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Cinetrav
Hometown: Saint Louis
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I'm a late bloomer, but better late than never, right? I studied filmmaking in college, but got distracted. Now, I'm refocusing my energy on my art. I am devoted to making movies in the Saint Louis area. I also write short fiction and film criticism. I also occasional dabble in drawing, photography, haiku and the rare dipping of my toes in poetry.
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cinetrav's Featured Art
Trophy of the Captive Hunter
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Arthur wakes up in a cold, damp cell surrounded by the stench of swamp rot and sulfur. There is no light to speak of, but his eyes quickly adjust as they always do. His sight serves him little purpose in a small room such as this. The structure appears to be solid, except for a thick metal door with a barred opening.
Time passes. Arthur paces within the restricted confines of his secluded captivity. He cannot recall the exact events, which have brought him here, only that he last remembers bedding down to rest from his typical routine. His mind circles itself, trying to reconstruct how anyone might have gotten the upper hand on him. His attentiveness to detail and reputation for always being prepared has made him a respectable figure amongst his people.
The penetrating aroma of sulfuric gas causes him to lose focus. Arthur is not accustomed to being in a confused state of mind. This angers him, but he forces himself to focus on the task at hand.
"The bars," Arthur mutters to himself. "The bars are the weak point of this stronghold."
Arth ur carefully inspects the craftsmanship of the door and the bars that guard the window opening. An ingenious smile forms in the corner of his mouth as he prepares to make his escape.
Rubbing his hands together, as if preparing to dead lift a sizable barbell, Arthur calculates his approach and seizes two of the five metal bars, then thrusts his weight and momentum in reverse in an effort to rip the structure open at it's weakest point.
"Oh, damn it to Hell! Fuck!"
Arthur screams in agony and frustration. Not only has he failed to remove the bars that confine him, but also he has left a part of himself, flesh from his hands, seared to the bars at the points of his grasp. Skin that once covered his palms and fingertips now sizzles and shrivels not unlike bacon on a griddle. Arthur furiously inhales, holding his scarred hands out before him.
"How is this," Arthur asks himself?
He is both fearful and curious of what has just transpired. Without making the same mistake twice, Arthur inspects the bars more closely.
"No rust, nor corrosion. No oxidation of any kind," he catalogs to himself.
The bars appear to be old and weathered. Arthur turns to inspect his quarters for some debris or remnants of some kind. Four walls, the floor and ceiling, they are all densely formulated concrete. Arthur places one of his mangled palms flat onto the floor and holds it there. He rises and repeats this action against one of the walls ...More >>
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