Galaxy Sketches Novels & Stories

By men in general. I had began sketching again, nothing big, but it served as a nice release for me, it was something I’d always enjoyed and picking it up again felt really good. Tessa was over the moon. annoyed at andreas for being a jackass though,as she so elegantly put it.

The harmonious energies within them resonated with the celestial genesis, connecting their souls to the cosmic cycles of birth and rebirth. The second astral telescope unveiled the cosmic tapestry of interconnected galaxies. Victoria and Alexander observed the harmonious interplay of galactic forces—celestial entities bound by gravitational dances that shaped the cosmic landscapes. The celestial guide explained that each galaxy was a chapter in the grand saga of the universe, and the harmonious currents within the cosmic tapestry wove tales of celestial connections that transcended spatial boundaries.

Bodies that didn’t follow any natural shape. Things that shouldn’t exist. Lia stepped back, covering her mouth. “What… are those?” No one answered. Nearby, there were star charts spread across a table. Lines connected unfamiliar constellations—patterns Cheska had never seen before. The stars didn’t match anything she remembered from school or books. It was like her grandfather had been mapping a sky that didn’t belong to this world. And then— The journals. Dozens of them. Stacked neatly, as if they were the most important things in the room.

Claris appeared to recover quickly with a slight shake of her head, and a quick wave of her hand over the table. “As you can see, each of these six galaxies align around each other to create the shape of….” “A hexagram,” Mitzie breathed out as her eyes remained fastened to what she was seeing before her. Luceron chuckled as he placed one arm across his stomach and the other in a fist to his mouth. “Someone paid attention in geometry class,” he said in an amused tone. She ignored his statement and continued to gawk at the vision in front of her. She didn’t understand the significance of what she was seeing, but Claris was more than eager to explain it to her.

My drawing tablet sat there, practically taunting me. I knew I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t. But I grabbed it anyway. My fingers swiped across the screen, flipping through random sketches before landing on them. The nudes. The explicit sketches of Jace—of us—doing things that had never even happened except in my head. My stomach twisted, but I couldn’t look away. I should stop. I should. But in the next minute, I was sketching again. My hand moved on its own, each line more detailed than the last. I wasn’t even thinking, just letting myself get lost in the strokes—

I never knew there was an artist amongst the brothers, and instead of leaving before whoever it was caught up with me, curiosity got the better of me and propelled me to walk closer. There was a sketchbook on the other stool, and before I could think, I had picked it up and was flipping through the pages. The sketches were impeccable and wild, and as I stared at the sketches of skies, oceans, sad eyes, marketplaces, riverbanks, and kids playing, it pulled at my heartstrings. But what really stopped me was the sketches of a lady who looked so familiar. She was pretty in a way that defied logic, and with the way she came alive under his pencil, it almost felt like…

What's this one trying to say? Daniel had looked at the early sketches. Not the structural drawings — those were beyond his current literacy, the geometry of a building that size requiring more architecture vocabulary than he had absorbed. But the concept sketches, the pencil-on-trace studies that were the thinking-out-loud stage, the questions being asked before the answers were attempted. He had looked at them and thought: it's going to be right. Again.

On it was a stack of paper. Sketches. I walked toward them, my heart beating faster for reasons I didn't understand. The first sketch took my breath away. It was a gown—architectural, stunning, something that belonged on a runway in Paris, the proportions perfect. I flipped to the next. Another gown. Then another, meticulously drawn, each piece more beautiful than the last. She drew these???, I thought. I kept flipping. There were sketches of rooms—the kitchen, the library, the garden. Sketches of Eleanor, smiling. Sketches of the grounds, the fountain.

"It was about protection. About 'No More Ghosts'. It was a reaction to the war." He looked back at the sketch. "This... the band... the band is the home. It's what happens after the war is over." He pushed the paper across the desk. Adrian leaned forward. He studied the drawing. It wasn't the polished rendering of a professional; it was the rough, passionate work of a man obsessed with detail. It showed an intricate band of platinum, not smooth, but textured. Interwoven. Like vines, or ropes, or roots. And set into the metal were small stones.

His hands moved with a confidence that was mesmerizing, bringing images to life on paper with quick, sure strokes. “So you ran,” he said finally. “I didn’t run. I chose safety.” “Same thing.” I bristled again. “It’s not…” “Here.” He turned the sketch pad around. I sucked in a breath. It wasn’t a phoenix. It was a bird, but something else—maybe a swallow, wings spread mid-flight, breaking free from delicate chains that fell away beneath it. Simple but beautiful, the lines clean and purposeful. “It’s perfect,” I whispered.