Comics Clean Novels & Stories

Wesley followed close behind, cracking jokes to keep spirits up, his energy lighter but his eyes serious. After the last of them had been wheeled out, I stood in the middle of the car, surrounded by silence. The cabin looked like a war zone. Open water bottles rolled across the floor. Used barf bags sat bloated in the corner. Blankets and jackets were strewn across the seats. The air still hung heavy with the sour stench of vomit and disinfectant. I grabbed a clean towel and began wiping down a row of seats. I wasn’t on staff. It wasn’t my job. But I needed to do something.

“Limited edition painting. If you wanna buy it, you gotta place a bid. Or, get them for free if you sign up for the club.” He shrugged, feeling victorious. The people were silent, unsure of what to say. Malorie stepped forward, still gaping at the painting. “You…” she began. “It’s marvelous, isn’t it?” Cain boasted. “It’s...marvelously bad!” Malorie exclaimed. “What the hell is this?” She pointed at the painting consisting of stick figures in different colors. The shapes were off, looking like an artwork by a kindergarten student. “This is comic art!” Cain claimed. “This looks as if a child drew it!” she hissed. “This isn’t how you make a comic strip!”

“I mean, it was my pick, so I’m gonna go with it was awesome.” “Did you read the comic?” “No. Is it very different?” “It’s a lot more violent.” “Really?” “Yup. And the storyline is different. You can tell they Hollywooded it up.” “Hollywooded?” “Made it more palpable for mainstream audiences. Let’s just say that a few of the characters have been sanitized.” “Huh. I had no idea.” Ping. “Are you going to get that?” Jules asked, snuggling into my side.

I got this job because of her and am so much loving my job. My two crazy friends entered there room, looking so happy and beautiful in there designers dress that they bought on the last travel, they were telling me they went for a date ‘smiling at them I left to do my job at the VIP’s because recently I have been working on VIP and not Penthouse. I cleaned some rooms before my shift ended and going back to my room my two crazy friends can never stop talking, "Lizzy how’s your handsome boyfriend? guess he’s been so busy recently, Oh I just wish we are gonna go for another vacation like the last time Lizzy”, Coco said to me as we started laughing and rolling her small eyes on me.

She said. “Maybe you mean that after we clean all of YOUR mess, then I won’t have any complain for you! Because what can you complain about me? The place where I ate is so clean! Not even a single cracker crumbs! All the rappers are disposed! I didn’t even finish my second bottle of cola!” I said and she just chuckled at me again.

"All three reports have come back clean." ...Clean? My mind screeched so loudly I almost looked impressed: What the fuck kind of drug leaves no trace?! That can't be right. "What? CLEAN?!" Dante's voice cracked like puberty hit him again. "No—no, that's impossible! Kori was—she—WHAT?!" Hazel launched forward. "CLEAN?! CLEAN?! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN CLEAN?!!" "No toxins, no sedatives, no illegal substances," the healer said evenly. "All samples are entirely clear."

“Hey, Clarens! Good morning to you, too!” He smiled. For the past years I had been sharing the same classroom with him, I never saw him made a smile as genuine as what he just did. “Why are you here?” he asked. He shot his eyes onto my bag, and when he saw my comic book poking out of the opened zipper, he said, “I bet comics is still life, eh?” “Of course! Comics are the best! They are a little off the mainstream, but hell yes! They are still the best,” I replied. And that was one of the things I always loved about Clarens. He was such a joy to talk with.

Under all of it, the room held the smell of clean water, antiseptic, engine oil buried in the walls and floorboards, and Lucas. Not blood. Not mud. Not the rank, brutal stench of battle that had clung to him when they first brought him in. The pack had washed all of that from him. Thoroughly. Carefully. Whatever had been caked into his skin and hair was gone now, stripped away with a kind of practical reverence that felt almost ceremonial. They had cleaned him as though the very idea of leaving him filthy would have been an insult, not merely to him, but to what he had become.

Two years later, an unfamiliar account sent me a follow request on Instagram. Given the nature of my work, I was accustomed to accepting requests from strangers. I sent a polite greeting, but the person never replied. Their profile picture was a lazy cat, giving no hint about their identity. Just as I was about to check out their profile, I received a file in my messages. I tapped on it. The title read, "Till Death Do Us Apart: The Romantic Wedding of Christopher Barrett and Yvette Chandler." The cover photo showed Yvette beaming alongside an unfamiliar man.