After Graphic Novels & Stories

Jim traded beer for joint, patted the bed for Sean to sit down and unplugged his phone to place the laptop between them, turning it for Sean to see the screen. Sean was used to Jim’s artistic touch on his photographs, and went through the files with slow nods, without a word. One of the pictures caught his attention: a dark blue eye, open in surprise, a tear in frail balance on the eyelashes. The next one was Jim kissing Silvia’s temple, and it reflected a whole different emotion, a warm serenity bordering affection that took him completely aback.

Sleek black SUVs lined the road like a royal guard. I climbed into the backseat of the one he entered. The door shut behind me. No goodbye from my mother. No hug from my father. Just a wave from Gwen. Just the roar of the engine as we drove away. 2 Weeks later— I hadn't seen Tarek much since that day. He hadn’t touched me, not once. He didn’t sleep beside me. Didn’t ask how I was adjusting. Didn’t even glance at me during dinners. And I didn't try either. Because I didn’t want his touch. Not when it would burn like betrayal.

I began to hear whispers. “He doesn’t,” I heard another. “He’s only pitying the poor thing. A handsome person like him could never fall for someone as ugly as her.” Hurt by their words, I immediately walked from the cafeteria, fighting back tears. Ms. Sinclair, the visual art teacher, stopped me in the hallway. She wanted me to help her after school to organize some books.

"Fran, midnight has arrived. You just need to die in this world, and you can go back." I picked up a sharp piece of glass and raised my hand, dragging the jagged edge across my artery. Finally, I was leaving this world where no one loved me. Everything was finally going to end.

And Slide 28? His eyes widened. Oh no. No way. The graphic was a satirical image that had once circulated on the internet mocking their own industry—a piece of art they’d unanimously agreed to never associate with. He jumped up, heart racing, and bolted to Rita’s office. Rita’s Office Rita was massaging her temples when Jesse burst in, breathless. “I need you to look at this,” he said, thrusting his tablet forward. “What is it?” she asked, concerned.

She clicked on the screen, pulling up a motion graphics video showcasing the project in a dynamic way. “This provides a visual representation that’s both engaging and easy to understand,” she concluded. The Fernandez reps clapped. Zara turned to Ace, her smirk dripping with satisfaction. ‘Checkmate.’ she mouthed. Fortunately , she’d thought of this question a few days back and made the graphics, but since it wasn't professionally edited, she didn't plan to show it…until now. Ace’s expression didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze. Then, just as Zara thought she had won, Ace leaned back, his voice calm but sharp.

“Let’s not do this. The sponsors always want a word, a couple of photos. It’s standard. Please. Don’t give them the drama they’ll gossip about for months.” I sigh with my eyes closed and stop. I look back at the stage. Alex is still speaking, gesturing toward the winning pieces. My painting hangs under the spotlight, ridiculous to me, but one of the best things that’s happened to these fine folks. Darn it. There’s no need to be bitter here. Not in front of people who actually care about the work. “Fine,” I mutter. “But I’ll leave immediately after.” The program ends, the applause roll, followed by more applause. This is followed by the ritual of group photos with the winners, the judges, the

It was designed specifically to manipulate people like me who had just returned to wealthy families and were emotionally vulnerable. "You thought it was fate? It was technology!" Sienna waved the remote control. "Now, get on your knees! Sign the transfer documents! Otherwise, I'll press this button and turn him into pulp!" Drake's mouth was gagged. He could only make muffled sounds, but his eyes remained resolute as he shook his head violently, signaling me not to worry about him. I looked at Sienna and calmly removed the wire-rimmed glasses from my nose. I had recently gotten them specially made with an anti-interference program embedded inside. They also served as my communication device w

"But the graphite content is perfect. The metal particles will bind directly to the linen fibers. If the district captain tries to scrub this text off the village walls with water, he’ll only end up smudging the brick. It’s permanent, Elara. Chemical-grade defiance." ​I didn't answer—the quiet of my throat was an absolute anchor in the chaotic, echoing space of the yard. Instead, I carefully lifted the master stencil of the fourth edition from the typewriter carriage. The grease-paper was pristine, each perforated letter sharp and clear, waiting to slice through the dark, oily barrier we had just mixed. ​On the corner of the deck, the modified Vane scanner gave a soft, rhythmic series of sta

The pain fades. Like it was never there. I hate that more. He’s still watching. Of course he is. “What?” I snap. “You keep saying that.” “Saying what?” “That you’re fine.” “I am.” Silence. His gaze doesn’t move. I look away first. Annoying. I move toward the window. Open it. The air rushes in. Cool. Sharp. Real. Better than whatever this is. Behind me, I hear movement. Then— “Greta.”