The Artwork TG

The Artwork

I began life as a line, only vaguely-aware of the pencil and artist above me and the paper beneath me. The line, soon to be my arm, wobbled a bit. The wobble was soon corrected by the eraser and a touch of the pencil.

With time, the rounded outline of my head, marked by a light X, emerged from simple, supporting lines underneath. I could feel where the pencil touched. It was electric, like a slight, stimulating shock. Like directed pins and needles. Each touch brought more and more into me, like the guiding hand was giving of itself. I felt a sliver of that presence far above me, distant but still connected.

From the nebulous presence of my form, sketched in basic bubbles, came slow solidity. The sticks which were my arms fleshed out with broad, muscular texture. Tense, spread fingers extended from my bulky hands. I was strong.

The strength of my arms spread out to a muscular chest. The lines of hard muscles asserted themselves. The form of a rough tunic traced those muscles. I could feel myself tensing them. A weathered face with hard, shaded stubble looked upon the instrument of the creator. My eyes felt narrow against a long, rising brow.

I could almost feel the sense of who I was with my dense legs joining what was already done. My weapons were almost there, at my back, a sliver of their presence. Only a little more and they could easily be drawn with my hand and raised in service to whatever heroic endeavor my creator ordained for me.

But the pencil paused and lifted from the paper. My nascent heart and muscles throbbed. Like a wave, the eraser pressed across my body. In an instant, my sharp and brutal swords were gone to the ether. Another swipe and my arms were mere ghosts. More and more of me passed away.

When little seemed left but a few, original lines, I tried not to let panic fill me. Surely, in moments, I would be back. I would be better. The vision had been cloudy before. Perhaps my perspective had not been right. That was fine. I would be a better, stronger man this time around and more suited to my quest of adventure.

Once the devastation of my form was at an end, the renewal came slowly, with softer strokes of the pencil. The outline of my form was smaller but that didn't worry me. My arms were smaller but they would surely still be suited to adventure.

My confusion came at the first lines of a long and flowing garment around my legs. Perhaps a cloak in its beginning phrases? I wondered at a secretive edge to my presence. I could be an assassin with a stealthy dagger hidden away in flowing garments. But they pressed out too much and in such a strange way. My feet wore only small coverings, hardly enough to protect me from assault by hostile forces.

Having no means to object, I accepted this development as part of the plan for me and waited. As my face returned, it was softer, more a circle than a tall oval. My cheeks felt full. The shade of a blush almost passed through them.

This strangeness continued around my head. Longer and longer hair curled out from it, to my ears at first. Then, to my uncertain shoulders and past my back. The weight of it felt so strange, even in this state.  

The creator moved to my arms. They were narrow with barely any muscle on them. So weak and slight. My new hands had slender fingers wrapped around something. I couldn't make it out yet but I hoped it was a weapon. Faint hopes returned to me. This new form was strange but it wasn't terrible. I had to be a user of magic now, dedicated to the mind instead of the body. Of course, my body would be different but my powers would still be great.

As the pencil drew out the presence of my garments, a slow surprise filled me. I was clad in a dress. The flow of the material made sense. The creases were more and more of a garment in motion with the frozen turn of my body.

Any lingering hopes faded as the sloping shape of my chest was etched into place by the pencil. I was a woman. I could feel my whole, changed presence traced out. The dress had a sleeveless top with a V-neckline. My breasts prompted another urge to blush as the flesh held against the new garment.

In my hand, the hope of a weapon became the reality of a jeweled, ornate scepter. My slight face soon showed my tentative presence. My shy brow was drawn in an expression of concern. The little mark of my nose and mouth looked out submissively.

As the pencil paused, a flutter of softened hope flashed out. I may have been a girl but maybe this too was a transitory state. However, the pencil was going away and another instrument of the creator was in its place. I beheld the pen. The mark of finality.

Each tracing of the lines and erasing of the temporary cast away doubt. My breasts were permanent and the flow of my dress was locked forever. The slight form I'd been given was me, from now on.

With my perpetual, feminine expression, I awaited the color of my spirit. Light pinks followed the twirl of my dress. Red rubies danced on my scepter. The shadowed flesh tones of my cleavage sealed their gravity. I warmed to the silken texture of my clothes, especially my ornate gloves. When all else was settled, I was anointed with a silver tiara above my bright, blond hair.   

With my body done, some of the fear and disappointment waned. I was not a bold warrior with bulging muscles. I was not given a sword to slay many monsters. But, as the pen worked on around me, I realized I was a queen, given a kingdom to rule. I may not have had strength but I had wisdom and power of a different sort, to shape the world with legions of warriors in service to me.

I held my scepter aloof before my emerging palace and considered my first command.