Black Graphic Novels & Stories

I had taken the initiative to call her by her name. She smiled at me and sat upright. "Good to see you too Isabella," she replied to me. Jackson was whispering some irrelevant things to me and I looked at him with disgust. “Sorry?” I ignored him and I opened the file on the table, I pointed out the third design. It was a combination of green and black with hints of purple. “I like this, it’s not red and black for a change and it gives out the villain aesthetic still,” I explained as I pointed at the designs at the side. "Red and black has become too cliche, it is the best but it is cliche," I said to her.

Holding a baby with a black birthmark on his forehead at the edge of the cliff. "I saw it..." Black tears were flowing through her angelic face. "I saw.. it...this child." She pointed a black dagger made up of her blood to her son's face. "Rean! put my son down!!" A sudden thunder has struck the woman, lighting up the whole place. Kepler grins. His son was growing way too far from his grip. The other team has lightened up the torch with the red smoke, Alkhun lighted up the torch with black smoke...

the leader of their council said. There was so much hatred in the way he spoke to me, and I wondered what he was talking about. "What did you find out?" I asked him. " You possessed a dark lunar magic and this has brought about some kind of darkness to our pack, we do not accept that kind of magic here and anyone who brings such to us will be punished" he said. It sounded like some lame joke, I am never with such kind of magic, what has this got to do with me?

“Trust your gut, Ethan. It’s sharper than you think.” I thanked him and left feeling lighter than I had in days. That afternoon I took the subway to Greenpoint, sketchbook and a small pack of charcoal pencils in my bag. The neighborhood smelled like salt and motor oil and something faintly sour, like old metal left out in the rain. I wandered past chain-link fences tagged with faded graffiti, past boarded-up loading docks and rusted shipping containers. It was quiet in a way that felt deliberate, like the city had decided to hold its breath here.

Red, the color of violence, rage, war, blood, the hue that defines passion, love, tenderness, lust astonished but sustains Brian McCoy’s personality splendidly, although I grant him more like a grey or black color guy, just like his disguises and cold behavior he carries all his life.

His beautiful blond hair was stained by blood, and his blue eyes looked scarier than the scene in front of him. Near to him has a beautiful woman that has black skin with peaked and long ears. She had an attractive face with her exuberant curly hair and her whiskey color eyes; The lovely soft lips were a straight line. She had a puckered forehead because of a full of sadness scowl. She had an ax in her beautiful and full of scratched hands; the ax was heavy and dropping blood and was getting cold slowly. It was difficult to say whose it was the blood, either hers or the bodies on the battlefield. A roar from the sky took the couple who were on the giants' corps out of their thoughts. These g

Black paint dripping like blood, letters carved out of hatred and mockery. My breath hitched, cold dread slicing through me. My pulse roared in my ears. It wasn’t random graffiti. It was deliberate. A mark left for us to see, a reminder that no place was untouchable. And it was addressed to us.

“Hey, is Gray no longer with us?” “Yeah, he was murdered,” Hugo said. The news hit me like a ton of bricks. Gray was always a step ahead of everyone, unbeatable. I had a feeling he’d eventually piss someone off or get on the wrong side of someone. “Do you know this guy?” Hugo showed me a picture of another guy on his phone. This guy was ripped and covered in tattoos. His hair was pitch black, his eyes a piercing blue, and his look was tough, with multiple piercings in his ears and nose.

James said slowly. "Are you supporting them?" Peter Okeke asked. "No I am not." "You must know that burning a human is setting them on fire and fire is not friendly when it comes in contact with a human skin." James took the book, flipped through the pages then he gave the book to Paul Okeke. "Read that story." Paul Okeke collected the book from James hands. The title was written in bold letters like the previous story he read. It was titled: A GRUESOME DEATH. He swallowed and started reading loudly.

Turning forward again, she asked, “Who’s Black Crimson?” I shook my head. “No one knows. He’s the city’s famous—or maybe I should say infamous—graffiti artist. He only works in black, white, and red spray paint, and all his masterpieces usually depict some kind of meaningful message. They’re signed B.C., which is how he became dubbed Black Crimson.” Isobel wrinkled her nose. “I’m sure B and C are for the initials in his name, not for the colors in which he works.”