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Center your story around an artist whose creations have enchanted qualities.

Posted in Short Story on Feb 28, 2025

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✍️ 41 stories

Sophie's Colours

Winner of Contest #292 🏆

Sophie decided to spend what she had coined her crone years high in the mountains in a tiny cottage. Her family thought this was a terrible idea and that was precisely why she knew it was a good one. It was surprisingly inexpensive to acquire one—but after that the real work began. Supplies, repairs, figuring out how the hell to make bread. But that first loaf that came out perfectly… “I am crone, and I am free!” she shouted to the wind. She hiked down to the village every other day and gradually crowded her cottage shelves with teacups in e...

132 likes 56 comments 56
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The Artist

Submitted to Contest #292

I recently saw a painting that reminded me of an artist who lived in the woods at the far end of the street where I lived with my parents. I was always vehemently told not to venture into those woods, which, naturally, piqued my curiosity endlessly. Further stimulating my adventurous nature, I heard people, neighbors, talk about him. His name was Jacques. They said he was a “mad artist,” crazy, spooky, and mean, and he had a vicious dog, a big Doberman, who he kept tied to a tree with a very long rope so that no one could come near. I knew t...

19 likes 3 comments 3
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Strange Paint

Submitted to Contest #292

Deborah had always been a solitary artist, pouring her heart and soul into her work in a dimly lit studio that smelled of turpentine and linseed oil. Her latest masterpiece was a vibrant canvas depicting a mystical forest, alive with creatures that seemed to shimmer and dance under the flickering light of a nearby candle. As she painted the final stroke, the colors swirled and shimmered, as if the very essence of life had been captured within the frame. Unbeknownst to her, the painting was not just a piece of art; it was a portal to another ...

16 likes 3 comments 3
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Paint Her Black

Submitted to Contest #292

Her creativity was born in the sadness of a broken childhood. King and Queen dividing their kingdom and so too dividing her. She chased missing happiness as she wandered the rooms of her mind-palace. She was safe here. This was where she had escaped whenever she could not understand. This was where she retreated when she smelt the fires of oncoming war and desolation. She was to learn that love hurt, but she sought it all the same. She searched for it in every colour on the palette and every mark on the canvas. As the brushstrokes cohered an...

13 likes 5 comments 5
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Bean Head Has Blood Red

Submitted to Contest #292

Triggers and warnings- Violence. Mental health. Swearing. Bean Head Has A Blood Red I started writing with my famous pen when I was thirteen. This is what I wrote in my journal then. “Oh, I dare not put it down. It senses it. The slightest movement on my part causes it to wriggle and writhe, trying to twist out of my hand in violent protest. Even when I am perfectly still, I swear it is alive and panting for the chance to write its phrases of filthy black hatred; just gasping to stain the paper with thoughts I have not dared to think and sha...

12 likes 6 comments 6
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To Paint is to Dream

Submitted to Contest #292

Preston slowly exits Ferguson Art Gallery with his portfolio tucked under his arm. The passing crowd pays no attention to the man in the shabby brown suit with his head hanging low. Preston’s breathing grows heavier with each passing second until he finally explodes with rage. Everyone scatters as he flings his artwork onto the pavement and begins to stomp on it. Spittle flies from his lips as he curses the gallery for their short-sightedness. As his anger subsides, he looks around, embarrassed by his public display of em...

11 likes 5 comments 5
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The Green Hierophant

Submitted to Contest #292

In the dim glow of his cluttered studio, Alex felt a soft murmur emanating from the very walls—a deep, persistent vibration that echoed in his chest like a hidden drumbeat. He stood before the final canvas as if bewitched, confronting a towering monument born of countless sleepless nights and feverish brushstrokes—the culmination of the enigma known as the Green Hierophant. The painting was a labyrinth of swirling viridian tones, a vortex of green that beckoned him closer; the color rippled and pulsed as if imbued with a secret, otherworldly...

