Fiction

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
Starry, Starry Night
The swirling stars were beckoning me from across the psychiatrist's waiting room, inviting me to join them in their eternal dance, granting me the clarity of mind I needed to understand why my mind drifted the way it did.
By Sandra Tena3 years ago in Art
Wanderlust
Thin air burned in his lungs. For a moment, just a hint of a moment, he considered the wagon slowly trundling along behind him. But that was pointless, he would still only be able to travel at the pace of the slowest porter; and besides, it was better to spare the horses at these altitudes. Not for the first time, he looked around as a broad grin split his face. Mountains are never so glorious as when one is on foot between their massive shoulders.
By Alexander McEvoy3 years ago in Art
A Digital Character Sketch: Shadowsithe Ghoststrike
Back in September of 2021, I was enjoying a day in World of Warcraft. There is an option to make and join custom groups, and I was scrolling through to see if there were any I wanted to join in on. Usually I don't; at best, I might see someone is looking for a rare mob or a pet that the hunter class like to tame and then, if I feel up to looking for that rare, I might go look for them on my main realms and help that person get the mount/pet they're seeking.
By Megan Baker (Left Vocal in 2023)3 years ago in Art
Painted Pros
- The soldier stood atop the tiller gazing out at the unending blue with a sense of giddy horror. The vastness revealed in all its glory under the clear skies. No land was visible from any angle as the sentry made slow, monotonous laps of the exterior. It was a strange sense to be so alone with so many others. Surrounded, yet together, utterly isolated.
By Amie 3 years ago in Art
Words & Pictures
I bite my plastic straw as I suck overly-sweet iced vanilla latte into my mouth, unreasonably nervous and hyper-caffeinated (not the best combination). I’m trying to draw the ‘50s-style stool at the counter, but my sketch looks more like a weird robot with wonky legs. I am a terrible artist, and this person is going to see right through me immediately; there’s no way they’re going to want to work with me. My leg bobs up and down, which is not helping my jittering hands or pounding heart. I shouldn’t be here–it’s Wednesday! I should be at my comic shop picking up new releases. I’m just about to get up and run for the door when the person I’m meeting walks in. I recognize them from their profile pic–they have straight, shoulder-length brown hair, round glasses, and a curvy figure. They’re wearing a green shirt under denim overalls. Their gray eyes are piercing. They spot me immediately and make a bee-line for my table and I somehow manage not to curse out loud.
By Bex Jordan3 years ago in Art