Venus Fly Trap Drawing Novels & Stories

Tucked just beneath the corner of a low shelf. I stared at it. No. Nope. I wasn’t going to do this again. Not after what happened the last time. But my legs were already moving. I stepped over, crouched down, and pulled it free—slowly. The second my fingers brushed the cover, something tugged at my gut. Don’t. But I did. I flipped it open. And froze. Page after page of Venita. Her face. Her body. Again and again. At first, they were harmless drawings of her. Beautiful ones. Cute and dreamy.

Inside the glass jar, a small yellow black bug with purple strips, a bee with a sharp pointed stinger is peacefully gnawing on a strange black flower with petals that looks like a broken skull. Venom opened the lid quickly, and the originally peaceful purple stripe bee started to rouse, speedily flapping its small wings and flying outside the glass jar. It flew into a circle before landing on Venom’s palm. Whispered words fell down and the purple stripe bee suddenly flew up and zoomed, chasing Asha’s direction on the flowing river.

The one she had held while a transport confirmation loaded on Marcus's screen. The drawings that had come after — Eli's documentation of the life as it had been building. The facility from various angles. The courtyard in different seasons. Gerald in his habitat with accompanying observational notation. And now this one. Five figures and Gerald Junior and an arrow pointing toward everything that came after. She set it in the drawer with the others. She looked at the collection.

A second later, Venus was buzzing. Dozens of fiery figures seemed to float round throughout the field. They are shaped like a burning demon's head. Their noses are only dark cracks; their mouths are grinning and show black teeth with fires. The color eyes of those creatures are as dark as darkness, with long, pointy ears like the image of a demon from hell. One figure slipped in front of Venus. The heat and grip suddenly made Venus's chest tighten. “Are they what you meant by the head of the flying devil that time?” Venus asked nervously to the boy whose face was pale now.

He climbed onto the sofa beside her and opened the notebook. Crayon lines filled the page. Bright colors. Simple shapes. But the drawing was recognizable. Three stick figures stood side by side beneath a large sun. Evelyn had seen similar drawings from him before. Usually the same three figures. A woman. A child. And a tall man with darker shading around the eyes. Silas held the notebook proudly. “Do you like it?” Evelyn forced a soft smile. “It’s beautiful.” He studied the picture carefully. Then pointed to the tallest figure.

She touched one drawing. "This is the river. This is the buildings. This is the chamber." She moved her hand along the progression. "This is the arrivals. All of it, drawn, in order." She stopped. "And then this." Aria crouched down. The drawing at the end of the sequence was different from the others. Not architectural. Not geographical. Not the specific practical diagrams Elena had used for the physical preparations. A circle. Inside it, two figures. One large. One very small.

Coloured chalks in hand, she is deep in concentration. The noisy chatter of the young adults as they take their seats behind her barely registering as she concentrates on the task in hand. She has already drawn the parted legs and rounded arse cheeks and was now working on the pussy lips, the outer labia. Her drawing was graphic in its anatomical correctness and state of arousal.

He flipped again. A full two-page spread: A woman blindfolded and ball-gagged, hogtied across a mattress. Her legs were spread by a bar. Her toes curled in tension. Her holes sketched in tight detail -- stuffed, obscenely, with what was clearly meant to be two separate toys. The kind of drawing someone does only when they've lived it. Or needed to. His cock twitched. He didn't stop flipping. Page after page -- each more shocking, intimate, and raw than the last.

He had found a pad of paper and a dull pencil in a kitchen drawer. He was drawing. I stood in the doorway, my breath catching in my throat. I didn't want to disturb him. I watched the way his hand moved—it was fluid, confident, but with that slight, human tremor he had inherited from the resonance. He finished the sketch and turned the paper toward the light. It wasn't a blueprint. It wasn't a map. It was a drawing of a single, wild iris growing out of a crack in a rock. It was messy. The lines were unoptimized. It was, in every sense of the word, imperfect.

I realized that the vetting had already begun and waited for my submission to come up while my heart pounded. “And this one, from Evelyn Talbot.” The screen lit up with a drawing, beautiful orange and purples stood out from the screen, bathing the designers in the front row in light. A couple of oooh and ahh were heard while I stayed frozen in my seat, staring at a drawing that looked like it was straight out of my sketchbook.