Cavetown Artwork Novels & Stories

…… Evelyn POV I was feeling slightly on edge, the problem with a cave is there is only one way in and out. And we hadn’t come across anything yet. Just how deep did this cave go. I hope not to the very pits of hell. It would be fitting if Odin was in here though after all. Reuben seems to have stopped, pulling his phone out and using the torch to look at the cave wall. His hands touch an odd picture…is that a crow? A commotion is heard at the cave entrance and I order at Noah to go check it out. As my Beta leaves, I turn to the cave wall next to me, my own hands running up the cold damp stone as I find picture as well.

“Exactly. Now stop fighting it and just pick something. I even promise to help you choose which one will look best in that cold, soulless office of yours.” Cavern raised an eyebrow. “Soulless?” “Extremely,” Dante confirmed. “It needs some soul. My art can provide that. For the right price, of course.” Cavern stared at him for a moment, then let out a low chuckle and shook his head. “You’re unbelievable.” “Thank you,” Dante replied, completely unfazed. “I try.” I watched their exchange quietly, a small smile forming on my lips. Even though Cavern was clearly the more serious twin, he still managed to joke around with Dante in a way that felt easy and natural. There was a comfortable familiari

Janet gave me a long hug and I said bye to everyone before walking out. I took my coat and covered myself. It was a cold night and I'm tired, but I want to go to the art museum. I remember walking there with my ex, Timothy, and one of the paintings look very oddly similar. It was a picture of a couple, dancing in the rain and surrounding it, were small birds, flying around the dancers. The scene looks oddly familiar and when I looked at the artist, I finally knew why. Cayden Nowell. Since then, I've been a regular visitor in the museum, staring at the painting like Cayden will jump out of the frame and come back to me. I've even made friends with one or two of the tour guides there.

he asked, leaning forward slightly, refocusing on the painting. I signed my paintings with my alias, Abigale Rourke, however, hidden somewhere in all of my artwork where my real initials, HD for Hycinth Diamonte. I pointed to two swirls by the wolf's ear. Luca nodded. My glance drifted away from the painting and landed on another piece of artwork. I hadn't created this one. Instead, we'd found it at a local flea market, and it was one of my favorite pieces in the loft. A massive, metal steampunk-looking clock with interlocking gears. The time on the clock face jolted me out of our softly-spoken moment.

“I bet his workshop is right on my route to the Art Den.” He chuckled, holding the painting up so the morning sun hit the curves I’d rendered in oil. “I’d like to spend a few days going through this entire vault when we aren't prepping for a territorial takeover.” “Most of it is trash, honestly,” I said, locking the heavy bolt on the unit. “Half-finished sketches and sculptures that lacked the proper bite.” “This one has plenty of bite.” He frowned at the canvas, his thumb hovering near the edge. “You only like it because it’s my chest, Rowan,” I teased. He didn't even try to deny it, merely shrugging with a grin that made my pulse skip.

He had to admit this place wasn't as bad as he'd expected. He let his gaze wander around the shop, taking in things he hadn't really noticed yesterday. The artwork on the walls, for instance. Yesterday, they had been blurs of color. Today, he realized they were great examples of contemporary Western art. The style was very distinctive and arresting. Someone had lovingly painted a magnificent stallion, a small herd of horses galloping across a pasture, a tired cowboy at the end of a long day, and other similar scenes. Whoever this was might have come from Montana like he had, because the essence of the cowboy had been captured perfectly.

He wiped me down with clumsy care, taught himself to cook plain porridge, and slept on a narrow folding chair by my bed every night, fully dressed, just to be near. The day I was discharged, sunlight bathed the seaside town in gold. Nathan pushed my wheelchair, a cashmere blanket he had bought draped over me. Six months later, he rented the only art gallery in town and sponsored my very first solo exhibition. He named it 'Rebirth'. The bright, spacious hall was filled with the work I had poured my soul into for half a year. Storm-dark seas before a tempest. Iridescent light shimmering on rocks after rain. A daisy blooming toward the sun from a bookstore window.

His life seemed fascinating and exciting. Misty was in DownMoor reviewing a Ryan Raynard art show when she got the call to cover our story ASAP, before one of her competitors knew. As I chatted with her about the find and some basic facts about cave painting, her photographer faded into the background. I don't know what interest he had in the card table covered with notes from the site or the pyramid of empty coffee cans on the filthy kitchen bench, but maybe he was looking for some kind of artistic still life thing. Misty stared into my face.

She thought of the upcoming expo and asked smugly, “With how busy you are, do you even have time to prepare for the competition? It’s the day after tomorrow, you know.” “Thanks for your concern, but you should worry about yourself. Is your entry ready?” Caitlin shot back calmly. “Of course. You don’t need to worry about me.” Zora then turned her attention back to the painting in front of her—the one Caitlin had created under the name O’Brien. She looked at her companion and said loud enough for Caitlin to hear, “Hey, have you seen this one? What do you think of it?” The man wore a mask and carried himself with quiet reserve. “It’s… average,” he said flatly.

His life seemed fascinating and exciting. Misty was in Crookshollow reviewing a Ryan Raynard art show when she got the call to cover our story ASAP, before one of her competitors knew. As I chatted with her about the find and some basic facts about cave painting, her photographer faded into the background. I don't know what interest he had in the card table covered with notes from the site or the pyramid of empty coffee cans on the filthy kitchen bench, but maybe he was looking for some kind of artistic still life thing. Misty stared into my face.