Bloody Crayons Novels & Stories

"Explain to me how you saw it." "To me, it's just water , that's because I'm magical but to you , it's just gonna give you whatever image it's wants you to see, I don't know.". Raphael turned away from him and picked the syringe up from the ground, staring at it delicately. The syringe glowed with four different colours as Raphael stared at it, Red, blue, grey and white each respectively belonging to the plant families, Aconite, Hemlock, deadly Nightshade and Mandrake.

“My teacher gave me some art homework but I don't have any crayons here. Could you please get me some?” Alexei had an innate talent for drawing and I knew how much he enjoyed gifting me and Lincoln a picture of his family every month to showcase his growing progress. But I was currently depressed so I didn't feel like going out at that moment. “Darling, can't we get the crayons tomorrow instead? It's quite dark so I think it's best we-” “Please, Mommy,” My son stubbornly insisted, “I really want those crayons tonight. Please get me some crayons...”

It was the start of a whole new phase of the girls’ lives. They too were facing a great crisis: picking out backpacks. Most of the back-to-school supplies we got for the girls were mandated not only by type but also brand. We got Ticonderoga #2 pencils, Trailmaker college-ruled composition books, 64-count Crayola Crayon packs, and Crayola Ultraclean Broadline Classic Washable Markers (10 count). The school didn’t care what sort of glue sticks or plastic folders they had. I had anticipated some conversations about lunch boxes, but Chloe wanted Barbie, and Grace wanted My Little Pony.

“For your daughter.” I took it, peeking inside. It contained two things: a small, perfect container of ripe, red strawberries, and a box of the highest-quality, most expensive colored pencils I had ever seen. “The strawberries,” he said, his voice clinical, “have a documented high concentration of antioxidants and natural sugars, conducive to post-stress nutritional replenishment for a child. The pencils are artist-grade. Their pigment density and lightfastness are superior. They represent a logical progression from watercolor.”

Frank saw us looking at each other, and immediately started to tease me. “ Like me? She’s like a sister” I spoke. “ A sister? You don’t even share the same blood?”. He spoke back. “ Blood? “ He giggled , “ bro! You don‘t share the same blood, don‘t be silly?”. He pressed his hand on my forehead and smiled. “ Yeah! You’re the silly one “ I said, playfully removing his hand from touching my hair. What a stupid and overly weird thing to say; Lilla and I practically grew up in the same House, it‘s evident that she too sees me as her brother, even though we don‘t share the same blood.

He is being frames but only God knows why. Joel is not only an animal but a bloody monster who should be dealt with in the most severe way. The trial was progressing and the odds were not in Freddie's favour. Something drastic has to be done or else Freddie was not only going to lose the case but his life as well because I had a strong feeling that Joel will not stop until Freddie is wiped out completely.

she snapped, “I need to get back the shop before the boss has my head. Is this about the Bloody Barbies again?” Bloody Barbie was the nickname Maria gave to the murders ever since she’d gotten involved as a suspect. It was an apt name. Each crime scene that had been investigated was painted red with each victim’s blood, and in each one there would be a bloody doll left behind (though, not exactly a Barbie), no less than three feet away from the body.

NYU was my ticket to that world. I was deep into shading when it happened. Some guy—tall, built like a wall—brushed past me way too close. My pencil skidded across the page, leaving a ugly streak right through the fountain. “Hey!” I yelped, looking up. And then… whoa.

It hits something and the cardboard box splits open, spilling crayons everywhere. "Fuck him!" I say, throwing another box, then another. "Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him!" This time I don't pay attention to what I'm grabbing. It's not until my latest projectile hits the wall that I realize I've just hurled a pack of paints across the room. They explode, splattering the wall and floor and a stack of blank white canvases in the process. I sink down to my knees, too overwhelmed to look at the damage.

Then the next color, then the next. There had been a time when the scent of paint had filled her with euphoria. Now the blue smelled like the sharp chunks of crushed ice on the reservoir, the brown dark and threatening, the odor of wet earth, the smell of a grave. She unloaded her chosen colors, what she would need for the first layer, adding crimson the very last, no more than was absolutely necessary. Of all the shades of red, she hated the wet, sticky brightness of crimson the most.