Painter Of The Night Novels & Stories

The painter gave him the colors he should use. Noel has already started painting. He wanted to hurry so that he could have the painting right away. "All right, I'll leave you here, so you can concentrate on what you're doing." "Ok, Sir," Noel replied. The artist turned away. He stepped closer to window glass, not far from the young man who was busy painting. From the window, Gregorio could see the garden and even the outside of the gate. Gregorio looked up at the sky when he noticed the lightning strike. Just seconds later, it suddenly rained heavily with thunder and lightning.

She tilted her head, looking at Liana with a relaxed, casual curiosity in her dark eyes. ​"So..." Nina started, a subtle smirk playing on her lips. " what really happened last night? Who did you spend the night with?" ​Liana was mid-bite, and the question made her choke instantly. She coughed into her napkin, her eyes watering as she scrambled to grab her glass of water and take a quick gulp. ​"omg Nina! Its not what you think!" Liana stammered, setting the glass back down. "Oh yeah?" Nina smirtked smugly "then tell me where you went last night".

Elliot’s POV The painting hit me like a fucking freight train. I stood frozen in the staff lounge hallway, staring at the canvas hanging there. Scott must have painted it and hung it there to add to the art works that’ll be displayed on the exhibition. It wasn’t a normal painting and I know it. Shadows twisting into desperate bodies under city lights. The exact angle of a throat being gripped. The curve of a back arched in pleasure. It was us. Our first night.

The tree in the late afternoon light, holding still in the way the painter had needed it to hold. "Like something starting," he said. "I don't know what yet. But something." "That's enough," I said. "Yes," he said. "It is." We sat together in the light of the painting and the city until the evening was done, and then we went to bed, and outside the city held its lights against the dark as it always did, patient and indifferent and somehow, from this particular window, on this particular night, more beautiful than usual.

A long diagonal stroke of titanium white that she had made one evening when she could not sleep and had stood at the easel at two in the morning just moving paint around the canvas without purpose or intention, simply because the physical act of it was the only thing that quieted her mind. She had been painting the city. Not the beautiful version of it, not the skyline as a composition, not the studied picturesque of bridges and reflected water that tourists bought in frames from sidewalk vendors. She had been painting the city as it felt right now, in this season of her life. The way certain corners looked at early morning before the light had fully committed to the day. The particular qual

The night we heard her voice at the falls in Maatua was the only time he’d let even a hint of emotion of losing his sister show, and even then, he’s been acting like it never happened. Something falls over, and dust rushes toward us as Cassian pulls an old sheet free from a pile of burned and shredded canvases. A large, looming field of black painted on canvas swallows the room and takes my breath away. “It’s one of her nightmares,” I say, mostly to myself. I’m beyond words as my eyes roam over each stroke, each dark color she blended into the sucking, depthless black at the center. A figure is barely visible, standing with their head slightly turned to look over one shoulder, but no facial

the bartender waved, “good to see you! The usual?” “You betcha, Barry,” Laura said. Barry was the 31-year old owner of Painter’s Cove. He was an artist and guitar player, too, but since it was hard to make a living as either one, he did the next best thing. He opened a place where artists and musicians could come hangout, leave their mark on his walls and talk about their craft amongst friends. It was a home away from home for the people who went there, and for Barry, it was his actual home. He lived by himself in the loft above the lounge.

Those dull and lifeless amethyst eyes now looked bright and sparkled with happiness. "That is an understatement. I love it." She was in awe as she started walking towards the paintings on the wall. I know she loves art so much and she is a skilled one at her age. So I thought she would like it here. She stood by the painting in which a teenager's half face was covered and painted with a rose flower. She admired those paintings and moved on to the next one named 'Starry night'. "You know, This is painted by Vincent Van Goh who painted in memory of the view from his window. This is an absolute masterpiece." She jumped onto the next painting near it as her eyes sparkled in excitement.

Ashe yells, causing me to startle. I had completely forgotten the treasure and the fact that we still had a job to complete, I was so lost in John and our kiss to even think clearly. I walk over to Ashe while Lizzie and Corie fix up my grandfather. There’s a heavy lock on it, that I break with the head of the shovel. Flipping the lid open, everyone gasps at what is inside: jewels, gold doubloons, and a painting. A painting of a beautiful woman with raven hair and pale skin, sharp cheekbones and full lips, blue eyes piercing through you as you look at her portrait. A soft smile plays on her lips in the painting, her blue eyes a gleam with mischief. Pulling the portrait out, I turn over the fr

She asked mockingly, her eyes shining brightly in self-satisfaction. Richard slowly turned his head to her direction. He noticed Sarah's self-satisfactory gaze and curved his lips into a wry smile. Sarah stopped smiling when he saw his mocking expression and curiously stared at him. Richard bent down so that his face was very close to Sarah's and said, "I told you some time ago that, that painting was my favorite and that I treasure all my artworks and personally picked them myself many years before I even thought of joining the brotherhood, right?" He asked rhetorically, casting his sexy eyes on Sarah.