Novel & Cerita Pintar

The next morning I proved it to myself by actually showing up to class early, sketchbook already open on my lap when Professor Laurent walked in. He was in one of his dramatic moods—scarf flung over one shoulder, gesturing with both hands as he lectured about decay as aesthetic rebellion. Halfway through, he stopped, clapped once, and grinned like he’d just invented the idea himself. “Your next project,” he announced, “is titled Urban Decay. I want you to go out into the city. Find the places most people avoid. The rotting piers, the abandoned lots, the alleys where the streetlights don’t reach. Draw what you see. But more than that—draw what you feel when you’re standing there. The beauty i

A timeline. I could work with timelines.

Sinclair, the visual teacher, approached me. I felt shy at her comment and wondered if she was telling the truth or just being kind to me. I settled for the last thought. She led me towards the picture booth. "I'll do good, Ms. Sinclair," I said after she walked off, right after showing me the picture booth box. She nodded, and I slapped my head, wishing I'd said nothing. I haven't been here for five minutes, and I'm already showing my weirdness. I cursed myself. Shortly, couples were popping up, and the party began. Some came to take pictures. Since the school couldn't afford a better picture booth machine. I had to be the one to collect the cash they had to pay before taking a picture.

His blue eyes followed every contour, every shape, and once he was ready to apply color, he asked, “Are you comfortable in that position?” Caty smirked. “I’ve done worse with you.” He chuckled. “Yeah, I forgot. Sorry about that.” She giggled in return, trying to stay as still as possible. He continued painting, a smile tugging at his lips. Several times, he had to take deep breaths to calm himself and clear the rising heat building between his legs. He focused all his effort on the painting, he didn’t want to disappoint her. After nearly an hour, he finally finished. It wasn’t that hard, he only used three sets of colors: one for the skin tone, black for her eyes and outlines, and brown for

Liziwe said not a word, but continued to stare unblinkingly, her mouth set in a firm, downward line. The month of confinement had not been kind. Her face had grown sallow and drawn; her bright eyes dull. The blow to her cheek had only begun to heal, leaving a shining, ripe scar in its place. It drew the eye, and made Susan cringe to look at it. And though one day it might fade, it could never be erased entirely: for there, upon her face, she would carry the reminder of that day, forever and always.

he said, and I looked at my watch. “Fine, just these, then I really do have to go,” I said, and he slapped me on the back with a grin on his face. “I bet I can kick your ass with the most shots,” he challenged me, and smiled. I smiled despite myself. “Give it your best shot,” I said, and he called the bartender over. “Line up your best tequila and time us,” he said, and the bartender laughed. He put down 20 shot glasses and filled them with tequila. Paul stood at one end and I stood at the other end. The bartender stood in the middle and glanced at both of us. “Go!”

It had half of a star hanging from it with the word Sugar engraved in it. “Where’s the other piece?” she questioned with confusion written all over her face. I rolled up my left coat sleeve and held my arm up. “Right here.” She brought her piece to mine and connected them so they read, Sugar & Spice. After she thanked us both, Kinley put her brushes away and showed us her newest paintings before we left so she could go to bed.

He knelt behind me, setting up his stencil, but his fingers brushed the inside of my thigh like he was testing me and I bit my lip to stop a sound from escaping. “You nervous?” he asked with his breath hot against my skin. “Y-yeah,” I said, my voice shaking. “Don’t be.” His thumb dragged just a little too close to my pussy. “I’ll take good care of you.” I almost moaned. He hadn’t even touched me where I needed it, and I was already dripping. The machine buzzed to life, and I jumped but his hand pressed firm on my ass, holding me in place. “Relax, sweetheart. Gotta keep you still if you don’t want me to fuck up the ink.”

She would paint every day, though her paintings were mediocre, to say the least. Her subjects were babies, and every one of them looked alike. It baffled me why the rich would spend a fortune to buy Grandma's paintings. "It's done." Grandma set her brush on the table. I drew closer to take a look. As expected, it was yet another ugly painting. "Bring her in." She rose and brought the painting into a room without turning on the lights. The man hurried out and brought back a pretty young woman with him. He comforted her, "Hey, just go in."