Hello! I’m Lucy Good, a member of Freestyle Academy in the animation elective.
The showcase project essentially had us choose the best project we’ve made in Freestyle and present it. For mine, I chose my flash fiction, “Firefly”. I’ve always loved making stories, and looking back on my time at Freestyle, I think this was the project where I utilized my skills in the best and most enjoyable way. It was really inspiring both to create this story and look back on it.
Below, you can listen to and/or read the story.
“Firefly”
You’re never alone in the woods.”
I know, now, the purpose of the mantra, regardless of its variation in whispers from children in school or vaguely ominous utterances from teachers or parents. Either way, to inspire some sort of fear, that which those older than us would use to keep us from things we had no knowledge of, and that which our peers, in their naive mischief, would try—and, to our own proud, lion-hearted chagrin, often succeed—to instill a child’s fear; that is, wonder.
But in those single moments, in hushed whispers or conspiratorial giggles or half-hearted reminders which spoke of a principle seeming strangely long instilled, something small would happen in me, simultaneously solipsistic in its rapidly isolating effect, and wordlessly aware of something likely beyond any of our knowledge, regardless of our age. Though clocks continued their ticking and people their chatter, time would briefly cease to be, and a deep part of my psyche would blink—then, fragile as a flame blown out, would disappear, and time would pick back up. And, every night, as the sun set on its way down and a darkening blanket was draped over the sky, they would appear to me; fragile dots of flashing, blinking white.
Easy to draw, even for my small, stubby hands, guided by my grandfather’s shaky, paper-skinned ones; easy to draw even as he painted worlds and people and stories about the lights, welcoming themselves into my dreams as I drifted off to the lull of his voice.
But much easier, instead, to recall, in the decreasingly tumultuous days, then weeks, and months, and years after my grandfather’s tiny, misty farm just off of town became quietly void of its last human resident, gone to the woods and their dancing will o’ the wisps.
So regardless of whatever they may have made me feel—made me see—as I grew older, rationality formed and the lights disappeared.There was—is—no eldritch thing in the woods, no faeries looking to spirit me away or ominous black Grims. No more grandpa, or looking at made up things in the trees.
So, with each passing night, in the newly occupied house, I can’t help but find myself wondering what, exactly, are the things I see in those woods.
Maybe, I think sometimes, it hasn’t been long enough. I spent too much time listening to people’s ultimately meaningless fantasies, had heard of too many isolated incidents of people wandering off to the treeline to never return, for me to go the first few nights—much less alone, much less in the old, creaky farmhouse my grandfather had disappeared from. But this seems less and less likely as the nights trudge along, and with them come the dazed, floating starlike pinpricks of light that dance to the rhythm of the wheedling breeze.
Any alarm I felt at their apparent presence quickly faded away to vague thoughts in the pale gray light of the morning, and after the sun has slipped below the horizon, I find myself observing them with resignation.
Strange, I think, for something that had such an effect on me in my childhood. But maybe that’s normal—even inevitable, isn’t it? For the magic of childhood to be replaced. Replaced by work, and frustration, and discarded canvases piling up with each failed attempt.
Yet their presence alone, and the pull they have regardless, as much as I wish to not admit it, proves this at least somewhat false. So I start to take a more neutral approach, neither ignoring or intimately surrounding myself with them; instead, approaching them with an objective intrigue, that of a botanist or zoologist. I start drawing them.
I collect—reclaim—my eclectic stock, once a reminder of my increasing failures—hot-press, cold-press, rough-piscia, torchon and grossa, then encaustic-gouache-acrylic to be spread with fans-and-brights-and-filberts-and-liners, splattering on canvas and paper and skin and splintering-bleached wood. I try new things every night—sometimes I take a splintery fan brush coated in thick oils to flick in circles, or a round filbert brush to blot on bits of pale blobby gouache, most of the time I try a multitude of other things. The canvases and sheets and sketchbooks begin to pile up, soon also filled with portraits of the farm animals, and soon, what I saw with alarm faded to a comfortable routine.
I begin to realize, not even knowing I hadn’t been before—though worries still plague me occasionally, rational and not, and I deal with the difficulties of rearing young animals and the small, random tragedies I’ve now learned nature brings; I’ve begun to consider myself truly happy.
I think this is why one night was different; suddenly, it seemed, but probably to be expected looking back. Why, I’ve learned, they’re not malicious; confused, perhaps.
Why they come to me one night.
They approach me, slowly, then in flickering droves; near frozen, I turn my head, observing the galaxies floating around me in lazy elliptic curves, as they observe me likewise. A few light on me, tickling my eyelashes and nose; and, silently and drowsily as they came, regroup and then disperse, fading and blinking away, returning to the misty grove they had resigned themselves to long ago.
The tales were right; I’m never alone in the woods; nor on the misty farm off of town, cycling through residents and observers alike. I wonder, now, if my grandfather sees me from those woods; whoever else is in there, too.
I think I’m best off not knowing for now. But I like to believe he does; as I believe that, in the distant future, guiding young hands across canvases with shaky, paper-skinned ones, I, too, will one day leave the farm quietly void of its last human resident.
Animation Reel
Along with my showcase project, you can also view my favorite productions from my animation class throughout my junior and senior years.
Reflection
Revisiting my flash fiction and my old animation projects have given me a lot of new inspiration, and I hope to further explore my passion for both writing, art, and animation in the future.
The projects featured on this page are only a fraction of the multitude of things Freestyle has given me the opportunity to make. During my time here, I’ve been able to branch out into so many different forms of art and technology in ways I wouldn’t have accessed otherwise, and I’ve become both a stronger artist and more confident person.
I’ve made new friends, learned how to use new programs (such as After Effects, Maya, ZBrush, Pro Tools, Adobe Illustrator, Photoshop, and so many more), brought my creative visions to life, and built my artistic skills. I’m proud of all the things I’ve made here, and I hope you enjoyed seeing them as much as I did making them!