Creativity City

By Dajax Arpa

Sadie is just an ordinary fifteen year old girl. That is, with a gaping hole in her memory. Prior to turning 10, she doesn't remember much of her childhood. Her parents explained that it is because of an accident but they never find time or the patience to explain it properly. Or is there another reason? It's always the usual, "move on! It's in the past!"

 

Her father John Lynch, is a world renowned artist, always trying to get the best of the best out of his less than exciting (in his opinion) daughter.

 

Lindsey and Makayla, Sadie's few friends are always trying to push her into getting out of her comfort zone. They don't always succeed. As she finds herself in her second year at Inagina Academy, a school of (and for) artists like her. Even in this creative environment she still struggles to fit in.

 

That is, until Sadie dreams one night of a wondrous city, where artisans paint, chalk, march and often chant their hearts out with their motto: Think! Dream! Believe!

 

Creativity City, a dream-like canvas world boasts the world's greatest creations, inventions and thinkers from centuries past. It has transformed their ideas into reality. 

 

The artisans are a very welcoming society, happy, hunky, and dory! But this city holds a dark past, and secrets that will change the course of human history and art forever.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Reyes
• Release date: Aug 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201943998

Book preview

Dajax Arpa

Copyright

This is a work of fiction . Any references to historical events or real people are coincidental. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 

CREATIVITY CITY

First edition. August 11, 2021

Copyright © 2021 Dajax Arpa all rights reserved.

Written by Dajax Arpa

Published by James Reyes

Dedication

Iwanted my grandmother to see this book but she passed away in late 2020 due to pneumonia.

Grandma Juana, suffered from schizophrenia, and she died not having seen what I could've been. Because of her ailments I often had a hard time communicating properly with her. However, I miss her and her random mumblings throughout the day. I only wish her time on earth could've been spent more freely and with far less worry. My grandma was a sweet woman.

I want to dedicate this novel to my grandmother, and to Nabosa.

Nabosa is from Nigeria. Her name brings a smile to my face. But not only that, it is a sign of a promise that has been kept. She was the only woman in my life who truly believed in my dreams, and who truly cared about my seemingly frivolous endeavors. I spoke to Nabosa about my dreams, ideas, and goals for life. She believed in every word I spoke, it's almost like she was carefully inspecting my soul. She is truly a woman who knew I didn't have much to offer, but to her that didn't matter. It was my inner self, where she saw the treasures, the riches of humanity and the crackling of a joyous fire burning.

Epigraph

L ooking at the stars always makes me dream. As simply as I dream over the black dots representing towns and villages on a map just as we take a train to get to Tarascon or Rouen, we take a death to reach a star. We cannot get to a star while we are alive any more than we can take the train when we are dead. To die quietly of old age would be to go there on foot.

- Vincent Van Gogh

I’VE LEARNED THAT PEOPLE will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.

– Maya Angelou

Preface

One of the main things that inspired me to write this book is that I had a love of paintings when I was growing up. I wondered what it would be like and was inspired to write what it was like to live inside a painting. That may sound odd to some people, but having this imagination helps create its own reality.

Another thing, or person who inspired me was a little girl I met a long time ago named Sadie. This is where I got the name for my main character. She was a longtime family friend starting when I moved to Utah when I was Seven. We always talked on our long walks home from school. When I was ten, she moved away, and I never got to see her again, though we sometimes keep in contact. Her sweet voice, how innocent it was. I couldn't help but invite her namesake to be the star of my story.

I hope whoever is reading this, that your day is going well. Creativity City came to me one day as I glided past the Roots of Knowledge gallery by Utah Valley University Library. There, stood a wide array of historical figures and events ever since the dawn of civilization. Since I love history and preserving ideas for future generations, I wanted this story to symbolize my love of all the knowledge that has come before. Every historical figure who came and left behind paintings, and precious artifacts for future generations to liken to. These artifacts and priceless historical items remind us of where we came from and what is in store for humanity.

Creativity City took me about four to five years to write. Each revision turned out differently than the last. The first draft was written when I was 17.

