Someone Drawing Novels & Stories

Lucian Voss I was still holding the paper in my hand long after the door closed behind me. I didn’t even realize it at first, but my fingers had tightened around it like I was afraid of letting it go. It was a child’s drawing, done in crayon, the lines uneven and rough. There were three stick figures. One tall figure was labeled “Mr. Lucian.” The next was a woman with long hair, drawn with wide strokes and labeled “Mama.” Between them stood a small boy with messy curls and a wide smile. He had no label because I didn’t need one.

I looked over it again and again as I hoped Chris would love it. It is a realistic drawing of him in black and white. No color pencil was used. He is a suit with his arms folded on each other. He looked so manly with his expressionless face standing there. I made the drawing to his stomach and stopped it there, not drawing further down. It looks like a portrait. I wish I could frame it out before he comes back from work but I won't even be going out today. I glanced up at the time and it was up to an hour before he arrives from work.

He opened his backpack, drew out a black, thick sketchpad, and then flipped some pages before presenting it to me. He showed me an etched drawing of a beautiful girl with her long fingers brushed on her hair and as though her charcoal eyes were looking straight at me. “You can draw? Drake, this is amazing!” I gasped. He scratched his hair. “It’s not much. I’m still practicing.” “It looks beautiful to me.” I stared at the drawing. “She looks so real. Who is she?” Probably his crush? Please, let it not be his crush. “No one. Just in my imagination. I haven’t tried realism yet.”

His employees had gone home. His secretary had left nearly two hours ago. The cleaning staff had already passed through. Yet he remained where he always remained. Behind his desk. Working. Or at least pretending to. His attention drifted toward the drawing again. A crude picture made with colored pencils. Stick figures. A smiling sun. A flower that looked suspiciously like a potato. And in the middle of everything... A man in a suit. The drawing had clearly been made by a child. A very young child. A very energetic child.

Harvey looked at me shocked then swallowed, " Sir, I found one of the men, good at drawing and I described the man for him." He is lying but I'll let it slide, let's see where this is taking us to. There's something about the drawing This drawing is from a person who saw the man directly. The details are very clear. The power of drawing the features highlights How skilled the painter is! Curves and ripples reveal that he hates this person, it's so sharp it's like he wants to stab him, So weird! I knew this way of drawing. Who's this painter? And why is he stuck in my mind?

"A triangular like structure to support something with the mechanics of a sling shot" he repeats slowly as he looks off into the distance, looking as if he were now in some type of thought. "Interesting" he says as he perks back up. "I like that! I think we can work with that." He smiles as he opens his notebook to a blank page. Luca brings his pen down to the page before drawing different lines across the space. He brings himself to state of concentration as he continues to sketch an image on the page.

And that was okay. Today I was helping Micah, a thirteen-year-old with a shaved head, hoodie sleeves always tugged down over their palms, and the eyes of someone who’d seen more than they should’ve. They weren’t chatty, but they liked drawing. Their sketchbook was filled with figures that resembled comic book heroes, quiet and fierce, with eyes always cast in shadow. They were hunched over a new page now, sketching a person standing in the center of swirling chaos. The figure held a long sword in both hands, the blade resting downward, tip touching the ground. Not raised. Not slashing. Just… there.

And in the center of it all—on the floor, beneath the slanted window—was a drawing. A new one. Charcoal, smeared and fresh. It showed a woman standing in front of a door made of bones. She wore a long coat. Her back was straight. Defiant. It was Moira. And in the drawing, she was holding the hand of a boy with no face. Just a crown of scribbles where his head should be. A low sound made her spin. At the far end of the attic, near the old rocking chair, something moved. Not a person.

When I come back to Jeremy’s room he’s sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, and he’s holding one of the drawings in his hands, the stick-figure family with the three people and no dad. I close the door quietly behind me and walk across the room, sinking down onto the floor beside him without saying anything. He doesn’t look at me, just keeps staring at the drawing with his thumb brushing back and forth over the crayon lines like he’s trying to memorize every detail.

A small drawing desk in the corner, crayons scattered across it, a few papers with colorful scrawls. I stepped in slowly. On the wall, drawings were taped up. A child's drawings — a house with a triangular roof, a sun in the corner with rays drawn as straight lines, a tree with round red fruit. Then I saw it. One drawing in the middle. Three figures standing hand in hand. The small one in the middle, in a dress with long hair. A woman on the left. On the right, a man in a black suit.