Marceline Drawing Novels & Stories

She looked into the mirror until she didn’t see a girl shattered by love but a woman carved from loss and silence. The tears had dried. The ache hadn’t. But she was upright. And that was something. Let him laugh now, she thought. Let him walk away. One day, Cross Dejeva would regret the day he called her nothing. … … … … A week later. The days blurred together like smeared ink on rain-soaked paper. Each morning, Marceline painted on a smile like a mask stitched to her skin—graceful, cheerful, composed. No one saw the cracks. No one heard the sobs that echoed against her bedroom walls once the lights were out.

I traced the curve of her waist to her ass better and added the finishing details to her legs and the ocean washing up to it. It was almost perfect. All it needed to look exactly like the original was color but I didn't color my drawings. I never had, I had never thought painting it would make it better, either. But every time I drew Madelaine, I wanted the color to be in there. I shut my drawing book and kept it safe away from the water. Madelaine’s eyes were still closed, she must have fallen asleep. “Are you sleeping?” I asked, and she groaned, opening her eyes groggily.

Marcel began walking away. “Why would I divulge my reasons to you?” Celia followed him, wondering that as well. “Because maybe a good reason would make you seem less like a power–hungry maniac.” Marcel smirked. “Maybe I am a power–hungry maniac.” This bastard is playing with me. “If that were true, I imagine you’d have been making us build a castle like the humans do.” “You know, little Omega, that’s a good idea.”

The moment the door closed, the room filled with silence, only the faint beeping sound of the machines echoing of pencil scribbling against pen as Michelle completed her drawing. Amelie bit down on her lower lip in thought. Was she simply overthinking it? Perhaps it has not actually been Zacharie who saved her but a generous p*sserby? Amelie was drawn out of her thoughts as Michelle who noticed her looking down, tugged on her dress. "Mommy, look at my new drawing." She held up the picture she was busy completing, showing Amelie. The picture was of a simple garden filled with chrysanthemums and irises in full bloom.

“My commitment to you is unwavering. I'm here, as I promised, and will remain by your side until my journey ends with the moon goddess.” “I'm curious about our appearance.” "Go take a look at the river," said Marceline. Reaching the river, I was astonished by my reflection—a magnificent golden wolf, sizable and with stunning ruby-red sapphire eyes. With Marceline's chuckling in my head, I turned to see Castro's shell-shocked reaction to how we looked. “Marceline, are you aware of what we must do?” “I'll stand by you, no matter what you decide.” "Thank you, Marceline. I'm wondering if we can establish a mental connection without being mark."

My chest tightened. The drawing wasn't remarkable. Children drew families every day. The labels underneath made it remarkable. Mom. Me. Uncle Edwin. Arthur. I looked again. Arthur. The fourth figure wasn't Elias Vale. It was Arthur. The room seemed to tilt slightly. "Lucian." My voice came out quieter than intended. He crossed immediately. Then frowned. Then looked at the drawing again. And again. Mara joined us. Vivian too. Nobody spoke for several seconds. Finally Mara said,

Silence filled the ward. “Celesta,” Marceline called softly. She paused, then added calmly, “Draft the papers like I told you. Get them ready.” Her gaze turned distant.

" “I do." “So tell me what are these creatures I keep drawing in my painting and how come I am able to hear their voices in my head?" Marcel asked and from his tone one could tell he was somewhat frustrated but the old lady seemed thrilled by his revelation. “What do they tell you?" She asked, curiosity pique. “Different things. Sometimes they are things I want to hear and other times they say things..things that are so vile yet appealing," Marcel said and the lady smiled intriguingly “They feed off your desires and thoughts. Interesting," she muttered the last part to herself.

Marie asked, walking out of the room we were in with her food in her hand. “Let’s be realistic; where are we even going to get her photos? It’s not like someone somewhere in this mansion secretly made a painting of her,” Christine said. “Here’s a painting of Clarabelle." The voice of a maid who came by to collect her meal sounded as she placed a small scroll on our counter. I and Christine turned in her direction, and she continued, “I do a lot of painting and drawing in secret; I actually made one for all four of you, but they were destroyed during the war; this painting of Clarabelle is all that’s left. You can give it to her when she comes back to the mansion.”

Marceline entered one of the alleys, turned on the tap water, and began washing her hair and face. Her appearance transformed. Her original hair color returned, and her punk makeup disappeared. She removed all her earrings, adopting a more innocent look. Even the tattoo on her neck turned out to be a stick-on, similar to those used by children. Finally, Marceline changed into Saintly Woods' uniform. Suddenly, she looked like a typical high school student, free from trouble and drama. Now clean and tidy, Marceline entered a building and ascended to the third floor. Despite the moldy stench that pervaded the place, she paid it no mind. Finally, she stood in front of one of the most dilapidated