I spent every other day thinking, writing and rewriting different scenes out both in my head and on my keyboard. Often, I would have to rewrite complex scenes at least 10 times before I finally got what I wanted out of them. Oftentimes I found myself on the keyboard for six to seven hours at a time.

In the future there is much more to come in Creativity City, I plan on writing future stories that draw parallels to this one. An entire world and even a universe will soon be unveiled.

Life hasn't always been easy for me. I've tried and failed in many different things. I’ve found writing about this world gives me a purpose in life, a rare quality I haven't always felt. I find writing this world gives me hope for the future, that the world may change for the better and that we may start to treat each other with so much love and dignity. A common trait within Creativity City.

However, Creativity City holds a dark secret, hideous as it may seem it is often true. Inside the heart of the dream realm, Creativity City withholds an insidious secret that may change the course of human history forever.

Introduction

Hi. My name is Sadie Lynch, and I'm an artisan. Plus, I love Cake Pops! Let’s get back to my name. I know it’s an odd one to have, ‘Lynch.’ It almost always causes hysteria. With that said, Sadie is a beautiful and well thought out name. I love it but . . . Perhaps Lynch is what got my mind rattling like a snake’s tail. Lynch, hmmm . . . it would appear to make people stop and wonder. But what does it have to do with art?

‘Why Lynch?’ An elderly woman once said at a public critique. At least she didn’t directly say it to my face, instead it was painted all over her face. You should be aware I am good at reading people’s expressions. Reading people and especially portraits has always been a fascinating discovery of mine.  I was also shy and suffered from severe social anxiety at the time. So, the ability to read people was somewhat limited.

Certainly, as with any person, I adapted, grew stronger. And over time I became what I am now. Confident, still flawed but confident. Don’t mistake my apparent shyness for weakness. I’ve been through a lot.

My dad is a world-renowned artist and doesn’t let me hangout much. He stuffed my brain with so many books it would make Bill Gates cringe.

As an artisan, my job is to keep track of certain books and precious artifacts. I must not only be aware as to what stories they tell, but be leery of trusting my fellow artisans to protect them. While I transported these stories, I read them quietly to myself quite often.

I’ve read everything, poetry, romance, science fiction, fan fiction, comic-book sequences, and even Shakespeare. Don’t ask me to quote any of this work. My memory, it’s flawed because of the accident. It’s the emotional anomaly of my existence, yet it’s the only thing I have left.

I was in the accident when I was 10 years old. Whenever I asked dad or mom what happened to me, they always said the same thing, can’t remember. Or, Don’t bring it up, you have to move on! They too, were in the same accident; deep down they wanted answers, as did I. But they were more relaxed about getting them.

All my flawed memory could recall was, droplets of liquid, flashes of light, beaming faces. And that’s really it.

Now, allow me to briefly explain the one rule of an Artisan I so happened to make up along my journey, STAY AWAY FROM THIEVES! They will take your Creativity, your way of thinking, and most importantly your ideas. Art thieves, as they are known, are not your average go-getters, they don’t just steal a piece of art and sell it on the black market. Nor do they call it quits when things go haywire. They are cunning, conniving, and go by many names. But let’s just refer to them as, dastardly thieves!

Anyway, to help remind me where I came from, I carry a painting; it’s small, about the size of a baseball card and it's invisible except when I really need it. It is painted in invisible miracle ink, and coated in laminate plastic. Only glows when I feel lost from time to time. Professor Tom, my philosophy teacher, and hearty friend gave it to me as a birthday gift.

Since it was invisible, I stuffed it inside my knapsack, never to be seen again, except on one fateful night when I struggled through an unlikely source, my dreams . . . But let’s not get ahead of ourselves nor should we get melodramatic. It all started when I went to a public critique art show with dad. Little did I know that this one art show would change my life forever.

Prologue

My second school year at Imagina Academy was about to commence. I spent the entire summer working as a librarian at Lovecraft Library. It was recently added this past summer, built right across the street from Imagina Academy, at the heart of the city center.

