Aphmau Artwork Novels & Stories

The thought of my paintings connecting with others, evoking emotions and sparking conversations, held an undeniable allure. "But what if they don't appreciate my art or understand the emotions behind it?" I voiced my concern, my insecurities bubbling to the surface. Hailey reached out, placing a reassuring hand on mine. "Amelia, your art speaks volumes. It's a reflection of your soul and experiences. Trust me, people will connect with it in their own unique ways." Her unwavering belief in my artistry was both humbling and empowering. I contemplated the possibility of sharing my paintings with a larger audience, the prospect of touching someone's heart through my art evoking a sense of purpos

Time passed faster as I played, but after about two hours, the games lost their charm. A familiar itch to draw tugged at me. I hadn’t brought any sketchbooks or supplies, but the urge was too strong to ignore. I searched the App Store again, downloading a few art applications. My fingers moved instinctively on the screen as I started a new project, the frustration and tension of the evening melting away. The painting took shape quickly: a white wolf standing proudly on the peak of a snow-covered mountain, its translucent fur glowing under the light of a full moon. Its purple eyes—Amy’s eyes—seemed to shine with life. The entire scene felt ethereal, almost magical.

She chuckled, turning her head at me. “Promise me you won’t sell this, Red,” she laughed. I shook my head, my shoulders shaking as I laughed with her. “I will keep this. You didn’t tell me you have this kind of talent, but you got my lips wrong.” I raised my hand, my index finger pointing at the curve of the lips of her stick man drawing. Aya glanced at me and then nodded. “Paint again, Red,” she murmured. “I can’t. Since Scarlett died, I felt like I could not paint anymore,” I muttered sadly, glancing at the last piece I made, Scarlett and our twins.

However, the word he had earlier heard interrupted his flow of thoughts, and the emotions that were creeping into him. Arthmata, Arthmata, Arthmata. The words resounded in his head in the very manner and pace the woman had said it. It, however, sounded more of a ghostly echo. Who was that woman? And what the hell is Arthmata? The woman looked worried when he met her. Their car had rammed into a truck. However, one thing caught his eye- Her eyes. When he first saw them, the top right quarter of her iris was red, the top left corner green, a the lower right quarter blue and the remaining quarter orange, and it seemed to glow dimly. The pupil was black, but it was blacker that the pupil anyone

They clapped at us. I promise you joy all your life Amira. Not anything else. The black canvas in you, that is covered in blood and in darkness, will be colorful from now on. I, Elexier will paint it sweetly with colors, bright ones. We have gone through so many things. And I will save and protect you every time that happens again. If I had to choose between breathing and loving you, I would use my last breath to say, I love you.

The next morning I proved it to myself by actually showing up to class early, sketchbook already open on my lap when Professor Laurent walked in. He was in one of his dramatic moods—scarf flung over one shoulder, gesturing with both hands as he lectured about decay as aesthetic rebellion. Halfway through, he stopped, clapped once, and grinned like he’d just invented the idea himself. “Your next project,” he announced, “is titled Urban Decay. I want you to go out into the city. Find the places most people avoid. The rotting piers, the abandoned lots, the alleys where the streetlights don’t reach. Draw what you see. But more than that—draw what you feel when you’re standing there. The beauty i

She had to be strictly business-minded for the sake of her future. A huge painting of a little black boy watering a small garden caught her attention. He wore a light brown dungaree with a striped white, red and blue shirt whose sleeves were folded to his elbows, and brown boots. One of his feet was crossed behind the other as if to show his excitement. Her guide explained that the art was by Haider Khan, a gay artist whose art depicted men in a non-traditional masculine way. She loved it. It reminded her of Darnell who was criticized by his grandfather for his love for gardening. And so she bought it as a gift.

Amani replied with a smile. As Amani stepped into her art room, her eyes immediately gravitated towards the neatly arranged new paint supplies, beckoning her to unleash her creative energy. She was determined to paint something special for herself this time. Within her heart, the memories of her beloved father and mother held a sacred place, and she longed for something tangible to forever cherish their legacy.

Instead, we stopped by the art fair that was tucked into a corner of the city I rarely explored—colorful streets, cobbled alleys, laughter echoing from cafés and street musicians filling the air with violin and trumpet duets. The kind of place that felt like a postcard come to life. Leah found a booth selling handmade journals and leather-stitched sketchbooks. She turned toward me, her smile soft. “Hey, stranger,” she teased. I handed her a paper cup. “Chamomile and mint, with honey. I took a guess.” “You guessed right.” We wandered for hours, weaving through booths of watercolor landscapes and ceramic mugs. At one stall, a painter offered to do ten-minute portraits. We watched couples laugh

Like it was tucking me in, not trying to eat me whole. “Over there’s the best street art in the city,” he said, nodding at a brick wall alive with color. I followed his gaze, then paused, smiling. It was a massive mural of a woman — dark skin, big eyes, Afro blooming like a halo. Around her head were broken clocks, blooming roses, and a phrase written in gold script: Time doesn’t heal. Time gives you space to. I took a picture before I even realized my phone was out.