This is actually a short story adapted from an exercise we did in Vertigo (Lynbrook High School's literary magazine) a few years ago. If I remember correctly, we were supposed to think of a character, then write about his/her past and then about one day in their life. There was a third part but I don't remember what it is...
My character was a con artist in Victorian Europe. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to be a convincing con artist (and consequently, can't write about a convincing con artist) so this is going to be pretty cheesy.
My footsteps echo on the cobblestone street. With an easel tucked under one arm and a bag of paints in the other, I stride to an inconspicuous corner. Once there, I set up my painting supplies and prepare myself for the day ahead.
I am an artist of a particular sort. I walk the streets with gusto, my artist’s eye filtering the subject from the background. With a flourish of my green cape, I invite – or rather, lure – my subject to be part of my newest masterpiece. My imagination is my paint palette, my tongue is my brush, and the stories I tell are the strokes that make my work come to life.
As always, I toss one of my pennies in the air and watch it spiral in the air before me. Heads tells me it will be a good day, but tails is a warning that I should get out of this town as soon as possible. Lady Luck has served me well; the first and only time I did not heed her warning, I was almost caught by a policeman in plainclothes. My eyes follow the glistening coin as it falls innocently to the ground. Heads. I smile and begin twirling my cape and tipping my hat a few times before the first few lights flicker in the windows.
A few shopkeepers have opened their stores now, and the quiet street hums with activity. A few horse-drawn carriages clatter down the cobblestones as people begin to step out of their homes. They greet each other cordially, just as they always do. It’s quite a funny thing, really. I find myself in a different town every day or two, but every town is the same at heart. They all have the rich ones and the poor ones, shops that open at dawn and pubs that stay open all night, the same types of people who do the same types of things. Most importantly, there are always arrogant rich people who want their portraits done by mysterious artists like me.
I arrange myself in the most convincing ‘artist at work’ pose that I can manage and wait patiently for a patron. A well-dressed gentleman walks by me, clearly affronted that I dare to breathe the same air as him. “Good day, sir.” I bow low and remove my hat with a flourish.
“Good day,” he says curtly, and checks his pocket watch impatiently. He makes it clear that he does not have time for such trivial conversation, but I am persistent.
“Would you like a portrait, good sir?”
“I do not need another picture of myself, thank you very much.”
“I’m sure I will find other business. Thank you for your time, sir.” He begins to walk away, and I call out, “Have you heard of Hestershire? The mayor commissioned a painting by me, and it turned out to be so beautiful that a bidder was willing to pay twice as much for it. The mayor made a mint of money. It is unfortunate that you do not have the time for such a painting…” I trail off as he turns around.
“I may have a few moments to spare,” he says cautiously.
“Thank you! Do you know what it is you want me to paint for you?”
“Actually, I hadn’t thought about that. Paint whatever you will, just make sure it is as magnificent as you say it will be.”
“Of course! I shall have it ready in one week’s time. But I will require a fee.”
The gentleman fumes.“Preposterous! I will not pay you a cent before I see this painting of yours.”
I smile politely and reply, “That is just fine. I will find someone else who is willing to pay a little bit now. That lucky patron of mine will be rich once I give him the painting. There’s a fine looking gentleman.”
The gentleman is livid now and begins muttering under his breath. “If that pompous Boyde gets a hold of something I don’t have, I’ll never hear the end of it.” He turns to me, ears flaming.“Fine. How much will I have to pay?”
I flash him a brilliant smile. “Only ₤300. Remember, you will be able to earn twofold that money once you have the painting.”
The man hands me the money with the reluctance of a child relinquishing a toffee. “And who do I ask for if I do not receive the painting in a week?”
“Mr. Charlatan.” With a flourish of my cape and a tip of my hat, I grab my supplies and walk away from my confused victim, leaving my coin glistening in the sun.
My character was a con artist in Victorian Europe. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to be a convincing con artist (and consequently, can't write about a convincing con artist) so this is going to be pretty cheesy.
My footsteps echo on the cobblestone street. With an easel tucked under one arm and a bag of paints in the other, I stride to an inconspicuous corner. Once there, I set up my painting supplies and prepare myself for the day ahead.
I am an artist of a particular sort. I walk the streets with gusto, my artist’s eye filtering the subject from the background. With a flourish of my green cape, I invite – or rather, lure – my subject to be part of my newest masterpiece. My imagination is my paint palette, my tongue is my brush, and the stories I tell are the strokes that make my work come to life.
As always, I toss one of my pennies in the air and watch it spiral in the air before me. Heads tells me it will be a good day, but tails is a warning that I should get out of this town as soon as possible. Lady Luck has served me well; the first and only time I did not heed her warning, I was almost caught by a policeman in plainclothes. My eyes follow the glistening coin as it falls innocently to the ground. Heads. I smile and begin twirling my cape and tipping my hat a few times before the first few lights flicker in the windows.
A few shopkeepers have opened their stores now, and the quiet street hums with activity. A few horse-drawn carriages clatter down the cobblestones as people begin to step out of their homes. They greet each other cordially, just as they always do. It’s quite a funny thing, really. I find myself in a different town every day or two, but every town is the same at heart. They all have the rich ones and the poor ones, shops that open at dawn and pubs that stay open all night, the same types of people who do the same types of things. Most importantly, there are always arrogant rich people who want their portraits done by mysterious artists like me.
I arrange myself in the most convincing ‘artist at work’ pose that I can manage and wait patiently for a patron. A well-dressed gentleman walks by me, clearly affronted that I dare to breathe the same air as him. “Good day, sir.” I bow low and remove my hat with a flourish.
“Good day,” he says curtly, and checks his pocket watch impatiently. He makes it clear that he does not have time for such trivial conversation, but I am persistent.
“Would you like a portrait, good sir?”
“I do not need another picture of myself, thank you very much.”
“I’m sure I will find other business. Thank you for your time, sir.” He begins to walk away, and I call out, “Have you heard of Hestershire? The mayor commissioned a painting by me, and it turned out to be so beautiful that a bidder was willing to pay twice as much for it. The mayor made a mint of money. It is unfortunate that you do not have the time for such a painting…” I trail off as he turns around.
“I may have a few moments to spare,” he says cautiously.
“Thank you! Do you know what it is you want me to paint for you?”
“Actually, I hadn’t thought about that. Paint whatever you will, just make sure it is as magnificent as you say it will be.”
“Of course! I shall have it ready in one week’s time. But I will require a fee.”
The gentleman fumes.“Preposterous! I will not pay you a cent before I see this painting of yours.”
I smile politely and reply, “That is just fine. I will find someone else who is willing to pay a little bit now. That lucky patron of mine will be rich once I give him the painting. There’s a fine looking gentleman.”
The gentleman is livid now and begins muttering under his breath. “If that pompous Boyde gets a hold of something I don’t have, I’ll never hear the end of it.” He turns to me, ears flaming.“Fine. How much will I have to pay?”
I flash him a brilliant smile. “Only ₤300. Remember, you will be able to earn twofold that money once you have the painting.”
The man hands me the money with the reluctance of a child relinquishing a toffee. “And who do I ask for if I do not receive the painting in a week?”
“Mr. Charlatan.” With a flourish of my cape and a tip of my hat, I grab my supplies and walk away from my confused victim, leaving my coin glistening in the sun.
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