I was now a sophomore, my first year at school started well. I took Digital Arts, World Philosophy, as well as many other subjects. Sunday night, before the new school year started, dad took me to an art show in downtown San Francisco. For this special occasion, I dressed in a red velvet top, and stylish pink pants.

For once in the past year dad, the famous John Lynch, actually took me to one of his public critiques, where three of his artworks were on display. All three depicted sadness and loss. Portrait number 1 was a man in the fetal position, crying his guts out, I presumed. The other two were more or less the same, differing on perspective, portraying interchangeable degrees of sadness. Portrait 2 was a man crying standing up, not very practical, I thought. And the last portrait was a man in his sixties, crying in front of his kids, again not very genuine, if you ask me. Nonetheless, his artistic prowess received heartfelt emotion.

After an hour of gazing, a stocky gentleman, in a trench coat walked towards us, Hello, my name is Professor Benjamin, how do you do?

Dad snarled as though a mere approach without invitation was an insult to him. Yes, what is it? Dad answered, clearly offended.

I have a dilemma, the three portraits, let’s just say, they do not fit well with my tastes. They aren’t very original.

Wow, I thought. He plucked the words right out of my mouth.

The situation worsened the moment the professor started a rant about who was a better artist, Jackson Pollock, or Pablo Picasso. Not sure how it escalated to this. I tuned Professor Benjamin out, because I found his oppressive behavior very unattractive.

After a couple of ghastly moments, dad turned to me and said, Sadie, could you please excuse us.  Orders were orders, most things that came out of my dad’s mouth was either a comment about my art, an insult, or a deliberate request, which meant it was an order.

I went and gazed at other art pieces in a desolate corner of the gallery room as dad and professor Benjamin were having at it. I occasionally looked over to see if any fists were being thrown, dad sometimes got into fights, sometimes groveled when he didn’t get his way, and even barked like a hyena when he tried to get his point across. As for the quality of his art thus far, I’ll leave that up for you to decide.

Wandering aimlessly, I spotted a masculine man, brownish tan, broad shoulders, and hazel eyes. He started approaching me, waving, smiling. Too shy, I curled my lips, extremely flattered. I too slowly walked towards him, making it seem as casual as possible, edging closer and closer. When I went to face him, he slid past me, utterly ignoring my presence. I turned back to where he was headed; little did I know he was smiling at his girlfriend.

Figures. I thought.

I turned back around and immediately bumped heads with another person and we both fell down. Rubbing my forehead, I flicked my head up, tilting at the same time, we met each other’s eyes. My sketchbook was on the floor, but all I could feel was a peaceful nothingness, shrouded in mystery, yet curious as to who this person was. He wore blue eyes quite well, so well, I was frozen, almost blacked out. I wasn’t fainting or amused by his gaze, but stilled, so stilled in fact that I went mute. SADIE SAY SOMETHING, SADIE SAY SOMETHING! I was scrambling to find any vowels. Needless to say, I found no words.

Dad in the background was finished with his argument. Sadie! he cried, come, we are leaving. His demand was swift and didn’t give me enough time to think. I leaped to my feet and so did Blue-eyes.

Here’s your-

Thank you. I squealed, taking off and forgetting about my sketchbook.

Tranquility ruled again. Dad’s contention softened and he led me out of the gallery. Step by step, almost tiptoeing; I felt like a little girl again. I basked in the cool atmosphere, until bad memories and feelings fluttered in.

The illustrious pounding of my heart, as fast as a jackrabbit’s after a tumultuous race could only mean one thing; I may finally feel something towards another human being. This two-minute fiasco got me thinking, maybe we will kiss, will have children, maybe he won’t use me like the rest of them. There was a flood of conflicting thoughts.

Happiness? Was this out of the question? I’ve been alone for so long, how do I know or how would I know if I ever found the one. In finality, I must accept the possibility that I may not get married, have children, or be a grandmother.

It's only infatuation. I squabbled on with myself, grinning yet infuriated with that elusive thought.

Then there came a slight breeze that calmed my anxious heart.

