Guts Artwork Novels & Stories

Sure, he's abrasive, but I don't think he's that bad. I look at the blank canvas before me. Paints at the ready. I look around my little corner at the beautiful landscapes, the portraits of random people. These pictures are the expressions of my heart. I find comfort in them. My eyes scan the portraits one by one, trying to find inspiration, when my eye travels to a corner I rarely venture to look at.

But one painting wasn’t hers. At the center of the gallery stood a large, framed canvas, bold and haunting. It drew every eye, commanding attention. Nora froze, her pulse spiking. The brushstrokes were familiar yet foreign, raw yet intimate. The painting depicted her: curled on a bed, head tucked into her knees, hair falling freely, face half-lit with shadows and tears streaking her cheeks. And yet… she looked powerful. Vulnerable, but unbroken. Alive. The title, scrawled across the bottom in confident letters, hit her like a punch: “The Girl I Ruined But Still Love.”

“Inspect the tableware, Chika.” Confused by his focus on the porcelain, I stepped to the mahogany edge and picked up a heavy, custom-fired ceramic bowl. To my absolute disbelief, an elite graphic artist had printed a stylized, sharp-chinned cartoon image of my wolf form—complete with my distinct silver-tinted fur and arrogant scowl—directly onto the glaze of every plate and vessel. Thinking my vision was playing tricks due to the concussion, I picked up a platter, inspecting the border work three times.

An artist I've never heard of, with a page full of paintings that make my stomach drop. It has the same color palettes, the same emotional themes, the same compositions, the fire-and-flowers motif, the broken-open chest, the bird trailing sparks, everything. But TrueCanvas's posts have timestamps that appear to predate mine by weeks. According to the internet, I didn't create these images. I copied them, and the comments are turning on me fast. "She's a fraud." "TrueCanvas did it first." "Gianna Meyers is a thief." "Can't believe I followed this person."

I stood near her clueless. “I don’t know. My hand is stuck.” She pulled her hand but nothing happened. I pulled the cloth down the floor and a grotesque painting welcomed me. The white canvas was filled with random black scribbles and the longer I look, movements became obvious and formed random shapes. Foreign and barbaric words made of dark smoke floated out of the canvas until a summoning circle was created. In the middle was a closed eye circumscribed by an inverted triangle. Gugu’s hand was sucked by a black hole projected by the canvas. Her fingers up to her wrist on the other side turned into a black shadow just like Mark’s appearance in the valley of the dead.

I reminded her, a groan bouncing around my head as she settled down. "Why are there.." I started to say looking at the floor, before shaking my head deciding I didn't want to know the answer. "Never mind" I finished stepping over the trail of blood and guts. "More of your artwork?" I asked, nodding to a male hanging from a bolt on the ceiling by the leftover intestines. "Yep." He grinned like he was showing me a painting he had done at school, all sparkly teeth and pride. Jackass! "Why?" I asked, looking at the glossed-over eyes of the dead male. His face was moulded by fear frozen in time forever.

Two dots of chocolate and a smiling line that looked like a happy face then he put some supposed-to-be fangs in the corners of the smile seeing a fool-like vampire face. He coughed awkwardly when he saw his final drawing. It was too funny! He’s really bad at drawing faces! Shit! Jiwoon laughed at his art which made him glare at him fiercely that made him stopped and made a sorry look in his face. After a while, he took a cookie too trying his best to draw a vampire face. Yenn annoyingly sighed and let him do his, since he knew he’s goddamn great at it, he refused to look at his own cookie face which is goddamn hilarious right now. He watched Jiwoon draw and saw that he’s almost done and it w

His lips tug up into the smallest of smiles "Wanna see what I've done?" I stand and walk to him, standing behind. The smell hits me, and I'm wondering how hard it must be to stand something like this, but I say nothing, staring at the his painting. His paintings, as always, are done with red and black, some charcoal he sometimes has a thing for. In it, there's a girl, in a cage tied to a chair, by her own guts coming out from her stomach and she has feathers, except she looks as if some of them have been plucked out, and her skin is blistered, bleeding, sores…

I groaned, rolling away from the tongue, licking my face. Gross. Just fucking gross. Squinting through one eye, a large framed print of art greeted me. Or at least it’s called art by some people. I’m not sure I call a painting of two dudes on a hill with one riding the cock of the other while jerking himself off art. I know it is NOT something I want to wake up to see.

I gave him a sly grin. "You are missing something." I take a look at my artwork. It was impossible to recognize his face at all. I even severed his ears, fingers, and toes just in case something went wrong. I wanted the process of identifying him to be drawn out and terrifying for as long as possible. "Now I know what is missing." As I pulled the machete from its holster on my back and swiftly hacked open his stomach, a sneering grin came on my face. I felt a surge of satisfaction. His internal organs began oozing out of his body, and blood splattered all over my face. The poor kids who have to watch something like this.