Interrupted Reading Painting Novels & Stories

Why pick out another one? Curiosity spurring me on, I tried to remove the painting totally from the wall when all of a sudden, I heard movements in the passageway. The ruthless man was back! I thought, cussing loudly. I let the painting drop from my hand, thereby causing it to stick back to the wall. So careful not to slip off the stool while in a haste, I got down from the stool slowly and gingerly and then, rushed back to the bed, quickly burrowing underneath the sheets, my heart pounding especially when I heard the door being pushed open slightly.

Deep creases formed on her face as she let her thoughts play out. James had etched the 18-meridian diagram into his mind. Sitting in his wheelchair, he continued to scrutinize every minute detail of the painting. However, no matter how hard he looked, nothing came to mind. Apart from realizing that it did not make any sense, he learned nothing else. Maxine found nothing else too. She sat on the straw mat with her eyes cast down and muttered, “There’s no connection between the two. Who said that the item unearthed from the ancient tomb of the Prince of Orchid would unravel the secret of the painting? I feel lied to.”

Steve, who was walking behind him, stumbled in surprise at Jeremy's sudden halt. "Is everything alright?" Steve inquired, regaining his balance. "The painting over there, it's... quite different," Jeremy remarked, drawn towards the artwork with a sense of intrigue. "Um... yeah, what about it?" Steve asked, puzzled by Jeremy's sudden fascination with the painting. "It's... unique," Jeremy mused, struggling to find the right words to describe the artwork that captured his attention. As he gazed at the canvas, he noticed the absence of vibrant colors, replaced instead by a haunting blackness. It evoked an eerie feeling that Steve found unsettling.

“What if we just call him? Instead of waiting until four?” Rose raised an eyebrow. “This is why you lose. You’re too reckless.” I frowned. “Then why is this number written here?” Rose didn’t answer immediately. She exhaled and shifted her gaze to a painting in front of us. I knew that painting. Three Machines by Wayne Thiebaud. Three gumball machines stood in a row, upright, painted in a red that was too bright to be merely ordinary objects. The background was empty—almost hollow. No people. No hands inserting coins. Just the machines, as if waiting.

I fought the urge to collapse into my misery. My mojo came slowly back to me as I mixed blacks and blues and layered texture upon texture, creating a surreal image I wasn’t sure I liked. Painting was experimentation; sometimes, it worked, and at other times, you had to start over from scratch. I stepped back, unsure if I liked what was on the canvas. I picked up my empty coffee mug and headed toward the kitchen. For a minute, I thought that I heard a light tapping at the door. It was my imagination. I poured my coffee, and there it was again. Someone was at the door. It could be William.

I led her past rows of books until we stopped before a wall covered by a large painting. It was an ancient work, lines, symbols, and swirling shapes, all pressed into one complicated image that few could ever understand. I brushed my fingers over the surface, then pressed against a hidden notch. The painting shifted slightly, revealing deeper markings beneath the paint. Penelope’s brows frowned. “What is this?”

Four large paintings hung on the main wall, each one lit perfectly so it seemed to breathe on its own. Her eyes moved across them slowly… and then she saw something that caught her attention immediately. Paintings. And one of the paintings was hers. It was a piece she had finished months ago — a woman standing by a window, half in shadow, half in light. The brushwork showed all the quiet pain and hope she had felt when she painted it. Seeing it here, among the other strong works, made her chest tighten. “Quentin…” she whispered. He stood close behind her, tall and steady. “They selected four paintings this year. Yours was one of them.”

A different barista,short dark hair, sharp eyes, name tag reading LILA was pulling shots for a line of three customers. She glanced up, did a double take when she saw him, then narrowed her eyes like she was trying to place him. Alexander ignored it. Walked straight to the front window where her paintings still hung. The big one, the indigo bleeding into rose was still there. The smaller two beside it, too. No red sold dots. No price tags. He stood in front of the main canvas longer than he needed to. Close enough to see the texture of the paint, thick in some places, scraped thin in others. Gold threads woven through like light breaking open a storm.

"This one feels like the storm inside." His insight, raw and unexpected, struck a chord deep within me. He wasn't just seeing paint; he was seeing through it. Seeing the chaos, the struggle, the beauty in the breakdown. It resonated with the tempest still churning inside me. Our shoulders brushed as we leaned in slightly, examining the thick, textured strokes. The contact was fleeting, accidental, yet it sent a familiar jolt through my system, a current of awareness that bypassed thought and went straight to the bone. My skin prickled.

The gluing of the four sides of the painting was not so secure that it could be separated by hand and put back together again and again. Cynthia slowly separated the two canvases and a letter appeared in front of her eyes. This letter was like the last bottle of water for a man dying of thirst in the desert! Cynthia felt her heart beating fast, she glanced quickly at the door, sealed the painting back in its frame and took the envelope with the letter to the bathroom: For Cynthia : Cynthia, where are you? I'm worried about you, have you been locked up? The girl who bought my paints is very tight-lipped and she won't give me any information. I only asked out that she is only allowed to come s