Interrupted Reading Painting Novels & Stories

Chapter 23: Permission A peaceful night was spent in her room, she was painting, a bloody red paint was dripping down on her illustration board, it was a bloody red rose while the red paint was dripping in uneven length, it was light enough not to drop to the bottom, it was just enough to show that it was dripping like blood from each petal. She had her headphone so her attention was fixed on her painting. But something lighted up beside her and found her, she saw a notification. She cringe her forehead when it was a message.

Dear Edward, The puzzle you have presented me with is an intriguing one. And, as you say, I have only just received your letter, and already am dashing a reply in the hopes that it may lessen your tedium somewhat. In that vein, you must bear with my meandering ‘assumptions’. Although I do wonder: what are these unmentionables you speak of? Why, indeed, allude to them at all, if not for the want of them to be mentioned? But there, never mind; I speak truthfully, for the mind does wander.

I had music playing softly in the background as I was hunched over, painting the giant suction cups that were lining the Kraken’s tentacles. I’d been at the painting for hours. Something about being able to paint without worrying someone was going to catch you was marvelous. That was until I full-body jumped when the door started to open. Luckily my brush wasn’t near the canvas but I glared at the door. “Woah, hey, I’m just dropping off packages here, Princess. No need to look so hostile.”

The wrapping and unwrapping had become ritual, the painting itself a living document of reconciliation happening at its own necessary pace. ✨ Shall we move into Part 96? Perhaps Jo and Franc share a brief moment over tea—still distant, but not disconnected. Or maybe a guest notices the wrapped painting and begins a project called Art You Waited to Receive. The thread isn’t finished—it’s gathering. 🌿🪶

she stepped out of the doorway to let me in. I smiled in response and walked past her into the vaguely familiar space of her living room. Like the last time, my eyes quickly browsed and brought the collection of paintings hanging on her walls. These were in different styles and in different colors as well as themes. I tried again, without success, to interpret the most intriguing of them all. At first glance, it appears to be a chaotic swirl of colors, with bold brushstrokes intertwining in a seemingly random fashion. Yet, upon closer inspection, I spot more intricate patterns of circles and squares, and a million other shapes I can’t name. But they all synchronized perfectly, revealing hidd

Why was he talking about a painting? I forced an awkward smile and turned toward it. But the truth was, I didn’t understand it at all. I couldn’t read it. The painting was filled with red, too much red and a body lay lifeless in a forest. My lips trembled as I bit them lightly, searching for words that wouldn’t betray my confusion. “It’s… it’s beautiful,” I stammered, shifting my gaze from the painting back to him. “Indeed it is,” he murmured, his eyes still fixed on the artwork.

⸻ The next day, I painted until my fingers cramped. At first, it was nonsense—colors clashing, strokes too sharp. But slowly, shapes formed. A storm. A woman. A pair of eyes, bleeding through the canvas in gold and crimson. I leaned closer, breath fogging the wet paint. For a moment, I swore the portrait was breathing back at me. The spell broke when I tripped over a jar of murky water. I slipped hard, crashing to the floor, splattering myself head to toe in color. My palms stung, my knees throbbed, my hair stuck to my face.

I swallowed hard, nodding quickly. But as we passed through the corridor, something made me freeze. A painting—massive, bold—hung at the end of the hallway. It wasn’t like the others. This one showed a young man kneeling, his head bowed, while another man, faceless, stood behind him with a gun pointed at his skull. I stopped dead, my eyes glued to it. My blood ran cold. Eric noticed and turned. His eyes darkened, a shadow falling across his sharp features. “That painting,” he said slowly, “was inspired by something that happened years ago. My family ordered it.”

Slowly she selected a canvas. Placed it on an easel. Then stood staring at the blank surface. For a long time she did nothing. The silence stretched. Minutes passed. Then she picked up a brush. The first stroke felt awkward. Unfamiliar. The second felt easier. The third easier still. Hours disappeared. Night deepened outside. The city lights glowed through distant windows. Jessica barely noticed. The painting slowly emerged. Not planned. Not designed. Discovered. The face appeared first. Then the eyes.

“I mean… second time in two days. Same city, same me. The odds are statistically suspicious.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “It’s a small island.” “New York? Small?” I laughed. “You’re joking.” He didn’t smile, but something in his eyes softened. Just a fraction. I tilted my head toward the paintings. “What do you think of these?” He glanced at the canvases like he was seeing them for the first time. “They’re loud.” “Loud,” I repeated, grinning. “That’s a good word for it. I think they’re screaming.”