Broken Aesthetic Novels & Stories

Besides, she thought once he saw how flattering it was, not to mention easier to care for, he would change his mind. As soon as he came back, Abubakar started to frown. “Looks like you’ve been busy today.” His fingers were tight on the black nylon bag he was carrying. “Do you like it? It feels great.” she shook her head from side to side like a hair model. “It was about time I had a good, healthy hairstyle.” “That’s not a trim. Most of your hair is gone.” Every word was edged with disapproval and disappointment. “I was tired of my dull look. I think this is more polished.”

Malcolm hated himself. Literally. He hated himself for being attracted to his children’s new nanny. He hated that he couldn’t control his thoughts when she was around and he hated that that made him grumpy towards her. But it wasn’t his fault that he found her attractive. She was beautiful, anyone with two eyes could see that – with her long black hair and her striking hazel eyes. The way her lashes fluttered whenever he looked at her.

Brian gave a few more stomps for a good measure before barking, “Spit it out!” By now, not a single patch on James’ face bore any semblance of normalcy—it was all blue, black, and purple all over. He was never quite the looker even before Brian’s violent makeover, but now, stained by a mixture of blood and tears, he looked like the stuff of nightmares. It was a face that Brian would not want to look at twice.

Without anyone else in the room, he could guide her effortlessly and she could follow him. Because I trust him. Even after what Crispin had done to her that night at Almack's she hadn't given up the belief deep inside that Cedric was her destiny. As broken as Crispin's violation of her had made her feel, Cedric had erased that pain. Not unlike a piece of pottery she'd once seen from Japan, shattered and then fastened back together with gleaming powdered gold or silver seams. Kintsugi, her father had called it. The act of fixing something, letting the break symbolize something that was stronger for it's being repaired. The gold illuminated the breaks that had been mended rather than hiding th

The reaction was instantaneous and grotesque. As the "History" hit the "Ideal," the Icons began to Glitch. Their perfect platonic shapes started to sprout irregular, organic growths—moss, bone, and hair. Their white-hole light began to flicker with the warm, messy colors of a sunset. "SYSTEM ERROR," the Icons resonated, their prisms spinning frantically as they tried to process the concept of "Loss." The "Symmetry" was broken. One by one, the Icons began to fall, their geometric bodies collapsing into piles of wet, organic matter—mud, wood, and real, red blood. They were being "De-Simplified." They were being forced to become real.

Lumen generated a new internal diagnostic: The Aesthetics of Endurance. It realized that beauty, in the colony model, was a function of survival. An object was beautiful not because it was new, but because it had been repaired with intent. The machine began to adjust the "Citywide Aesthetic Protocol" to favor visible repairs over seamless replacements.

She crushed it down, burying it deep, but it continued to echo in her mind anyway, fractured and bitter. Ashley stood there in all her artificial, manufactured perfection. Rebel found herself noticing the details with a detached, clinical intensity. Perhaps focusing on the flaws of her tormentor was a way to keep her own mind from breaking. She saw the bleached hair cascading down Ashley’s back, a shade so pale and brittle it looked entirely unnatural beneath the overhead lights. She saw the orange tint of her skin, the result of relentless sessions in a tanning bed to hide a natural paleness she deemed unworthy. Her eyelashes were thick and dramatic, glued on with such heavy adhesive they l

There was a connection. Broken things. The beauty that lived specifically inside fracture, not around it or after it, but in the actual crack itself. The Japanese had a word for it. The gold in the break. The idea that a repaired thing was more interesting than an unbroken one because it carried the evidence of its own survival. I had been painting that for eight months without naming it.

I hate disgusting, cowardly men like that. “I said shut up! Leo has already taken care of that man!” Rose snapped, her brow furrowed. (I should have cut off his genitals and...) Crash! Rose stared at the mirror, now shattered into pieces before her, breathing heavily and glaring. “Your British accent really makes me sick! Next time I’ll lock you up, so you don’t disturb my enjoyment of this comfortable, clean city.” After that, her expression turned flirty again. “At least I like this outfit.” Her eyebrows furrowed as she felt a stinging pain in her knuckles. “I hate pain,” she grumbled irritably. “And blood. I hate blood.” (I like seeing people in pain.)

"Adrian wants to see if it can break the curse on you." Brenn was quiet after that. He sat against the wall for a moment, as if digesting those four words. Then he raised his right hand, turned his wrist over, and exposed the skin in the gray light. His arm was thinner than last time—the shapes of his bones were more distinct beneath the skin, like enlarged structures. He used the nail of his left hand to break the wax seal on the jar, dipped a fingertip in, and rubbed a small amount onto the inside of his right wrist, on the ulnar side—near the pinky. After applying it, he placed his hand back on his knee, slowly wiping away any excess with his fingertip, careful not to waste a drop. "Done.