Original works / Original works

A dead fog bloomed in the gray embrace of the night, like the breath of bygone times. He came like a sad messenger, eclipsing the light of the stars with a misty veil, like a ghost of the past, forgotten in the whirlwind of fate.

In the shadow of sad alleys, between the endless walls of gray buildings, lived an artist whose work was shrouded in the darkness of art. His palette knew only one shade - deep, impenetrable black. It seemed that every stroke of his brush contained inexhaustible grief, longing, the source of which lay somewhere in the very soul of the artist.

In the dark realm of the unconscious, where dreams are born, the hero of my story woke up every night. He was a shadow flying through the stars of his dreams. His creator, the master of this magical theater of dreams, put his soul into each image, gave him wings so that he could soar into the abyss of imagination.

It was summer when the flowers in the garden were blooming with bright colors, but in the house number 13 there was a shadow. Where laughter and joy used to sound, now there is only an echo of past happiness.

Just some Thoughts about Justice

At the edge of the world, where the sky had become an unreal carpet of evening haze, the beach stretched like a forgotten verse in the book of time. The sand, soft as a memory of the past days, met the wave streaming from the boundless horizon. The sea seemed like a big ocean of longing, in which the sun's rays were drowning, coloring the water surface with shades of unspoken sadness.

In the shadow of a forgotten city, where time wove its nets of old memories, there was a homeless emperor. He was the lord of the forgotten streets, covered with the dust of time, and his palace was a dilapidated house under the arches of heaven. His empire was empty, as if locked in bronze tombs of memory.

In the lost alleys of the city, where the walls of houses are like silent witnesses to forgotten stories, there lived a homeless tramp named Wind. His long hair was intertwined with fate, and his eyes, like the heavens in a gray cloud, despite their bottomless gaze, radiated something inexpressibly dreary.

For a long time, the heavens gave light to the stars, which have now faded away, like the last sighs of ancient constellations. Surrounded by the darkness of the night, a lonely traveler walks along forgotten paths where the stars used to have fun.

Devon is a demon who believes only in human sinfulness. Christopher is a guy whose life has long lost meaning. Having met the demon in the library at night, he never thought that he would have the opportunity to make a deal with the demon. Devon didn’t think that for the first time he would give up a human soul... But what is it? Curiosity? The desire to prove that he is right? “So, Mr. Demon, don't you want to take my soul?” A story where black and white makes no sense.

We were doing silly things, Drinking the remnants of wisdom with tea.

in this day.

In a world where the lines of reality and dreams are intertwined, there is a rookery of sadness, monotony and tarnished colors. The story about him resembles clouds floating across the sky in silence.

A special rose bloomed in the depths of the scarlet gardens. Her beautiful petals, like silk handkerchiefs, framed every look with sophistication. But the beauty of this rose hid a tragic story that tells why it's easier to be a bad person.

Plunging into the depths of my soul, I discovered that we, like stars in the sky, are born in different places and times. Despite this, we all strive to be equal – equal pieces of this great puzzle called life.

In the city of piles and faceless facades, where everyone has long sold his soul to the devil under an easily recognizable brand, there lived an unusually handsome guy named Avalanche. He was of divine origin, his hair burned like gold at sunset, and his eyes were transparent, like dew drops on a daisy petal. Avalanche was a bright torch in the gloomy darkness of consumer society.

The whisper of old trees announced the approaching end, and the cold wind inexorably carried away tears from people's eyes. The peaceful radiance of the strong sun was already leaving this scorched earth, leaving it in the arms of desiccated despondency.

Fragments of sadness lay on the shore of the boundless ocean. The grains of sand that had once been part of the whole were now lost in the eternal flight of the surf. The sun has just set below the horizon, shrouding the entire expanse of the sky with dark clouds. Somewhere in the distance, a melancholic melody sounded, emphasizing the serenity and loneliness of this place.

Once, on the shore of a picturesque lake, there was a small house. This house seemed to be a bridge between two worlds – a world of peace and quiet, and a world of incomprehensible sadness.

Autumn weekdays are like a dance of leaves in the wind - every day a new performance of a magnificent ballet, in which penetrating sadness is intertwined with unique beauty.