Artfully Yours Novels & Stories

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.

I smile again. I put my phone down, and began typing up my detailed plans. I’m changing that nasty grey color to green. Warm. Inviting. Royal Orchard, Bitter Sage, and Green Balsam. I even put down the name of the paint company and listed trusted painters from the company to do the job. Although, I’d probably help them out too. After all the plans have been typed out, I only placed “a delicate surprise” as to where I’m getting the artwork from. I don’t want him to know that I’ve already contacted the art department of a local university to help display their students work. I’m just waiting on an email with the images to sort through the potential artwork ranging from paintings and sculptures

The artist, a talented woodworker named Noah, had a style that blended seamlessly with the aesthetic of their shop, and Claire was excited about the possibilities. As they sat in the newly renovated showroom, surrounded by the warm glow of natural wood and the gentle hum of conversation from customers browsing nearby, Claire felt a renewed sense of purpose. This was what they had set out to create—a space that celebrated craftsmanship and community, that brought people together through the shared love of beautiful, well-made things.

“You name it. Something artistic… and fitting.” Artistic and fitting? she thought. For that thing? After a few seconds, she muttered, “How about… ‘Ugly Vase’?” Aron’s expression turned slightly awkward. “Is it really that ugly?” Rachel gave a solemn nod. Calling it beautiful would be a total lie. “Alright then,” he said to Ye Tong. “Let’s go with that.” She smiled and went off to handle the details. Rachel and Aron sat in the lounge waiting for the gallery to open. Staff brought over coffee and pastries.

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.

He sighed, “I see it, sorry about that. It must be hard.” “Yeah well, it’s alright.” I smiled, “I’m good. I mean, my designs and effort speak for themselves. My overworked sketchpad too. Including a seamstress with gold for hands, and… a stubborn heart too.” “You are so killing it, Babygirl. I’m proud of you!” I laughed, “And for those calling it a rise or connections or whatever, don’t listen to them. Me included.” “Actually, I call it… craft.” I said, “Everyone and anyone that has bought my dresses can turn it inside out and they’ll see.”

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.

“You don’t need words. You just need to promise me something.” “Anything.” “Promise me you’ll use this. Really use it. That you’ll create the art you’ve been too tired or too stressed or too worried about money to create. Promise me you’ll become the artist I know you can be.” “I promise.” She raised her wine glass. “To friendship. To sisters. To the most insanely generous gift anyone’s ever given me.” I clinked my glass against hers. “To you, Maya Rossi. May you fill that beautiful space with beautiful art and beautiful life.”