Date: 310713

Word: cold

Character/s: Jessica Jung (SNSD)

Inspiration: random rambling

Word Count: 977

A/N: SHOTSHOTSHOTSHOTS (ONE)SHOTSSHOTSSHOTSHOTS. Posting another discontinued oneshot because it's time for spring cleaning in winter (that is, in the southern hemisphere is certainly is). First person and realising how y it sounds otl.

“Now, time for a little creative exercise,” Mr Han wheezed. It was a mild irritation to me every time he coughed up a sandstorm but patience has been easier for me to grasp lately. “Get your sketch books open.”

Automatically, the entire class plucked their sketchbooks from their bags and flipped to a new page, while still keeping an eye on the cancerous art teacher who had taken out a handkerchief to cough into. I held my pencil at the ready and drew in a deep breath preparing myself for his challenge.

“Now, I want you to choose a body part. The head, the arm, the brain, the heart … Any is fine. I don’t care if you choose your reproductive organs, as long as you know that’s what you want to draw and you don't get too modest,” he rasped, giving a hearty round of chuckles that turned into an even larger round of coughs. “And then, I want you to represent it as if it were made of something else. If it were made of steel, feathers, leaves or even uranium. As long as it distinguishes your view on that particular body part I will be happy. And remember my number one rule; be honest.”

The classroom was smothered in silence. Some of the students’ faces wore expressions of confusion, thought provoking intelligence and for very few, utter stupidity. I wasn’t all that sure either but I felt as if my face could’ve been classified as the last mentioned expression. Mr Han was one of those slightly … disconcerting teachers that you only hear about from rumours spread by other students. He was the kind of teacher who enjoyed providing his students with perplexing and occasionally impossible tasks to complete in an hour and one who tended to rage on to his class about how good Kpop Star was, even when it wasn’t airing. In short, he was slightly sadistic, but he was still my favourite teacher.

Slowly picking up my pencil I drew unconnected curved lines on my page. I liked to use unconventional methods to create something beautiful, and Mr Han agreed with me. But maybe he was just high when he told me that. My fellow peers surrounding me had pretty extrovert methods of drawing as well. I particularly noted that majority of them had drawn up grid lines while a few people had become rather lazy and just traced their hands onto their page. But hey, who was I to judge the creative works of someone who could soon be the next Picasso?

I focused on the details; shading areas that needed to be shaded and smudging what probably shouldn’t have been smudged. Soon enough, all of my random looking squiggles had gladly become friends with each other and joined to make the masterpiece which was my representation of the human heart.

At first I didn’t plan on sculpting it to be a heart. I was actually intending to draw a lung but I guess my hands chose the path before my mind had a chance to counter it. It was the living organ itself, not the flimsy love heart that’s over-exposed on Valentine’s Day and internet conversations. And, it was encased in a blanket of ice. Or frost if you will, but I had my understanding of it very clearly. The human heart to me was an ice sculpture. Intricately beautiful and pleasant to look at and understand. And, once it encounters a force that’s strong enough to alter it, it may melt and begin to beat and truly live. However, the heart also holds a fragility of sorts that with a specific wrong move can cause it to obtain fractures and inevitably, break.

I explained my concept thoroughly to Mr Han after class as all of the students were leaving. I attempted to go into some depth with him and try to provoke an intellectual answer but that was about as easy as climbing a completely vertical mountain without ropes and hand holds.

He inhaled the toxic chemicals of his cigarette with concentration and then puffed the smoke out away from me. Technically smoking wasn’t allowed on school grounds but he obviously never cared and his students wouldn’t dare tattle on him to the upper school authorities. Basically, it was either let the addicted man teach your art class or anticipate his next appearance in your nightmares. He was just that intimidating.

Finally, he said something. “Did you know Miss Jung that most works of art always have a personal link to the artist’s opinion of themself?” he said before taking another drag.

“So I’ve heard …” I replied thoughtfully while taking a second look at the page I held in my hands while mentally congratulating him for saying something that was somewhat relevant to the conversation at hand.

“I suggest you go and prove your theory,” he continued in his elderly voice. For a forty something year old man he sounded at least eighty five.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Prove it. That the human heart is an ice sculpture.”

“But … Why?” I implored in the most questioning and confused tone I had ever given him. It was like a child telling an adult to jump off a bridge, or to run around on the street; extremely odd, inappropriate and unnecessary. And in this situation, he was the child and I was the adult.

“Because,” he continued. “Experience is something irreplaceable. And you Miss Jung need to do rather than draw. You’ve got something special in here,” he said tapping his skull harshly. “But you need to translate that into something real.”

“How does that have anything to do with art Sir?” I asked.

“It doesn’t,” he answered truthfully. And it was then that I thought to myself that maybe I didn’t give my delirious substance abusing art teacher enough credit.