnani's. Although she is still clearly very troubled, as she fights to prevent killing herself bi-daily, she agrees to talk to him about the experience. She thinks it'll be good for both of them.

For his travel, Famine pays an unknowing neighbor handsomely to escort him through the labyrinth of Legnani's town. Dear Famine is afraid of this town, so he acts blind and covers his eyes to keep the illusion intact, as well as his sanity. Upon arriving at the woman's doorstep, Famine asks his neighbor to wait outside for him, as he goes inside to take off his disguise of the blind, as he readies for the talk with this survivor.

Although she was only in her later thirties, she appears much older in person. Posing for Legnani has definitely drained the woman of her youth. As she eats her lunch, some kind of strange meat, Famine asks her how the experience changed her. Can she offer any insight into the nightmares of being Legnani so vividly portrays? How about insight to any of the rumors about the man and his equally as enigmatic art? She laughs and spits out some of the meat, before answering.

"Before I posted for Legnani, I used to think there was a better purpose to this world. That we all mattered. But, Legnani informed me otherwise. Well, almost. He always said, if we die alone and quietly, so does our legacy. It withers and fades away, like dust in the wind. Like the scars of the universe. But, if we die horribly, and in plain sight, we'll always be remembered. Martyred. Sanctified. That's the genius of Legnani. That's the true essence he captured. Art, spirituality, and politics all bow down to the same master: one of Death. And as he did, so shall I."

Famine tells her that he doesn't follow. She pulls down her shirt, which would be provocative- if it wasn't for what she revealed. The flesh close to her collarbone home is a road map of scars, from all of her suicide attempts. The one that lurks the closest to her neck looks the freshest. This one she pulls at, like a puppeteer pulling strings. Like ripping seems. The scab breaks and her blood and maniacal laughter flow like a river behind him as Famine runs to leave her desecrated abode. He comes to his Father's house to a similar river, as the paintings flood the room with their stolen blood again.

The razor thin boundaries of Famine's world withers away even further after that. He only stays inside his Father's house, for everything outside has that tainted reflection of Legnani's art now. The trees swing with hanging bodies from aloft and the nighttime stars radiate with a beckoning cancerous glow. They're always there when Famine looks out a window, a squint of the eye is no longer required.

They only stop when he bleeds. Famine discovers this - unintentionally, while shaving with his razor blade. One drop of blood from the brush of an open wound, and the visions stop. The pain, the visions, they cease. He feels, for the first time in an incredibly long while, at ease. But when the wound stops painting, the pain and the horrid visions begin again. Staring at the faux paintings made by his wannabe Legnani father, Famine decides to open his body of red paint again. With his razor blade in his hands, acting like a murderer’s brush running across his arms, and the floor or the paintings as his canvas, he gives those paintings a deeper coat of red. He then crumbles to the floor in victory.

But alas, dies he does not. Famine comes to near the woman, the model of Legnani he just saw a few days prior- who projected that wondrous idea into his head. And she was holding a strange meeting with someone, a stranger engulfed in shadow. A book that looked identical to that of his father's rests near this shadow. "You're seeing them, aren't you," the strange man said. " All of Master Legnani's dark art is becoming tangible right in front of your very eyes, is it not?" The woman nods her head. The man pushes a strange meat near the woman. It’s the same meat she was eating, when he went to see her. "This should help. It's the only chance you'll ever get to eat the flesh of a god. I should know, I helped create it."

The scene then dissolves into a silhouette of a hanged man, whose chest is cut open like a slab of meat. Another man crouches nearby, painting that horror onto a white canvas. The hidden speaker from before continues to ramble. "We live in a world where healers are killers, holy men condemn instead of save, and where leaders oppress and cheat the common man, instead of helping them. Legnani is very much a product and victim of this false world, and his art is no different. He always said, if artists die quietly and alone, so does their legacy. But, if they die horribly and loud enough to be heard, their legacy and their art shall never be forgotten."

The scene changes again, to an earlier time. Legnani and his strange friend are making a blood pact over the color palette of an unmade painting. The blood and the colors begin to blend, as one. "Legnani understood this, and I helped him see it through. I made a vow that I would keep his name and his art alive, -post mortem- and we signed it in blood onto the colors of creation. What's so wrong with helping someone become remembered? Who wants to be forgotten?"

