Cholo Clown Drawing Novels & Stories

" I asked calmly and he exhaled. "You know your mum loved drawing huh?" He exhaled, bringing out a portrait. "I almost thought it's your mum's painting" he showed me the picture and I smiled gently. Well, this picture is very beautiful. "Who drew it then? Chloe?" I queried. I know Chloe draws most of his pictures, she gives them to him as gifts. "No Henry, this is from the school. I don't know who drew it"

"This is a funeral! What do you think you're doing?" Chloe cackled as she walked toward Mary's portrait. The kind face in the photo stared forward, as if silently enduring the insult. "It's this old hag!" Chloe said, her voice dripping with venom. "She almost got me sent to jail! Today, I'm going to make sure she doesn't even have a grave to rest in!" With that, she grabbed a can of red paint. And threw it all over Mary's portrait. The bright red liquid dripped down the photo like blood.

And it was not. As I opened the door a little wider and stepped inside her room, I smiled widely and closed the door so that no one, especially grandma, could get in. The walls of Chloe's room are covered in drawings that have no apparent context. Several of them appear to be houses, people, and a lake. I've noticed that she frequently incorporates red, black, and blue into her artwork. Transparent drapes obscured two of the patterned windows in Chloe's room. This bright blue sofa, which has several kinds of teddy bears sitting on it, is located directly in front of all the windows.

Then offered her the paper he’d been colouring. It was a stick-figure drawing of the three of us, standing under a big yellow sun. He’d written “I LOVE AUNT CLARA” in crooked block letters at the bottom. Clara took it with a trembling smile and hugged him tightly. “This is great, Kid. Good work.” “I'll make you a special one,” he said. “I'll be sure to keep it.” “I’m gonna miss you,” he said quietly into her shoulder. “I’ll miss you too, sweet pea. Come on guys, we don't have to do all the sentimentalities now. We still have time.”

His eyebrows rose. "What's this?" "Nothing. Give it back." She reached for it. He held it higher. "These are drawings of me." Her face burned. "I was sixteen. It's creepy. I know." He studied the pages. Pencil sketches from different angles. Him at Chloe's eighteenth birthday party. Laughing. Talking. Unaware he was being watched. "This one." He pointed to a sketch of him by the pool. "I remember this night. I came home for Christmas break. You were there. Quiet. In the corner."

A minute later Keyla heard cupboard doors opening in the kitchen. Leo, at the table with paper and crayons, was drawing something he'd been working on since breakfast. Three figures in a house — the same round heads and stick bodies he always used, circles for heads, lines for bodies, and a square structure around them with a door. He'd labeled none of them, which was unusual; Usually there would already be letters beside each figure. Something seemed to occur to him. He switched crayons and went back to the drawing. Only then did Keyla look away from the contract. She leaned slightly toward the drawing. "Who's that?"

Lucas was on the floor by the radiator, shoving a wooden dolphin and a wooden whale into the same plastic tub with a focus that suggested a lot rode on the outcome. Chloe was at the counter with a piece of cardboard flattened in front of her, drawing something in pencil so hard her hand was white at the knuckles. Estelle was at the sink rinsing cups, the tap low. She had her hair up with a pen through it. I watched the back of her shoulders for a second, the way they moved when she rinsed, and then I looked back at the phone. “The whale goes in the deep-sea bin, Luc,” Chloe said without looking up.

The parents clapped. Chloe's project was a drawing of the community centre. Not the new one. The old one, before the collapse. She had drawn it from photographs Léo had shown her, the front entrance and the bench where the woman used to sit with her coffee. The bench was drawn in 4B so it was darker than the building around it. The woman was not in the drawing. She had thought about drawing the woman but she had not known what she looked like, only that she existed, and drawing someone you had never seen felt like making something up rather than drawing something real.

However, just when the game was about to end, my eyes caught a glimpse of something that made me stop. I noticed that Clark had a peculiar tattoo on his arm I believed was similar to what we found in Hunter Grey. Based on my quick observation, the tattoo was an intricate design of a demented clown, with elongated limbs and a twisted grin on its face. The colors used were vibrant yet grotesque, with shades of mustard yellow, deep red, and silky green. The clown's eyes were black and soulless as if they were staring right into your deepest fears. But the weirdness of the tattoo did not stop there. Around the clown's body were tiny, almost indiscernible symbols and lines that seemed to move and

Chloe walked back to the nursery to fetch the boy. "Liam, dinner's ready. Did you finish your draw—" Her voice died in her throat. Chloe’s hands balled into trembling fists as she stared at the canvas. It wasn't a happy family portrait. It was a depiction of hell. In the center of the paper, Liam had drawn three figures, but they weren't people. Two of them were towering "monsters," and the third was a small, broken boy cowering in a dark corner. The first monster was a man with eyes the size of saucers, wearing a tattered T-shirt. In one hand, he brandished a heavy belt; in the other, a glowing cigarette butt that he was pressing toward the crying boy on the ground.