It’s Monday! Usually, like the rest of the world, I loathe them. Not today!
I have been waiting so long to be able to share Chapter One with you.
PIGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION is a YA Urban Fantasy Romance, and will be available by the end of the month
Contest: Comment and win! 3 random comments on this post will receive an awesome PIGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION bookmark. Those three winners will also be entered to win the grand prize! What is the grand prize you ask? Well, I am going to tell you on Wednesday. It’s awesome, take my word for it.
In addition to commenting to win, you can tweet and win! Make sure you @angelakulig but if you tweet my blog link you will be entered to win a PIGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION POSTER! Also, I hate to have to say this but you do need to be a blog follower to win.
All entries for this give away must be in by Friday the 13th at 12:01am Que the Twilight Zone music
PIGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION
It was hard for Lucia to see around the boy that stood before the easel, but she swore the birds on his canvas just moved. Large white birds with feathers so detailed she was convinced if she stroked them they would be softer than in real life. From her position in the doorway the feathers shone in the classroom lights like they were the summer sun.
They were swans, she realized as she bent her neck to get a better look.
This boy, she thought, must not be a student. He hardly looked older than her, but he painted with all the skill of a master. No ordinary boy could paint a pool of blue that would really ripple below flawless webbed feet.
She might have stood there forever, her mind going numb from the sheer impossibility of it--eyes wide, watching the taut muscles of his back. He moved his arm quick and precise, making one stroke after another, his light brown curls falling to the base of his neck, shaking with the effort of his work. She needed him to turn around; she needed to see his face. She needed to know if he was real.
He couldn’t be.
She opened her mouth to speak to him just as one of the swans gave a loud squawk. Lucia gasped as it pulled itself effortlessly into the starry sky of the painting.
At first, she was convinced she had caused the boy to ruin his masterpiece, but that was not the case. With odd control, and a loud sigh, he raised his arm and sliced a large Midnight blue line across the whole of the canvas, stilling the birds in one stroke.
"It's not nice to stare," he said without turning around.
His voice sounded cold, but it was pleasant, and it hinted at how nice it would sound if he weren’t furious.
In Lucia's mind a nice apology was forming, but those were not the words her mouth wanted to say.
"How did you do that?" she asked.
The blue diagonal line that had ended the dance of the swans dripped from the weight of the thick paint. He did not answer.
"I thought," he finally said, "that this was an advanced art school. Clearly, you should be familiar with how one paints."
He was antagonizing her, and it made self-doubt creep up through the floor and back into her heart. Of course she knew how to paint, and as far as she was concerned what he had been doing was impossible. She huffed. A burst of hot hair shot out from her chapped lips, and she swore the boy chuckled before turning around.
He stared at her with his light blue eyes just like the reflective bits on the pond he had just painted. She couldn't look away. She never wanted to.
"No." Lucia breathed. "how did you make them move?"
This time the boy didn't bother to conceal his laughter, which was every bit as icy as his voice. Whatever the joke was, Lucia knew she wasn't in on it.
"I know what I saw," she muttered.
The boy frowned. His watery eyes searched hers for something. For what? She had no idea, but she felt the desire to back slowly out of the doorway. Instinctively she braced herself there instead. Her hands reached out to grasp the cold industrial metal frame.
"I know," she repeated, "what I saw."
And this time, she said it for him.
The boy's smile returned, but his lingering gaze didn't feel any warmer. He laughed again, and slung a paint splattered messenger bag over one shoulder.
"Look, kid;" he said, "I'm good, but that is impossible."
He strolled to the doorway where Lucia still stood. Suddenly he was so close she could smell what she assumed was his soap. It mingled with the smell of oil paint and was oddly comforting.
Cocking his head to the side, the boy said nothing as Lucia stood there obscuring the only exit.
Finally, he asked, "Am I being held hostage? Or are you planning on letting me go anytime soon?"
Lucia felt her face flush as a bell clanged loudly behind her, saving her from any further embarrassment. She took a step back, willing herself to not gawk at him as he sped down the hall.