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fandomweekly2026-02-24 06:04 pm
curiosity) wrote in fandomweekly2026-02-24 06:04 pm
Entry tags:
[AMNESTY #029] Emotion Made Manifest (MDZS)
Theme Prompt: #285 - Fresh Start
Title: Emotion Made Manifest
Fandom: MDZS
Rating/Warnings: G - some thoughts about parental neglect
Bonus: No.
Word Count: 745
Summary: Jiang Cheng prepares his art studio and reflects.
Mornings were Jiang Cheng’s favorite time to begin a new work. He always began the same. First he opened up all the windows in his studio to let in the clean air. This deep into spring, the air was redolent many flowers coming together in a distinctly unique fragrance that always spoke the word ‘home’ to Jiang Cheng’s heart.
He cleaned the large, low table where he painted, washing it completely. Top, bottom, sides; nothing was neglected. The bamboo was inspected for damage. If necessary, he sanded down rough spots. Washing and wiping everything clean again, he let the table dry before applying a protective finishing oil that would keep ink stains from sinking in and keep the bamboo healthy for another several months.
The piece he had in mind was a lengthly one so, after reflection, he added a second coat of the oil and proceeded to clean the rest of the studio while the table dried outside, beneath one of the pavilions. He dusted shelves of supplies, washed the walls. Windows were cleaned to a sparkling shine. He swept, mopped, and vacuumed the floor for good measure. His cushioned seat was beaten for dust, outside, and vacuumed.
Then he sprayed it with a subtle perfume his sister had gotten him, one that would react to his body heat as he sat for long hours and provide relaxation. He brought his table in and positioned it precisely to catch the best light. His supplies were assembled. Ink, inkstone, brushes, a bowl of water, several cloths, a seal. Other tools he might want on a whim were ready at hand; different inks, Western pens, alcohol markers.
Content with his preparations, Jiang Cheng closed the windows and locked them. He treated himself to breakfast on the town, taking a slow walk around the market that had once owed fealty to his family. People still remembered. His name was still respected.
Conversation flowed easily, exchanged bits of gossip and news. Coins swapped for buns and pinches to his cheeks. He returned to the family home with a sated appetite and a light heart.
The shower was where he began to get serious, letting outside influences melt away and leave only the part of himself that was the conduit between emotion and the feel of ink on paper. Drying himself carefully, pulling his hair back with a half-knot, he donned simple robes.
Reentering the studio felt like coming home and reaching back in time. Jiang Cheng opened the windows once more. He prepared and lit his incense. A fresh sheet of paper was secured to the square bamboo table.
He knelt on his cushion, breathing in his sister’s gift. It mingled with fresh air and spring blooms. As he ground his ink, he considered the blank paper in front of him and the poem he’d memorized, hoping to turn it in to a work of art.
Choosing his brush, he introduced it to the ink and imagined what he wanted to see on the paper. He pictured the feeling that the poem had placed in his chest, behind the ribs but before the lungs. It had been his mother’s favorite poem. He had not expected to find it among his own books. He had not expected to find one section highlighted and annotated in his father’s messy handwriting. But he had and now this feeling needed to be freed from his chest in a manner that a sword could not solve.
Jiang Cheng closed his eyes, breathed deep the mingled scents of his space. When he opened his eyes, he leaned over the paper and began to paint. Calligraphy bloomed black on the pristine paper like bruises on tender fruit or footsteps in shallow snow. Evidence of handling; of a path laid bare. His hand was sure and his strokes flawless.
Perhaps he would gift this work to his parents. Perhaps he would burn it. Neither of them had shown interest in his work before. Not when he’d won awards in school and not when he’d had entire gallery showings of his own work. Not even when museums vied for his efforts. Not even when his parents’ best friends praised them for their youngest son’s conservation efforts in preserving the art of calligraphy and in preserving the works of ancient calligraphers.
Still, that poem had moved him. So he moved his brush across the paper, making visable what simple typed words could never show. And he breathed.
Title: Emotion Made Manifest
Fandom: MDZS
Rating/Warnings: G - some thoughts about parental neglect
Bonus: No.
Word Count: 745
Summary: Jiang Cheng prepares his art studio and reflects.
Mornings were Jiang Cheng’s favorite time to begin a new work. He always began the same. First he opened up all the windows in his studio to let in the clean air. This deep into spring, the air was redolent many flowers coming together in a distinctly unique fragrance that always spoke the word ‘home’ to Jiang Cheng’s heart.
He cleaned the large, low table where he painted, washing it completely. Top, bottom, sides; nothing was neglected. The bamboo was inspected for damage. If necessary, he sanded down rough spots. Washing and wiping everything clean again, he let the table dry before applying a protective finishing oil that would keep ink stains from sinking in and keep the bamboo healthy for another several months.
The piece he had in mind was a lengthly one so, after reflection, he added a second coat of the oil and proceeded to clean the rest of the studio while the table dried outside, beneath one of the pavilions. He dusted shelves of supplies, washed the walls. Windows were cleaned to a sparkling shine. He swept, mopped, and vacuumed the floor for good measure. His cushioned seat was beaten for dust, outside, and vacuumed.
Then he sprayed it with a subtle perfume his sister had gotten him, one that would react to his body heat as he sat for long hours and provide relaxation. He brought his table in and positioned it precisely to catch the best light. His supplies were assembled. Ink, inkstone, brushes, a bowl of water, several cloths, a seal. Other tools he might want on a whim were ready at hand; different inks, Western pens, alcohol markers.
Content with his preparations, Jiang Cheng closed the windows and locked them. He treated himself to breakfast on the town, taking a slow walk around the market that had once owed fealty to his family. People still remembered. His name was still respected.
Conversation flowed easily, exchanged bits of gossip and news. Coins swapped for buns and pinches to his cheeks. He returned to the family home with a sated appetite and a light heart.
The shower was where he began to get serious, letting outside influences melt away and leave only the part of himself that was the conduit between emotion and the feel of ink on paper. Drying himself carefully, pulling his hair back with a half-knot, he donned simple robes.
Reentering the studio felt like coming home and reaching back in time. Jiang Cheng opened the windows once more. He prepared and lit his incense. A fresh sheet of paper was secured to the square bamboo table.
He knelt on his cushion, breathing in his sister’s gift. It mingled with fresh air and spring blooms. As he ground his ink, he considered the blank paper in front of him and the poem he’d memorized, hoping to turn it in to a work of art.
Choosing his brush, he introduced it to the ink and imagined what he wanted to see on the paper. He pictured the feeling that the poem had placed in his chest, behind the ribs but before the lungs. It had been his mother’s favorite poem. He had not expected to find it among his own books. He had not expected to find one section highlighted and annotated in his father’s messy handwriting. But he had and now this feeling needed to be freed from his chest in a manner that a sword could not solve.
Jiang Cheng closed his eyes, breathed deep the mingled scents of his space. When he opened his eyes, he leaned over the paper and began to paint. Calligraphy bloomed black on the pristine paper like bruises on tender fruit or footsteps in shallow snow. Evidence of handling; of a path laid bare. His hand was sure and his strokes flawless.
Perhaps he would gift this work to his parents. Perhaps he would burn it. Neither of them had shown interest in his work before. Not when he’d won awards in school and not when he’d had entire gallery showings of his own work. Not even when museums vied for his efforts. Not even when his parents’ best friends praised them for their youngest son’s conservation efforts in preserving the art of calligraphy and in preserving the works of ancient calligraphers.
Still, that poem had moved him. So he moved his brush across the paper, making visable what simple typed words could never show. And he breathed.