Pencil Easy Gangster Drawing Novels & Stories

Angel's finger trembled on the paper, hovering over that jagged scrawl like it might bite. LEAVE OR DIE. The words weren't hers, they were too sloppy, too adult looking, etched in pencil that had ghosted through from the other side. My stomach dropped, cold and hard, like I'd swallowed ice. Who the hell wrote this? Mason? One of his sleazy friends? Or something worse, lurking in this perfect house? I yanked the drawing closer, heart slamming against my ribs. The stick figures, me with wild scribble hair, Angel tiny and beaming, Leonard tall like a tree, all looking innocent now, tainted.

Jânio was beating around the bush and would soon say that he would abandon ship if Túlio continued to be in crisis. "We both know the kid is screwed and broken, he's done for, and it's only a matter of time until something big falls apart," Paco said. He knew this too well. He was the one who introduced Tulio to the gang, back when the boy had fire in his eyes and didn't hesitate. Jânio, on the other hand, had never been involved in serious relationships, using men and women as he pleased without ever getting emotionally involved. He took care of his gang and had a firm grip on things. Of course, he also heard about the unnecessary killings that the gangster Cannibal committed. Paco wasn't s

Her hand moved sporadically, rubbing against the lead of the pencil on the page until…it stopped. She set her pencil down beside her book and it rolled back and forth until it settled in its chosen position. Waverly's gaze was stuck on the drawing she had just completed and casually picked it up by the edges, bringing it to the forefront of her sight. It was unlike anything she had ever drawn. The marks were unplanned and rushed, but in a structured manner. In some places, continuous lines created distinct features and the areas where her hand had smudged the outline generated a smoky grey, providing the art with a unique depth that she would never be able to replicate.

He leaned on his motor and began to read. Dear Gangster, Lucifer Cuenca, the name of the man who received and I am not ashamed. A lot is being stoned about me being a Psycho and Weirdong girl. I've been seeing you at school for a few years but you just talked to me too. I will never forget how we started talking.

Even if I never get to be free again… at least she can. I look down at the drawing in my hand. The crayon lines are uneven, bright, and a little messy. But I can tell she worked hard on it. It’s just the two of us. Me and Bailey. Stick figures standing side by side with our arms outstretched, a little heart between us, and a wolf pup curled at our feet. No father. No man looming behind us. No second name scribbled at the corner. She doesn’t draw Enzo.

I looked at the paper for a long time. It was a standard sheet, medium weight, slightly textured. The kind I had used throughout the program. The pencils in the cup were good ones, the kind that cost more than they look like they should. Marco had not bought the cheap set. I picked up a pencil. It was an HB, middle of the range, the right choice for a first mark when you do not know yet what you are drawing. My hand was shaking. Not dramatically. A fine tremor, the kind that shows up when you have not done something in a long time and your body is both remembering how and registering that it has been too long. I watched my hand for a moment. Then I put the pencil to the paper.

ALICE I flipped through the pages. The pencil in my hand snapped as my grip on it tighten. I did not bother getting myself another one. I can still draw using what's left of this five inch pencil. This flimsy little thing... is already enough. Just like his lingering image in my brain...is enough to draw his sketch.

I hadn’t even remembered writing it but there it was and I didn’t take the pen back. ~ He was waiting on my bed when I got back to my quarters. He was barefoot, crayon on his cheek, clutching a folded piece of paper with both hands like it was treasure. “Made you something,” he said, beaming. I kicked off my boots and sat beside him, pretending my hands weren’t still inked from old council reports. He unfolded the drawing carefully, like he didn’t want it to tear. There were stick figures, three of them. “That’s Daddy,” he said, pointing to the one with wild yellow hair and mismatched circles where the eyes should be. “And that’s Uncle Dominic. He has the red pen because he talks the most.”

Carolina knelt and offered the brush. “Yours if you want it,” she said. Penny dipped, chose purple, and drew a wide, wild arc over the wall. It was perfect. It turned into a mural, layer on layer, a record of every hand in the house. Eventually the other walls filled, wild with saltwater fish, stars, crows, broken crowns, weird animals, bright geometric shapes. Even after she scrubbed clean, the paint never left Xander’s hands. * On a half-melt day, with rumors of electricity returning to the grid fulltime, Xander took her on a walk. He claimed it was business, but the pack following them (Finch, Lyra, Morgan, and a tiny girl named Pip) proved it was a family thing.

Mercedes' POV “Can I see?” I asked Carter who shrieked and hud his paper behind his back. “Carter what's wrong? You've been drawing for hours, can I see?” I asked again but the little boy shook his head. “Why not?” I inquired. “I'm not yet done,” he replied. “Carter never shows me his drawings and he laughs at mine.” Penelope pouted as she rose her paper and showed me her drawing. There were four stickmen, two bigger ones on either side while two smaller ones stood in the middle smiling as they held their hands together.