Drawing The Line Book Novels & Stories

It was just like the writings of a computer, neatly and clearly obvious. Her perfect handwriting flows gracefully across the page, with elegant curves and consistent spacing. Each letter was meticulously formed, exuding a sense of sophistication and precision that captures attention and invites admiration. I picked up the drawings, and observed the nude pictures perfectly sketched out on blank sheets. This young Miss drawing is a mesmerizing dance of colors and lines, weaving together to create a vivid tapestry of emotions. With each stroke, she breathes life into her creation, capturing fleeting moments of beauty and depth.

Watch out for “Striking Blow.” (Strike Zone Book #2) This is Pearl and Antonio’s story. Filled with international intrigue and subterfuge. Striking Blow Colombo. Sri Lanka. Pearl needed directions—a map—a freaking GPS back to herself. Finding her worth again meant starting with a physical transformation. For starters, the blonde princess staring back at her in the mirror wasn’t real, and it was time to pack “socialite barbie” away in a dark drawer; time to step away from the two-hundred-dollar haircut and her designer lifestyle.

I need to give it life before it drags me under by its intangibility. When I reach the wide open space I call home, the blue sky stretching over the soft green grass that waves in the gentle breeze, the little violets and wild dandelions welcome me as if they have missed me. The line of trees to the north is a barrier against whatever lurks across the border, but I don't let it bother me. The real threat is in my head. I open my book and begin drawing. The smooth lines of his face are chiseled, his hair is tangled where it rests on his forehead, his eyes stare at me with angst even as I draw the parted lips that allude to a sorrowful groan.

She wasn't there; she didn't see it happen when I watched my shadow snap his neck in self-defense. "You’re not sure," I counter. "I am," she insists, her gaze steady and full of reassurance, almost making me feel foolish for fearing a book. Taking a deep breath, I finally open the book. It seems to anticipate my needs, flipping pages on its own until it stops at a peculiar drawing—a girl with long hair standing hands on hips, with her shadow beside her, rendered in dark charcoal as if to mirror her.

There are drawings of the house, more of us. In the bottom drawer, buried under a bunch of pencil sharpeners and other tools, there’s a leather bound book. Almost like a journal. There’s a design on the front of it that nearly reminds me of the Midnight Protector’s logo but far more intricate. It’s hand sewn in the same color as the leather.

"What are all those books and colored pencils for, huh?" Fabian trembled but could not let go of his grip on the sketch he had just finished drawing. He dared not look at the owner of the booming voice behind him. Certainly, there would be a whipping or two in store if he did not stop his activities immediately. But really, as long as he carved the tip of the pencil on the blank paper that was made into a design of clothing with a firm line at the waist, he felt that he had found a world that was so pleasant. "Fabian!"

A bright drawing, a direct opposite of mine. "Do you like my drawing?" She asked. "I do" my words were short and I grabbed my pencil, scribbling two words on the drawing of the sun and rainbows. 'Mine, Peaches' TBC If you will be interested in reading this book, kindly let me know in the comments. Thank you once again for choosing my books.

"You had this terrifying look on your face for a second. I thought someone died. Tell her to call the front desk and stop ruining our study time." "Yeah. I'll tell her," I muttered, my fingers tightly gripping the edges of the phone against my thigh. "Anyway, back to page two hundred and fifteen," Liya said, leaning over the book again, her long hair falling forward over her shoulders. "This graph shows how companies enter and exit the market when there's profit. See how the supply curve shifts to the right?"

I drew three columns with a sharp pencil. Caldwells. Crimson Circle. Me. I sat with it for a long time. Staring at the lines, at the blank space between them. At the way the word ’Me’ looked so small compared to everything else.

Sharp jawline, green eyes that seemed to see too much, and an air of confidence that should have been annoying but somehow wasn't. "Actually, I was just leaving." Emma started gathering her things, but her laptop bag chose that moment to rebel. The zipper stuck, her notebook tumbled to the floor, and her pen rolled under the stranger's feet. He crouched down to retrieve her pen, and Emma caught sight of the title on her fallen notebook's cover: "Heat Between the Lines - Draft 3." Her heart stopped. That was her working title—the one she'd scribbled on the cover without thinking, the one that revealed exactly what kind of book she was struggling to write.