Aizawa Drawing Novels & Stories

Misao Aika went on all fours before opening the drawing while humming happily. Her hips were swaying. Thus, it was hard for him not to look at how her hips were moving as she looked. It did not take long for her to pull out a plastic bag. "Oh! So much stuff," Misao Aika took things out of the plastic bag. He did remember that he hasn’t done some sorting out from that bag. There were food to eat and some other things. He watched her took out something to eat or to just have something to play with.

“Still awake?” Aimee nodded quickly, holding up a sketchpad. On it was a clumsy drawing of what looked like Isabelle in a gown, surrounded by stars. Isabelle laughed gently. “Is that supposed to be me? You made me look like a fairy.” Aimee grinned, eyes crinkling, and gave a little shrug. The kind she always did when she wanted to say maybe. “Thank you,” Isabelle said, smiling tenderly. “That’s beautiful. I’ll have to frame it when I get back.”

The corporate situation had kept them busy all day. But the moment they stepped inside, the tension melted away. Aiden ran toward them immediately. “You’re late!” Aria followed, holding a drawing. “Look what we made!” May knelt down. The drawing showed a stick-figure family standing under a big sun. Four figures held hands. “This is beautiful,” May said warmly. Damien crouched beside her. “Who’s this tall one?” he asked. “That’s you,” Aiden said proudly. “And this is Mommy,” Aria added.

It took them exactly three months to work on it together with their soldiers. Ryuzaki looked up from his desk, where he's been subconsciously doodling Shadow’s smiling face all over the report that he should’ve actually finished half an hour ago. “Ryu…” Amino called him out without looking at him. “Oops, sorry,” Ryuzaki said, not because he was caught. He breathed out, realizing that he’s been drawing with a pen, instead of a pencil, which means he’s going to have to grab himself another copy to get started on it.

Bozo had suffered the same fate and his men had been too late to save him. "Now I will die a happy man, knowing that I met my mother in the end," Bozo smiled. Blood was trickling out of his eyes, nose, and ears, and seeing him like this made Ejima's heart snap into a thousand pieces. She wished for death, it would be pleasant if she followed her children into the void, into the world where there was no suffering, pain, or death. "Stay with me," Ejima cried, "Kachi, find a healer. Stay with me son."

Like I was worth something. This is right. This is what I wanted. This is what I threw away. I looked at Ziva. She was drawing again. Her tongue was sticking out. "What are you drawing?" I asked. She looked up. Her eyes were shining. "A picture of our family," she said. "You. Me. Mommy. All of us together." She held it up. There were three stick figures. One tall. One medium. One small. We were holding hands. We were smiling.

Aria found herself in color. Her notebooks were always smeared with charcoal and paint by the time she came home, fingers stained, eyes bright. She talked about shapes and emotions like they were old friends, like the world made sense to her when she could translate it into lines and shades. One afternoon, she came home holding a folded piece of paper, careful as if it were fragile. “I made something,” she said, shy in a way she rarely was. It was a drawing of our house. Not perfect. Not precise. But alive.

“He’s always busy now.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I’m sorry, Aurora. That must have felt really sad.” She nodded, then reached into her backpack and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I made this for you. At home last night.” I unfolded it carefully. It was a crayon drawing of stick figures: a tall man with dark hair, a little girl with pigtails, and....my stomach dropped, another woman with brown hair standing beside them, holding the little girl’s hand. A bright sun smiled overhead, and a clumsy wolf shape sat in the corner.

She touched one drawing. "This is the river. This is the buildings. This is the chamber." She moved her hand along the progression. "This is the arrivals. All of it, drawn, in order." She stopped. "And then this." Aria crouched down. The drawing at the end of the sequence was different from the others. Not architectural. Not geographical. Not the specific practical diagrams Elena had used for the physical preparations. A circle. Inside it, two figures. One large. One very small.

I blushed and was about to hide my drawing, but Sir Zed stopped reading. “Flowers don’t smile,” he said quietly, “but Aya sees what others don’t.” Sofia laughed. I couldn’t speak. It felt like his voice went straight through my chest. That night, I opened my sketchpad. I tried to draw him. Not his whole face, just pieces of him. The way he held the book, the shape of his hand, and the calm dimness of his eyes under the lamp. But before I could finish, I put my pencil down.