Comforting Drawings Novels & Stories

"Something like that." She nodded slowly, turning this over. Then she picked up her pencil and went back to her picture, and the kitchen was quiet again except for the scratch of her pencils and the wind in the hedgerows outside. I looked at the drawing she'd given me, now propped up against the wall by the window. Two figures, one tall, one small. Holding hands. Both with big smiles. My stomach turned again, a slow, rolling protest. I pressed my palm flat against the table and breathed through it.

Emma felt a familiar warmth in her chest as she moved from one child to another, offering encouragement and admiring their work. A girl named Sophie, who had been particularly quiet that day, tugged at Emma’s sleeve. “Miss Emma,” she said shyly, holding up a drawing of a tree with colorful birds perched on its branches. “Do you think it’s good?” Emma knelt beside her, studying the drawing with genuine admiration. “I think it’s beautiful, Sophie,” she said. “The colors you chose are so vibrant, and the way you made the birds look so happy it’s perfect.”

Right now, in Amie's hospital room, I was seated, crossed leg as I held up my hands in the air with a wide grin. I remained like that for several more minutes until Amie dropped her drawing book, she clapped her hands. “I'm done, mommy, you look really pretty." Amie spent enough time at the hospital, drawing so she was getting better at it. So as I dropped into the space beside her on the bed to see myself, I was stunned to see a stick-like thing sketched on the drawing book. It had its hands up, legs crossed like an X and teeth that almost took up its whole face.

He said: "He means more people." We looked at him. He stirred the oatmeal. "He's been drawing more figures for three weeks," he said. "He draws five and then adds more." He paused. "He draws six." He paused. "And then seven." He paused. "Not randomly." He paused. "He draws the family and then he draws more of the family." He paused. "He's documenting what he thinks is coming." He turned from the stove. He looked at us. At me.

Natalie asked him not to mind. "Are you usually this caring to the clients you draw?"she asked after he kept asking her a series of questions. Andrew smirked. He wasn't exactly sure what she meant by 'caring' but he was sure he had always made it a habit to ask about the client's comfortability. It made them more relaxed and he could draw better with them being relaxed. "I'm sure what you mean but well, that's just how I am" Natalie nodded, "Thank you for caring about me" she highlighted his action. Andrew shrugged, he got back to his seat and started to draw again.

"I will help." Kai nods with the satisfaction of someone whose project planning has received the necessary resource confirmation. Then he picks up the drawing book from the chair and he opens it to a fresh page and he begins to draw, right there in the treatment room, with the focused economy of someone who has something to get down before the image leaves. I look over his shoulder. He is drawing three figures: a small one, a tall one, and a third one whose silver hair he renders in careful crosshatched lines, standing in the western quarter with the tree and the lifted pavement stone visible at the edge of the frame.

Such a childish and girly tantrum. I covered my face. This was truly embarrassing. It was a good thing that I am the only person seeing this. I could not let Lucas know that I have such a habit before! This would be my secret until the day I die! "Mom, look here! I draw myself and mom!" My mother and I looked at the drawing book. There were two stick figures on the paper. The taller stick has long hair and a big smile with very long lashes that expand longer than the ears. While the shorter stick has twig tails and a small smile.

A small drawing desk in the corner, crayons scattered across it, a few papers with colorful scrawls. I stepped in slowly. On the wall, drawings were taped up. A child's drawings — a house with a triangular roof, a sun in the corner with rays drawn as straight lines, a tree with round red fruit. Then I saw it. One drawing in the middle. Three figures standing hand in hand. The small one in the middle, in a dress with long hair. A woman on the left. On the right, a man in a black suit.

His favorite stuffed dinosaur lay face-down on the floor, waiting for him to scoop it up like he always did before bed. On the walls, his drawings were taped crookedly—bright bursts of color in messy lines that only I had the patience to understand. Some of them were just shapes, others full of suns and moons, stick figures holding hands. He was seven, almost eight, and everything he drew told me the same thing: he wanted to feel safe, he wanted to feel loved.

He agreed after she threatened to leave the house. Drew seemed a little upset about something though. He would try to hide it with jokes and unnecessary activities. She decided to talk to him about it. She found him by the grey big stone at the edge of the garden. He was sketching something in a notepad. It was a the solar system. Drew only sketched things when he was sad or angry at something. "Good afternoon my favorite person in the whole world." Robyn said standing behind him. "Good afternoon my angel. How are you feeling? You know you're not supposed to be moving around too much."