Ponyboy Curtis Drawing Novels & Stories

Colt looked like he aged twenty years. “What’s going on?” Colt ignored me and picked up my drawing. “This is really good.” Alec had sat beside me but was leaning back. Colt handed the picture to Alec. “Have you seen this?” “No.” Alec studied it. “I literally just drew it. Like this last hour.” I watched Alec study my drawing of him. “Do you like it?” “I really do. This is amazing work.” Alec handed it back to me. “Just wait till it’s finished.” Setting it down, I turned to Colt. “So, spill.” My nerves shot up as Colt dropped his head. His elbows were resting on his knees as he leaned forward.

He thought his brother hated her, and now he was admiring her at the same time? “What's that you're drawing?" Hayes finally spoke out. In the picture she drew, a hooded girl was sitting by the riverside throwing pebbles into the water. Her face couldn't be seen but there was a puppy beside her. “Just a random drawing Miller,” she answered him, taking off her headset just as the teacher walked into the classroom. “ Good morning, class." “Good morning, Sir." he was replied with students groaning. “Today, we're going to do something fun. But first, pick your partner."

I say, and the boy comes closer to me with confidence oozing from him. He hands me his drawing with a smug expression on his face. Oh, heavens, he's like a mini Harry. I take a look at the drawing, and wow. It's a drawing of a rocket, and it's so beautiful. No wonder he was bullying Lilah; his drawing is otherworldly. "Dylan, this is..." I'm at a loss for words. "Amazing, fantastic, beautiful, perfect," he completes for me in a smug tone, and I roll my eyes.

Everything I've learned in the last hour has given me a lot to think about, and I always do my best processing through my doodles. I start with the easy stuff. With Omar, towering the length of the page, and then Ford, whose head seems to get bigger with every sketch. I draw Karen pursing her lips and tapping her fingers against her earpiece. I even doodle a few of the cameras and cameramen to complete the scene.

I exhaled. Rebecca heard it. “What happened?” “Nothing.” “That sounded like a lie.” “It wasn’t.” Mostly. We spoke another ten minutes before ending the call. When I returned inside, Toby sat at the dining table drawing something. At first I assumed it was homework. Then I got closer. It wasn’t. It was a courtroom. A terrible courtroom. Stick figures everywhere. A judge with giant eyebrows. Several angry-looking adults. One extremely annoyed child. “Toby.” He looked up. “What?”

The way I'll never get to do. Because men like me don't get to be fathers. We're the monsters parents warn their children about. "Come on, Dénes," Peter says gently. "Let's let Mr. Sidorov get back to work." "But I want to show him my drawing!" The boy digs in his pocket and produces a folded piece of paper, crumpled from being carried around. He unfolds it carefully, revealing a crayon drawing of stick figures standing in front of a building. "This is you, and this is me, and this is Papa, and this is the restaurant!"

Every free moment, he scribbled into his notebook, as if trying to remember something his brain refused to let go of. The drawings got worse. At first, they were crude—crayon lines of a tall house with crooked towers. But soon, each page was darker, more detailed. The boy no longer used colors, only black and red. Blood dripped from every window. A woman stood in the attic, her mouth open in a scream. Her eyes were hollow. The teacher called his name again. "Matthew? What are you drawing?" He didn’t look up. His hand moved quickly across the paper, sketching what looked like a spiral staircase leading into a pit. The teacher reached out and gently touched his shoulder.

From outside, very faintly, almost nothing at all, came one heavy thud that might have been somebody’s body hitting the wall or somebody’s ego splitting in half. Poppy didn’t even turn her head. She held out her drawing to me proudly. “Look. This is the new castle. This one is for me. This one is for Bunny. This one is for Mommy if you behave.” I looked at the drawing of a giant pink tower with a helipad, a vegetarian dragon, and something that might have been a conference room. “Beautiful,” I said. And outside, the world was welcome to keep burning itself down.

Now, with three plates half-filled and untouched, the room throbbed with all that hadn’t been said. Damon cleared his throat and reached for the water jug. “Mason, did you draw anything new today?” The boy nodded eagerly, the sound of normalcy a balm. “Yes. I drew the beach house. And the big tree with the swing. The one that was behind Mommy’s cottage”. Juliette’s eyes flicked up at the word. The jolt was visible; a micro-expression, like a dropped stitch in fabric. She covered it quickly with a polite nod, but the shimmer of confusion lingered behind her lashes.

Nathan said, blowing a raspberry at him, and he blew one back. He knelt on the sofa, drawing closer to Dante, and touched the first paper. “This is mine, Papa. I drew it all by myself. No one helped.” Leon climbed down from my lap and joined his brothers surrounding Dante. They chattered with excitement about their drawings, explaining everything and anything that came to their minds about their work— Eve also chipped in— and I studied Dante’s expression. He looked exactly as I pictured him; he was soaking in every word they said, swelling with pride and happiness, and a warm, gentle smile rested on his lips.