Great Gatsby Graphic Novels & Stories

Celeste’s POV “Oh, my god Celeste!” Grace squealed, running over to me. “You need to see what’s on the third page of the Citrine.” I put down the design I’d been tweaking, curiosity piqued. “What is it?” I asked, taking the magazine. I blinked at a photograph in shock. A broad-backed gentleman was helping a woman wearing a deep maroon dress into a sports car. Thankfully, I’d turned my face away from the camera as I ducked in, but anyone who knew me would recognize that I was that woman.

asked Paris shyly and curiously. "Yes," answered Greyson as he closed his drawer. He stared at Paris who was afraid to look at him after seeing the nude portrait. "Doesn't it makes you feel uncomfortable?" again asked Paris. "Use to until I no longer feel tense drawing a woman's nakedness," answered Greyson."However that nude portrait of the lady you saw is not truly her body," Greyson told Paris. Paris's eyes went to his right away. "It's a copy I should have thrown away for she didn't think it was sexy enough to send to her lover."

I unfolded it with the care one might give to a centuries-old relic. On the white surface, vibrant crayon strokes formed three stick figures. They were disproportionate and messy, but the intent was devastatingly clear. On the left was a tall man in a charcoal shirt—Gareth’s favorite color. On the right was a woman with long black hair and a green dress—the exact outfit I’d worn when we went to the bookstore last week. And in the middle, a small girl with pigtails held both their hands, anchoring them together. At the bottom, written in large, shaky block letters, was a single word: US.

Standing on her tiptoes, she pulled down a thin paperback and turned toward him, proudly holding it out for him to see. Chris nodded, not surprised that one of her favorites was The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald. “American literary fiction. A total classic for high schoolers.” Fiona ran her hand across the faded cover and nodded. “I couldn’t put it down. And then my father rented the movie—the first movie with Robert Redford playing the part of Gatsby. I was hooked.” Chris liked the way she recalled the pleasant memory. Her smile wasn’t

CHAPTER 1 — THE LATE RETURN I really shouldn’t have been there after closing time. The sign on the door already read “Closed” in elegant gold letters, and the lights inside Marcus Vale’s bookstore were dimmed to that soft amber glow he always left on for the night. I stood outside for a full minute, debating whether to just slip the book through the mail slot and run. But the book was rare — a 1923 first edition of The Great Gatsby with handwritten notes in the margins, and I couldn’t risk damaging it.

Two, on the other hand, might just work. I grinned to myself as I dug out my backpack, and I shoved my books into it in rapid succession. The clear pencil case Kath had given me was still safely cocooned in the front pouch, along with my worn copy of The Great Gatsby. I zipped up the pocket, and chucked the bag onto my bed.

I waved as he ran across the lawn and onto grandfather's property. When I closed the door, Gatsby climbed up on the counter and appeared to be reading my homework assignment. "What do you think?" I asked, sitting down in front of him. "It's a total snooze fest, vampire. Why don't you put some blood and guts and dragon fire into it?" I huffed. "Seriously. That's rude." Surprised, I added, "And why dragon fire?" "Why not?" He arched his back. "And what's rude is that you almost drank from Troy. What if you'd hurt him or worse killed him?" Gatsby sat on my paper and started licking the fur on his front legs.

“You’re brutal. Correct, but brutal.” By 4:00 PM, the gifts had escalated to the absurd. A first edition of The Great Gatsby—because I had once mentioned I liked the tragedy of it. A set of Japanese calligraphy pens—because I liked to doodle on my scripts. A box of pastries from a bakery in Paris—flown in fresh that morning. “Okay, the croissants stay,” Katherine declared, shielding the pastry box with her body. “I have moral boundaries, and wasting French butter crosses them.”

Allie simply pulled out her pristine, gold-trimmed tablet and began texting her friends, completely ignoring my existence. ​Ten minutes into the lesson, Mr. Harrison threw a complex prompt on the board regarding the psychological subtext of The Great Gatsby and the illusion of the American dream. The classroom went dead silent. The wealthy students shifted uncomfortably, used to regurgitating SparkNotes rather than actually analyzing the text.

“You’re avoiding me, Ms. Hayes.” Vivian stiffened but didn’t respond right away. Instead, she finished organizing her papers and then turned to face the class. “Everyone, take out your copies of The Great Gatsby. Today, we’re discussing themes of desire and self-destruction.” Ethan nearly laughed at the irony. As the discussion started, Ethan couldn’t help but poke at the growing tension between them. When she asked the class about Gatsby’s relentless pursuit of Daisy, Ethan’s voice rang out smoothly. “Sometimes, we chase things even when we know they might destroy us.”