Lightbulb X Paintbrush Novels & Stories

“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.

I decided to roam around here and touch objects. I walk close to the big painting in his wall. It was painted by a known artist. This is really a master piece. I also went behind his table and the breath-taking view welcomed me. WOW! I can really see the building from here! And I know this view will be a lot more better when it’s night time. The building will have light and you’ll see the cars also with their lights on. And also in sunset.

An LED tv fixed inside the frame on the right wall and some paintings. One painting was just smudged colors. There were green, blue, yellow, and, red blurring into each other at no specific points. The other was kind of a starry night. It had a black background that was fusing into the reddish-blue sunset sky. There were white dots, and strokes over it. They both were hanging above the LED.

The two classes I skipped were with him, so I hadn't seen him all day. After school, I went to paint with others, and they actually enjoyed the stuff we got at the mall. One used glitter to make a snow sparkle, another placed small gems, instead of painting them and made it look crazy realistic. Some electric colors that I bought made Daphne's northern lights look just amazing. I was glad about my purchase, and it gained me some respect from others in the project.

I'm sure my religious Russian mother would've had a heart attack if she knew what I was doing right now, but I couldn't be bothered enough to care. A blank canvas has unlimited possibilities. While we start out painting the perfect picture, things don't always go as planned. Our canvas got smudged along the way. We accidentally mixed the wrong colors, and some of the lines turned out jagged. At the end of it though, it's ours, and that's what makes it priceless.

“So what are we doing?” “A stroke,” he says. “A stroke?” I raise a brow. “That sounds easy.” A ghost of a smile caresses his lips as he picks a brush too, loading it with a deep green before running it over the canvas to make out a perfect leaf. “Piece of cake.” I scoff and mimic his movement, but when I lift my brush, there is no leaf. Just a weird green blob. I laugh nervously. “It’s definitely the glove.” I pull the leather off my hand, scooping up more paint.

Inside, is a set of professional oil paints in colors I've been mixing by hand because the premade versions aren't precise enough. Japanese kolinsky sable brushes, the kind that cost more than anything else in the painting world and a card in rigid, familiar handwriting. "For the battle. — S." Not "for the event." Not "for the showing." For the battle. He sees it the way I see it. Not an exhibition but a fight, and these are my weapons. I set the brushes beside my easel and the heart beats steady and strong and ready. *** In a glass office somewhere across the city, Ryan Holt leans back in his chair and takes a call.

She wasn't planning on painting. The brass lamp provided physical weight—a heavy, blunt object that could serve as an improvised weapon if the security locks ever failed. The calligraphy pens contained sharp, hardened steel nibs that could easily pierce a throat or disable a delicate wiring cluster. And the industrial solvent contained concentrated acetone, a volatile chemical compound that can degrade synthetic rubber seals, melt thin plastic casings, or cause short circuits if poured directly into an exposed electronic junction box. She submitted the request, watching the screen flash with a quick green confirmation message: *Logistics Request Submitted. Security Review Pending.*

The painting did not steal the limelight of the surrounding scenery nor was it too dull. Penny noticed that the paint tray was a little dirty and planned to go to the faucet not far away to wash the brushes and change the water. It was ten o'clock at night, and there was no one around. She walked faster, but when she lowered her head to arrange the painting tools, she bumped into someone that smelled slightly of alcohol. All the unused black paint in her hand spilled on the person’s white shirt and also on Penny. Caleb lowered his head and glanced at the shirt that had been ruined. He knew that he could not wear it anymore. His brows were furrowed, and his gaze turned cold.

Alex watched her from the doorway, coffee in hand, looking more uncertain than she’d ever seen him. Neither had said much since waking. Every silence between them felt alive — not uncomfortable but loaded. They were standing on the other side of something they couldn’t name yet. A threshold that couldn’t be crossed back. Sophia picked up a brush and dipped it in white paint, dragging a slow stroke across the canvas. Her movements were automatic — like she was painting to stop herself from thinking. Alex stepped closer. “You don’t have to work right now,” he said gently. She didn’t look up. “If I don’t, I’ll think about it.”