Midna Artwork Novels & Stories

As her brush glided across the surface, she felt a surge of pride, knowing that her artwork would forever bear her mark—a symbol of the time, effort, and love she had poured into its creation. Stepping back to admire her work one last time, Ayana felt a smile spread across her face. The portrait of Adam stood before her, a testament to their friendship and the profound impact he had had on her life. It was more than just a painting—it was a reflection of the bond they shared, a celebration of the beauty and depth of their connection.

They imitated the haze clouding my own head, blurring the edges of the crystal chandeliers and the painted Mona Lisas staring down from the ceiling. I held the picture between my thumb and index finger, Mia Armando smiling up at me from the tabloid with eyes the color of a forgotten summer sky. Weird-looking bird, Junior called her, blonde hair streaked with electric blue, like someone dipped a paintbrush in a neon puddle. Art student, he said, barely twenty years old. "You find her interesting, boss?" Junior, my shadow in a pinstripe suit, leaned against the bar, sipping his usual black coffee.

"Describe her to the artist. We need an accurate representation." The head of the maidservants stepped forward, her eyes filled with determination. She carefully described the girl's features—the shape of her face, the color of her hair, and the distinctive marks that adorned her skin. The artist listened attentively, their skilled hands ready to transform words into visual form. As the artist began to draw, they meticulously crafted several copies of the maid's image. Each stroke of the pencil captured the essence of the girl, immortalizing her presence on paper. The images held a striking resemblance to the maid, ensuring that anyone who encountered her would recognize her unmistakable fac

I was now on the podium and I began talking about my work. “This is mixed media. I drew a woman which symbolizes the pain of hurting inside while carrying a cheerful face on the outside. She had part of her face covered with water to symbolize the pain, while her hands reached above her head to show that she is still trying to rise above the pain. This artwork is to encourage people going through tough times to never give up.” The judges nodded and scribbled something on their paper. Then they asked me the next question. “What do you plan to do with the money and the art gallery gift?”

I waved my hand in dismissal. “What about that girl over there? I saw you talking to her before. And I saw her at a party with Mike the other night. You know…before he was…murdered,” Jaimie said in a hushed tone. I looked in the direction he was looking and saw Marina. She was alone this time. “I don’t think so, man. She would never agree to it,” I said. She already hated me. This would just put a cherry on top. “Try for me. How about this, if you can convince her, I can help you take some pretty interesting pictures,” Jaimie said and smiled mysteriously.

With the following words that describes the Maiden. The Shrine Maiden in the last loop, the crown princess from the last fifth and sixth loop, a noble in the past second to fourth loop and an heiress at the beginning. She who own the past of the most beautiful eyes that resembles the starry night sky. Her hair that is in a hue of ember light to dark purple color, skin that is fair, lips that shade is just like a Sakura flower. Holder of time, space and dimension, with her god the serpentine Ophiuchus with its primordial form of a Pegasus. She is the perfect Maiden, with the shard of the original Princess.

It would give her a sleek look. We drank our mojitos for pregame and hailed a cab to go to Alessandro's club, The raven. We arrived at the club. There was a good-looking guy approaching us, he is a brunette, I can't see his eyes clearly because of the lights. He looks like in his mid-20s, has a scruffy strong looking jaw, heavily tattooed hands, looks like Zayn Malik but a sinner wearing a clean tidy suit and he is definitely her type.

Then, we can talk. ******* Two days later, a package arrives. It’s big, wrapped in brown paper, with my name written in Nila’s messy handwriting. I put it on my desk, trace the letters with my finger, and rip the paper open. It’s a painting. A naked woman kneels in a field of ruins and ashes, her back arched, arms lifted slightly toward the stormy sky. Her black hair blows in the wind, partly covering her face. A long black spear is stuck in her chest, and red paint drips down her body. A vulture sits on the end of the spear, waiting.

"And it's the only shield strong enough to stop a man like Liam Cross." She pulled up a series of images on a projector. They were black and white. Stark. High contrast. Image 1: Ariane, in her studio, back to the camera, pinning a dress on a form. The lighting was dramatic, casting long shadows that looked like bars. Caption: Art is not a luxury. It is a survival mechanism. Image 2: A close-up of her hands. Scarred from the "broken glass," calloused from the needle. They were strong hands. Working hands.

That was the moment I swiveled my gaze around the room, noticing the soft glow of the chandelier that hung from the lofty ceiling, the cream colored walls I wanted to run my fingers on, and worse— My breath locked, confusion slowly setting in as my eyes narrowed on the artworks that were hung on the wall. Paintings that I had seen at an exhibition, paintings that I’d wanted desperately but couldn’t get because they were sold at ridiculous amounts and Eden believed it was a waste of money. But they were here, staring back at me like they were hung here for me. My eyes twitched, my brain short-circuited as I tried to process why they were here. Merida’s voice broke through my muddled brain and