Crayon Book Novels & Stories

“Warner, we’re not running an office supply store in here.” “I know,” I said quickly, forcing my voice steady. “I just… I need to think. To plan. I need something to write on. Anything. Paper, pencil—hell, a crayon. Please.” There was silence on the other end. Long, heavy silence. Then the voice sighed, annoyed but not unmoved. “You get one crayon. And two sheets of plain paper. Don’t eat the crayon.” I almost laughed. “I promise.” Within minutes, the cell door opened and the guard pressed a dull blue crayon and two sheets of flimsy paper into my hands. It wasn’t much, but it felt like treasure. Like possibility.

“We should bring the crayons next time.” “We will see,” Stella said, and reached for her water. The word next felt like a gift even though she had not meant it that way. I had brought two books in my bag, small ones with bright pictures. I set them on the edge of the table without pushing them forward. “I brought these,” I said, looking at Stella. “Only if you say it is alright. You can look at them later.” She glanced at the covers and gave a short nod. “We can take them home.”

I couldn’t believe how much he had grown; it seemed like just yesterday he was a few inches shorter. Chris’s face was all lit up, his cheeks rosy with enthusiasm. He was practically bouncing on his toes as he held up his artwork for me to see. The pages were filled with colors, blues, greens, and yellows all mashed together in a whirlwind of childlike creativity. “Look, look!” he said, waving the pages so fast they almost fluttered like wings. “Grace said when I finish coloring all these, we can make them into a book for my baby sister!”

She had not yet known that there were different kinds of pencils created better for creating an art piece at this time, which was why she made the best of it. Yet, when she observed her drawings again, their perfection deeply moved her emotions. She was amazed by her capability to exactly copy the images she had on mind to the thin sheet of paper. She thought to herself what a magnificent creature she was for creating such a good piece at such a young age that the level of her joyfulness increased. She became more eager as she finally colored them with crayons branded Crayola, a set of crayons intended for children. Although they produced clear shades of colors, they were inexpensive; such q

Hi all, Just a quick note to apologise for the delay in updates. I have been working on other material that hasn't taken me away from this book. I am currently working on more chapters to go up this week with the view to have it finished this month. Also, I wanted to say that this will be my last book on GN, while I continue my venture elsewhere. You'll be able to find me on various SM pl@forms so make sure you come check in on the latest :)

The kind meant for older kids but that August had started gravitating toward because picture books didn't have enough words. "This one is about a robot who wants to be an astronaut." Carter held up the first book. "And this one is about deep sea creatures. Real ones, not made up. And this one—" He pulled out a thick hardcover. "This one is about how bridges are built. It has diagrams." August's eyes went huge. He took the bridge book with both hands like Carter had given him something precious. Opened to the first page where there was indeed a detailed diagram of bridge architecture. "This is mine? To keep?"

Takuto Kimura lay on his nap mat, his little chubby arms sprawled out as he carefully studied his crayon work. His gaze was focused, his furrowed brow the picture of concentration. On the inside of his arm, in vivid red and yellow crayon, he had written: "Feasibility Report on the Monopoly of Sandbox Production Materials." This was not some simple toddler scribble—it was the blueprint for the next big thing. Or, at least, his next big thing. Sunlight streamed through the classroom windows, casting striped shadows across his round face, making him look like a zebra plotting something very, very suspicious.

I have been doing that a lot lately. We step inside and the house smells like coffee and something sweet, maybe cookies. It’s warm, safe, nothing like the clubhouse where we reside. Chloe is in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor with Lily. They seem to be coloring books spread out in front of them. Crayons are scattered everywhere, the colours bright against the soft rug. Lily is bent over her book, her small hands clutching a crayon. Her tongue is poking out. It's something she does when she focuses.

"Well, I think that people who like to draw are pretty cool and creative." He looked up at me with expectation in his eyes. "Really?" I nodded and got a purple crayon that was on the table. "Can I draw something for you?" He nodded and flipped a few pages before giving the sketch book to me. I drew a girl standing in a playground as neatly as I could before giving it back to him. He snorted before covering his mouth and asking, "What's that?" "It's art. A little girl is happily playing at the playground. Pretty cool, huh?"

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: