Eddie Munson Drawings Novels & Stories

I felt immense peace, thanks to Edward and the medicine he gave me. “Are you ready for another session?” Edward asked one day. I nodded vigorously and dropped the crayons he had given me, then held a drawing I had been working on for him behind my back before running up to him with a childlike grin on my face. “I’m ready,” I said. Edward peered over my shoulder to see what I was holding behind my back. “What’s that you’ve got there, Nina?” I grinned even wider and held the drawing out for him to see.

Marcus was looking at it when she found him. He was in his shirtsleeves. The rolled drawings under one arm — the original drawings, Edward's pencil lines, the ones James had kept for forty years in a wooden box at the end of a private road. He had been carrying them everywhere since she delivered them. Not because he needed to reference them constantly. Because the act of carrying them was its own form of something she understood but would not name without his permission. "He's coming at ten," she said. "I know," Marcus said. "Howard Chen told me."

“Do you want to see my drawing?” Suzi smiled. “Yes, I do.” They stepped out onto the back patio where the winter sun was pale and low. Ella sat cross-legged on the stone bench, flipping open a sketchpad. On the page was a careful pencil drawing of a tall man holding a woman’s hand. The man’s hair was dark and messy, the woman’s hair long. “That’s you and Uncle Max,” Ella said simply. Suzi blinked at the page, her throat tightening again. “It’s beautiful, Ella.”