Mar 7, 2018
jason denbright -—- a moodboard.
‘ i know it's no fun when your first son
gets up to no good ’
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jason denbright -—- a moodboard.
‘ i know it's no fun when your first son
gets up to no good ’
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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narcissa black -—- a moodboard.
‘ it's just unearned admiration,
are you sick of all the stares? ’
i don't feel like an adult when i pay my bills on time or whatever, i feel like an adult when i think of a good organizational strategy
Notions.
(5 feet x 3 1/2 feet water-based oils and metallic acrylic)
Bridget Winder Art
All Rights Reserved. Unauthorized duplication is a violation of applicable laws without artists consent or a credit line: Bridget Winder Art
Message for interest in purchasing work.
He's violence today.
He's raging thunder and seething waters, steelworks and a burning eye. Set the world alight with his gaze alone, channel the rage until everything around him falls apart from the pressure. The buildings collapse, the ground tears open and seals again, a scabbed over wound- a pulsating thing, needs to be amputated. He hates and seethes and spits, swallows venom until the world fades away, and it's only him left over.
He's shadows and he's transparent- god, he can't see anymore, not like this. It's not red, not like it's supposed to be-- it's yellow, he's inside of his own skull, and it's yellow and black. Xigbar is black tendrils of hatefire and sadism, his hand is moving, his fingers are curling, and his lips are twitching. They're twitching against something until he gnashes his teeth, somehow he thinks he tastes iron, and there's saliva coating something--
He's violence today, and when he remembers he's less than a concept, he finally lets her bleed out.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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He's falling forever, it seems, the air rushes around him, blankets him; he rests on it like it's his finale. It just might be, he's not sure yet, he hasn't decided. What he knows is that the sky falls with him- it's eternal. It's beautiful. He's all alone up here, he's cold, and it's beautiful. Somewhere below, he can make out the ground, see the patterns of the buildings and the cars rushing through the streets like hemoglobin in tar veins. Somewhere, he knows there's a fence, a metal, sharp-tipped thing, and he wonders if he should land on it. There's nothing quite like rust mixing with his blood, iron spikes penetrating his spine and his skull. There's nothing like the sound it would make, that loud, revolting splat-crack.
He'd bleed on to the grass, fill the ground with his love, and nothing would ever grow there because his hatred would blossom instead. He'd haunt that house his gate surrounds, and he'd haunt it with everything he wouldn't have left because he doesn't believe in ghosts anyway.
--When he wakes up, he's still sitting backwards on his couch, feet in the air, head hanging off the cushion. There's a pounding in his skull, it takes a good ten minutes for his eye to fully focus. It takes twenty for him to remember his name and that he is, indeed, staring at the screen of his television from an awkward angle, that Modern Warfare is still paused on his screen, and he's long dead. He decides then that he prefers heroin instead.
This place is haunted, they say. This place is haunted, there’s a ghost with love scorned, she hung herself years ago, and sometimes there are shadows. There are shadows and a red dress, and nooses for chandeliers. They say she wails and breaks glasses and slams doors and makes the nooses from twine and human hair. She hangs them like she hangs herself, and then she sleeps for the night; she sleeps tight in this church, and no one will say why they haven’t burned it to the ground.
He doesn’t believe in ghosts, he never has, he knows that everything around him is already dead and there is nowhere else to go. Xigbar sits, leans back, boots resting upon the pew in front of him, and he smokes. The smoke rises up, threads itself in and between the nooses she’s woven and he doesn’t see a thing. There’s a crucifix in front of him, just passed the alter, eye traces the lines worn with time. It’s illuminated by candles, a light to guide the souls that wander through here in the twilight, a guide to the map of faith, but all he knows is the cross.
The door to the vestry slams shut— he doesn’t flinch. All there is, is a woodwork comfort, candlewax and shadow, headlights seeping in through stained glass windows. He’s all alone here, alone with ghost he doesn’t believe in, and they both watch the flames of the candles flicker and die out as she screams.