Fiction

The Art Professor's Tale
The Art Professors Tale Part 1 Strands of long black hair fell from his lowered head hovering above the teak wood adorning the top of the desk. Worn hands failed to conceal the unsteadiness he felt inside as they shuffled through papers. Fingers filled with tremors of his emotions lingered on individual pages before moving on to the next. Eyes unable to focus through the blur of his thoughts stared blankly at words written in meter and verse.
By The Invisible Writer3 years ago in Art
The Houseguest
Not every adventure or quest requires a journey, just the decision to say yes. She knows this the way she knows which herbs to use to summon a gentle rain and which to encourage the most violent of storms.
By Kylie T3 years ago in Art
The Curator
"Well, it's not going to win any medals, if you ask me." "Most artists don't." "To whom do I owe the privilege of this work of "Art'?
By ChristopherWrites3 years ago in Art
Love and Pain
“Don’t leave me,” he sobbed, clutching her around the waist and burying his face in her lap. He was doubled over in pain, hiding his face, his tears dampening her thin nightgown. He grasped her tightly as if he would never let her go.
By Jenifer Nim3 years ago in Art
A Boy with Monsters
Niko scanned the dimly lit dining room where his relatives had gathered. They all sang “Happy Birthday” slightly off-key as his dad brought over a cake shaped like a baseball with two flickering candles on top. Niko’s gaze fixated on the wax candles shaped into the numbers one and three, their flames dancing with a gentle breeze. When the song ended, and the cake was placed before him, Niko closed his eyes and extinguished the two candles with a single breath. Smoke swirled around him as his family erupted in cheers and applause.
By Timberly Price3 years ago in Art
Loose Bearings
*DING* *DING* *Ding* *di-ding* *ing-ing-ing* A bell whimpered on its string as a young woman burst inside a liquor store. She shoplifted a pair of red sunglasses then found the second cabinet along the near wall. She plucked an armful of glass 40s and dumped it on the counter.
By david love3 years ago in Art
From Below the Cloud
Here, on this cloud. No better place to be, than here, on this cloud. To look down below and see my love, who once loved me, walking along the green hills with another man’s hand in hers. But saying another man would be incorrect. For here, laying on this cloud and speaking, is a being of half-man half-animal. My legs replaced with a beast’s hind legs of burnt umber colored fur and hooves clicking instead of calm flat feet. And when my hands brush the delicate waves of the hair on my head, the curled horns bar my fingers. I am strong, that is true, but inside I am as soft as the faint song heard from a Blue Bird singing far within the spring-morning mountains. And the only way the people hear this song, is not when they look at me or hear me speak like an ordinary man speaks, it is when I play. When I press my lips gently against the wooden flute and pour all that is within me out through the wooden holes, then, out comes my song. A sad song. A song of loneliness and of love never felt and given, and acceptance never received. And when the people are in town and can hear this song playing in the distance, they follow it. Follow it through the village, across the bridge and up towards the green hills. And then they see me. Me, playing this song. And no matter how sweet the song is and how far they have traveled to be close to it, when they see me all the curiosity and delight on their faces disappear and they hurriedly walk away, leaving me alone to play my sad song.
By Katheleen3 years ago in Art
Five Stages of Grief
I. Denial When her father died, she denied. She denied him her tears and affection because she wanted to appear strong. She wanted to prove that she would be alright without him, that she wouldn’t become the fragile, weepy stereotype of a grieving daughter - because she knew how much he hated stereotypes! Instead of kind words, she would pick fights with him. She thought she was doing the right thing. If he was angry at her, at least he wasn’t feeling sorry for himself. But he didn’t understand. He died thinking she no longer loved him.
By Morgan Rhianna Bland3 years ago in Art
Hundreds of Fields, Hundreds of Canvases
Paris. 1874. Olivia sits in a field, before a canvas. She has sat in hundreds of fields, before hundreds of canvases, over a period of hundreds of years. By now, the brushstrokes come as easily as breathing: the force of three centuries of habit. But never before has she tried to keep the motions so loose; to lay on the paint so thick and ridged. Never has she aimed to capture the view as her eye sees it, nakedly and without interpretation—in blocks of color and in fleeting impressions of movement.
By Emma Gardner3 years ago in Art
The David
It was late, but the gallery was still full of people, women and men alike, in very fine clothes. The women tossed back heads covered in pearls, let long silken dresses tangle around their heels as they walked, and the men, in dark suits, were mainly responsible for holding the arms of their ladies and acting as an accessory to their beauty.
By Amelia3 years ago in Art
Love & Cherish
I saw this picture at an indoor swap meet and was immediately drawn to it. This isn't even the type of art I would normally look at, but it was so beautiful and powerful that this piece just tugged at me. I couldn't keep my eyes off of it. After my husband hung it on the wall in our room, I would lie in bed and stare at it as I drifted to sleep. I would wonder; how did they get to this moment? Their love for each other is so deep. Sometimes I would paint a small story in my mind about them. Hopefully I do this picture justice and give it a story well matched.
By Katherine Dockery3 years ago in Art
In The Chariot
Come closer, come closer... Not like you are just gonna walk away and leave me all alone with these other hideous pieces and too much fluorescent light, are you? Stay a while...
By Kendall Defoe 3 years ago in Art