Artistic Outcast Novels & Stories

It was real. For a few precious days, Liam Gray existed fully. He was not a runaway pet, not a pawn in a conspiracy. He was an artist, and his work was about to speak for itself. He allowed himself to hope, to dream of a life where his past didn't define him. He knew it was a risk, a defiance of Marcus's orders. But as he stood in the gallery, looking at the space where his paintings would hang, he felt a flicker of something he hadn't felt in a very long time: control. It was a dangerous illusion, perhaps, but for now, it was enough.

"This was supposed to be MY time! The dawn of something blazing and new in the arts, celebrated and adored for its ferocity and uncompromising genius!" I threw out my arms in a gesture of wounded disbelief. "Instead, I get... evenings slinging hash and dodging drunken offers from drifters looking to get a 'lap dance' for the price of their Denny's grand slam!" Working myself up to a fever pitch, I clutched at my scalp as if my skull might split open from the mounting artistic frustrations.

People felt like his painting was a waste of time and energy and he struggled with getting an audience to even look at his art not to talk of even buying it. I saw what it did to him. Art meant a lot to him. It was all he had and being treated like an outcast just because of it wasn't fair. So I used an anonymous account and bought all his art. I couldn't place any of them in my room since he has access to it and even my office so I put some in my parents room and some of the are in my safe. I remember the way he was so happy when he came to me that day saying that someone had bought his paintings.

Remaining hidden within the tree line, I watched Soren standing motionless at the lake’s edge with his gaze fixed on the dark water. The fading sunlight and rising moonlight painted silver reflections across the surface, illuminating a man who looked nothing like the proud heir of Ravencrest I had expected to find. Gone was the arrogance that had once defined him. Instead, he wore the hollow expression of someone carrying the weight of losses he could neither escape nor undo.

I also bought a new set of acrylic paints. Painting has been my way of escape for a very long time already. My mind is at peace whenever I hold paintbrushes. When things are messy, I just sit in front of my canvas and my hand will start to move on its own. In a restaurant in front of this art store, I saw someone familiar. Though it was his just side profile I am seeing, I knew for sure that it was Yuji. He wasn’t alone. I supposed it was his parents whom he is talking to.

My perfect world where nothing but my art exists. Cindy discovered my artistic talents early on and tried to send me to classes. They didn’t last, because instructors did not accept my unconventional style. I painted scenes of blood and death. Men, women, and children were the victims in my youthful sociopathic mind. I drew horrible scenes of destruction—the bloodier and gorier the better. Putting a tattoo machine in my hand changed me. The combination of blood and ink became my savior and ended the self-destructive course I traveled. It may be creepy, but forever changing human skin is what took me from a quiet, homicidal kid to a kid with a passion other than causing permanent injury. I’ll

Happy smiles on their lips, so bright that it is impossible to look straight. Everything is like the past has changed. The other woman took her mother's life, and the other girl took hers. Her father, it seemed, was no longer her father. Aurora feels like falling into a fog, everything becomes blurry, and there is no way out. Suddenly, a loud voice rang in her ear, pulling her out of her own world: - Hello, an outcast of time. Aurora widened her eyes in surprise, she turned her head to look at the voice. There was a clock floating in the white mist. The other watch even makes a body with dew, just like a human.

But this time… they felt different. Not a dream, exactly. A memory. She stood in a crumbling hall old stone, vines choking the walls, stained glass shattered into the dirt. A woman stood at the center, her arms outstretched as figures in black cloaks shouted, their faces masked, their voices cruel. “Outcast,” they screamed. “Breaker of laws. Betrayer of kin.” Samantha tried to run to her, but her legs wouldn’t move. She could only watch as the woman, a tall figure with hair like shadows and fire, was shoved to her knees.

The man was breaking something inside me with the number of silent accusations that he threw at me and the thing was, he didn’t even see it. “I am talking about you not trusting me. I am talking about you doubting whatever I say when I do. I am talking about you going behind my back to search about my past. I am talking about your pack members who see me as nothing but a ‘wolf’. I am not a Lycan like them, nor would I ever match to that. My list goes on and on…” Arturo stopped me by wrapping his arms around me as he pulled me in for a hug. I sobbed, burying my face on his bicep before wrapping my hand around it so tightly that I felt his muscle strain under my touch; however, he didn’t move.

I lower my head a bit while locking her eyes. "No. Bastian. Forget it. My paintings are mine." "Fine. I'll see them someday." I smirk. "But this..." I hold the pad up and tear off the picture. "Consider this one sold." I pulled out my money clip. "No, Bastian. I can't take your money." She protests. "Nonsense. A good artist should be paid for her art. Is 300 good?" Her eyes went wide. "300? For a sketch?......"