This collection tells of life, pain, suffering, and sometimes even happiness. I hope you will enjoy.
Thanks to @wendythestoryteller , a super talented writer and artist, for making this brilliant cover!
Highest rank: #3 IN VIGNETTE! Featured on @...
'Art is not the hammer, art is the mirror. Reality is the hammer.'
I watched as her paintbrush created other worlds on the canvas. The blues were deep and inky, the silver was metallic and ominous. When she streaked the painting with red, I swear I heard her weep. Swirls came alive as I lay on the floor. I watched patterns twirl into a kaleidoscope of hues. I reached out for her but I was granted a dragon's kiss.
Smoke always plumed around her head like a halo, somewhere short of imitating angels and I, I...
I was but a fragment of her need.
She crawled to me, drenched in sweat and tears. Her painting watched us, one eye open, one eye closed as if dreading the outcome of this thing we had going on between us.
'Do you ever regret it?' She asked while she tried to steal the warmth from whatever was left in my bones. 'Do you, Sam?'
I reached for her cigarette and pulled it near, the taste of her strawberry wine lingered on the filter. 'Every second of my life,' I uttered in partial truths as I tossed my arm over my head and followed patterns on the ceiling.
Years ago, maybe three or four, we got her uncle Jameson's shotgun and dotted the ceiling. It was a few days later I found out she had tried to use that same shotgun to blow off her own head.
Loving her was a sickness, a terminal disease that would end up killing me. Art was her mirror, reality was her hammer and I, I...
I was a nocturnal beast wedged somewhere in the crevice of her sanity.
'Do you regret it, Sam?' she asked again, unsatisfied by my reply.
I turned my head, the cigarette burned my finger but I didn't care. Her eyes were labyrinths that led me to oblivion. I wanted to touch her hair, touch that dark, dark brown till the feel of it was imprinted on my fingertips. She leaned to me and placed her head on my shoulder, weaving her own fingers through my long, blonde hair as if she had claim over me, but I could never reach her. 'No,' I whispered and she smiled.
She was right. Reality was the hammer.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
