Stroke by Stroke [SAMPLE AVAILABLE ON AMAZON]

01: Magenta

THE WORLD WAS BLACK AND WHITE. He had no inspiration, the world a depressing mix of grays and monochrome. Desaturated blues, that he couldn't distinguish. He couldn't seem to distinguish the sky from the ground, himself from the rest of wretched portrait of misery.

He stared at his primed canvas. It was blank. He'd tried everything. A different background, a different texture. He'd tried adding other elements, painting from reference.

Nothing. Nothing. He had nothing. His blood was cold, his pulse weak and thready as his creativity clung to life.

He clenched his jaw looking away from the canvas with a huff, lighting a cigarette. Something was missing. Inside him, something was missing. He looked out the window. At this point he was not above praying for something anything to inspire him.

He was very close to drugs. A mushroom. A hints of cocaine. All the greats did it right?

Maybe he could hurt himself. If he came close to death, surely inspiration would be lying in wait, ready for him to harness and force upon the canvas.

"I'm late!"

A gust of wind put his cigarette out, as his gaze became transfixed on her.

Her.

She was rushing, her curls in the wind behind her, heels just a bit too big, for some reason and far too high. Her skirt was short. She struggled to pull it down with a curse.

Look at me.

His stomach turned. He needed to see her. He had to. There was no way he could pass up on this. She was his Mona Lisa, he just needed.

She gazed up on his direction. His breath left his lungs in a flood. Her dark eyes, showing a glimmer of brown in the light as she squinted, sun illuminating her skin, her full lips shiny from gloss.

He licked his lips, quickly picking up his paint brush. Her skin. Her expression. Her body. He needed to get it down. He couldn't decide what was more important, memorizing her now, or putting her to canvas before he forgot the details of her.

The beauty marks on her face, the way her curls formed, those lips. The curve of her hips, the softness of her, she looked so soft.

Her thighs, her ass, the way her body fit against the fabric, the way the wind whipped around her form. She took form in front of him, as he outlined her curvature, moving onto the placement of her nose, eyes, and lips.

The Artist watched her take shape, his dick twitching his pants, as he took his bottom lip between his teeth pensively, carving out every detail.

"Fuck," he murmured to himself, as he doted her beauty marks on. One by her mouth. One by her brow.

Her expression was interesting. He smiled softly, mixing the perfect color for her skin. The yellows reds and blues that made her. He stood for hours, trying to get her just right.

It wasn't doing her justice. He had to find another way to see her again. The sun rose as he finished the painting. He grinned.

He had to find a way to see her again. He wanted to do a series on her. She was his new muse.

He grinned.

He had to find a way to see her again. He wanted to do a series on her. She was his new muse. He wanted her in his studio, his Mona Lisa. Wanted to put her in so many positions, carefully etch her out in oil, immortalize her.

Everett felt the hum of creativity buzz in his ears. He wasn't done. More. He needed more of her, every expression she could make. If he could just track her down...there had to be a way.

he would find a way.