Bloody Crayons Novels & Stories

The point was… The street artist known as Black Crimson seemed to speak straight to my soul with every showpiece he delivered. He only worked in the spray paint medium and kept it strictly to three colors: black, white, and red. The image-half of his two-part murals always showcased some modern-day fairy-tale retelling, and the text-half had a famous quote that was somehow tied into the picture. The quotes he chose could be silly or deep, but they were always meaningful and enlightening, and I somehow felt as if he’d written them directly for me. Every time.

As Ace flipped through the pages, the soft crackling of the paper filled the space. Ace's fingers moved skillfully over the pages, his eyes scanning each drawing with a mix of pain and yearning. As he turned the pages, I leaned in closer, mesmerized by his talent, my gaze fixed on his strong fingers gently handling each page. Each one unveiled a new design, a new narrative. On one page, I saw a boy gazing at a river, his face reflecting deep sorrow.

I looked up at the boy who was adorable with golden-brown hair and large silver eyes that kind of glinted like pearls in the moonlight. “W-what’s a Crayola?” I asked. He blinked, “It’s a crayon, dummy.” He answered waving a flat white board at me. He pointed at it. “I was drawing.” His palm was still open; the weapons or as he called them crayons were in different colors. Red, Yellow, Green… Humans sure had interesting stuff on the land. The boy was putting it back into the box when his little handles fumbled and the box emptied into the water.

I didn't want to go back down to get my crayons, instead, I used Logan's pens from the desk, they weren't like my crayons, when I pushed too hard the pen exploded on my hand leaving blue ink behind, it was very icky. I threw the pen to the side and started searching for another one to use, leaving blue marks over everything that I touched, I found a ruler and then I found scissors, a big smile found itself on my face after that finding, why didn't he offer me the scissors before. I took hold of it and started to cut the paper I was colouring on, I kept on cutting it into smaller pieces, I wasn't sure where I was going with this, but I loved it. I finished cutting my paper and started looking

Where did this woman come from? She shook her head. "I don't want to bother you. You already fed me," she answered in a lazy tone. Then she tilted her neck to look at me. "Don't mind me. I'm just sad I couldn't drop by at the shop today because of this stupid weather. I plan to buy some crayons... just don't mind me," "Crayons?" My forehead furrowed. "Yeah," she grinned, showing her perfect teeth again, "You know, the stick colored wax used for drawing,"

They were old and worn down, some were broken in half. I selected a brown crayon, the same color Evie had used for the mother wolf. Then, carefully, I began to color the father wolf. My hand shook as I coloured. Tears continued to fall, dropping to the page and messing up the page. But I kept going. When I was done, the picture was complete. A family of three wolves, all colored, standing together. But I wasn’t finished. I picked up a black crayon and, under Evie’s words, I carefully wrote in my own messy handwriting:

Turning forward again, she asked, “Who’s Black Crimson?” I shook my head. “No one knows. He’s the city’s famous—or maybe I should say infamous—graffiti artist. He only works in black, white, and red spray paint, and all his masterpieces usually depict some kind of meaningful message. They’re signed B.C., which is how he became dubbed Black Crimson.” Isobel wrinkled her nose. “I’m sure B and C are for the initials in his name, not for the colors in which he works.”

Al asked. “Because he found mine.” “It’s too small.” “He has big head.” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Gabby picked up a yellow crayon and began drawing circles beside the two-dimensional version of Rafael. “Lemon tree,” she explained before anyone could ask. The tree looked more like broccoli with chickenpox, but I respected the intention. Al leaned closer. “Draw vomit.” “No.” “He saw my vomit.” “It’s ugly.” “You said my face ugly too.”

Good thing I always bring with me my crayons. Nagsindi lang ako ng candila para sa gagamitin. I drew my outline using a pencil in a fine thin sketches and then filled it out with the wax of crayons. Naubos pa iyong blue at white ko dahil iyon ang gamit na gamit. I used the white part of the illustration board to make the artwork apparent. The results will be out in the evening kaya nang makauwi ako ay kabado pa rin.

Her cunt lips parted on their own, revealing the slick pink inside. I walked to the supply table. Picked up a fresh palette. A set of thick sable brushes. A jar of linseed oil. Tubes of oil paint in deep crimson, ultramarine, and raw umber. I mixed them slowly, deliberately, letting the colours swirl together into a rich, dark burgundy that reminded me of dried blood and old wine. The smell of pigment filled the air. Familiar. Comforting. Dangerous. The other women watched in silence. Sophia still sat on the couch, cum drying on her tits. Tara leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Mei knelt on the floor, thighs pressed tight together. Elena stood against the wall, arms crossed under her breas