Artist Nightmare Novels & Stories

“I’m not going to hurt you, but you’re too scared of me. You don’t have the same kinds of needs and desires I have, and while I think it’s possible to train a body to want these things, I’m not a sick enough bastard to do it to you without your consent. Get up.” She pushed herself up off the floor, still trembling, staring at the ground as if she could become invisible and safe that way. If he went any further he’d break her beyond repair. He found he didn’t have the stomach for it. Why couldn’t she have been a sub? Why couldn’t she have been wired so that they could both find happiness together? He could get his fantasy, and she could get hers. But this wasn’t her fantasy. It was her nightm

The night that was slowly turning into a nightmare for me, my mother had said I had been talking in my sleep again last night. And Amanda was very wrong, the conversation most definitely didn't take five minutes. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The first thing my eyes went to when I got to work later that afternoon was a painting that hung beside the ancient wall clock behind the counter. It was a queer painting if I had ever seen any as it, it contained a man that apparently was supposed to be the devil with his charcoal black skin, pointy, black head horns and long spiky tail. The eyes were painted a bloody shade of red that were enough to give nightmares, as if I needed more of t

ller) Anita: Are you the hitman my friend told me about? Hitman: Yes Anita: In that case, I need you to do one simple job Hitman: What is it? Anita: (she shows him a picture of Paris) I want you to ki!l this woman Hitman: Paris Smith? Anita: You know her as well? Hitman: Yeah, the daughter of Mr Smith, a popular baker here in Azrael Anita: Yes, I want you to shoot her d€ad, Infact I don't even care what you do, Just make sure you k!ll her, I want her DEAD, I'll pay you any amount, Just do what you know how to do best.

It made me sad, but I understood. "So that's what I am. He did his best, but I can't make this shit in my head go away. And yeah, I'm not violent right now, but who fucking knows what will set me off? Who knows when I'll start hurting someone because it feels good? It's all in here," I tapped my head, "and here," I took her hand and put her palm on my chest, "and I can't get rid of it. My nightmares are made of this. Its what tries to get out when I get too angry or scared. That's who I really am. I'm sorry I can't be what you deserve." She had a sad expression, but made no move to leave.

"No. 1: Overly logical, completely lacking in romance." "No. 2: Had once caused emotional pain because of work." "No. 3: Does not know how to cook." In the Opportunities section, he noted that I liked him, including his virtual identity as Mr. Y, and that he was currently single. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The final page held no summary, only a photo of my cat in its most ridiculous expression, which had become both his desktop wallpaper and our chat background. A velvet box lay beneath it.

**Lust's Asylum: Twisted Confessions** **Host’s Introduction** Welcome back to the flames... Obsession is the most dangerous muse. Tonight’s confession is about a brilliant but deeply disturbed artist who found his perfect living canvas online. What started as distant admiration became kidnapping, captivity, and the most intimate, twisted form of artistic possession. This one is dark, psychological, and intensely erotic. Here is the confession of “Stalker’s Muse.” --- **Story 13: Stalker’s Muse**

“I can’t go anywhere. I’m a little tied up.” She spoke with sugary venom. “Ah, but you did go somewhere. Do you know that when you do it your eyes turn white like the unholy creature that you are? You know you’re the first bitch we’ve ever caught. Well, the first human bitch anyway.” Amanda shook her head and gritted her teeth as the lunatic’s assistant put his tweezers down and grabbed a pair of pliers and began to pull on one of her other fingernails. She let out a cry as the nail was ripped from her flesh.

Flawless, youthful, lovely. But Amaria knew better than to be deceived by her own illusion. Beneath that mask was that was Urmi face: sagging flesh, gray and wrinkled like old parchment, rotting like a corpse left too long in the sun. She was a carcass walking, sustained by black magic that had stripped away her humanity. A consequence she had embraced long ago. She had sold her soul without hesitation, and every time she looked at herself she remembered why. Because in the end, it would all be worth it. Her reflection grinned at her, “Just two months,” she whispered to herself. “Two months, and Damon will be mine. Forever.”

Renee yelled at her image. “Or what? You going to harm your own mind to make it stop?” Renee yelled in frustration. Her image was right. There was nothing she could do about any of this. She couldn’t make her own mind stop showing her what happened. But she could certainly try. She ran at her image and tackled her. Her hands wrapped around her own throat and began to squeeze. She laughed maniacally as her image’s face began to turn blue. She started to feel like she was suffocating. Her hands slacked up and everything around her turned to blackness. She was falling into a black void. She screamed as she continued to fall.

The level of hatred he’d aimed my way that day, that had to have been brewing for a long time, so I knew whatever payback he was going to serve up would be a nightmare. I was the queen of nightmares now though. I made them my bitch and turned them into masterpieces, because suffering made my art shine that little bit harder. And that was the tragedy of being an artist.