Arthur Morgan Journal Drawings Novels & Stories

“So, wait, you’re staying with Aris?” “Yeah,” I murmur, trying to keep my voice low even though I might be the first person to take an interest in this section of the archives in like a thousand years. I balance the heavy books, standing on my toes to peer over the shorter shelves toward the lamplight that seems like it’s leagues away. “It wasn’t my decision.” “Tell me again about this Morgan chick. She sounds awful.” “She’s… gorgeous. Tall and lean, you know, like the models in your fashion magazines.”

I replied. “The person behind this stole one of my books!” Morgan said slowly. “I told my men to search my library secretly and my journal wasn't found. I used to keep it under the ground around the place I sat. The journal is missing and the implicating map was put in another book of mine.” “How does the journal look?” I asked slowly. “Meet Jojo and ask him. He will be your new ally…” Morgan replied. I was now ready to go. I stood up and gave Morgan a warm hug. I wondered how much I would have missed if I didn't visit Morgan. I left his place with new secrets, information, and power.

Mate would like that. ‘You can carry on fucking wishing for that.’ ----- MORGANA I had spent the morning reading Kian’s journals, it felt like an entirely new world. He painted! He painted and I didn’t even know how good he was until now. He had small pages slid in between his journal of things he had made. God he was so talented, I couldn’t deny he was good with those hands, whatever he did with them. The recent one talked a lot about the worries he had for the kingdom, and there were several entries about me; the night he first saw me... It made me blush because, despite him not being much of a talker, he sure knew how to pen down a beautiful paragraph…

"I should head in and see his ward for any clue." Arthur opened the door and gained entrance into James ward. He opened the wardrobe, James things were intact and nothing seems to be out of place. His clothes were neatly folded and his necessities were neatly arranged. He was about to close the wardrobe when he perceived a faint smell of paint. As a lover of art, he could tell the wardrobe housed some painting materials. He found it strange and pulled down all the contents of the wardrobe, he found a small black bag, he opened it and saw a drawing book and some other drawing materials.

"I've gone through Jacobin’s journal a couple of times. Some of the drawings in it made him seem like he was a sadist but really those were his happiest drawings. In his journal, he had a picture of Mrs Wyatt and Fred at an art gallery. On the back of the picture was written fifteenth of May in numbers just like a date. On the same fifteenth of may, a picture of a baby was drawn in the arts gallery" Doris lifted a page of the journal for Roberta to see. The drawing looked more abstract than the one at Nate’s house. "What the hell is this?" Roberta frowned, squinting her eyes. "It's art, anything is art. The most abstract things were art" Doris said.

“There’s more. We found this in the tool shed.” He held out a metal box, rusted at the edges but sealed tight. Arch pried it open with a crowbar, and inside lay a stack of old notebooks, yellowed with age, and a leather-bound journal with a faded Montenegro crest embossed on the cover. “My father’s,” Arch whispered, running his fingers over the worn cover. “I thought all his papers were destroyed in the fire ten years ago.” Back at the penthouse, they spread the journals across the dining table like pieces of a puzzle. The notebooks were filled with technical drawings—bridges, skyscrapers, even what looked like plans for an entire sustainable city. But the journal… the journal was something

I sprung up from the bed and felt my veins moving, they’re sill healing. My heart ached, but it was nothing compared to emotions of loss gushing in my veins. I was losing my strength since it was getting consumed in healing that stupid heart which is only beating for Aurora. She made a stone like me move; I can barely imagine her as a human. Fuck she’s an angel directly sent from heaven. An angel, I'm madly in love with. I stood up, “What about Morgan? Is he al---” He cut me off. “Alive? No, I killed him, he was talking a lot.” As expected from Arthur. “We got the information we needed, keep him alive would be such a waste of oxygen.” He smiled looking me, his indifferent gaze telling me how

The investigation resumed with renewed focus. The afternoon settled into a rhythm that felt strangely domestic despite the extraordinary circumstances. Mara catalogued documents while the records specialist photographed each page before anyone handled it. Vivian read correspondence between Naomi and Edwin. Mrs. Crawford organized files according to Arthur's indexing system with remarkable efficiency. Kieran remained with the financial records, occasionally making quiet notes that only he seemed to understand. I stayed with Arthur's journals. They felt different now. More intimate. More honest. The later entries contained fewer observations about Adrian and more reflections about Arthur himse

“No, I don’t think you’re stupid, but you’re being really childish right now. Just listen. She is my tattoo artist, and she was looking for the best place to put the design I had sent her.” I pulled out my phone and opened my messages to Scarlet, then tried to hand it to Morgan. At first, she refused to take the phone. She wouldn’t even look at it. “Morgan, if I mean anything to you at all, take the fucking phone. Now.” She snatched it from my hand and looked down at the screen. It was a sketch I had drawn out one night when I couldn’t sleep. It was of Morgan’s incredible eyes and all seventy-six of her adorable freckles below them. I wanted her with me everywhere. I wanted her image to fore

Even as they grew, brushstroke by stroke, all this happened to an indefiniteness at which I shuddered (a tremor in which it was all the more disturbing because I knew not its causes, in which of these paintings (vivid as their images are now in my powerful and blackened mind), I would strive in vain to reproduce more than a small part, that would be restricted to the borders of the lowly written words. In which all this happened for his total simplicity, for the purity of his drawings, he was arrested, and this made him pay attention and make him more entertained. Even if any mortal has ever managed to paint one of his abilities to forge the power of one of his ideas, that mortal was Roderi