Crazy Painter Novels & Stories

I'm full with the joy of spending this weekend with this beautiful and wonderful people over here. What matters is that we all are together at last.we are " CRAZY BEAUTIFUL US"

"Forget about him. He'll be driving, and we'll be in the back doing our thing. If that's not exciting enough for you, I'll tell him to pull over so he can join in…" "What are you talking about?" I hissed, covering his mouth. Truckers—especially the long-haul guys—had a habit of talking dirty to pass the time, but I couldn't believe he was saying such things about me. I was mortified. Yet, despite the shame, the image Dylan planted in my mind began to take root. Two strong men, one in front, one behind… I pressed my hands against my burning cheeks, forcing the thoughts away, and hurried to finish packing.

“If he was a painter he should have had any kind of painting equipment right? But-” One after the other as they really did check all around the house they didn't really find any one of it. Making it seems as if he really never painted at all, but just the painting that was his handing in his wall. "There was no painting equipment at all in there how can I miss that?" running the fingers through his hair. Making him remember what Ren just said a moment ago that nothing really matters anymore. "The famous painter Watanabe Takeshi was found dead in his own house that was blown up due to the gas leakage"

My desk mate had a fiery temper and stood up to retort, "This is hilarious. Who's jealous of your man? Only you treasure Nash. In everyone else's eyes, what is he? An artist with a disabled hand, a bottom-tier student who can't get into college?" Upon hearing these words, Nash's face darkened, and the onlookers' expressions, like they were watching a show, made the usually proud Nash find it somewhat unbearable.

The kind that does not go away just because you ignore it. My life is becoming more like a documentary,i flinch boring and hectic

As she dips her brush into vibrant colours, it's as if her hands have disconnected from her mind, moving with an autonomy driven by an unspoken need for escape. The strokes of the paintbrush become a rhythm, a cathartic dance on the canvas. Amara's eyes are distant, her gaze fixed on a place beyond the four walls that confine her. She paints with a feverish intensity, each stroke an attempt to distance herself from the haunting memories of the night before.

And you must try to make your madness help others get out of the dangerous wave that is lonely. ~ End ~ Author’s Note: Next Story, “The Painter”

I marveled at the talent of the painter, with each stroke brought so much life to the painting. The second painting hanging side by side with first was the painting of 5 people cloaked in a dark robe from head to their ankles, the only visible part of them was their feet and wrist. It was impossible to tell if any was a man or a woman. They were walking in a straight line arranged according to their height with the tallest at the very end and the shortest in front. I thought inherently they were human at first but on a second look I saw the man at the very end had an extremely big hand and feet, and both were painted white, his back was also bent in a very unnatural way. The face of the crea

Like she’s painting hope, dreams, sugar, and spice, and everything nice. And Felix… Oh, Felix is in their element, painting a mad spiral in red and green. Their canvas is a burst of passion and life, a crazy dance of colors that is so Felix in every way. My heart soars as we all smile at each other. I`m so lucky to have found those two. To have found a home here at Ghost Pack. Then, a tight fist clutches around my throat as I realize I pretty much just turned my back on my family.

Conan grumbles, “well since you are using my idea, how much I am being paid?” “Relax, I will pay you fool,” Cyan says, “come you will help me get Kaleah’s painting room ready.” Cyan drags me with her to the painting room, where we spent the rest of the day cleaning boxes and arranging Kaleah’s paintings material. “Wow, she is great,” I say admiring one of the paintings on the wall, “is this her mother?” “Yes, like she replicated all this with just her brain, like that girl is a genius, she just too modest about it.”