Graphic Memoirs Novels & Stories

Adam closed the diary slowly, his thumb still pressed between the pages as if he hadn’t fully decided whether to let the story go. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the worn cover. “Damn, Mark…” he muttered under his breath. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose, not shocked exactly but unsettled in a way that lingered. This wasn’t just some wild fantasy written for effect. It read as something lived. Something processed after the fact. And that made it heavier.

My eyes filling with tears, the things he has had to endure and to be able to get to me here. I tell him the things I’d done to try and get to him but it seemed he knew most of my moves due to my sketchbook that Lisa had salvaged from the bombed hospital. “Your sketch book moved me. I really think you should publish it, there’s so many stories of the soilders that lost their lives, and their families would probably be so grateful to see your drawings and the things they’d said, messages for their loved one.” Carlo says, my face flushed pink. I must admit it would be quite a good idea, I know that if it were me, I’d definitely want to hear what had happened to my children or family out fighti

Her stomach twisted as she remembered the sickening sensation of driving that brass shank into the neck of the gunman. She looked down at her hands. They were shivering, stained with soot, grease, and the violent reality of the last hour. She had spent her life in quiet archives, handling centuries-old vellum with delicate white cotton gloves, treating fragile historic structures with absolute reverence. Now, she was trapped in a high-tech tomb with a man who had forced her into a marriage of compliance, holding a bloody key, while a cartel hit squad slept ten feet away. "You are experiencing a psychological load-shift," Julian said.

Cassie sat down, letting her heels sink into the grass, as Hope handed over the small leather-bound notebook she’d been sketching in. On the cover, written in delicate calligraphy, were the words: Our Story. Cassie opened it, her throat tightening. Inside were pages filled with drawings tiny moments from their lives: the day Ethan was born, family trips, Hope’s first day at school, her parents dancing in the kitchen. “I want to turn it into a graphic novel one day,” Hope said, brushing her hair behind her ear. “To show people what real love looks like.” Cassie wiped her eyes, speechless.

It was me, my mom, my dad, and his dad, his mom, and him. "What are these?" I mumbled scrutinizing every picture. The biggest picture at the center was a picture of two children. A boy and a girl, the boy looked like Arrow and the girl looked like me when I was young. The portrait was named 'Black and Red' The second portrait contains them: Arrow and his parents, Mr. Black and Mrs. Heliana. Entitled to 'Smith' The third portrait was me and my family. 'Woodwords' There was a picture of my family and him. 'American Mafia'

But, René was a painter who had characteristics; he only painted objects he was seeing or had ever seen in the past. Sometimes, he painted some moments that happened in the past. For example, the moment when he and his sister were still young. They used to fight a lot. Yes, fighting. They did not hesitate to kick and punch each other, even wrestled each other like professionals. Once, René painted a picture when he and his older sister were in a brutal fight. René had also painted heart-wrenching scenes. Tears, blood, and sorrow. These three elements filled the previously blank canvas where the painter poured his inspiration. It was so heartbreaking that the painting was able to make people