Paintbrush X Lightbulb Novels & Stories

“And… when life gives you lemons, make sure you make a sweetened lemonade.” …. ~ Alyssa ~ The brush danced on the page of my sketchbook as I transferred the dark colors in my visual mind to the page. I then dipped the brush in a tiny bit of white, which made it look super cute. I continued painting, and soon the image of Austin standing on the dark balcony, surrounded by starless skies, slowly came to life. I’d never expected this particular image of him to stick with me, but it did… and I couldn’t help but express myself in colors and brushstrokes.

Hunter returned, holding a plastic mixing bowl in one hand and an application brush in the other. Inside the bowl was a frothy blue mixture that reeked of chemicals strong enough to make my eyes water. I recoiled slightly, nose wrinkling as I waved a hand in front of my face. “What the hell is that?” I asked, eyeing the suspicious concoction like it might come alive and eat me. He smirked, setting the bowl down on the vanity in front of me. “Powdered bleach. Gotta lighten your hair first so the pink sticks better. Otherwise, you’ll just end up with a muddy mess.”

“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.

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.

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.

if I had a light bulb above my head I bet it would have lit up. Mary flicks my forehead then scrunches up her face. Before we knew it we both started laughing for no real reason. After a few minutes and wiping away a stray tear from the laughter I decide I should try figuring out how to make my own light appear. Try as I might, nothing worked. I tried thinking of the different shades of purple, sizes and trails. I then started thinking about other colors and trying them. No matter what I did or what color I thought about all I got were sparks. “This is so frustrating.” as I fell back onto the straw looking up at the ceiling.

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.

Because whatever canvases are made of, his and mine had the same paint. Our juices.