Pencil Nezuko Drawing Novels & Stories

And he is always drawing. Tonight is no different. His sketchbook is open on his knee. It is black with a spiral edge. His pencil moves in quick little strokes. I watch his hand more than I watch him. It is a nice hand. Long fingers. A small bump on the side of his thumb from holding a pencil too many hours. I noticed that three weeks ago.

I order and watch the boys run back towards the building as fast as they can. I watch with concern as the young boy they were picking on sniffs and works to pick up pieces of his sketchbook. I bend down and help him pick up the remaining pieces before they’re carried off by the wind. I look at one of the pieces of paper and can’t contain the awe on my face as I take in the amazing sketch before me. It’s this incredible real-life style drawing of a sirna with a vibrant red tail surrounded by all the elements. It takes me a second to recognise the likeness, but this is a sketch of the God Ezillus as a sirna! This might be the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. “You drew this?” I ask in astonishment

Exiting the school I went straight towards the school bus. As I did, I heard a loud vrooming sound of a motorbike. I turned towards the sound to see Connor sitting on his motorbike; both of his hands were on the handlebars, and he was wearing his helmet. His head faced me, and though he wore his dark helmet, I could feel his powerful gaze all over my skin, indicating that he was looking at me. The sound of the bike was his way of gaining my attention.

Jade screamed angrily, tearing out and crumpling up a sheet of paper from her sketchbook. She threw it across the room and it landed on the floor close to the door, increasing the litter of crumpled paper and broken pencils in the room. She took a new pencil from behind her ears, her fingers shaky as she began to draw lines and curves, in readiness for another sketch. Closing her eyes, she tried to picture a face, Tiger's face - that was what they called him but she knew his name began with the letter H.

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.

Alex had taken a drawing board and a pencil without me noticing. I stared at it blankly, then subconsciously reached out and took it. He laid the sketch on a relatively clear part of the table and then picked up a pencil, starting to draw quickly. His fingers were long and powerful, his grip steady and professional. It felt as if particles of creativity were floating in the air, lightly jumping as the pencil tip moved. The lines belonging to the greenhouse dome began to grow, transform, and spread under his hand, eventually evolving into something more dynamic and powerful, a butterfly wing form.

The air smelled of charcoal, oil paint, and the faint metallic tang of her own frustration. She held a pencil in one hand—loose, uncommitted—staring at the blank page in her lap. The last sketch of Nico lay beside her: him in boxers, arms crossed, scars on full display. The one she’d drawn after the 3 a.m. intervention. Every line captured—rough ridges, puckered burns, the way his lean muscle pulled tight over bone like he was always braced for the next hit. She’d drawn him a dozen times since.

The soft, muted light from the single window cast shadows that danced across the walls, highlighting the subtle imperfections in the paint. A wooden desk sat opposite his bed, its surface polished to a shine, but it was empty, save for a few scattered pencils. As I scanned the room, I felt an unexpected chill, a whisper of the secrets it held. My gaze fell on a drawer beneath the desk. I opened it slowly, the creak of the old wood echoing in the silence. Inside, sketches and notes lay haphazardly, their edges curling slightly. The first one I picked up depicted intricate patterns of the moon jade, the drawings capturing light in a way that made them shimmer faintly. Anakiyus’s handwriting wa

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.

There was a small piece of white paper. Nico flipped it over. His hands started to tremble. It was a pencil sketch of his mother. “No way. Is this mum’s book?”