Vent Drawings Novels & Stories

*** My office desk drawer opens with that familiar squeak I keep meaning to fix. Twenty-seven notes now. I counted this morning. Twenty-seven pieces of cream cardstock in Adrian's precise handwriting. Arranged chronologically. Documented like evidence. I slide Ava's drawing in with them. Not because it's evidence. It actually belongs here with the other things I'm keeping but can't examine directly. The notes that prove Adrian remembers everything. The drawing that proves my daughter sees something I'm trying not to. I close the drawer. Through my office window, Manhattan spreads out below. Busy Monday morning.

"I drew the new bedroom for the baby, and I put four big stone towers on the corners so the black helicopters cannot find the windows!" I reached down, lifting her effortlessly into my arms and cradling her small form against my shoulder as a low, deep laugh escaped my chest. I looked down at the drawing, seeing the thick, defensive blue lines she had carefully sketched around a small, central cradle. The child had lived through the blackout, yet she had not processed it with fear; she had processed it with the tactical precision of a Luther.

He held it out. Daniel took it. He unfolded it carefully. Inside were four drawings, pencil on the folded paper, the lines confident in the way of children who have not yet been told they might be wrong. Two floor plans — one familiar shape that was probably their house, one larger shape with rooms that did not map to any house he recognised. And two sections — the inside views, Owen had called them. Vertical cuts through imagined buildings, showing the interior in its full depth, the rooms stacked and adjacent, the walls thin lines and the spaces between them the actual subject.

Victor’s gaze moved toward the floor where Silas was sitting. “Well hello there.” Silas looked up and grinned. “Hi Victor!” Victor knelt beside him. “What are you drawing today?” Silas proudly lifted the paper. “A building.” Victor studied the drawing. Tall windows. Smoke rising from the roof. Fire trucks below. His smile didn’t change. “That’s very detailed.” Silas nodded seriously. “It’s a hospital.” Evelyn felt a chill run through her chest. Victor glanced briefly toward her. Children often drew things they didn’t consciously remember.

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.

Adrian gestured for Padraig to go on. "Look here. This drawing looks like a person lying on the platform. This thickest line here seems to be the blood vessels around a human's neck. These connecting thinner lines are a network of capillaries. The blood vessels in our bodies are dense and difficult to identify by the naked eye, but this drawing is extremely detailed. In fact, I don't think it's a drawing at all." "You may be right." Adrian nodded. "Our ancestors were really good at these things, so you may be onto something. However, if these are blood vessels, does that mean we can only activate the mechanism using blood?"

“I made two. One for you and one for your dad. Here is Zuri and here is Michael. I figured we could hang them for people to see at the funeral and then the families can take the drawings home with them.” “That is very thoughtful honey. They will love that,” says mom. We head outside and I see three caskets, thankfully closed, and everyone in attendance taking their seats. Each casket has it’s own flower stand with a wreath. I decide to tape my picture in the middle of the wreath. I walk over to uncle Owen’s dad and hand him his drawing. “What’s this,” he asks. “It’s the same drawing that is hanging by Anna’s casket. I drew two. One for you and that one is for uncle Owen. I’m sorry about Anna

They’re using laser printing for their drawings now. She really needed to brush up on her knowledge of today’s technology. Her lack of education was made even more obvious when her eyes fell on the drawing itself. It was alien to her. With all its odd abbreviations, numbers and geometries, Amber could only rely on the product name at the very bottom right of the drawing to confirm that it was in fact the VX2 blueprint. Carefully, she placed the A3 paper on the cool wooden floorboards, soothed it out evenly and positioned her phone over the paper.

The smaller hand was drawn pulling back, tiny lines radiating outwards, conveying shock, recoil. The cold dread solidified into ice. My throat tightened. “Just coincidence. Symbolic representation of Brayden…” But Brayden was a boy. This hand felt… adult. Malevolent. Then I saw it. The drawing is partially hidden under her knee. She must have been working on it just before I entered. It was different. Less abstract, more deliberate. It showed a table. A simple, rectangular table. Underneath it, crammed into the dark space, was a small child.

All they did in my class was practice adding and subtracting. Mom got a funny look on her face when I told her that I like to draw during math. While the other kids werre counting on their fingers I would pretend to be working in my workbook. Truthfully, I was sketching. I had some cool drawings in that workbook, hidden way in the back. I like to draw weather events, uncontrolled power unleashed on unsuspecting souls. I liked hurricanes and tornadoes the best. I loved the power a storm generated. The inevitable destruction it would cause was fun to try to put on paper. Sometimes I would see a storm raging in my mind and I could barely draw fast enough to get all the details on the page