Lightbulb X Paintbrush Novels & Stories

"I must be saying that a lot mustn't I?" I rush to the primed canvas and run my hands on its surface. I notice the paint brushes and run towards them. I feel the bristles, some are synthetic while others are natural. The paints smile at me in order. Oils, acrylics, gouache.... Oh may God.... "What is this place?" I whisper more to myself than to Ric. I do a spin and it feels like I'm in heaven. I turn to him and he's standing right in front of me. "What is this?"

A breath slips free of my lips. “Tessa.” She strides toward me. “Are you okay? Did the guards hurt you?” Her palms gently touch my skin and shoulders, checking for wounds. “No. I am good.” My lips answer. “How did you do it?” Jay questions. “The only thing I am good at is making chemicals. The blue paint is a strong chemical mixed with a red one. The water drains the red chemical first, then blue.” “We can clean them in hot water and the original red color will be back.”

Most of the objects in the house were painted by him, and all of them looked retaliating enough that someone who didn't know the object or craft wouldn’t think it was real. But he was dark; I barely saw him laugh; he was either eating or drawing; and he was totally opposite of his sister Carol. She was always happy and nice to be around, and she recently got admitted to the same school as Joan, so they attended classes together and became fond of each other. While on the other hand was him. The paintbrush boy. Stepping out of my car, I banged it hard enough to distract him. So at least he noticed me and forged an expression really quick, which he did.

The blank canvas mocked me, a silent reflection of my own helplessness. I swirled the brush absently in the air, its bristles never touching the surface, as though afraid that putting anything down might make the feelings too real. Outside, the sun had finally disappeared, leaving only darkness behind. It felt fitting, somehow.

I tell her. “Well, I thought we could make the lights for them. I know the twins’ favorite colors and we could use that as the focus.” “It’s a lot of space, Maeve. Do you think you and your sister can handle all of that by yourselves.” “You haven’t seen them make their lights. It’s really awesome, Cohen. They make one large ball of light, add color, then ‘ping’, they touch it and it magically turns into a bunch of small lights.” “You know the sprites are going to want to keep them, right?” I ask.

Lumabas na ako ng k’warto niya para balikan ang niluluto. Pababa na sana ako ng hagdanan nang makita kong nakabukas nang bahagya ang pintuan ng studio niya. Nakita ko rin doon ang ilang gamit na nakakalat kaya naman pumasok ako ro’n para ligpitin ang mga pinaggamitan niya. Binabad ko sa tubig ang mga brush na pinaggamitan niya at pagkatapos, inilagay ‘yon sa pinaglalagyan ng mga ito. Pati ang mga pintura niya, itinabi ko na rin sa designated places ng mga ‘to.

What counts is sticking to the steps laid out. That day, sunlight slants through the window just right. Suddenly, Beatrice shifts how she moves things forward. Gone is the worn poetry book from before. Sitting there instead - a slender wooden case, smooth to look at. Without hurry, she lifts the lid and sets it flat on the tabletop. Nestled in soft blue fabric inside: delicate paintbrushes, pans of dried color, plus thick sheets meant for wet strokes. “I thought you might express what you can’t say,” she suggests, her voice honeyed. “The visions. Paint them for me. The colors, the shapes. It might be a relief.”

Brian teased, dodging another paintball. “Oh come here,” she said, chasing him around. “I have to give you a new look.” Brian yelled in excitement as he dodged a ball. “Stay away from me, paint monster.” They continued their playful banter, each trying to outdo the other. For a moment, Jane forgot all her problems and let her inner child take control. She felt free, unburdened, and genuinely happy. After the paintball game, Brian led her to a studio where they could try their hand at painting. They each grabbed a canvas and some brushes, diving into their work. Jane, with her artistic background, quickly created a beautiful landscape, while Brian’s attempt at a portrait was far less impressi

For this, I need pallet knives and wide stiff bristled brushes and vibrant yellow, phthalo blue, cerulean, cadmium red, russet, ink black, titanium white and lots of lively music to fuel my creative burst. I may be worried about what is happening with Gabriel and the press conference but I feel so darned loved and seen with him. I can’t help but feel more positive about my future. He gets me, he truly understands my needs and desires and appreciates my creativity. I pull my hair out of my face and put on music most people would never in a million years guess I love, then I push my sleeves up and start with big, bold strokes, laying out the basic shape and outline, the underpainting before I

“It’s not a machine gun.” I glared at him. What made him think that I thought it was a weapon? “I know that,” I told him. I studied his grip and saw that he was holding the paintbrush a lot differently than I was. I wouldn’t say it looked like I was holding a gun, but it did look more like a pencil. His grip was more relaxed.