Friday Fictioneers

He threw the rest of the paint supplies onto the pile. He looked forlornly at the landscape but threw all the red paint to cover it. He wanted no memories of the painting or the house that lived on the canvas. Memories started again to bubble up like a meal of undigested food, rancid and vile. If he could destroy the painting, maybe the horrific thoughts of that house would cease to cluster on the edge of the sane part of his mind. It was the other side of his brain that conjured the unbelievable images. The sights tortured him.

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31 October 2025