Crying Eye Drawing Novels & Stories

A side of her face was behind the top and half of her face was visible to my eyes. I gulped hard when I started scanning the face. His pencil drew some strands of her small hair in front of her face. Putting the pencil aside, he then took a gray colored pencil. He colored the iris of her eyes as gray and my eyes widened when I almost recognised the face. Unable to bear it, I immediately banged my palm over the picture which earned his attention. “What the fuck you drew! Are you crazy?” I yelled at him, looking into his eyes. They held amusement and then his lips curved into a small smirk.

He began to draw. His hand moved rapidly, the black charcoal scratching loudly against the heavy white paper. But today, the lines didn't form twisted roots or chaotic trees. Instead, he found himself drawing thick, overlapping lines of black, forming a heavy, iron circle. In the center of the circle was a tiny, faint outline of a bird, its wings clipped, its head bowed. He stared at the drawing, a sudden wave of deep, suffocating grief washing over him.

“The one with silver eyes. He was standing outside our window. Watching. He said we’d see Mommy again. But not the way we think.” Yvette looked at the drawing. It was a stick figure man with white circles for eyes. And in the background—a building on fire. ---

The exact curve of her jaw. After about fifteen minutes, I set down the pencil. The drawing wasn't perfect, but it was the best I drew. I turned the paper around so Carmen and Miguel could see, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. For a moment, they both just stared at the drawing in silence. Then Carmen let out a choked sob. Her hands flew to her mouth, tears spilling down her weathered cheeks, her entire body starting to shake. "Dios mío," she whispered. "Dios mío."

The image struck him so hard his chest tightened. He hadn't thought about her in years. Then the memory continued. His mother knelt beside him. Smiling. Gentle. Warm. Then she asked: "What are you drawing?" The young Thomas proudly held up the paper. And the moment he saw it— his blood turned to ice. Golden eyes. The drawing showed golden eyes. Massive eyes. Watching from darkness. Exactly like the creature below. Exactly. The memory shattered. Thomas gasped. Ava immediately grabbed his shoulders.

"Open your eyes, I want to see in those deep dreamy eyes, my beautiful." Slowly she opened her eyes , they were full of love and want. A soft chuckle left his throat, seeing his shy girl turning into a tigress . Then once again he commanded her to touch herself. She never wanted to leave her grip over her friend yet she tried touching herself rolling on the bed. Seeing her like this he was getting harder, not able to stay apart he quickly grasped her hands and then entered into her slowly and slowly coaxing her. The doors were opened yet too small for a huge entry, beads of sweat were forming on the forehead. He said, " want me to come in", she nodded , he said, " it's going to hurt a bit bu

I lingered at the entrance of the tent, catching my breath before I crawled inside. The pain dulled to a light throb as I focused my gaze at Caelum, who is also out of breath, tear streaks framing his face. I looked down to see him holding a piece of paper – a couple of drawings floating around him while the shivering letters jumped up and down as though rejoicing for being freed from the box. I crawled, cautious of what he might do to me. In an instant, the letters and drawings fell. Caelum stopped crying, and instead he reached out his hand to touch my face.

I opened the oil paint color palette and poured them onto the glass and fixed the canvas onto the stand. This time I didn't decide what to draw as I leave it to my hands and mind to go with the flow. I played with the brushes until my hands pained. When I glanced at what I did, I saw a beautiful shadow of a girl with a single teardrop falling from her eyes while she was smiling, a mask in her hand hiding her anguish and pain, while her eyes were longingly fixed onto a tall silhouette of a man and the cracks on her heart were visible.

“Is it, Eddie? Is that what we’re doing? Celebrating?” Eddie’s jaw tightened. He looked like he wanted to say something—to snap back, to exert his control—but instead, he just reached for his glass of bourbon and took a long, slow swallow. He looked at me over the rim of the glass, and for a split second, the "Sculptor" mask slipped. I saw a flicker of something raw and unwanted in his green eyes. It wasn't anger. It was a dark, obsessive curiosity. He was beginning to realize that the clay was starting to mold itself, and he had no idea what the final shape would be.

I just set the yellow pencil down beside the paper and stepped back slightly, giving her space. Lila didn’t move for a long time. Then, slowly, so slowly it was almost imperceptible, she raised her head. Her tear-filled eyes, red-rimmed and impossibly deep, focused not on me, but on the drawing. On the yellow sun. On the little house. On the two stick figures.