Someone Drawing Novels & Stories

Holding onto his sketch book and looking out of the window he danced his pencil carefully on the clear paper slowly making a sketch of a young girl sitting on the tree with her back facing him. When the sketch was finsihed he looked at it, his lips curved into a smile as he kept the sketch pad aside.

Until I got to his bed, he wasn't there, even in my bathroom I checked but it was negative. And just as I was about to leave his room, I noticed papers scattered on his small working table, there were also water colors, crayons and pencils. I creased my forehead and out of curiosity I walked towards her working table to check what she had drawn. Children do it normally in their drawings. I even said to myself when I saw one of his drains. There are three people who have drawn, but those people just stick and stick. A man, there is a girl in the middle of them and a woman holding hands.

Hailey asks as she sat. "Does a trash can with some cacti in it count?" She chuckled. "Anything come to mind yet?" I ask staring at my easel as if it was going to start dishing out ideas. "Not sure yet but I'll definitely just throw some ideas together," she responds. The guy sitting quietly next to me was sketching in his drawing book. Everyone else seemed to be doing the same thing, drawing a bunch of nonsense then choosing the best. I watched him as he drew his third idea then finally said something.

It lay on a nearby table, its intricate lines and contours waiting to be brought to life once again. With focus, Ariana picked up a pencil and hovered it over the next blank space before her. The sketch held a special meaning, a piece of art that resonated deeply within her. As she began to recreate the lines, her hand moved breathing life into the paper. Ariana immersed herself in the act of drawing. Each stroke of the pencil represented a connection between her imagination and the tangible world. The rhythmic sound of drawing. As she meticulously recreated the details, Ariana's mind wandered, her thoughts drifting towards Mateo. The memory of his kind gesture lingered, intertwining with th

Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting in the living room with my sandwiches, a tall glass of milk, the TV on, serving as background noise, and my drawing pad and pencil in hand. I don’t know how long I sit there drawing, only taking breaks to use the washroom, but eventually I finish drawing Remus, which is surprisingly difficult, not because there aren’t many features to draw, but because there aren’t many features to draw. I try to make it feel as real as I can, as detailed as possible, and try to paint a picture of his personality through the drawing. And don’t get me started on the shading. I feel like my fingers might fall off by the time I actually finish, but I realize this is probably my

Of myself. I picked up my pencil and kept drawing.

"I will help." Kai nods with the satisfaction of someone whose project planning has received the necessary resource confirmation. Then he picks up the drawing book from the chair and he opens it to a fresh page and he begins to draw, right there in the treatment room, with the focused economy of someone who has something to get down before the image leaves. I look over his shoulder. He is drawing three figures: a small one, a tall one, and a third one whose silver hair he renders in careful crosshatched lines, standing in the western quarter with the tree and the lifted pavement stone visible at the edge of the frame.

Priya unfolded it slowly, and laid it on the table. It was, exactly as she’d described, a child’s drawing. Rough lines, the kind only a very young child draws, a square house with a triangle roof, smoke coming from a chimney in careful zigzags, and outside it, standing in a row, six small stick figures, each one slightly different, each one clearly meant to be a specific person even though none of them had faces drawn in. Underneath, in careful, uneven child’s handwriting, the words Priya had quoted.

“I don’t know how to draw. This isn’t working.” Darryl buries his face in his hands in frustration as he lets Goldie stare at his chicken scratch scribbles on the notepad. He had spent around two hours trying to draw a man shoving Goldie’s head into a bucket of water, but he can’t quite figure out the anatomy and physics behind it. Goldie tosses the notepad back to him and gives him a thumbs-up, only to receive a scowl from the other male.

Beside me, Noah kept his notebook open but wasn't writing anything down. I grew curious when I noticed the gentle movement of the pen between his fingers. I leaned subtly, and my eyes widened as I realized what he was doing. Noah was drawing. The page of his notebook was filled with delicate lines taking shape. It was a sketch of intertwined hands, so full of detail and emotion that it looked almost real. Each stroke was made with care, as if the whole world had disappeared for him, except for that paper. "Wow…" I murmured before I realized it.