Inanimate Insanity Lightbulb X Paintbrush Novels & Stories

White reminds me of hospital walls… My heart thumps loudly against my chest, and I clutch at it with my eyes shut tightly. “No.” I shake my head. “Come on.” I force myself to make one stroke, then another. Within seconds, the colors begin bleeding together into a meaningless mess. Nothing feels or looks right, and every brushstroke reminds me of Mabel. Frustration causes me to throw the brush back into the water jar harder than I intend. It splashes across my desk. “Damn it.”

He purposely distanced himself from her to take a deep breath and gather his thoughts because his brain's neurons started behaving differently after exposure to Lanaya. The author suggests visualizing a light that has been on all day. He made another attempt. "The light is low at first but quickly increases in intensity. Eventually, the light will become too intense if it isn't turned off and allowed to cool down. The light will flicker and die, the device will explode, or a wire will catch fire." He doubted his own sanity and reason. He knew he was on the correct track because of how she looked at him. "That is something that may occur. Please don't get burned out."

The brush floated, moving on its own, strokes gliding smoothly across the blank surface like it was obeying a silent command. The sound was faint but hypnotic scratch, drag, sweep. I rose to my feet, mindful of every move I made. “Where the hell am I?” The man didn’t answer. He didn’t act like someone who could even hear me. I stepped closer, looking around, yet my voice echoed but confident, I asked again, “Where the hell am I?” But there was nothing. The paint kept coming to life with every line, every splash of paint. My patience snapped. I walked towards the only door in the room. I slammed my hands on it, but it didn’t budge, not even a dent. “What kind of sick joke is this!” I yelled.

The butler finally spoke behind me. “Master… do you think it is him?” I didn’t answer immediately. My eyes moved toward the walls again. Toward the flesh pinned carefully like decorations. Toward the word written on the floor. God. A memory surfaced instantly. A dark room. Paintings made from blood. A man laughing softly while dragging his fingers across a canvas made from human skin. Silver eyes glowing beneath candlelight. Beautiful madness. My expression hardened. “No.” The butler frowned slightly. “No?”

Humming, I picked up the brush and ran it down my already straightened hair. "Anchor! Anchor!" the chant zapped through my head. The silver-plated hairbrush slipped from my fingers, clattering loudly against the marble vanity. "Ah!" I clutched my head, groaning as the voices became louder. An agonizing, white-hot gasp ripped from my throat as I fell from the vanity stool to my knees on the hard stone floor. I couldn't hold it back anymore. The pressure exploded. I tumbled backward onto the floor, staring at my hands in horror. They were sparking. Ethereal, brilliant blue static danced across my knuckles, crackling with an ancient, terrifying power that didn't burn my flesh, but threatened to

surreal, almost like I was in a dream. “Is this real?” I looked around, pinching myself. “Are you okay, sweetie? Is everything alright?” She held my shoulders; it was real. “Yes!” I exploded into a dance, swaying to an invisible beat that was grounded by the bass drum from my chest. I can’t believe it! Finally! I paused, staring at the dried paint once more. I need to get more supplies. I need more artworks. I need to start! “Calm down, you’re freaking me out,” my mother cautioned, rubbing her arm as worry scurried across her eyes.

The type three brush hung between his fingers as Min-a stared at the canvas before him. It was various shades of brown, gray, and white, crossed together in a haphazard manner to form beautiful nothing. He had a hard time admitting how much last night had imprinted on him. He couldn't even drink the same B&W wine product because all he would recall was Kwan Seung-ho drinking and sucking the sparkling liquid off his chest. Sighing in frustration, Min-a flung the towel off his head and shook his wet hair everywhere. Some of it found its way to the canvas and some on the pin table where he kept his paint tray and his phone.

I only saw her in it once, but my mind latched onto the image and won't let go, spinning fantasies that drive me insane. I don’t paint faces for fuck sake. I don’t paint people. I paint landscapes, object, anything except human. But for days now, she’s the only thing my hand can paint. Just her. I hurl the wood panel across the room. It crashes against the wall with a hollow thud, the impact snuffing out the candles in the candelabrum and plunging the studio into blackness. “Great.” The word grates through my teeth. My hand shoves into the pocket of my loose pants, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

|Ever| For the umpteenth time, I cast a disgusted look around my office, then back to my desk. Oh! Things I ache to do to that bastard, Thomas! A devious smile curls on my lips I try not to glance at the dusty towering cabinets of years-old files and cobwebs around me, but they aren't hard to miss. Sighing, I slide the stack of files to one side, open my laptop, and type hurriedly until a list of DIY videos about office decor pops up.

He held it up for a moment, examining it in the light before casually flicking it onto the concrete floor, where it landed with a tiny, insignificant tink. "One," Zandrei counted softly, his eyes glinting with a mad, ecstatic light. "Now, let's try again. Who sent you?" He asked, his voice brimming with a childlike excitement, like a madman who had just discovered a wonderfully fun new game and was eager for another turn. The man in the chair could only manage a strangled, guttural sound, a wet sobbing noise that vibrated through his shattered mouth. His head thrashed from side to side, his eyes wide with a horror so pure it was almost beautiful to Zandrei.