Artistic Outcast Novels & Stories

From self-drawn drawings to flowers from the garden to ugly clay sculptures, they would only prepare cheap gifts. "Just keep your useless trash for your beloved daughter—it'll save me from throwing them away. Don't bother trying to come up with tricks to get me to come back. I'm already on a cruise abroad," I replied. "What? Who gave you permission to go abroad?" Mom suddenly shrieked, her voice piercing my ears. "What's this supposed to mean, Heidi? You're the one who arranged for this ski trip, and now that we've all made our way here, you're off to another country? How could you do this to us?"

"A reminder of what I am." The artist snorted, shaking his head. "Dramatic much? Let me guess, early twenties? Everyone your age thinks they're carrying the weight of the world." I didn't respond. Let him think what he wanted. The cramped tattoo parlor smelled of antiseptic and cigarettes. The buzzing needle provided the only consistent sound, occasionally interrupted by muffled voices from the street outside. Perfect anonymity in a place where nobody asked real questions. The artist—a middle-aged man with more ink than bare skin—studied my face as he worked. "You're that omega from the Northern Territory, aren't you? The one who ran from her faction."

"What makes you so sure I'm a scammer? Or that I'm here to cause trouble? Call the cops if you want!" The moment I said it, I regretted it. Calling the police was definitely the worst idea. The man's nose suddenly twitched, as if he had caught a scent. His gaze locked onto me, his eyes flickering with emotion, as if he was struggling to keep something in check. A chill shot up my spine, as if I had been targeted by a top predator. I was just about to turn and leave when he said, "Half is fine. But for the other half, you'll have to pay it off by working here."

RAPHA OKOYE "Look at this canvas, Master Scott, it is completely worthless compared to Amara’s work," one of the beta guards says, pointing his thick claw toward my easel. The room goes dead silent the moment all eyes land on my oil painting. Amara Mensah stands right next to Luciano, his fake smile freezing instantly on his face. He presses his lips together so hard they turn white, barely keeping his composure under the bright studio lights. He and Luciano have been faking their high art skills since the broadcast started, but even their lying eyes cannot deny the truth right now. My canvas is absolutely stunning, radiating the raw power of the midnight moon. Amara shifts his boots, jealou

I'm writing this, At 3:40am in the morning, To make you understand that, Time is inconsequential, When it comes to you. You're a balm, that soothes. You're the beautiful strokes, On my empty canvas. With you paint, With the way you love, You create a beautiful thing, For you and me equals art. I won't lie to you, One day I'll walk away for good, For no reason at all. But I guess until then, You can be, My beautiful disaster. The Lost Letters of Dean Olsen

“Every one. New works from small collectives in the city. Minority groups that don’t always get seen. We’re lucky to have a thriving art scene, and the Hale Mansion has enough rooms to support half of it.” Vivian looks at one long vertical canvas in particular. A sweeping, expressionist blend of warm neutrals with a single gold line down the center. It’s called Divide, painted by a trans artist who donates profits from his piece to support youth outreach programs. He’s not rich and he sells very little but he shares what he gets with those in need. Her eyes rest there a moment. “This one is bold,” she says. “Subtle… but not quiet. Much like what you’re doing here tonight.”

It was the sexiest sight I had ever seen in my life. My brothers voiced their agreement through our private bond. We all agreed, we struck gold when Alex found Isobelle. Mason lounged upon the wooden steps, guitar in hand, strumming out some insane chord progression like he was Ed fucking Sheeran. It was hard to compete with a guy like Mason. He was a woman's walking fantasy. The embodiment of perfection. Alex could easily be mistaken for a hotshot CEO by the way he dressed, the confidence he oozed, and how leadership came naturally to him. People listened to him. They valued his opinion. He was the kind of guy who kept a cool head in the time of a crisis. Grayson has husband material writte

I heard laughter from below, the clatter of decorations being set, and all I could think was how desperately I wanted to escape this fate, and yet how tightly it bound me to her. I tried to tell myself I was ready. I rehearsed the words in my mind, steeled myself for the confrontation I knew was coming. Rejection. It was the only way to break free, the only way to regain control over a life that felt increasingly foreign. Fenrir’s protests were a low, steady growl in my mind, a primal ache I refused to indulge. Amara’s POV

I say with a slight smile plastered on my face “Yeah...maybe” Dame says returning his attention back to the view Infront of him. PACK HOUSE BUSHWIND TOWN 22:00PM After an unsuccessful day of feeling further from the truth, Gabriel stands at the bar drowning his sorrows in alcohol, after spending 23 years trying to erase the memoires of his late wife, all his efforts, hard work went down the drain. Ashina was haunting him in ways in never imagined it was as if she was trying to send him a message but what the message could be is something Gabriel didn’t have hope in discovering.

If she did, he’d send her money or offer to pick her up, but that felt too humiliating. “What does Mom hope to gain from locking me out?” Avery scoffed bitterly, her voice breaking as she shouted at the empty street, “You’ve won, Mom! And you suck!” Heads turned, confusion and concern filling the air. “Is she okay?” “Did she escape from a mental institution?” she heard. But she didn’t care; she had bigger problems. Taking a deep breath, she reached for her phone, dialing her friend Jennifer’s number. The call went straight to voicemail. Frustration washed over her as she remembered Jennifer mentioning a business trip. Now, she was truly stranded.