Mulan Drawing Novels & Stories

he exclaimed, practically vibrating with excitement as he held up his paper, a series of bold colors messily spread across the page. I squinted, leaning closer. “And who can that be?” I asked, tilting my head to take in the colorful figure splashed across his drawing. “It’s mummy!” he yelled, his cheeks puffed with a proud smile, eyes gleaming up at me. He had drawn her with bright red curly hair and a blue dress. I couldn’t help but chuckle at his art. “Wow,” I said, genuinely impressed. “She’s beautiful. You did a good job, buddy.”

Chapter 4: Painting Naked Liliana stood barefoot in the sunlit studio, wearing nothing but one of Marcus’s oversized white shirts that barely reached her thighs. Her brush moved across the canvas in smooth, confident strokes, blending deep crimson and gold into swirling passion. A small smudge of blue paint marked her cheek, and her brow was furrowed in concentration. Marcus leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her silently. He had never seen her like this before lost in her own world, completely free.

EMILY Mason is sitting on my cutting table eating a peanut butter sandwich and supervising my hem work with the critical eye of a five-year-old who has opinions about fabric. "That part is wobbly," he says, pointing at the seam I just pinned. "It's not wobbly. It's gathered." "What's gathered?" "It's when you make the fabric bunch on purpose so it looks—" "Wobbly." Mia is on the floor beside him, cross-legged, drawing wolves on the back of my pattern paper. She's drawn fourteen so far. Each one has a name written underneath in her careful, crooked handwriting. The latest wolf is pink with yellow eyes and is labeled AUNT SAGE. "Wolves aren't pink, Mia," Mason says. "This one

Trembling with fear, Lilian stood at the entrance of the bedroom, unable to move, and watched as two naked men appeared out of nowhere. The two men were tied back-to-back with nylon ropes. Their clothes were thrown aside, and a section of their hair was shaved bald, which looked ridiculously funny. Their mouths were taped shut, and their faces were drawn with various cartoon characters - SpongeBob SquarePants, Doraemon, Snoopy, Mickey Mouse - and there were also drawings of hamburgers, ice cream, and dresses... How did someone manage to draw so many patterns on their faces? How did the artist come up with so many childish designs?

A little voice asks from behind my shoulder, and I turn to see Emerald frowning at my picture. I tilt my head and look back down. "No." But it certainly seems that way, as the man in the picture looks like he doesn't have any hope left in the world. So I begin drawing him how I really see him. With light and subtle strokes, the outline of wings take shape. Large silken feathers so light and translucent, the white paper forms their colour instead of the black ink in my previous drawings of him. This side of Mal is so different, so good and right. I can't help feeling pride in what he has the potential to be.

CAMILLA "Wow this is lovely" I marvelled at Vanessa's beautifully drawn work of art. She took out her time to carefully draw an exact representation of Mickey mouse; a popular animation. With literally ninety percent detail corresponding with the exact image we saw on the internet. "Thank you" Vanessa responded cheerfully. Her eyes glittering and radiating with excitement. "Aunty Camilla, you did not tell me this one was lovely too" She added whilst glaring at me in expectancy.

She ran back to the bedroom and returned with a sketchbook. The drawings were good—really good for a seven-year-old. Animals, mostly. A detailed cat, a dragon, a family of rabbits. "These are beautiful," I said honestly. "Do you like to draw?" "I love it. I want to be an artist when I grow up. Or maybe a scientist. Or both." She flipped through pages. "Maman says I can be anything I want." "Your maman is right." She stopped on a page near the end of the book. It was a drawing of two figures—a woman and a small girl holding hands. Above them, sketched lightly in pencil as if she'd been uncertain about including it, was a third figure. A man.

Once everything was set up, Melissa began to draw. She stood before a blank canvas, ready to capture the essence of the Queen. Melissa started with delicate, confident strokes, using a rich palette of colours to bring the portrait to life. The woman in the portrait was portrayed with an ethereal grace. Her eyes are painted with a captivating depth, reflecting a quiet intelligence and a hint of mystery. They seem to follow the viewer, drawing them into a world of introspection. Her skin was rendered with a luminous quality, as though it glowed from within, enhancing the realism and warmth of her presence.

"That's not nothing, Clara. That's a whole sentence about who you are." I started sketching. She watched, quiet, leaning forward slightly. Forty minutes later I had three rough silhouettes on the page, nothing finished, just shapes, and Clara was staring at the middle one like it had said her name out loud. "That one," she said. "I haven't even drawn the sleeves yet." "I don't care. That one." I looked at the sketch. Clean shoulder line, no lace, a single seam running down the back that did all the work the embellishment usually tried and failed to do.