Blanket
In a cold, cold night, he covered himself with some of his useless paintings. It warmed his outer skin. Sweats appeared. His sweats, as always, was drenched in blood. Whilst he slept.
Next morning, early morning, as early as it gets, she came to wake him up and she picked up his painted blankets. "These are your masterpieces", she exclaimed, kissing him on his closed eyelids, softly.
Next morning, early morning, as early as it gets, she came to wake him up and she picked up his painted blankets. "These are your masterpieces", she exclaimed, kissing him on his closed eyelids, softly.
Labels: blanket, death, fiction, flash fiction, love, masterpiece, painting, short story, story, surreal