Interrupted Reading Painting Novels & Stories

The more I touched the paint, the easier it became. The tighter feeling in my chest started to unravel. I kept going. Faster. Messier. Not thinking. Just… feeling. Until finally— I stopped. Breathing hard. My hands shaking. I stepped back. A bleeding heart. Held in tiny hands. It didn’t look right, like an amateur did it but it said everything I couldn’t. I huffed out a small breath and that’s when I noticed I was alone. Rohan was gone. I glanced at his canvas.

My unfinished painting loomed over me, a silent witness to my unraveling. With shaking hands, I wiped my face and pushed myself to stand. I felt as if my legs may collapse at any second, but I can't remain hunched down on the ground. Not now. Not when things are getting out of hand. My fingers grazed the scratchy canvas as I approached the artwork. My use of bright blacks and reds now appeared too raw, too daring. They represented a disorder I wasn't prepared to deal with. I was startled by a quick knock on the door. For a moment, I thought Roman had come back, and my breath seized in my throat. But, it wasn't him when I opened the door.

Melody replied casually. Melody laughed in derision. Talia frowned, and immediately glanced at Christopher. His eyes were on the unsigned painting, and it was hard to tell what he was feeling. Talia looked at the painting as well, but she couldn’t find anything special about it. It was just an ordinary landscape ink painting. There were mountains, people, flowers, birds, fish, insects on the shore, and rolling waves in the water. The elements were strange and inconsistent. At once, Talia was confident that Melody was bluffing.

Seconds later, another tiny click pierces the quiet atmosphere. We lock eyes; “I think the secret is leaning on it.” She says excitedly. “Try it. Come on!!” Oddly, she’s right. Zuri leans against the painting three more times and a loud, deafening noise rents the air. It sounds like heavy-duty machines whirring deep within the foundations of the house. “Holy guacamole.” I whisper as the painting slowly separates into two equal parts. Zuri and I join hands, eyes wide like saucers as we watch the darkness behind the painting unfold before us.

He was‌ leaning in the doorway, jacket off, sleeves rolled,‍ looking at me like he w⁠asn’t sure if he had the right to inte‍rr⁠upt. ‍ “I‌ didn’‍t hear⁠ you,” I‍ said, se‍tting my brush down. “Y‍ou were focused,” he said, st‌epp‍ing closer. “‍I didn’t want to break it.” I sm⁠i‍led faintly. “You a‍lready did.‍” ‌His mouth curved, but‍ not quite into a⁠ smile. “Fai⁠r enough.” He studie⁠d the p⁠aint‌ing. “Is t‌hat us?”

I never knew of a secret treasure my family supposedly had. Looking up at the painting, I still cannot understand what all the fuss is about. The painting is the second in the series of oil paintings called the guild of the guardians. It features three old men sitting around a table, smoking cigars. They look fat and bored with their lives. It is not a particularly pretty picture, and the colours are dull and lifeless. There is no X marks the spot to indicate a treasure. There really is nothing significant about this painting. It is ordinary in every sense of the word. I run my fingers softly over the brush strokes, feeling the fine ridges made by the brush. At least it is an original. I pic

It was the exact version that only existed between 2:00 am in the morning and early sunrise, when his eyes only appears tired and lost in compromise for me. I mix a little of cadmium red though burnt and I bent over and murmur even not to my hearing to the paint, “Please don’t try to make him too perfect. I just need you to make him real.” Right behind me, I ignored the kettle as it whistled non stop. This part I'm venturing into in painting the portrait needs silence. Sometimes, when it was time for me to paint him, I bend over, speaking to him like his seat is just by my side.

“Uhm_ I haven't painted anything in a while” “Your work is amazing” I walked around looking at each painting. Most of her work was abstract. I felt drawn to this particular painting. The main colour in the painting was orange and had tiny bits of brown in them. Other smaller colours were there to highlight certain features. “Can you explain this painting?” I asked Ri. “This was what I was working on. My newest painting” She started. “Ok, but what is the story behind it?” I asked again. I just couldn't understand why I felt really drawn to it. I moved my fingers and trailed them on the paintings when suddenly something hit me. My hard started to hurt and I felt my eyeballs roll back.

Jon mumbled. "And that undisclosed buyer is me," said Dante smiling widely, his sharp teeth glistening in the dim room. "Let's see if you can guess who painted the next one." Dante walked eagerly to the next painting, his cane tapping on the wooden floor like a one-legged giant insect. He likewise turned on the pin lights and the painting exploded in colors of bright red and burnt sienna. "This painting is something I really like. Tell me what you think?" The second painting showed a half-naked man with eyes opened wide as if in a crazed state. In his hand was something that looked like a severed human arm while blood was seen dripping from his mouth. He appeared to be in a desert and faint

Clara had mixed several shades of her oil paints and started painting on the already primed and outlined canvas. Admittedly she had to take several breaks to straightened her shoulder. Raphael was just sitting beside her watching her moving her brushes across the surface smoothly creating different kinds of three dimensional textures. It was a rather pleasant experience, it was like a therapy for her and a tranquil moment for him. They did talk a bit and Raphael was able to joke around a bit with her, mostly about her painting. It was a painting of a oak tree silhouette during sunset, right under the tree was painted a swing, and a little girl was seen seated on it while a boy was seen kneel