Inanimate Insanity Lightbulb X Paintbrush Novels & Stories

Months bled into months until the madness finally fucking won. Elle’s ghost squatted in every corner of my skull, smiling sideways, blood on her teeth, that profile... I was one bad night from swallowing a bullet just to shut the bitch up. Light. Fire. Distraction. Every room Rafael Goldman breathes in has to burn or glow. If it doesn’t, I flick the French lighter Heavy Dupont, gold worn soft by my thumb. Every click of it, for my sanity. and watch the flame eat the dark.

'No matter how evil you are, Elixier my love, I'll always love you' I'm a black canvas. A paper pure white. And yes, I wanted to have color. I wanted somebody to paint me. Elixier did. But instead of coloring me with paint, he painted me with blood. Well I don't regret letting him do that. Red is a powerful color. Red stands out. Red is fierce. But fire is also red. That if it burns you, you'll turn black. Life is meaningless without him. I'd rather burn myself in the color of red in the flames as long as I'm with him, than be safe as a colorless canvas.

Empty. She picked up a brush. She didn't reach for the black paint. Or the iron. Or the red of the wound. She reached for the white. And the yellow. And a tiny, translucent drop of gold. She started to paint. She didn't paint a fortress. She didn't paint a wall. She painted space. Big, open, terrifying space. Light pouring into a room that had been dark for a long time. It looked like water. It looked like air. It looked like letting go.

My hand trembled as I attempted to paint, the brush slipping and ruining the curve of her figure. Frustration flared inside me. For the first time, not even the strokes of my brush could ease the uneasy feeling inside me. The documents, the mounting danger, Yaz's threats - it was all too much. I tossed the brush aside and stormed out, knowing that painting wouldn't solve this problem. Not today.

"Sometimes our life changing turn seems so miserable in present that our vision to see future blurs out" Author's POV A beautiful room decorated simply with less furniture and a light purple colour paint in walls with white in contrast was today filled with darkness. The curtains and small round led lights tugged in the ceilings were off too with only a sob left to hear with hiccups consuming the silence in the room.

I don't know why but as I stare at it, the more it looks interesting to see. As I continued looking at the window, I realized that I have been spacing out too much. “Let’s go?” I heard Drake’s voice making my sanity back to place. “Huh?” I asked. I looked around and realized that there are no one else inside except us. The class is dismissed? How long have I’ve been staring at the window then? “The class is done?” I asked him. “Yeah, you have been spacing out. Good thing our professor did not notice you.” “Come on, let’s get our lunch.” He added.

His hair falls heavy over his forehead, covering the ghostly blue luminescence beaming from the strange device over his right eye. I said let her go!' His command resonates behind his mask at the same time as a sequence of lights begins spiralling across the weapon and charging it to full power. His intended threat only aggravates Luther's insanity forcing him to burst into wicked laughter. The soldier, unfazed by his unstable behaviour, shifts unnoticed and gets ready for an opening to shoot.

It's just lines, and it's not that I'm looking down on art, but there are some things that need to be appreciated, not because they're too silly. I frowned, raising my hand to touch the painting. I was actually hoping that it would open up like the ones in the movies. But... I opened my mouth wide. Can I call myself a genius when what I'm thinking is happening? Suddenly, a clicking sound came from behind the frame even though I had only lightly touched its glass surface, and then the wall formed a mold into a square, like it was forming a door in front of me, and... It moved backward. My eyes widened as the secret door swung open, revealing an empty hallway inside.

Ada Wood's optic nerve is stimulated by the same color as blood on the wall. She's going insane, spraying the wall and giggling at the same time. Perhaps she felt that the red color was not appealing enough. She stroked her arm with a jagged chunk of aluminum can she had picked up from the ground. Her white arm was covered in scarlet blood. He painted on the wall with his own blood on a brush. From a flower bone blossom into a murderous flower, one after another captivating rose, in her pen shape, as if alive.

It was a literal, physical manifestation of the psychological haunting I had been enduring for the last three hundred days. I dipped a fine-tipped badger brush into a well of deep crimson alcohol-activated paint, my hand steadying only when the bristles touched the cool, synthetic flesh. Splat. Splat. I stippled the artificial blood, building the layers of depth, trying to lose myself in the math of shadows and highlight variables. Then, the heavy metal security door clicked. It wasn't a loud sound, but in the dead silence of the studio, it hit my eardrums like a mortar shell.