Mha Sketch Novels & Stories

He laughed and buried his head in his hands. "Ah, fuck. Qiao Mo... " Hila She woke up rather earlier than usual and felt queasy. The day of the Wushi Chin Cooperation annual meeting had arrived and she was to deliver the Wushi Group's proposal to the board. The obvious reason behind the formation of the group was to help the world through annual donations to curb different calamities in different countries.

Mahara said, a wistful look in her eyes. “I’m glad you didn’t forget me," Lili replied, trying to hide the emotions that her friends' words had stirred within her. “I draw and paint now," Mahara said, causing Lili's eyes to light up with interest. "What do you draw?" she asked Mahara with an air of intrigue. “I draw portraits and landscapes," Mahara replied, a hint of pride evident in her tone. “That's amazing. Can you draw me?" Lili asked with a broad smile on her face.

And that was okay. Today I was helping Micah, a thirteen-year-old with a shaved head, hoodie sleeves always tugged down over their palms, and the eyes of someone who’d seen more than they should’ve. They weren’t chatty, but they liked drawing. Their sketchbook was filled with figures that resembled comic book heroes, quiet and fierce, with eyes always cast in shadow. They were hunched over a new page now, sketching a person standing in the center of swirling chaos. The figure held a long sword in both hands, the blade resting downward, tip touching the ground. Not raised. Not slashing. Just… there.

Not a house, not yet, but the beginning of one. I set the phone aside and picked up Mera’s sketchbook from the table. The page she’d left open had a drawing of a spaceship again this time, it had three little stick figures inside. Two big ones, one small and all of them where smiling. I wasn’t sure if that meant anything but I wanted it to.

Mia turned her sketchbook around without a word and held it up so only I could see. She had drawn all of them. Without looking down. From memory and instinct and the particular vision she had always had for the shape of things before they were finished. Five figures this time. Room left for more.

I promised while wrapping my arm around her. "I know," Mira said softly. She did not sound convinced and her tiny fingers continued to work frantically on the sketch. I shifted my weight on the rug and leaned over to see what she was drawing so intensely. My breath hitched in my throat and a cold wave of dread washed over my skin. She wasn't drawing a stray cat or a flower or a cartoon character. She drew a rough outline of a tall man wearing a sharp suit with dark hair falling over his forehead. The sketch was childish but the harsh jawline and the intense eyes were undeniably familiar.

"That’s a bold word for a board that prides itself on 'fostering the next generation of masters.'" "Lila," Higgins warned. "The nature of the sketches—" "The nature of the sketches," I interrupted, my voice steady and clear, "is the study of the human form and the complexity of modern brotherhood. You see two boys who look 'indecent.' I see the weight of a legacy that’s crushing them. Look at the tension in the jawline here." I pointed to the sketch of Jax. "That’s not 'obscene,' Mrs. Gable. That’s the portrait of a man who is terrified of becoming a statue."