Paintbrush X Lightbulb Novels & Stories

“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.

He could not get enough of her short hair. Penny ignored him. After finishing the painting, she meticulously cleaned the brushes and palette. The sink water turned into various colors, and she meticulously cleaned her fingertips stained with paint. After cleaning everything and exiting the bathroom, she saw Caleb admiring the painting. His face showed clear admiration. Penny packed up her painting tools, not forgetting to remind him. “Four million.” Seeing her at the door, Caleb put down his glass. “Go take a shower.” He was talking to her.

Urkstin asked, and with a nod from me, he smiled gleefully again, “Thank you thank you!” “What do you need specifically?” I inquired, getting myself ready to learn the layout of this room. “Wellll, I need purple, orange, and light blue paint for C.B.T., then I need one of those plastic scraper thingies that Bob Ross uses. That’s all for now.” He explained, trying to visualize the ‘plastic scraper thingy’. I started collecting paints, and took the time to think of a question to ask Urkstin. “So, was your family supportive for your talent choice?” I threw out, while prying open a bucket of purple paint.

Rushing to hold back the urge to punch the poor thing, I harshly bit down on my tongue. “Welcome to The Fabulous Painting. Is there anything I can help you with?”, he asks. “Do you have any light blue paint?”, Jess asks. “Follow me.”, he says while walking away. Jess skips as she follows behind the worker. Not looking back, I continue to follow them. Taking notice of all the original paint; the light blues were across the aisle from the glow in the dark paint, grabbing a gallon then head over to Jess to see her debating which blue she should get.

Lilian began softly, resting her fingers on the lid, “I used to be just like you.” Damon let out a small, disbelieving huff. “Just like me?” She smiled at his doubt. “Yes, dear.” She clicked the latch open. The smell rose first—old wood and oil paint. Something earthy. Something alive. Inside lay brushes of all sizes. Some thin as eyelashes. Others thick and worn at the bristles. Tubes of paint hardened at the caps. A palette layered with dried colors—blue over red over gold—like time captured in pigment. Beneath everything, tucked carefully, was a photograph.

"’Every act of creation is first an act of destruction’ -Pablo Picasso “Prologue. She stroked her brush across the canvas, a streak of purple twisting right in with the yellow.” I continued to read the story until I felt the thirteen year old girl beside me fall asleep. I sighed and picked her up. I started to walk back to her group, knowing that I would see her tomorrow.

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.

I closed my eyes as I anticipated Isabelle's attack and just then, I heard that fluttering sound once again as the wind brushes through my hair tossing my cap a far. As if something flew right above me and was gone in an instant. As I opened my eyes, Isabelle was gone and so was that something. I grabbed my cap and just as I grabbed it, I saw the broken crayon I carried last night to the forest. The indigo color. Clarisse has said that it was Arthur's favorite color.

Sophia’s POV The late afternoon light filters through the high windows of Julian’s London estate, casting a warm, amber glow across the studio, where my canvas blooms with vibrant hues emerald greens, soft lavenders, the colors of the garden outside woven into a vision of hope. I sit at my easel, paintbrush in hand, the soft bristles gliding across the canvas, each stroke a piece of myself reclaimed from the shadows of my past.

I don’t have a clue what type of pencil she use with her drawings. Blue pencils, yellow pencils, green pencils and oh there’s mechanical pencils too. I stared at these pencils for five seconds and picked an orange Faber Castle mechanical pencil. It says from the packaging grip matic and 0.5, I don’t even know the purpose of the number 0.5, but I took it anyway.