Heavenly White Paint Novels & Stories

Paintbrushes of various sizes, their bristles like delicate feathers, stood tall in jars filled with water. Tubes of paint, vibrant and inviting, lay scattered in organized chaos. Pencils of all shades and hardness, waiting to leave their mark on canvas, beckoned me to take them in my hand. And there, in the center of it all, rested pristine white canvases, their surfaces smooth and unblemished, like promises of boundless creativity

“Everything else comes from the paint.” “Agreed,” Diana said. They had been agreeing with each other, I had noticed, with increasing frequency. Not about everything they were both too particular for that but about the things that mattered. The structural things. The things that were right. “What colour?” I asked. They looked at each other. A brief, efficient exchange. The particular communication of two women who had reached the same conclusion by different routes and were confirming that the routes had converged. “Warm white,” Diana said. “Not cold white. Not cream. Warm white the kind that holds colour well.”

He will be so mad if he finds out and I am already overstepping. Back in the kitchen, I gather the paint I am going to use and head out of the cabin to the plastic that I laid down on the grass. I will do the spray painting here and then the finer work inside. I know we agreed to do white and black, but the flower needs to stand out more. I got the color exactly like the flower in “Beauty and the Beast”. It will look beautiful with a black background. With a determined breath, I start to spray the paint carefully on the paper. I hope some of Kate’s artistic skills come out to help me. I do not want to mess this up.

I ran away instead of facing the guilt I was feeling. An hour later, we arrived at the Heavenly colors. A local paint company in Milan. I've been working with them for years now. They were producing and distributing paints, including those designed specifically for interior and exterior walls, as well painters who worked with canvas. I‘d been buying different kinds of paints, like oil paints, acrylic paint and water colors for Safiya. And all I can say was that their colors had higher quality, blendability and archival properties. It does not yellow or crack over time.

He was still. He was gone. Her calls were never heard by him. Her tears he never saw, Her face he could not see. The sky was bright, the sun shining bright, But the castles were under a dark black cloud. The queen stopped at the end of the bed, as tears poured down her eyes she felt her heartache. He was gone too soon, he left with too little memories.

When I started painting, I put every feeling that had that black, it was even funny when you take something pure like white and dirty it with black, white represents so many happy feelings, like peace, the will to live, purity, when a bride puts white on her wedding day she is showing how pure she is for her husband, not that this is something bad, to give yourself body and soul to a single person must be the most wonderful thing in the world, and this is what white represents, but black, the darkest tone, the color that prevents you from seeing further, the color of sadness, of death, the color that makes you sad, even if the color has not existed for this is still how it will be transmitte

This was to be the nursery for her new sibling. She approached this task with a fervor that eclipsed even her contributions to the sanctuary. This wasn't just design; it was an act of profound love, a promise of protection woven into every chosen detail. She spent hours with paint charts, finally settling on a shade called "Moonlit Meadow", a soft, silvery green that felt both peaceful and alive. "It's the color of magic just before dawn," she explained to the bemused painter.

or something like that. Then there's The Marking. Not like biting or stuff like that. This one is for the entire pack. Special paint made by witches, from moon dust, sun dust, first snow water, dew drops and white roses. Weird, right? Anyway, this one is mostly like drawing tattoos, but with the feather from a white owl.

"Fuck me, Adrian. I need you inside me. Please." "Not yet," he said, a wicked glint in his eye. He stood up and walked over to the buckets of paint. He returned with a large, open bucket of thick, white titanium white. "First, we make our masterpiece." He tilted the bucket. A thick, heavy stream of white paint poured out, splashing directly onto her chest. It was a shocking, sensual deluge. The paint was cool and heavy, pooling between her breasts and running down her sides in slow, sticky rivulets. It flowed into the dip of her navel, down her stomach, into her pubic hair, mixing with the black paint on her mound. She gasped at the shock, the sheer, filthy decadence of it.

Heaven blinding me! I open my eyes, the direct flash on my eyes made me see tiny stars, I blink a few times to adjust to the heavens lighting system. I see a high glass ceiling, the glass has mosaic artworks made up of blue glass and a crescent moon in the middle of it made of white glass. It is definitely heaven, such a piece of art only Jesus can afford. My eyes travel further and I see a ceiling fan with a fancy chandelier in the middle of it, glistening and casting tiny white stars reflection on the walls. It shines brightly, it is definitely made of diamonds. But fan? Seriously? Is it summer in heaven?