Passionate Sketches Novels & Stories

How to win her back. He picked up the small sketch from his desk, worn at the edges from years of use. It was one of Christine’s earliest works for her new designs at DreamSpace it was the first design drawings she had ever imagined. Pencil lines were slightly smudged, erased areas faintly visible, marks of effort, thought, and youthful determination. Adrian traced one line with his thumb, feeling the indentations in the paper, almost feeling the presence of her hands shaping her dreams.

“You give me access to the artwork, and I bring you breakfast in bed and don’t mention to Marcus how many times you used your Alpha voice last night.” His blush deepens. “That’s blackmail.” “Yes,” I agree. He considers, his position weakened when his stomach growls audibly. “Fine,” he grits out. “But only the new ones.” “I’m going to find the old ones,” I tell him. I have to see all of them. These sketches are telling me more about Kieran’s feelings for me than his mouth ever has. “Then I’ll burn them,” he replies tartly. “You won’t,” I say. “You’re too sentimental.”

My curiosity piqued as I stared at it, curious to know more about the sketch she was making on it. Unable to hold back my interest and curiosity about the sketch and that dude, I left my seat and sat on hers as I unzipped her bag, took out the notebook and opened it on the desk. It was filled with a lot of sketches and drawings which amazed me because I had never thought that Lisa was this good at making a well detailed sketch. The sketch continued with a drawing of a blonde girl who stood at the window frame of her room, pinging on her phone and then on the other side, the unknown figure lurked above the rooftop of the mansion.

She took a deep breath, calming herself, this was her chance to express her transformation through her work. She knew what rebirth meant, she had lived it. She had experienced death and survived. She began sketching quickly with both passion and precision. Her experience of personal transformation motivated her creativity, allowing her to pour genuine emotions into her sketch. Her hands moved with purpose, each movement symbolizing a chapter in her life - pain, loss, and most importantly, triumph. As she sketched her design, her nose tingled as she fought back her tears. In less than an hour, she was done sketching and she saw the looks of satisfaction that appeared on the faces of the judge

"Absolutely. And so I believed Tristian's claim to be false. But later, I checked my notebooks and guess what was filled in the back sheet?" "What?" I roll my eyes. This girl sometimes forgets to use her brain. "Ugh—dress sketches, Tessa! I made sketches while I was bored in the class. And by the look of the drawings,none of them appear like normal, disoriented scribbles or doodles. They are all perfectly designed and detailed drawings. Something I never believed I could make."

“That sounds like you.” When she left, I gathered the aggressive sketches into a neat pile and set them aside, not to throw away, but not to use either. Evidence of where I’d been standing emotionally, if nothing else. Then I opened a fresh page. I didn’t draw right away. I sat there, breathing, letting the ache settle without sharp edges, waiting for inspiration to return, not as a wound, but as a scar that had begun to heal.

I moved on. Now, I'm strangely feeling the same fixation as those nights, but on something peculiar. The obsession forms dangerous roots around something I should ignore, but it's stronger than I am. I pull the black card from my jeans pocket and examine the three-headed dog that begs to be deciphered. I scan it with my cell phone camera and wait. Nothing happens. I slowly slide my thumb over it, trying to feel the raised letters, and I notice a tiny sequence of numbers in the bottom right corner. Against the light, they glisten a bit more. -23.517635, -46.703601

LISA I slammed my bedroom door shut with my foot, dropped my bag on the floor, and let out a sound somewhere between a scream and a dying cat. “Perfect” I rolled. Exactly the vibe of today. I threw myself onto the floor, ripped open my sketchbook, and let my hand move. Hard lines, sharp edges and messy strokes. I drew angrily. Fabrics. Cutouts. Slits that went so high they were practically illegal. Design after design after design…

"My current team is talented. But they are being careful and I need someone to stop being careful." I opened the folder. The sketches were technically clean. Every proportion correct, every line considered. And completely airless. Like someone had taken the idea of a feeling and made it precise until the feeling itself evaporated. I looked at the concept brief. Read it twice. Looked back at the sketches.

he said, looking at it. "This morning. Priti and I stayed late." He looked at the eleven sketches. At the coat in the center, the one I'd been afraid of for ten years. "This is good," he said. Not the careful, managed good of someone evaluating an investment. Just good. Plainly. "It's not finished. Three of these are still just sketches, the actual pieces aren't" "Mara." He looked at me. "It's good." I looked at the wall.