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.

To express his determination to be with Yvonne, Nash even smashed his beloved easel and went on a hunger strike in protest. I saw Nash a week later. It was the first sunny day in two months. I happened to catch a glimpse of him sitting by the window, painting. Since being with Yvonne, he had rarely touched a paintbrush. He would discard a painting even before it took shape. In the middle of the night, the piercing sound of an ambulance tore through the silence. My parents heard it and rushed next door to help. I saw Mr. Xander carrying Nash on his back, and Mrs. Xander was sobbing behind them. Nash's right hand hung in front of Mr. Xander, and blood was dripping down one drop at a time.

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”

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.”

His snigger filled the air as we all started ambling. RINA I briefly pressed a wet brush on paper before spreading out the moisture over a specific sketch. I got my selected pigment —a mix of forest green and sunset yellow—and worked it in, curious to know the outcome. Unfortunately, it wasn't as bad as I'd hoped. They said a painting clearly depicted the mental state of its painter. Bullshit, I said. Utterly and totally wrong. No matter how much I gave myself away to my thoughts or listened to the depressing lyrics contained in my playlist, I couldn't send the message across. By my side was the proof of my inability: balled up sketches and three pencils decorated with bite marks.

“What do you want, Joker? Enough of this Joker madness, what is your name?” He made his way towards me. His hair was damp from the rain, and I couldn't shake off the fact that he had a slight resemblance to Archer. I shook off that feeling and just waited for his response. “Well, Malysh, there's a lot I want, but you're making it very difficult for me. Firstly, why the fuck are you fleeing from Archer when we had an agreement already?” “Because I'm sick and tired of that misogynistic fucker, he only sees me as an object, nothing more nothing less. And I'll be damned to stay even a second longer with such a man. All you men are fuckers, fuck you all.

"The painter's initials are RV. Do you know anyone with those initials?" Lea tried to remember while Eloise read the little notes on the back of the painting. "To Lea, forgive me for not being able to paint you as beautiful as the real thing. You are always beautiful. Ricky V." Suddenly Nina exclaimed. "Owh, this is a painting by Ricky Viener, the world's famous eccentric young painter." Fely nudged Nina's arm hard. She was not happy at all with the fact that Lea received such a precious gift. "Yes, that's absolutely true," said one committee member. "Wow, Ms. Lea, you are amazing. Even a world-class star looks up to you."