Drawing The Line Book Novels & Stories

"You have fire in you, I like that." Celeste stepped closer, letting her arm brush lightly against Dara’s. "Thank you, I put all my real feelings into every brush stroke, heartbreak makes the best art, don't you think?" She smiled, her hazel eyes sparkling. "You have such beautiful features, Dara. Your bone structure is perfect. I would love to draw you sometime, a private session in my studio would you be interested?" Dara’s cheeks flushed a soft pink. "You are very direct, Celeste, most people only want to talk about my money or my family name." She did not move away from the touch. "A private session? I think I would like that. When?"

I'm sure what they heard was just a stupid goat bleating. Sky lifted the book above his head and asked, “What exactly should I give back?” Since words weren't enough, then I'd have to do it the hard way—the violent taketh it by force! I jumped, trying to reach my novel, but he was far taller than me. I must look stupid right now. Sky stretched his hand sideways, and handed the novel to Quinn. Not him! I rushed to take the book from Quinn, but I was held back by Josh, who grabbed my backpack.

He guessed that the book would have some contents of magic. “Don't touch anything.” Hadrian yelled at Aiden when he tried to reach for the book. Hadrian took a chalk from the box, he looked at Beckham who nodded before he started to draw a circle, he inscribed another circle, and then he pictured smaller circles between the big and small circles.

There was no time to waste. Lyda rushed to work. She retrieved the last pages of Aunt Mara's book from under her mattress, tossing them aside until she found the one she was looking for. The hardened black substance on the parchment revealed a drawing consisting of a circle with a series of lines running inside it to form a six-armed star, the vertices of which pointed to six smaller circles around the edge of the large one. This was it. She remembered studying it briefly before Aunt Mara's book was destroyed, but now was the time to put her knowledge to the test.

"Draw what you see in the book. Right now." I flipped the book open to the first page. The symbols were there, swirling in their gold-flecked ink. I started to sketch the first one. It was a complex series of intersecting lines. As soon as I lifted the pen from the notepad, the ink on my paper vanished. The page was white and empty again. I stared at the paper, my mouth hanging open. "What the hell?" Alanza, Sombra’s voice was urgent. Write them again. One by one. Fast.

Cracks I no longer felt like fixing. I dropped my phone onto the desk and leaned back again, letting my head rest against the chair. My eyes drifted to the empty seat across from me. Her seat. The ache in my chest pulled sharper. It was ridiculous how much silence could hurt. I flipped it open to the page where she’d doodled absentmindedly during a long study session. Little stars. Flowers. A tiny cartoon version of me complaining about chemistry. My chest tightened. God, I’d been blind. I touched one of the doodles lightly with my thumb, tracing the lines she’d drawn. The room felt smaller somehow. Or maybe I was finally feeling the weight of everything I’d ignored.

They didn't speak much and so I feel like I should continue my words to break this silence. "I am not that sure about what I am about to say but I've read this in some book I saw in the library. Although the credibility of that book is something I can't guarantee" I sat on the ground and pick up the pencil I had with me. Opening the small book I have, I started to draw on the blank page that is not pure white in color. They just keep silent and let me continue my drawing. "Have you heard about the Heminrey plant?"

I crack it open with my nail and slide out a single note, folded once. Nathan’s handwriting is sharp. Precise. Every letter controlled. “Try not to lose this one. It won’t be replaced.” No greeting. No signature. No explanation. Just that. A warning? A challenge? A leash? My stomach twists. Not with fear. With adrenaline. Because I know him now. And this—this is how he shows he’s reeling. Not with softness. Not with sentiment. With cryptic notes and unspoken rules. With black cards and serpent seals and a single line that says everything he won’t say out loud.

My father’s book. I took a deep breath and opened it again, making sure to avoid touching any of the pencil prints. I looked at them one by one. Most of them were just drawings of still objects. Then I flipped to the next page and saw a picture of the glowing moth! Just like the other sketches, this one was vivid too, as if it had been captured and trapped in the book. Surrounding the glowing moth were little sparks in an exact shade of gold to represent the light it gives off as it flies. I turned over to the next page. Nothing significant. Just banshee drawings. I flipped and flipped until I got to the end of the book. Nothing of any peculiar interest to me. I closed the book and set it do

Long enough that I stopped thinking about the sketchbook and the note and the eighteen months and Donald saying Good and started thinking only about the line. The next line. The decision the line had to make. That was the thing about drawing I had forgotten. That it asked you questions and you had to answer them. Not with words. With your hand. With a choice about where the weight went and where the fabric fell and what the shoulder was doing and why. When I finally put the pencil down I sat back and looked at what I had made. A woman. Not finished. Not even close to finished.