Sick Drawings Novels & Stories

And tonight, her mind was unusually busy. The competition. The next round. Her future. Everything seemed to be changing little by little. Naomi picked up a stack of old sketchbooks. Most of them were filled with practice drawings. Faces. Buildings. Flowers. Random ideas. Years of work. Years of growth. She smiled as she flipped through them. Some drawings were good. Some were terrible. Very terrible. She laughed softly. "I really drew this?" The proportions were completely wrong. The eyes looked strange. The hands looked even worse.

Maybe it's the light that is showing me illusions. 'Now, how can a simple light show you drawings?' Sia says. Well, she is right. It's practically not possible. So I focus back on the notebook and flip through the pages to find drawings again at the back. When did I make them? 'When? When didn't you? Half of the classes,you kept sketching them on the back page.' Wow! Then if you have known it, you should have told me! 'I just thought that you are simply drawing because you are bored.'

Beside the paper and pen lay a thin box with a set of graphic pencils. A drawing kit? I opened the pad immediately and began to draw, the dream pouring through me like water down a cliff. It was vivid and fast, my fingers moving on instinct and guided by the memory that wad etched into my mind. The dizzying swirl of numbers, the images in the holographic screens, the massive glowing codes. I drew it as perfectly as I could, adding the faces of my children. After several minutes, I felt no more inspiration coming, so I sat back and stared at the sketch. My fingers had gone sore, my breathing a bit shallow.

Peirce broke the hug and nodded then went to opened his room door and entered while Sniffia was still on his bed, looking at the ceiling, Peirce went to his wooden drawer, checking out his clothes he took from it, “You drew this?” Sniffia asked staring at the ceiling, “what?” he stared also, “oh, that, yeah,” “What about it?” “Hmmm,” he spread his clothes on the wooden drawer and sat down on the bed looking at the ceiling, Sniffia looked at him in shock, then moved a inch away, “when ever am depressed, I looked at the drawings on the ceiling, most especially the bubbles here,” he said pointing to the drawing right above where he always placed his head when sleeping, then he looked at Sniffia

All she kept picturing was his cock, for some reason - how thick and heavy it felt in her hand, how perfectly it stretched her open, and the way it looked when he was hard and fully aroused. She made a small, frustrated sound before she put down the large brush and grabbed a small sketchbook instead. Her hand suddenly moved fast, almost like it was moving by itself. In just a few minutes, she had drawn a very detailed and realistic sketch of Sebastian’s cock - hard, veined, slightly curved upward, and glistening. She stared at the drawing and found herself cackling heartily. “Wow, look at how he is literally ruining my art career." -

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.

so, do I look like a skeleton? “You said that my drawing is beautiful but why is your face like that Sis? Is my drawing ugly?” He asked, pouting his mouth. “No Nash, your good drawing just needs improvements. You’re young and you still have a lot to learn.” I explain. “Sis, do you know how to draw?” “I don’t know how to draw Nash. My drawings are just like yours. I can only draw skeletons too.” I said, and he laughed. “Sis, I have a question.”

From the drawing, it's lunch break and students are milling about around me but I'm standing there, looking stuck and feeling exhausted from the healing process. My eyes are a muddy brown but my lips are stretched out in a wide smile. My shoulders are slumped but my nostrils are flared like I'm angry and my fists are clenched so tightly, it's like I'm trying not to go wild. Like I'm trying to rein in my demons. And I don't even remember this. “These drawings are incredible, Jeremy.” “I should know, I made them and they're called outlines.” I slap his chest playfully, “Show a little gratitude.”

Daddy made her sick. I'm in the hospital hallway, waiting for the doctors to say we can go home. I really want to go home. I have been sitting in one of the chairs for a long time. A nurse gave me some paper and colored pencils, and said I could draw whatever I wanted. I decided to draw a picture for Mommy. It is our house, but Daddy is not there. I don't want to live with him, because he hurts my mother.

"This is boring! What's even fun about this place?" Completely calm, I pulled out my phone in a blind spot away from the security cameras and showed him a video of another child drawing on cars with chalk. Whenever I'd run into Shirley in the hallway before, I'd noticed several art sketches sticking out of Mike's backpack. Honestly, they weren't bad. I guessed Mike liked drawing. Sure enough, that piqued his interest immediately. "They're pretty good, but–" I deliberately challenged him. "You probably don't know how to draw. I bet you're not even capable of drawing anything that nice."