Many men found it extremely odd and inappropriate that I talked to portraits so much, airlessly, and I said unnerving things. At times, I imagined portraits responding back, and laughing at my cringe-worthy jokes, that is, until I found someone who didn’t give me funny looks.

I had wallowed in a realm of hopeless romanticism. Money, or handsomeness, was not of importance. In my world, you could be whatever you wanted, so long as you kept and shared, but did not surrender your Creativity.

It’s so important, I thought. I’m fascinated with men but not enough to make the full leap. I often give my heart too quickly, but there was something different about blue eyes. I’m frightfully prone to rejection and hardly charismatic.  I can’t stand how I feel at the thought of losing him again, or anyone for that matter.

My world, our world must be full of creative people. Creativity in a way is my salvation. I mentally, and also subconsciously, attached myself to my art only. That and Cake Pops. I love Cake Pops.

Hey Sadie, take a look. Dad said, gesturing towards the night sky.

The calming starry night chilled my anxiety. I started dancing, inviting dad to join me. He rejected my invitation. Still flustered with the comment of what he assumed was a simple-minded critic. Why did he let the crudeness get to him? Then again, I myself am not the world-renowned artist. He is. I can only imagine what filters through his mind on a daily basis.

I found a streetlamp and twirled around, acting, as though I was a seasoned Broadway performer.

Come, Dad, come! I invited him.

Dad only shrugged and replied, not now sweetheart.

Dad was not in the mood. He told me to step off of the lamppost so that we could head home.

WE RESIDED IN SUNSET Avenue, Haight Ashbury district. Reporters, and stuck-up strangers would sometimes follow him. Our mailbox was flooded with fan mail, dad never replied back, always threw it away, rarely giving it a second thought. The world-renowned artist John Lynch was quite tight lipped when it came to his personal life. Luckily no one knew we lived in this area of town, other than our introverted neighbors who didn’t care for art, and dad liked to keep it that way. We never went to an art show together again. Dad didn’t trust me being by myself, unless I was with Lindsey or had my phone. Ever since the accident he’s been on red alert. Stone-faced, hardly approachable. 

We walked up to our three-story apartment complex. To give you an idea, the apartment held two bathrooms, three bedrooms. One for me, the other for my parents, and a spare just in case any guests arrived. The walls and rooms were blanketed in either Art or crafts (from when I was a little girl). It even held a balcony on the third floor with a perfect view of the Golden Gate Bridge, accompanied by a grand piano. But I rarely went to either the balcony or the piano. It did interest me, but only for a short while, and then like many things I would get bored of it and move on. Also, imagine an apartment riddled in a dazzling array of portraits; art, being the centerpiece of our living situation. The second floor was where we slept, and the kitchen, living room, and the grand hall of dad’s accomplishments occupied the first floor.

Dad even had a trophy room of his boldest artwork and glittering praise and accomplishments. I rarely visited it. Though it did tickle my interest.

Whilst dad threw away more fan mail in the dumpster, I headed inside the house, my attention veered towards the blond boy I met. I was rattled with such emotions my mind couldn’t help but wonder as I walked upstairs to my bedroom. Dad soon followed.

Good night my lovely dove.

Night, dad. He gave me a kiss on the cheek.

I pondered upon the clear starry sky outside my window, what if aliens were real? I randomly thought.

After I tucked myself in my cozy unicorn designer bed sheets, mom, Suzy, came in shortly after softly passing father. As for her features, she had a puffy nose, and plump cheeks.

Goodnight sweetheart. Her voice was as impactful as a piano's ping when you strike a key.

She pecked me on the cheek. Be swell Sadie. 

I closed my eyes. As my parents left, they flicked off the lights. I also said, in the lowest raspy whisper my vocal cords could conjure, what are the odds I will see that dashing man the same way again?

The starry sky painting which so happened to be splattered across my ceiling, was abysmal. Tonight, the painting was not in a talkative mood.

Uh huh. I said aloud.

Suddenly I felt this urge to read, and so I got up from my bed, plucked Oh The Places You’ll Go! By Dr. Seuss, from my bookshelf and started to read it on the floor. The furry creatures, and catchy rhymes brought me back home to