The vibrant colors stained the empty canvas guided by the stern and rigid brushstrokes from Anne Ling’s graceful hand. The frown on her face echoed the frustration at her latest work. She was so close to finally producing the perfect painting for the Annual Art Contest. The previous pieces she had done throughout the year hung silently on the walls of her atelier, which was located in the most expensive and popular part of the Main Street in the city of Oatsbury. She was a state-renowned artist with a year’s long backlog of commissions to finish, yet this piece was more import. It was supposed to be the Magnum Opus of her 25 years long career. As a woman of 45 years, she was still considered attractive by many men, and she caught men 15 years her junior checking her out with a glint in their eyes. Interestingly enough, her aloof demeanor and absolute dedication to her work left little room for men – especially after Ferdinand left her, taking their daughter with him, some 9 years ago. Continue reading
This road is silent and lonely. It begins long before you have the ability to distinguish right from wrong, good from evil… The seed of corruption takes root before you even have the chance to defend yourself. Then, you’re ostracized, invisible – dwelling in misery where the lightest colors are just mere shades of gray. And feel it too. There’s something profoundly different. And you are taught about love and happiness, sincerity and humility – yet you are ridiculed as weak, weird and wrong. You can feel their drilling looks on the back of your neck, oozing venom. And then, you decide to walk the whole nine yards. Just do away with everything that makes you human, and embark on a murderous rampage in the valley of the shadow of death. The final plunge into the abyss where’s no return therefrom.Continue reading
The heart’s racing and shots are fired,
In that filthy den of evil and sin,
The Reaper scythes with glee and desire,
The souls of those who should’ve never been.
The bullets fly towards the flesh of the sinners,
Blood spatters around, some lay still, some crawl,
The Artist laughs and pulls the knife of the skinner,
So he can complete the Pollock on the wall.
The festival of death overtakes the Artist,
His masterpiece of crimson is a witness to his deed,
He lets out a sigh of relief and catharsis,
He vows, his next performance will better be.
Photo by DianaraSHERRY