Novel & Cerita Pencil Easy Gangster Drawing

I flipped it open past sketches of trees, paw prints, stray notes I barely understood. This page was blank. I stared at it for a long time. Then picked up the pencil and started to draw—not because I wanted to, but because the image wouldn’t let go. The girl. A collar chained to her neck. Her eyes swollen shut. I drew them first. Then the ropes. Then the rough layout of the camp around her. I didn’t try to be perfect. I didn’t care if it was messy. I just needed it out of my head. By the time I was done, my chest felt hollow. My knuckles were white around the pencil.

I can tell they are held together using tooth picks. “Good afternoon class. Today I want you to draw what you see before you from your own perspective. Do you see it in color. Black and white. Maybe it’s abstract. There are no wrong answers. So, draw and let the room take you to an inspirational place.” Tawnie tells the class. I pull out my pencils so I can get to sketching. I’m thinking today I need color. I will use my colored pencils to bring these colorful pastries to life.

I need a drink and some coffee, no, tea and toast. The symbol from the dagger is what won't let me go, I can see it so clearly. I have to draw it. Tilting my whole body to the edge of the bed, I fumble around my bedside table looking for… got it, my sketchpad. It falls open to the next empty page, because I tuck my pencil in the centre. The lead feels like an extension of my hand, guiding me, not the other way around.

“Then let us see it.” I joined them in the dining area where a large sheet of taped together paper covered the table. Paint had spilled beyond its edges, leaving colorful marks across the wood, but the effort behind it was unmistakable. “That is our house,” Nico said proudly, pointing to a roughly drawn structure filled with uneven lines. “And that is us,” Nina added, pointing at a group of stick figures drawn close together. “That is Mommy, Piera, and Uncle Francesco.” Francesco smiled faintly as he studied the drawing, but then his attention shifted to a figure placed slightly apart from the rest. It was a simple stick figure with no distinguishing features, separated from the group by a n

Damn. Another deep breath later I shook my head then moved his sketch aside and started drawing my latest victim instead. Willing my mind to think about my latest kill, I started sketching, fast. The lines, the shape of his slouched body, and the fear show his level of stress without showing off his face. The blood dripping from his stomach made them perfectly in line with the moment his life was slipping away. My wrist moves hurriedly, line after line, shading, shaping Rudy the tattletale. The coloring comes next, then I decided to stop when my back felt too tired to continue.

He was already used to the weirdness. --- Later that night, he sat at his desk, sketching. He'd found an old charcoal pencil buried in the drawer earlier. Looked untouched, like it had been waiting. He didn't question it. The lines came easy tonight. Curved strokes, soft shading, something…familiar. Halfway through, he realized what he was drawing: A hand. Slender. Resting palm up, reaching. Not begging. Inviting. He stared at it. The pencil slipped.

I was a Saint to my mom and a slut to the men in my life. I grabbed my sketchbook and a charcoal stick. I didn't plan it. I just started scratching at the paper, the black dust staining my fingers. I drew myself not the pretty version. I drew a boy with his chest ripped open, screaming into a void. I drew giant, jagged hawks with Chadwick’s eyes and Miguel’s tattoos, literal pieces of my flesh hanging from their beaks. I pressed so hard the charcoal snapped, tearing the paper. It was the only way I could scream.

It was so far outside of my wheelhouse, but I bet Dante would be able to help me understand it all. “I’ll explain everything if I can get a piece of plain paper and pencil or something to draw with,” I said, taking a long drink of the refreshing water that Gabriel handed to me. Dante wasted no time in grabbing a sketchbook and a set of charcoal pencils. This would definitely work well. This was either Dante’s or Chris’ drawing tools. I set to work drawing Bandore while I explained what happened with excruciating detail because I did not want even the slightest morsel of information to be lost. Sometimes clues were found in the smallest details.

I opened a blank page and picked up a pencil. I started drawing.

It was a tool that existed entirely in the present tense—designed to write, designed to smudge, and designed to be erased without leaving a ghost behind on the stone. Xander stood over the flat lead block, his broad chest rising and falling in a slow, human rhythm. The grey primer of the First District's cutter had completely vanished into the black mist of the basin, leaving our makeshift pier silent. He reached down, picking up the white chalk cylinder Mia had left on the hearth.