Novel Paints Novels & Stories

he gives me a kiss on the forehead then walks to the door. "I'm going to prove that I want you Harper, I'm going to show you just how much you actually mean to me" with that he leave. It's the bond, that's all it is, right? 'Components added to create more vibrant colors have yet to fade through out the centuries. The walls, canvas and in some under water pillars have shown that it's due to the unusual combination of a vast array of powders, oils and plants that's made these enigmatic art work withstand the elements.'

He pushed it open, half-expecting to find it stripped bare, a hollow mockery. It was exactly as he had left it. The chaotic, anguished painting from his breakdown still stood on the easel, a testament to his unraveling. But something was different. On the small table beside the easel, where he usually kept his brushes, sat a brand-new, unopened wooden box. He recognized the maker’s mark—it was an exorbitantly expensive set of professional oil paints, colors he had only ever dreamed of using. His breath caught. This was not just permission; it was a provision. An encouragement. It made no sense.

To channel the whirlwind inside. My small studio space was a comforting mess of canvases, brushes, and tubes of paint. I didn’t plan. I just moved. I stretched a fresh, large canvas onto the easel. I squeezed paints directly onto the palette, not just violet, but deep cobalt, fiery cadmium red, streaks of gold, earthy ochre. The colors of the storm painting. The colors of him. Of us.

“Maybe not today?” - And when? - Joyfully clapped her friend, almost bouncing on the spot. A street graffiti artist recently appeared in our city and his work was very different from all the drawings that I saw. There were no heaps of incomprehensible letters and bright colors in them, besides, there was an impression that they seemed to be painted not with spray paint, but with watercolors. All the colors in his drawings were matched to the perfect palette, creating an extraordinary and lively picture. Naturally, no one has seen him yet, since he painted in splendid isolation.

Edible? “What the hell do you need edible paint for?” he muttered, setting the jar down and lifting a couple more. They were all edible paints in an assortment of colours: deep reds, bright blues, shimmering gold. She had to have twenty different shades. He noticed multiple soft-bristled brushes and then a sinking feeling struck him in the chest.

Before her stood a masterpiece born from the depths of her soul, each brushstroke telling a story of resilience, hope, and the unwavering power of love. The painting was a breathtaking portrayal of a serene landscape, with rolling hills bathed in the soft light of dawn. The sky above was a canvas of pastel hues, blending seamlessly from shades of pink and orange to hints of lavender and gold. It was a scene of tranquil beauty, a sanctuary of peace amidst the chaos of the world.

The entire city sprawled beyond the glass, a living painting of steel and smoke, but I barely saw it. Because the room ‘this impossible room’ was an artist’s sanctuary. An easel stood in the center, stocked with Belgian linen canvases so pristine they gleamed. A wall of pigments lined one side, colors so vibrant they hurt to look at cobalt blue, vermilion, cadmium yellow each jar labeled in neat, precise script. Brushes of every size and shape rested in ceramic holders, their bristles soft, untouched. And above it all, hanging like a crown jewel above a throne

“For you.” I set the flowers aside and take the package warily, eyeing him all the while. Carefully, I tear away the paper to reveal a wooden box. Inside, nestled in velvet, is a set of professional-grade oil paints in colors I’ve never seen before. “They’re imported from overseas,” Arthur explains. “Hand-mixed by a master colorist. I had them made specially for you; you won’t find those shades on any shelves.” I run my fingers over the paint tubes, picking one up to inspect the color in the light—a brilliant azure. These paints must have cost a fortune. “Arthur…”

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

“A little, but I wouldn’t say that I’m amazing.” “A little might be enough. There’s a new type of body paint that was recently developed. It hardens and sticks to the skin like a tattoo, but it can be lifted off with water and a little tug. Some courtesans are decorating themselves and wearing less actual clothing.” “But the paint isn’t cheap and you need a lot of it?” I asked, already suspecting the answer. “Of course. Therefore the real art to using it is making pieces you can reuse without looking like you’re reusing the same full design all the time.”