The Muse's Revenge
The Muse's Revenge thriller stories
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charliesheldon
charliesheldon philosopher & pervayor of weird cat pics
Autoplay OFF   •   2 months ago
Hundreds of painted eyes stared at the unfolding scene. The eyes belonged to row upon row of paintings, all depicting a similar subject. || 325 words in length, this short story was directly inspired by the artwork The Muse's Revenge by Ilya Milstein. I love this work...instantly captivating!
http://www.ilyamilstein.c...

The Muse's Revenge

Hundreds of painted eyes stared at the unfolding scene. The french doors to the balcony hung open. The long white curtains blew in the gentle summer breeze.

The eyes belonged to row upon row of paintings, all depicting a similar subject: the naked female body.

All of the painting's shared at least one model, a small woman with large brown eyes and full, pouting lips.

Sometimes the paintings were her alone, or sometimes the composition included other women as well.

The woman depicted in the picture was present in that room close to the french doors. On the other side of the room, looking down the barrel of her gun, a man was crouched by his easel.

His hands were raised. The woman's eyes, which in the paintings could only be described as "innocent," or maybe "ernest," were hard and tear-filled.

Although she was crying, her outstretched arms and hands held her pistol fast.

The man that cowered by the easel said "Let's talk about this."

Her eyes trailed over the painting on the easel. It depicted herself and another woman, a smaller one with blue eyes. The pair were embracing, a cherry held between their lips.

"I know you don't want to do it," he said.

She sucked in a breath, "You don't know what I want, asshole."

"Baby-" he started but stopped when she took three rushing steps forward.

She dug the gun into his head and spat "You cheated on me with your other model. That was something I could handle, but she wasn't even eighteen.

You were right, I don't want to do this, but if I don't, no one will."

There would be no misses that afternoon. When the blood from his brains splattered on the white walls of the studio, she looked at him for a long time before she left.

He always painted in browns and blues, but in the end he himself looked better in red.

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