Artistic Outcast Novels & Stories

Beta Garrick proudly asked. “Garrick, you took my link, you turned me into an outcast, and now you are turning this house into yours. How dare you disrespect my great grandfathers?” She was fuming. “Ciandra. Fuck off. You broke all the rules known. Stop being too judgy and get the hell out of here, you are not welcome here.” “You can’t throw me out of here. This place is for everyone.” She said, not believing what she was hearing.

“You’re not any woman. I grabbed you because you’ve been in my head for the last damn month and it’s drivin’ me crazy. Who are you?” Macie snorted. “That is the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard.” Those blue, blue eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t a pick up line.” “Good thing, because it sure as hell isn’t working.” “Look. Let’s start over. I’m an artist. And I’d like—” “—to show me your etchings?” She snickered. “Har har. I really am an artist.” “Yeah? So was the last guy I was involved with. Been there, done that, have the tie-dyed T-shirt and the roach clip to prove it. Move along, Picasso.”

I smiled as I made a call, "Hello, officer? As far as I know, Madeline Lewis owed a huge gambling debt abroad, and she returned just to raise money. I suspect she might have trafficked Fable Lewis." An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—I just had to get back at those who wronged me. Otherwise, what was the point of life?

she stated flatly, gradually laying out thoughts she had never really pieced together. “But today…today, I found someone I can talk to, someone I can be around who doesn’t judge me…or want to kill me…at least, not yet,” she said breathlessly, struggling to say her piece before anyone cut her off again. Her green eyes fixed on the only person who mattered in her tiny world. “And…I don’t want to pass up an opportunity to…maybe…find my place. A place. SOME place,” she said imploringly. “Maybe…maybe I could have an opportunity, with you, to not feel so much like an outcast,” she explained, gazing intently at Reyland.

"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

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.

Exiled. The East was supposed to be a fresh start. But I quickly learned that outsiders in the Stone Pack were treated with disdain. Wherever I went, I felt the weight of suspicion and whispers behind my back. I poured my frustration into my art, crafting sculptures and paintings that drew admiration. My first exhibition was a turning point. That’s when he found me. At the exhibition, a stranger approached me. He was a cloaked figure, dressed in all black, exuding an air of mystery. At first, I tried to avoid him. But his offer was too lucrative to ignore.