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The Chronicle Story of a Man

August 15th, 2022

Story by Reece Wright

Photograph by Maya Heins

The story: untold, unspoken, and unfrozen as well. It is hidden and lies within the canvas of a
rock. As carved as a crescent moon and as untouched as an isolated river. The story of a man that
paints his dog. His dog that had broken her leg chasing a cat. An abstract painting to reflect her
pain. This painting had remained in the same spot, a work in progress. A million times he had
repainted it, reworked to show a new perspective. The man’s inside has become more clustered,
full of discomfort and uncertainty. Wondering if his family is okay and if his dog will die soon.


There are so many ideas cluttered inside his mind that it becomes overwhelming, yet he cannot
help but indulge them. Cannot help but entertain the very thing that may drive him to his end.
His dog is waiting for him to stop painting, but he never does. Instead he starts over, again, and
again, and again. Waiting for his work to be perfect today -not perfect tomorrow or perfect in a
year, but perfect now. It doesn’t become perfect; it becomes disgusting and unpleasant to look at.


His story, the story of the lonely, misunderstood artist, has made him grow jaded; the story he’s
claimed to rewrite when he has the time. A year later the man’s title changed. His title now reads
‘deceased.’ The dog he had grown to care for had rotted away, waiting for her owner to come
back. They discovered his work after he died. They, the people, did not like his work. All the
evidence that proved that he was once a person had ignited, hot in a scorching fire. So, his once
blank canvas’, now covered in gray dust and his paints now rest in a trash compactor.


This story:
unmentioned, unseen, and unimportant to all. When told, it unravels itself, sprawled out for
everyone to see; or shy away from. The story, the acknowledgment, of a man and his dog that
never altered their story. A story expected to have success and greatness but resulted in a grand
failure and disappointment. If he, the man, could change the story, he would. He wouldn’t paint
his dog as much or worry about being remembered by his family or anyone else after he died.


The man, sad and unwell, now lies still and lifeless. His story: (the man [most] in need) was not

one he wanted to leave behind, but he forgot to change it. Adding it to another task for the next
day, the next day that was never promised.

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