The stars finally began to bleed their way into this sick vision. A twist of the world, and Famine is viewing outer space, the depths of eternal night and dying stars. Famine steps closer and the stars echo the sounds his footsteps and do the same and come closer to him. Another step and the stars take off their glowing shrouds and reveal themselves to be the radioactive skeletal remains of those that died before him. Dust flies off their body as they cough continuously. Famine thinks he recognizes one as his father. A strange roar catches Famine's ear and increases in volume. The roar reaches it's maximum octave and the radioactive bones turn into dust, as a new more horrid entity comes forward. At first, it gives the appearance of merely being a giant made of blackness and distant stars. But, as the giant approachs him, a squint of the eye reveals that it is a giant made of various fleshless human bodies. They are sown together crudely, to give the illusion that they were one massive entity- but the numerous squirming bodies in pain breaks the illusion. It's face looks not unlike that of Legnani's. The creature growls a macabre greeting as it approaches dear Famine and picks him up and sends him to the god controlling the beast's perpetual infernal appetite. And the swarming black rainbows made art by Legnani's brush greet Famine in the great beast's bowels, and, like Legnani's followers, he too is engulfed by these digestive colors, and then etched into the beast and made immortal. Some would even say sanctified. But still, the question no one bothered to ask remains: was he glorified because of his so-called great life, or because he died in such a brilliantly and beautifully tragic way. As it was, and as it likely shall always be, the question remains unasked.

Now that you've learned about the lost art that leant Legnani the mastery of his craft, you're probably looking at the nearest fork or blade near you and deciding when to stick it into your jugular. Or maybe you already have. Regardless, the final rotation is about to begin: An art that destroys, instead of enlightens and inspires. And rejoice, for you are it's victims. If only it didn't need for it to be this way.

The bleeding hearts and artists let him get away with murder. - Pink Floyd, “The Trial”
jzmurdock's avatar
The hardest part of writing (aside from getting it sold or published), is the waiting once it's been submitted. :)
markgunnells's avatar
So any official word on what's happening here?  I mean, of course, there's a lot of stuff to go through and Barker is undoubtedly a busy man, I was just thinking someone should have made some kind of official announcement about this by now...
HansNomad's avatar
J-Nash--not a bad idea.  Usually CB's work tends to inspire past it's intended scope.  I ended up doing a painting of one of the characters in my story.  I had such a clear image in my head of what he looked like that I had to capture it.

Arieh Kainan by HansNomad
I think there's some really good work done here. Some really excellent work. I wonder, am I the only one thinking that it could be picked up and edited into a collection based on the painting? Or, to grow the scope more, this painting being only the first in a series leading to an anthology based on a chosen selection of Clive's paintings : each part of the anthology beginning with the painting alongside a presentation by Clive of what was going on at the time of its creation and perhaps his own thoughts and interpretation, to be followed by the  collection of stories that he finds best for his work (with or without comment).

I think this would be a very interesting project.
All these years Clive has been throwing his imagination and Art into the Great Sea of our collective minds, with the resulting ripples reaching outwards to all of us. This would be somewhat the reverse procedure, something more interactive: something of a response. A work based on the ripples turning inwards after reaching their target; a chance for the ripples, now ripples of interpretation, to return and be harvested by the original source, their creator.
I wonder if i'm the only one thinking this way. And what it would take to bring it into fruition.
Great thought.
AtiSora25's avatar
wu apenas me entere, si puedo participar me encantaria, Pero no importa creo  q perdi la fecha limite
I suppose it would be a bit too late to submit? Has Mr Barker already read through these? Good luck to all!
markgunnells's avatar
I think the end date was supposed to be Halloween.
Majase's avatar
Um, what happened to this contest? No word, no status, no updates, nothing?
relax man. if he gets to it he gets to it. if you submitted something be proud in that and don't worry about external validation.
Majase's avatar
I've seen no one here ask for "validation", just a simple follow-up on a contest that ended 13 days ago. Anything, such as 'we will announce on so-and-so date' or 'entries are being processed, thanks everyone'. But total, absolute silence? It would take, oh 10 seconds. Really not a lot to ask. But this seems to be a pattern and if members never ask, some of these sponsored contests NEVER announce anything, ever. One has to ask; what is the real message this sends? Basic courtesy should not be an effort.

10 seconds; for an update; 10 seconds. Oh well, life moves ever onward, haha.
Didn't realize this was a reoccurring thing with this site.
Majase, I couldn't agree more. I hope this was a real contest. Some good people put a lot of time and passion into this. It'd be a shame if it wasn't genuine. 
Good question. A very good question, indeed.
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