Artwork Dump Novels & Stories

I hesitantly swiped, picking the call, and placing it gently to my ears. “Good day, my name is Nneka Umondak, I work at the Niker Art Gallery. Am I on to Mr Oliver Sallow?” I scrunched my brows in confusion, “Yes? How may I help you?” “Yes, Mr Benjamin placed a call this morning and told us you have some artworks you want to be exhibited?” My eyes widened, my mouth falling slack as the praises he had sung this morning while he saw the painting flowed again. He told me that my work deserved to be exhibited, but I didn’t think for once that he was serious and that he would go that far.

Another eerie laugh echoed. “Alright, boys, that’s enough chat for now. Start stacking my dough. I’ll call back tonight with pickup details. The clock’s ticking… tick tock… tick tock.” The line went dead…Silence. James cursed audibly. “Son of a bitch”

Willa is the ink that refuses to dry. The "Vance Algorithm" is currently holding 100% of the Moretti-Vane-Sterling liquidity within the city's artistic infrastructure. The banks are empty, but the murals are full. To audit us now, one would have to scrape the paint off every building in Manhattan. One would have to arrest the light. A soft chime echoed through the study. I didn't reach for a keyboard; I tapped the desk’s surface. A single, low-resolution holographic display flickered to life a direct line from the Arts Tower.

He gently placed her down on the bed after pulling the covers and watched her, concluding she is exhausted because she didn’t even move. He went out after a few minutes and started to clean up the clutter she had made. He picked up the scissors, cutter and glue gun on the floor and placed them in the basket she had with her. He then tidied up the construction paper as well as the others when something caught his eye. Vault of Arts Museum. The envelope read and he noted that it was already opened. He picked it up and opened the letter. Dear Ms. Ellisande Porter, I am writing on behalf of The Vault Arts Museum with regards to the 8th Grand Artwork Festival.

Carter,* *My name is Victoria Hartley. I am a representational artist based in Portland, Oregon. I recently attended your exhibition at the Cordova Gallery and was disturbed by what I saw. Several of your paintings bear striking similarities to work I created and exhibited three years ago in a small gallery show. I have attached images for your review.* *I would appreciate the opportunity to discuss this privately before taking further action. Please contact me at your earliest convenience.* *Sincerely,* *Victoria Hartley* My hands shook as I opened the attachments. Five images loaded slowly, each one making my stomach drop further.

Heavy stock, embossed lettering. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> Julian Harcourt. Fine Artist. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> My stomach dropped. This was the artist. The one whose work was currently hanging all around us. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> "You're Harcourt," I said. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> "I am. And you are?" _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> "Adrian Volkov." _*]:min-w-0 gap-3">

He didn’t post it with Jo’s works. Instead, he carried it back carefully, protecting it from the wind, and placed it in the archive folder labeled *Still Speaking*. The folder had been created years ago for works that weren’t finished, weren’t abandoned, but existed in some eternal present tense—pieces that remained in dialogue with their makers and their moment. Jo left another note under his sketch: *“I didn’t give the painting to fix us.* *I gave it so we’d remember we still have a page.”*

Up close, the painting’s unique brush lines, the deep dark colors, and the heavy stroke work are nearly identical to the piece that once hung inside the vault at Silverclaw Academy: the missing twin half of my mother’s lifework. Without a single second of hesitation, my boots stomp across the floor to find the chief manager of the third floor. "Excuse me, sir," I say, trying to keep my shaking voice steady so my wolf doesn't look weak. "My vest is deeply interested in this canvas. Would Master Warwick consider letting my pack buy it today?" I hope the manager wolf can at least put my device in touch with Elias, the high doctor behind the exhibition. But the reply from his mouth is immediate

Alena's answer brought smiles to the faces of the three men. “Alena, if you need anything, don't hesitate to let me know!” Darren said. He leaned toward Alena. Adrian sat up straight. “If you need any paintings or artwork for your store, just call my number. I'm available 24 hours a day.” “I'll add two more bodyguards to stand guard in front of your store to keep it safe from thugs.” This time it was Gavin who spoke. All the attention from these three handsome men made Alena's head spin. She gently massaged her forehead, then instructed her staff to serve five cups of coffee at the table.

[Sera] Tuesday. Submission deadline day. I'd been up since five, which is an hour before Lulu's internal alarm and therefore an hour of silence so rare it felt stolen. I sat at the kitchen table with my laptop, my phone, and eight photographs of paintings arranged in a grid. Portfolio. Artist statement. Contact information. Submit button. The artist statement was three sentences long. I'd written and deleted forty-seven versions over the weekend. The current one said: I paint what's left after the storm passes. Not the wreckage. The part where someone picks up a broom.