Painter Of The Night Novels & Stories

And even up to now, if I'm going to paint again, I can picture it out, same as I had six years ago. The next in line is a dark painting because it's nighttime. It's when I called him late at night when I was so devastated with my life. The painting is all about the white car with a man leaning on it. And it is entitled "comfort zone". I made it six years ago as well. I was so relieved that time and I felt like I was not totally alone since I had him. And the last but not the least is a portrait of a man with deep set coffee eyes. It's painted with oil and acrylic. The feature of a man isn't detailed much since I had to keep the privacy or information of it.

Her fingers moved with precision, mixing colors and preparing to seize the fleeting inspiration that had struck earlier. The night enveloped her as she resumed painting. Her brush swept across the wall with grace and determination, bringing her vision of the serene countryside to life. The dim light above cast a soft glow on her focused expression, and even the occasional fluttering moth seemed reluctant to disturb her concentration. By three in the morning, exhaustion caught up with her. She set down the brush, rubbing her tired eyes. Deciding to wash her face to refresh herself, she made her way toward the nearby washstand.

It was him, our special night in the pool—a Night in the Water, or the Water Collection. Like my Blue Grotto, I started painting with oils, several more nudes, though these were just bodies—a woman sitting on a man’s lap with her breasts lit, her face in ecstasy. The colors were silver, grizzly, ashen whites and creams. Another was just the back of a woman with her hair up and naked shoulders. I painted all week, each one more provocative than the last. These were impressionistic, so I obscured the faces and lines. Next, I got out my black chalk and drew William from a photo I had taken of him the night we walked through the city.

Maybe if I had one of my dildos out here…nah…I pull my wandering mind back to the task at hand. Dude! This painting is hot! I plop back in my chair and take another swig looking at it and thinking about last Saturday night. Better, yet…that fucking kiss tonight and how his cock felt through his pants. I know he was straining something fierce against his pants. I unzip my pants and fist my dick as I smoke. I have been out here painting for hours. It’s past midnight by now and I doubt anyone is awake to disturb me. My thoughts are of Gabe’s hard cock, which I gauge is on the larger side. He’s bigger than me, though I’m not exactly tiny. I’m just on the bigger side of average.

Gavin and I had been married for almost a year, but he always treated me rudely. I looked at the door, still closed as before. Maybe tonight Gavin would come home late as usual. The water on my face turned sad at the thought of the fact that tonight would pass in vain. Okay, I'm okay. Everything will be fine. Even tonight will probably be the same as the previous night; you don't have to be sad. I tried to strengthen myself. Fifteen minutes passed; I turned off the light and decided to sleep on the bed after the room lights were turned off. The 7X9 room was completely dark, apart from a little light source from the window vent.

The paint was exquisite with shades of gold, brown, black and white. The painter then turned toward Nicholas and motioned for him to sit. He shook his head and refused until I pouted and urged for him to go. He reluctantly agreed and then sat down patiently. A few seconds in, I already knew what his face was being painted as, a fox. He had shades of orange mixing with gold, white and black. He looked so adorable, and I had to resist the urge to kiss him once he was done. He thanked the painter and then we moved deeper into the festival to where a group had gathered and a band was playing loud music. As we got closer, I realised that the group of people were dancing. Rows and rows of dancing

I turn to her and she smiled and then she pointed the gray circle whirls in the middle. "The painter used this symbol as a moon. The moon is full and under the full moon are a different creatures who wants the full moon's light," the girl explained. I craned my neck to visualize what she's saying and my hands turned cold when I visualize one of the creatures that the painter paints here. My lips parted as my heart pounded slowly. I swallowed hard. I slowly lifted my hand to touched the painting. It was rough yet beautiful. "Do you like the painting?" The tour guide asked one more time. I nodded. One of the creatures that the painter paints is a wolf.

“The woman you spent the night with six years ago has returned to Mexico.” He paused before adding, “She’s also the anonymous international supermodel Morning star just signed known as L.B.” “And…” “She has a pair of twins.” The man sitting behind the desk slowly closed the file in his hands. A dangerous smile spread across his face. “So…” He finally found her. His fingers tapped lazily against the polished desk. “Buy out the majority shares of the company anonymously’’. “She hid long enough.” He slowly stood up. “It’s time…” “…to pay her a visit.”

Rosalie's POV The fifteen-hundred-dollar sale happened on a Tuesday. I'd posted the painting the previous Thursday. A large canvas, bigger than anything I'd put online before. The size I'd been aiming for without fully admitting it to myself. It was a painting of a window seen from the inside, looking out over a city at night. The glass itself was visible, the way it is when you paint it honestly. It catches, distorts, and reflects the light all at once. The world outside was visible through it, but transformed simply by the act of looking through.

The sky above it all was that bruised violet she could never quite catch in paint, too much light pollution to be dark, not enough to be any specific color, just this, just Tripicity's sky doing what it always did. She moved through it the way she always moved through it at this hour. Not quickly, not with her head down, but with a particular kind of presence, eyes up, periphery active, reading the street the way the street needed to be read. She had learned to love this. The specific aliveness of a city at two in the morning, the way it vibrated at a frequency the daytime drowned out. She had painted it thirty times and had not gotten close to right yet and did not intend to stop trying.