Pigtails In Paint Novels & Stories

Minutes fly by, maybe even more, I have no idea. But I don't stop until my wrists ache and paint manages to make its way into the beds of my fingernails. Stepping back once more, I take in the changes I’ve made. The blue has softened the intensity of the black and purple, creating some semblance of balance. The chaos I'd originally intended to portray burns bright, mixing not only with the blue strokes but also the light pink and yellow highlights pointing towards the edge of the canvas.

I removed them slowly, using an empty wall for support, and then grabbed them in one hand, while continuing to walk around barefoot. My attention was pulled from a painting in a far wall, but I just couldn’t resist the colors mixed in it. I made a few fast silent steps until I was in front of this masterpiece. It was made from my favorite colors--black and white, spilled on the canvas in a magical way, their fight frozen in time for all to admire. It wasn’t a picture of something, it was just paint, covering the white space in a stunning way, hypnotizing you by its peculiar shapes. I loved how the white was invading the space of the black, mixing in places to create many shades of gray.

"They disappeared together the minute we entered the store. He's nothing if not persistent. He's trying too hard." I sigh. "Well I suppose you two will have to suffice. I want three buckets of this color," I say, picking a fresh swatch from the color choices. "Deep purple, I suppose it could be worse." Kyle notes. "But if you are painting the whole room you're gonna need double the amount of paint. It will take several layers." "Nope," I disagree. "This will do. I'm only painting half the room. The bottom panels will remain white."

She stayed there until morning, she would just sit there until hours would pass but now she found paint under the piled papers. She saw her favorite color, the blood red, and black. She opened it and looked around. Who would know if she paints the walls? The dirty white walls looked too old and rusty. She found a brush and set it up all before starting painting. She dipped half of the brush into the red paint and dipped the other half into the black paint. She brushed the paint into the wall carelessly. She did lines crosswise and created a pattern of red and black. On that mess, she took a thin stick and dipped it into the black paint. Then she started creating outlines of the eyelashes of

Velvetouch, maybe even a Kolinsky or two. The paint? Golden Fluid Acrylics. Not all of them, but enough. The essentials. Crimson. Indigo. Antique gold. Obsidian black. The kind of colors that made your heart race just imagining what they’d look like on canvas. The glass palette had fingerprints on it… like someone had tested it out, just to make sure it was perfect. I stepped closer. My knees were weak. My chest, tightening. It was everything I loved. Everything I couldn’t afford.

To channel the whirlwind inside. My small studio space was a comforting mess of canvases, brushes, and tubes of paint. I didn’t plan. I just moved. I stretched a fresh, large canvas onto the easel. I squeezed paints directly onto the palette, not just violet, but deep cobalt, fiery cadmium red, streaks of gold, earthy ochre. The colors of the storm painting. The colors of him. Of us.

The small touch sends a quiet spark up my leg. Afternoon arrives with soft rain. It taps against the windows like impatient fingers. We move to the studio corner. The paint fumes grow stronger as we set up our easels. I dip my brush into a deep cobalt blue. The bristles swish across the canvas. Tiny flecks of paint splatter across my knuckles. Colors explode against the stark white surface. Hailey sketches beside me. Her pencil scratches in quick, confident strokes. We talk easily. Her voice flows like warm honey.

I moved forward to stand on the sheet that Silver had laid down. “I’m going to mark you up first. With a pencil. It’s a bit like a kohl pencil you’d use on your eyes. All the paint I’ll use on you today is specific body paint. It’s really soft, and your skin can still breathe. You won’t feel like you’re covered in gunk. Okay?” I nodded. “When I’ve marked you up, I’m going to spray you with the base color. It’s a light gold that’s going to make your gorgeous features really stand out. I am going to photograph the progress. Are you ready?”

Sa sumunod nang umaga natapos ang painting ko, mga alas-sais. I painted myself and highlighted the color hazel of my eyes. Despite the darkness and the chains that are choking my neck and tightening my hands and feet, my natural eye color became radiant in the painting. Pinapalibutan ako ng madilim na selda at nakasuot ng puti at gusot na dress na para bang isang hayop na inalipusta. It was beautiful yet sad.

The layered pigments, at least five millimeters thick, seemed to replicate the rough texture of ice crystals. The rock crevices, glazed with burnt umber and ivory black, contrasted starkly with the snow-capped areas painted in zinc white and cobalt blue. The sunlight piercing through clouds, rendered with cadmium yellow in radiating strokes and edged with gold, mesmerized viewers. "Look at the impasto snow!" Rowena pointed to the reflective pigment. "Mr. Neil mixed quartz sand into the paint—no wonder the snow looks icy." "And the sunlight treatment—" someone peered through a magnifying glass.