Inanimate Insanity Lightbulb X Paintbrush Novels & Stories

The room became very dim. Keeping her eyes on the bulb, she switched on the light. The sudden brightness caused her to blink, but she kept her eyes fastened on the bulb, letting its bright glow imprint itself on her retinas. When she felt she was ready, she turned off the light and held out her palm again. “Illuminati verdus,” she said. “Illuminati verdus.” With the afterimage of the light bulb still on her eyes, Leesa couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw a very faint glow appear and quickly disappear just above her hand.

Like it should have been me, instead of her. I started laying out my paints and brushes, then started frantically painting my heart out in trance. The pain, the love, the insecurity, the blame, the passion, the lust, I pour out all my feelings. Strokes after strokes of paint and colors, deeper, stronger, darker, until I stopped. Then I started the same process with another canvas. Then another. Then another. Until I passed out, laying on the floor. I opened my eyes the next day, it was dark already, I didn't even know what day and what time it was.

Darkness". The light bulb in the closed room was broken, and the room fell into complete darkness. The menacing bursts of lightning illuminated the shaking branches outside the window, casting the shadow of the branches onto the window. A glare penetrated through the window, leaving a short moment of brightness. The little girl in the white dress sat on the ground and lay on a worn bed. She raised her head and looked up at the window with the corners of her mouth slightly raised. There were rats on the ground, bats in the air, and spiders in the corner. When I look at the painting carefully, I could see that the bolt on the door was not inserted.

She looks— Confused "I don't understand" I can't help the small laugh that leaves my lips "What's there not to understand? He's a psychotic maniac that likes painting with blood. That's fucking it" "I just—" She looks more lost now, because she can't put it together, or she does, but it's not making sense. "He uses animal blood. It's the only way to prevent him from not cutting himself and using his skin as an actual canvas" I cut in "He won't use other colors, just blood"

I could handle her. I closed the doors, ready to pull out my gun any moment, until the bright lights turned on, washing away all my doubts. I turned around to find Faith standing a few meters away from me with a palette of colors in one hand and a paintbrush in another. There were two big canvases behind her. The entire place was spacious and clean, unlike what I had imagined, rather it was decorated with soft fairy lights and candles. More surprising than all of that were the paintings that were scattered around the place—paintings made by me.

The ceramic blade began to sink into the empty air. Inch by inch, the razor-sharp edge cut directly through the frequency of the barrier. The amber light illuminating the spherical room began to flicker violently, the images in the millions of mirrors distorting into jagged, terrifying digital glitches. Silas’s face melted into a horrific smear of grey pixels. Luciano’s mafia ghost vanished into a cloud of static. "The bread only rises if you let it breathe," I whispered through my grit teeth. The tip of the blade finally touched the solid glass of the cylinder.

The clock on my bedroom wall read 02:15, and I was still up and painting. My curtains were still pushed open, granting me a great source of light from the moon. The silence of the streets helped me not to start pulling my hair. From the outside, it was peaceful. But the inside was in havoc. My brain was a train wreckage, that just kept on burning and burning. I wanted to let everything out but one canvas was not enough. So I was on my third one, this time I was using dark paints.

Next to the door stood an old vanity with a light bulb framed mirror. The top of the vanity was covered with containers of grease paint, cotton balls, sponges and brushes, and some plastic jars of pinkish goo labeled mortician’s wax. Tucked into the mirror frame were a handful of square Polaroid pictures. All of them were James from the shoulders up and each in some variation of theatrical makeup. In one, his full face was painted to look like a grinning skull. One had him completely covered in rotting bandages with moldering flesh poking through. In another he was covered in blood and looked like his throat had been slit from ear to ear. They were all pretty convincing.

The loss of his Sight—the ability to see the death threads—had left him feeling exposed, and the constant input of normal human senses was overwhelming him. "Fill it up," Elion suggested. "Make it quiet. Paint something solid." "I don't know how to paint." "You don't have to know how. You just have to do it. Look at Sam." They looked over at Sam. The Fitness Bro was painting a very muscular stick figure lifting a barbell. "See?" Elion said. "The bar is low." Cale looked at the paints on the table. Tubes of red, yellow, blue, black. "What should I paint?" Cale asked. He sounded lost. Like a child asking for permission to speak.

science project. "You're insane," I whispered. "I am the only one who is sane," Silas replied. "The world is governed by fools. I am building a mind that can rule the Noise." The woman in the lab coat stepped toward me with a needle. "We need to begin the first nutrient infusion."