11 likes 2 comments 2
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The Oil Stain

Submitted to Contest #292

The commission was an honor—an elegant, regal gesture from Her Majesty, the Queen herself! To set upon a canvas and capture her clean, shimmering, opulent essence—-oh how I trembled as I bowed, accepting the task in front of the royal court. I worked—I pained! It’s near impossible even to describe the pure exhaustion I had bearing the weight of my vow to craft such a masterpiece worthy of the throne—-it nearly cursed me. I mixed the finest pigments derived from ochre and umber for her porcelain skin. Azurite—the...

11 likes 1 comment 1
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A Magic Painting

Submitted to Contest #292

It had been a very long time, decades, since Jeffrey had gone to an art gallery, but he knew that he had to do something different from his usual activities. He had retired a few years ago. Television was boring to him now, and under AI power to overrule what you want to see, movies had fewer actors and much more AI produced cheap imitations of people. He liked to read books, but it didn’t take much time of reading before they put him to sleep, even the most interesting works.It had been years since his wife had died, and...

9 likes 5 comments 5
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Brushstrokes and Blushes

Submitted to Contest #292

With a giant stretch towards the heavens, Amelia wriggles her fingers and slowly lowers them to the plate before her. The pillow-like touch of the burger and the gentle scrape of sesame seeds brush against her skin. There, from the contact alone, she could feel her magic flow from her core to the burger resting on the porcelain plate. Her golden eyes flutter shut and her lips mov out of instinct, a familiar pattern of magic and art as she threw intention toward the food before her. It leaves with a final zap, visible in a golden arch of ligh...

8 likes 1 comment 1
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The Painter

Submitted to Contest #292

‘So, can you? Can you do it?’ The young girl stands on my doorstep, I squint at her through the crack in my door. She twists a lacy handkerchief in her thin hands and stares at me beseechingly, her watery eyes shiny and quivering. Christ. She’s actually doing puppy dog eyes.   ‘It’s just, I had heard...’ she continues, barely audible, voice quaking. ‘You had heard?’ I demand, my voice coming out crackly and old. It startles her, the poor, sweet thing.  ‘Yes, I... well I had heard from a dear friend that you might... ...

8 likes 6 comments 6
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The Afghan

Submitted to Contest #292

Gran drew out a long acrylic strand from the canvas knitting bag and continued her day’s work: the rhythmic yarn-over and loop-through motions of her crochet hook. The telly was airing a documentary. Lives of Master Painters: Winslow Homer. Painted seascapes exploded onto the big screen as the camera, like a lover’s eye, caressed the textures and colours of Homer’s paintings. It zoomed in on brushstrokes of waves, then zoomed out to show the people. Desperate people! Men trapped on flimsy boats on stormy seas. Murky blues, jagged whitecaps. ...

8 likes 14 comments 14
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Art of Defiance

Submitted to Contest #292

Isaac tightened his grip on the billy club. This was his first raid, and he felt like he might throw up. His superior, Laney, hopped from foot to foot and stretched. Carriages and pedestrians passed by them, giving them wary looks. Their uniforms, black and gray, marked them as Witch Hunters. They wouldn’t be walking the streets if they weren’t on a hunt, and everyone knew witches came in all colors. The brick building looked like any other, dirty and a little misshapen. They had received word of a man who lived here. According to the a...

8 likes 1 comment 1
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The Tar-Stained Canvas

Submitted to Contest #292

Chris Day wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, the faint scent of tar and sawdust clinging to his skin. It was Saturday afternoon, and the hum of a circular saw still echoed in his ears from his morning carpentry job. The weekend gig was a necessity, teaching art at the university paid the bills, but the extra cash kept the lights on and the paint flowing. He stood in his cluttered garage studio, a space he’d carved out between stacks of lumber and Shannon’s old hairdressing supplies. The walls were lined with his canvases, dark and textured...

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Alive with Color

Submitted to Contest #292

The small coastal town is easy to navigate, especially since I spent most of my childhood here. The town buzzes with early morning activity. Fishermen are preparing their vessels, while loaves of bread are being transported back and forth between the bakery and the local fish and chip shop. If today goes well, I might be spending the next four years here, under the watchful eye of Master (debatable) Lankow.Years ago, while visiting Aunt Helen, I discovered an old painting in her garage. Her house was an endless source of discovery, from her ...

7 likes 3 comments 3
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