Miles Morales Drawing With Hoodie Novels & Stories

He hated vegetables. He still needed me to check under his bed before sleeping. How could anyone believe he could determine the future of an entire pack? I turned another page. There was a drawing. A large black wolf stood beneath a full moon. A small child stood beside it. My stomach twisted. Milo had drawn almost the same thing. The picture from the hospital came back to me. That's my daddy. He comes in my dreams. I shook my head. No. It couldn't be connected.

“Take a look at my drawing.” Charmine turned to see Chris walking over with the drawing canvas in his hands. The drawing was of the three of them sleeping on the same bed. A man and a woman sandwiched the little boy in the middle. It was also an oil painting, so it was apparent that Chris was painting the three of them. Charmine asked in shock, “Momo, you painted this?” “Yes, yes! Do you like it, Mommy?” Chris asked with anticipation in his eyes.

In the Hallway I locked the door and turned, about to head down the corridor, when I heard a door click open across the hall. There he was again. Hoodie gone. This time it was a snug blue t-shirt with faint white paint streaks across the front. Black sweatpants hung low on his hips. He had a brown apron on too spattered with dried paint, a cigarette lazily balanced between his lips. He was holding something maybe a sketchbook and had that same unbothered, half asleep look like the world was just happening around him and he didn’t mind one bit. “Hey, granola girl,” he called out, voice rough but amused.

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.

“Hey buddy! How are you?” He bit his lip, suddenly shy. "I'll miss you, Sister! Come back soon.” Before I could reply, he turned to Xeros and handed him something– more like, pushed something into his hand. Before we could ask anything, he darted away. Xeros carefully unfolded the paper, and I found myself peeking over his arm in curiosity. But never could have prepared me for what I found: it was a drawing , with me, Xeros and Adam. Adam had drawn himself smiling in the center, clutching both our hands as we ran through the rain and storms together.

Miguel sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor, clutching his favorite blue crayon between his small fingers. His tongue poked out slightly from the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on adding the final touches to his drawing. "Mommy will like this," he whispered to himself, tilting his head to examine his artwork. The drawing showed two stick figures holding hands beneath a bright yellow sun. One tall with long black hair, one small with a big smile. Miguel and his mommy.

Sneaky chatted with Mora until dusk, Miles came out of his room “Mom, I will be going to the store” Miles said, “I will come with you” Mora reposted “you are wearing your uniform” “I will change it now” Sneaky rushed into Miles' room, changed into his clothing, and trousers came out of his room. Mora gave Miles a lopsided look, but, Miles's face was expressionless, the two of them left home, and rushed to the store. The moment Miles opened the store, a group of hooligans, with steel bars, rushed toward him.

It was our code. I opened it. Louis stood there. He looked tired. He had gloves on. "What did it say?" I whispered, pulling him inside. He held up the paper in a plastic bag. It was a crayon drawing. A child's drawing. It was a house. Our house. And in the window, three stick figures. A mommy, a daddy, and a little girl. But the daddy stick figure had a big red X over him. At the bottom, in messy, grown-up writing, it said: **He's never coming back.**

"They're cute. They look like little grumpy dwarves." The response sounded so childish, Midnight broke into a soft smile. Ryder looked at him from the corner of her eyes and felt satisfied with herself. The dim light coming from the light bulb was more than enough to see the young man's physique. He was wearing plain jeans, and a dark hoodie, the hood of which was thrown over his head hiding most of his face, only the fair skin of his jaw and a pair of pink lips could be seen. Over the hoodie, Midnight was wearing a dark jacket, his hands deep in his pockets. When he took the chips, Ryder saw the little mole on his thumb and unconsciously smiled.

I withdraw my book and pencil case from my bag, neatly placing them on the table, I absently draw on the borders of my page as I wait for everyone else to settle in. The chair beside me is pulled out as someone sits beside me. His scent washes over me and I close my eyes briefly, letting myself indulge in the smell of him. "Good morning," Miles greets. I turn to look at him. He's wearing his trademark jacket like he does every day and his dark jeans. He's wearing a beanie, his unruly hair sticking out beneath it. His cheeks are red from the chilly temperature outside. I hate that he looks really cute.