Novel & Cerita Artfully Yours

Be proud of yourself, Mistakes do not mar you, They make you. Hey there, I see you, And I see art. Pure and true. Hey broken beautiful, You, Yes you, Are worth it. You're worth the pain it took, To become you. I'm proud of you, All of you. The Abandoned Journal of Dean Olsen. Seyi's POV

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x Drop ur comments.

Cherry sat down besides her Madeleine, while Madeleine took a seat beside Adeline. "You girls did great!" Adeline said to both of them. "Yeah, I know. Cherry can't stop boasting about it." Madeleine said laughing as she gave Cherry a nudge at her shoulder playfully. "I told you I could do it!" Cherry argued. "Great." Adeline replied with a light smile. "Did you guys enjoy your performance?" "We sure did." Madeleine said nodding. "Yeah...it was great." Cherry added agreeing with Madeleine. A few moments later, the last auction began. The item was an art piece called 'Naked Truth.' It depicted a painting of a forest and a young woman made of flowers, stretching forth her hand towards a man who

It was mine. Alyssa slowly flipped open her packet, pretending to be unimpressed. “And what exactly do you think Weston wants to desire?” she asked smoothly. “You’ve been away for years. Surely you’ve forgotten that people here don’t care about philosophy or art. They want status. Visibility. They want to be envied.” I tapped a section of the packet and met her gaze directly. “That’s exactly what we’re giving them. This collection isn’t about blending in. It’s about presence. Clean lines. Strong shapes. Colors that bite. Textures that whisper. Everything about it screams confidence.”

I deleted his number from my phone, a symbolic gesture that did nothing to erase the memory of his touch, his taste, the sounds he made when I raked my nails down his stomach. I worked through the night, hands cramping, eyes burning. By morning, I had completed seven new pieces. I photographed them against my skin, making sure the lighting highlighted the details that would justify the prices I needed to charge. The caption I wrote for the first I*******m post was simple: When they try to break you, make art from the pieces. I hit "share". * * *

“Anything for you.” A burst of sheer delight erupted from Ezio’s being as if the universe itself had granted his heartfelt desire. With a spring in his step, he scampered back to his colouring book, a world of untamed creativity awaiting him. The blank pages eagerly awaited his touch, ready to be transformed into vibrant artworks of his imagination. As he immersed himself in the web of colours, I watched him with a tender pride, grateful for the privilege of being his mother. In the realm of his artistry, I glimpsed the blossoming of his spirit, his brushstrokes weaving stories of wonder and boundless dreams.

She turned back to her work, picking up a rag to polish a smudge of resin. Aurora paused at the door. She looked at her daughter. Hope was humming. Bohemian Rhapsody. Aurora smiled. The world was quiet. The art was safe. She walked out, closing the door on the masterpiece, unaware that five thousand miles away, a machine was printing that same masterpiece onto a polyester throw pillow. The Upper West Side. Ms. Elena sat at her kitchen table, grading the portfolios of her current "Little Leonardos" class. They were terrible. Brown smudges and glitter everywhere.

Like she had thought about this for long enough that putting it down was simply the final step. Her handwriting was neat. Her expression was calm. And the plan taking shape on that page was neither rushed nor careless. It was the kind of plan that had been building quietly for a long time. Waiting for exactly the right moment.

The minute he opened it, his stomach twisted in recognition. Inside was Medical-grade scar care products. He knew because he’d done research about it once but it was out of stock at the time so he settled for tattoos and after that, he just couldn’t stop. He reached for the note inside, his fingers trembling slightly. There was nothing except one simple sentence written in stunning cursive letters. One that made his heart flutter. “You're beautiful, Art.”

Amara's POV April. Third week. Tuesday morning. I was at the warehouse. Not the making school. The warehouse. The new space. The What You Actually Are collection was taking shape. Ruth's commission was done and delivered. Catherine's commission was done and delivered. Three more pieces were in progress. Each one for a specific person. Each one starting with the pocket. Each one built around what the person actually was. The collection was growing the right way. Not quickly.