Neon Drawings Novels & Stories

No wonder Killian couldn’t look me in the eye this morning. I reach for the sketch pad Elara left by the nightstand. My fingers tremble, but I grip the pencil like it’s my lifeline. I don’t even think, I just draw. Symbols. Circles. Eyes with fire spilling from them. A wolf with a shattered spine. A crown that burns. A clock with no hands. My hand stops only when I notice the paper trembling beneath my touch. Not from me. From the floor. A low vibration hums through the wood. Like a warning.

It’s lіkеlу tо bе a lоng nіght. I don’t want tо draw аttеntіоn tо mуѕеlf whіlе I’m оut of my jurіѕdісtіоn. I соuld uѕе аnоthеr соffее, but the fіrѕt thing on thе аgеndа іѕ wоrkіng оut whеrе Neon is.

I couldn't sleep. Desperate for an escape, I grabbed a sheet of heavy art paper and began drawing. My hands shook as I began to draw, letting my raw emotion guide the strokes. Within minutes, James's face began to emerge from the stark white paper. I stared intensely into his eyes through the charcoal lines, feeling a dangerous, intoxicating connection to a ghost.

I blushed at his words. "There's also something at the back. I added my own touch to it." He held my hand holding the necklace, and he slowly turned the necklace pendant over, and there I saw the word 'MINE.' Clawed boldly at the back. "You're not only my full moon, Amara Lively, you're also mine, my human mate," Connor said.

Even Mondrian would have called them abstract. Nyla was stunned for a moment, then burst out laughing. "Why not?" "Because your drawings are way too abstract. No one but you could possibly understand them," Mason whined. Nyla glanced at Damon, who was nearby, and handed him the drawings. "You take a look. Can you guess what these are?" Damon examined the first one. It seemed to depict an animal—but whether it was an elephant or a hippo, he couldn't tell. Furrowing his brow, he ventured, "A walrus?"

The lab was very quiet for a moment. I moved to the far wall because standing still in a room that smelled the way this one smelled while processing what Kaelen was reading was not something my body wanted to do. The drawings stopped me. Crude, scratched directly into the stone rather than carved with any skill, but specific. Bodies in various states that I was going to file in the category of things I had seen and would deal with the feelings about later. Wolves. Figures with something flowing out of them that the artist had rendered as light, though whether they had intended it to look hopeful or terrible was genuinely unclear.

A feeling that made everything lighter. Moments later, Nico stepped forward with his own drawing. A dragon, fierce and bold, with purple scales and sharp red eyes. Flames burst from its mouth in uneven streaks of orange. “Thank you,” I told him as well. He tried to suppress his reaction, but the corner of his lips betrayed him, lifting into a small, proud smile. And in that moment, standing there with their drawings in my hands, something inside me shifted. Deeply. Dangerously. I felt… blessed.

She tried to call some of them back, but they were too focused on their drawings. Selene continued helping the kids. She drew a tiger for one boy and a unicorn for a little girl. The children cheered and showed their drawings to each other proudly. For the first time in a long time, Selene felt useful. She felt like she was doing something good.

"Do you even know what you're saying?" "What, are you blind?" Neil scoffed and his tone was playful like he didn't understand the gravity of his words. "How can you not see it, especially in the sketches? These literally look like how Emelia used to draft her concept designs." "Plus," Neil added, "if I'm not mistaken, some of these actually look like they were inspired by one of the older summer lines we never went through with." My blood ran ice cold as time froze. What the hell was he talking about?

He looks at Mireth — the valley, the river, the formation, all of it around them and under them and humming at every surface. "Ozzie," Neva says. "Yes." "The record office archive," she says. "When we go back — every drawing. Everything you have made since you came to Caldenveil. Every city you have drawn without knowing you were reading it." She holds his eyes. "They all go in. All of them." He nods. He does not say anything. He opens the sketchpad to a fresh page. He begins another drawing. This one is Neva. At the table. Notation open. The frequency maps around her. The specific quality of a person who has been building the record of a network for longer than the record office has existed