Phantom Artwork Mga Nobela at Kwento

The walls were adorned with lavish artwork, the floors were made of gleaming marble, and the tables were set with fine china and crystal glasses. I looked around, my eyes wide with wonder. "Wow, this place is seriously fancy. I feel like I should be wearing a tiara or something." Derek chuckled, taking my hand and leading me to our table. "You're perfect just the way you are, Cynthia. Besides, I think you'd look great in a tiara." I playfully rolled my eyes, smiling. "You're just saying that because you're trying to butter me up so I'll share my food with you."

Emerald placed it on the table, giving Damon a cold look. "This is the painting you commissioned. Feel free to share your thoughts or let me know if there’s anything you’d like to change, Mr. Florida," she said professionally, while Damon grinned at her. Emerald pulled back the cloth covering the painting. "Everything is painted according to your specifications." The artwork depicted a golden deer celebrating birthdays, adorned with gemstones and powdered gold foil. Even in the dim light, its radiance was unmistakable. Damon held a glass of whiskey, initially planning to ruin the painting as a way to insult Emerald. Yet, as he examined the intricate, flawless details, his appreciation for ar

He wiped me down with clumsy care, taught himself to cook plain porridge, and slept on a narrow folding chair by my bed every night, fully dressed, just to be near. The day I was discharged, sunlight bathed the seaside town in gold. Nathan pushed my wheelchair, a cashmere blanket he had bought draped over me. Six months later, he rented the only art gallery in town and sponsored my very first solo exhibition. He named it 'Rebirth'. The bright, spacious hall was filled with the work I had poured my soul into for half a year. Storm-dark seas before a tempest. Iridescent light shimmering on rocks after rain. A daisy blooming toward the sun from a bookstore window.

I NEED to know who he is, and something tells me I won’t discover much if I approach him as Phantom Reaper. I don’t really even know who I actually am, to be honest. I never indulged in friendships or relationships with others. It’s just always been survival. The only person I had any kind of positive relationship was my mother. I don’t know my father but because of my hair color, I’m fairly certain my father was Christian Bartoa. I know he frequented the slave cells whenever he was bored, and the urge arises so it doesn’t surprise me, but I don’t intend to ever claim him nor carry his surname. The thought of actually SPEAKING to Damien makes me feel a weird sense of anxiety. I’m unsure if i

I'm sure my religious Russian mother would've had a heart attack if she knew what I was doing right now, but I couldn't be bothered enough to care. A blank canvas has unlimited possibilities. While we start out painting the perfect picture, things don't always go as planned. Our canvas got smudged along the way. We accidentally mixed the wrong colors, and some of the lines turned out jagged. At the end of it though, it's ours, and that's what makes it priceless.

"You sure you're studying art, or just auditioning for disaster artist?" He shrugs, eyes twinkling. "Art's all about the mess, right? No destruction, no creation." He ties on his apron and sidles up next to me, dropping his voice like he's sharing state secrets. "Hey, got something for you." I eye him warily. "What now?" He fishes a folded flyer from his pocket and hands it over. "This." I unfold it, scanning the bold print: Pemberton University Art Department Annual Emerging Artists Exhibition—"New Voices." Open call, no formal training required. Selected pieces get gallery space on campus.

Some have on animal makeups like cats, some have on symbolic makeups, and others have on paranormal makeups like vampires, werewolves, dragons, elves, and all that. The first part of the nights are usually the introduction of artworks. And right now, I’m watching as Iyanu uncovers her art. Even I agree that it’s going perfectly. The fluidity of her speech is outstanding, and the way she conveys every symbol of her painting drives the crowd to an applaud. When she finished, she flashed an ear to ear grin to the crowd that keeps cheering her on. And her art gets sold immediately. Because she’s voted as the top performing artist of the night, she gets to cut the huge cake.

I smile again. I put my phone down, and began typing up my detailed plans. I’m changing that nasty grey color to green. Warm. Inviting. Royal Orchard, Bitter Sage, and Green Balsam. I even put down the name of the paint company and listed trusted painters from the company to do the job. Although, I’d probably help them out too. After all the plans have been typed out, I only placed “a delicate surprise” as to where I’m getting the artwork from. I don’t want him to know that I’ve already contacted the art department of a local university to help display their students work. I’m just waiting on an email with the images to sort through the potential artwork ranging from paintings and sculptures

“You all see here…this is the world that I called…Fantasma….it’s a world of Medieval fantasy…where there’s a swords, monsters, dragon…and everything that you can Imagine..magics too…I want you all to keep this in mind….these is the setting that I wanted….the vibes had to be maintained as it is…no matter what…” With that I also shown them a multitude of image up on the screen projector. Naturally it was the pictures of scenery that I took back in Fantasma, in fact in Fantasma, I always took a pictures around when I walked all over the places, the monsters, the life scenery, Merrica Town and the meadow fields and even dungeons. But since I wanted to present everything to all these artist as th

“Alrighty then. Just take a seat and I’ll be right back with some designs.” Althea and I settle onto a sleek black couch while I take in the parlor’s atmosphere. The other artists work with practiced ease, their few clients either wincing slightly, chattering or staring into space as the needles glide over their respective skin. There’s something oddly peaceful about it—the way the buzzing and the quiet concentration merge into a steady rhythm. Bailey returns, flipping open a binder of custom designs. “So, what are you thinking, honey?” I glance at Althea before turning my gaze to the many artistic and creative designs on the pages but almost immediately, my gaze lands on the drawing of a ph