Horrifically Lovely Short Stories and Poems

A Painter's Muse

            A ghost of a shadow covered the old, pine bench in Central Park. The moon was wide-awake, blinking wearily at that old bench. The shadow belonged to that of an old man. This man, with a tear-stained, leather-bound, bright red journal, was conversing with the wind. If one were to come up behind him on this very night, they would gaze upon a madman. But he was no madman: his daughter often exclaimed about his brilliant painting that depicted his love for family. On this very night though, the man came for a spark of hope, for all of his 'creative juices' as his wife would have said, were running a bit low.

            His head cocked towards the pond and back towards the moon, before finally resting on the leather satchel to his left. The satchel was placed haphazardly on the bench, hanging off the bench so far that it nearly touched the ground. And as he gazes back down at the journal in his hands, he reaches inside the satchel, feeling for a cool, metal device. He lifts it in his hands as if testing its weight, before finally resting the tip of the device against the side of his head. He closes his eyes before taking a slow, long, deep breath. On his exhale, a bang rings throughout the park, the moon shying away from the sudden noise. Peaking out from behind a cloud, he catches a gruesome sight, for that old, pine park bench is now painted red.