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Subliminally, like it were merely a deluded dream, light filtered through the ominous grate and resonated what little sanity flitted fearfully through the grey. Orbs formed, swelled and imploded on themselves in a beautiful parody of nochalant misanthropy. Gluttonous pride is motive and means for pre-packaged living, an ideal which make my spinal tissue itch furiously.
Art, the sport of madmen who make ganderous pieces of self-contained envy, with faux-subliminal meanings and even more faux yuppies who beleive they perceive a deeper meaning to it. But the real arts aren't forged in some white-lit gallery in Soho, they've carved into the supple fishnet-coated thighs of a scummy tramp named Bernadette or Lucider or Felicity or Charlotte.
The tools of my trade aren't expensive French brushes, tipped with only the finest petrified fox-fur, they are claw hammers and scalpels. Surgical or brutal, sometimes both, I tear and scratch my masterpiece into human canvass. It's never displayed in some echoing public gallery, only in the theatre of skin, as I like to call it. To my select few admirers I am a prodigy, a visionary, a dreamweaver - to my artistic contemparies I am a perverted psychopath, a desecrater of humanity. It matters not.
In the end they all become art. My art. My style. Mine.
Art, the sport of madmen who make ganderous pieces of self-contained envy, with faux-subliminal meanings and even more faux yuppies who beleive they perceive a deeper meaning to it. But the real arts aren't forged in some white-lit gallery in Soho, they've carved into the supple fishnet-coated thighs of a scummy tramp named Bernadette or Lucider or Felicity or Charlotte.
The tools of my trade aren't expensive French brushes, tipped with only the finest petrified fox-fur, they are claw hammers and scalpels. Surgical or brutal, sometimes both, I tear and scratch my masterpiece into human canvass. It's never displayed in some echoing public gallery, only in the theatre of skin, as I like to call it. To my select few admirers I am a prodigy, a visionary, a dreamweaver - to my artistic contemparies I am a perverted psychopath, a desecrater of humanity. It matters not.
In the end they all become art. My art. My style. Mine.
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Heh, thanks.
quite possably the shortest story to win a Gad. Well deserved. Short and sweet. Very good.
Hilarious title as well.
Hilarious title as well.
I won Gad, ner ner ner.
Very eloquently put
:D
:D
Meh, it was late.
SHUT UP.
SHUT UP.
Too short, too short! I wanted more.
To be honest it isn't a patch on 'Mister Art'
Disappointing :(
To be honest it isn't a patch on 'Mister Art'
Disappointing :(
FinalFantasyFanatic wrote:
> Indeed.
> Best story title ever though? Possibly.
Heh thanks, I do try.
The Jelly really has little to do with... anything. I like surreal stupidity.
> Indeed.
> Best story title ever though? Possibly.
Heh thanks, I do try.
The Jelly really has little to do with... anything. I like surreal stupidity.
I like. perfecto.
Now I know what I'm gonna do for my A&D assessement piece.
Now I know what I'm gonna do for my A&D assessement piece.
Interesting stuff, and I agree that it could have done with another paragraph or two. Given that you wrote this without any idea where it was going, it's good to see the style of the piece is consistent throughout, as it's easy to just jump into something else without thinking.
Indeed.
Best story title ever though? Possibly.
Best story title ever though? Possibly.
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