Bloody Crayons Novels & Stories

or something like that. Then there's The Marking. Not like biting or stuff like that. This one is for the entire pack. Special paint made by witches, from moon dust, sun dust, first snow water, dew drops and white roses. Weird, right? Anyway, this one is mostly like drawing tattoos, but with the feather from a white owl.

"Inspection of what? " "Colors. As you may have inevitably notice, we are surrounded with nothing but the color yellow. This is nothing like your world where colors combine. All is separated. With walls, borders, or lines. And no person with their designated colors are allowed to leave or enter another side of colors. Once spotted, you will be thrown to the place of outcast and lose the chance to visit the Outside world. Your world. Or they might take you in as slaves. Or worse, death. "I understood her words but it only arose more questions. "So you are not allowed to interact with other colors? "

I grabbed the handle and tried to open it, but it seemed locked. The sound reverberated in our ears for a long time. A musty, dank order sneaked into my nose. Weeds of dark leafy were clinging on the roof, due to which any person would faint. The house's walls showed black decay with various names written on them with red ink or blood. Stains of original paint indicated the house's prior affluence. The fresh blood of humans covered the corners of the doors with tiny black spiders thread towards their loot. It reflected a royal yet haunted image as if Kings and queens lived here for centuries.

And what is happening in there town? They don't understand at all, and why this horrible act is happening in their town? All of them stood there stretching there head in confusion; trying to figure out why people are dying, and who is responsible for this terrible action, from that day forward they called it BLOODY DAY! To me, this is a big mystery that can't never be solved. ( This Story continued) ATTENTION READERS: This book have different series book 2-9

To kill a monster, you must become one yourself *~* Cracking of bones, screams of anguish and agony, reddish liquid spread all over, the sound of lugubrious cries, taste of salty tears. All were like a melodious sound to his ears, and a blissful scene in his eyes. His lips curved into a smile, his smile was sadistic, atrocious, inhumane, and fiendish, a complete display of the man he was, the real rapscallion in our closet, the nightmares that stalked the weak, languid, and even the vigorous of mind.

insulted, V tried to act threatening but was failed by the unforgiving wound on his belly. "I don't know what you are talking about, but I am giving you the truth," she began pacing toward them. "What are you doing?" confronted Marco, but now, fear was in his voice. "Drink that," she said coldly while handing a glass of some sort of weird-looking fluid in it to V. "You're not yet healed and you shouldn't be out of your bed yet. Don't worry, it's not a poison, not a love potion either. You need this to make your recovery fast."

Feeling sick to his stomach, with contempt and self-hate bridling through him like the rush of a waterfall. A couple days after, River flies up from the table when Cassie drops a box filled with James’ old brushes. He glances at her as she bites her bottom lip and looks down at her belly, considering her chances of hurting the baby—or herself. River glances down at the files before him, already having went through them enough times to consider them worthless in his findings.

A poem dedicated to “blood and water” by Osuagwu Alexander. MY SIN What actually led me here What have I done Could I have saved him Was I scared or stupid Am writing to free my guilt But reading this script Literally pricks my conscience All I did was watch But I feel my ignorance was a sin And it haunts me daily I’ve always been wary But this blame was mine It was halp past nine On that cold dark night A scene pictographed in me My eyes met him afar

I reflect on my family. They struggled intensely to hold onto me. I wish for them to no longer experience pain. Therefore I sketch. Not on paper. On the floor. Right in the middle of the gold circle. A big door, tall enough for all of us. With flowers. And all our names. A soul that’s partly crimson, partly golden. As I complete it the crayon dissolves in my grip becoming light that seeps into the strokes I made. The floor ripples. The door swings open.

Thick, crimson liquid drips down the children’s faces, pools in their outstretched hands, stains their clothes. It looks like a massacre.