View Full Version : Dyer's Eve

Mr. Blonde
05-15-2006, 06:39 AM
id be grateful for help here, this is a short story i want to change to comic book format if possible, but an example of my writing style.

im sure the comic book style isnt that hard but ive never tried so any comments would be brilliant guys. Hope you like it

Vincent struck a match to light his cigarette, and then threw it in amongst the bodies. After just one deep intake of the smoke’s intoxicating coolness, Vincent’s veins were lined with composure. His eyes, just moments previous alive with passionate contortion, sank back into their caves; the pain that once burst through them transgressing into a comfortable numbness. He slipped his arm underneath his maroon overcoat to discover a lighter shade of red. As he gazed at the source of his anguish, a new and fiercer pain began to ravage his already troubled thoughts.

How could a man like Vincent go to the hospital? As he already knew, they ask far too many questions, slyly covering up their constant probing and prodding with a genuine veil of consideration. However, there were no private doctors that he could call upon either, as this was an alien place, with no safe haven for the natural born killer. This was the perfect setting however, for deceit and corruption, as Vincent had learnt a long time ago; the further you move from one evil, the closer you get to the next.

Although Vincent was all too familiar with pain and the sight of blood, his own flowing out like a river was far too grounding. The strangest feelings passed casually through the forefront of his mind, as if to show that everyone should have felt like this at some point; unfortunately for Vincent, that point was now. Vincent wondered whether it should have fallen heavier on his conscience, considering that there were a thousand names flooding his mind all aching in that same anguish.

Whilst Vincent stumbled over to the arched doorway, the small fire that ebbed the matchstick down to cinders, licked at the thick shag of the embracing carpet. In less than a heartbeat, the back corner of the room began to ignite. Vincent swiveled his head and etched a smirk on his dull and listless face.

“That’ll keep you warm boys!”

The well aged oak bloomed into an exuberant flame that stroked the hand of the well aged Mr. Gainsborough. The fire began consuming everything in sight, but not before the grandfather clock rang out its triumphant swan song. It swayed back and forth the full eleven times before the flames could topple it.

11 ‘o’ clock. The time was 11 ‘o’ clock precisely. Vincent had left it far too late. He had lingered here too long, servicing his own selfish sadism. In ominous harmony, the pain shot up his spine and burst in his mind, trickling down throughout his nerves until his was drenched in agony. So many questions crossed in front of his eyes it blinded him. Vincent tried to move, but he was paralyzed with pain. He focused, and standing upright drew an unfathomable amount of air into his lungs, and just as easily, expelled it with slow and professional precision. After a few breaths, Vincent pulled out a flick knife, and dug out the bullet in his gut along with seemingly a pound of flesh.

Desperate for another moment to bathe in the torture, he glanced over to the roomful of fire that had leaked into the hallway. The smoke was blacker than the night outside and lay like a warm blanket on the ceiling; gradually swelling with hazardous irony. Vincent knew that if he did not get out now, it would be the fire that killed him. Just as he conjured up the energy to fight his way to the door, his sense already overburdened, a wailing noise pierced the roaring symphony of searing heat behind him.

Was this the banshee herself calling to Vincent in his final hour? He forced his tired ears to pick apart the sound until the familiar refrain of the siren was lifted mercilessly into the foreground. The emergency services seemed prejudice to Vincent, given him plenty of time on the hundreds of appointments previous to get away. Now because the appointment was with Mr. Gainsborough, they rushed with heroic intent to do their jobs and actually save someone. Vincent did not blame them; he knew it was his fault for taking so long to enjoy the company of the dead. He regained control over his disparaging thoughts, and followed his instincts.

He smashed down the door and made swiftly for the nearest escape route, which was a well lit promenade. The police cars and fir engines howled madly as they screeched up to the house. Vincent, unable to even run halfway to the blackened pier, draped himself over the barriers. The pain now superseded everything around him, and the lights now betrayed him as footsteps approached.

“Are you alright? You must have inhaled some of that smoke back there. Here sit down, take off that jacket.”

Vincent willingly loped onto the bench and breathed again. He worked his way up to the man’s face, only realizing in time that he was a plain-clothes police officer. Vincent, as subtly as possible, covered up the wound and shrugged off the sting.

“Take it easy now; this stuff will give you one hell of a nasty cough!”

Vincent smirked again.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Vincent. Vincent Valentine.”

The officer looked skeptically at him.

“That’s quite a moniker you have there. Is that your real name?”

Vincent grimaced.

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

The officer walked away. This was Vincent’s chance
He rose awkwardly, and moved with haste towards the old pier. There were no lights there, it would be perfect. Vincent staggered down the promenade, trying his best to avoid the street- lamps glare that exposed his frail, guilt-ridden body. He caught his foot on a large wooden beam jutting out from the boards. The sharp shock jilted his enthusiasm, reminding him of his wound and the grandfather clock. Vincent had never believed in fate, but he could not shake the feeling that the clock’s chime had given him; that maybe he was meant to die tonight.

Meanwhile, the fire engines sprayed down the towering inferno that had grown before them, desperately trying to subdue the impossible heat of the fire. The firefighters rushed in and out in an effort to rescue anything they could before it was engulfed. Amidst the chaos, the officer approached an old man coughing, bent over double trying to force the smoke out of him. The officer stopped, and stunned he pushed the reluctant words out of his bone-dry lips.

“Mr. Gainsborough?”

Another officer nearby shouted across to the rest.

“We just got a message from Headquarters. A woman passing by earlier said she saw a young man, about 16 years old, go into the house at around 10 ‘o’ clock. He might not be in the house, so spread out. Look for a kid with a long, red overcoat and dark hair.”

“What the…” the officer stammered and quickly fixed on where Vincent had been sitting, but there was no-one there.

Vincent hobbled down the worn, dry boardwalk of the old pier; the starless night sky cloaking his frame in anonymity. He paused, realizing that he may have gone too far, and carefully marked each step to the barriers. He collapsed onto them, exhausted from the grueling escape. He felt his wound swelling and pulsing with life fleeing in any direction out of him. He knew it was not wise to pause for too long, as before you can drown in your thoughts. This was not a time to get lost, when he was about to be found. Searchlights punched holes in the midnight air, but found nothing. Safe at last. All he had to do now was nurse his wound until the small hours, and then get to a phone. Juts as the storm of noise and chaos died with the fire, a stray searchlight clambered up Vincent’s leg like an insect.

“Hey, you there!” the ignorant exclamation sent shivers through him. He had made the same mistake twice in one night, he would never forgive himself. A random assortment of hurried footsteps ambled towards him. The pain returned once more, this time in a much less pleasurable fashion. Vincent pulled out a sleek Single Action Army and checked the chamber. “Five shots, I’ve got five shots.” The police officers surrounded him, and raised their guns slowly, marking Vincent for a kill. He arched over his gun, coyly hiding it from them and masking it in screams of pain. He cocked it, and with a few short glances made his target. “It’s over kid, give it up!”

Vincent thought of the clock again, and the fire. He had never believed in fate.

“Hands up, now!”

Vincent looked up slowly and smirked again.

“Nil satis nissi optimum…”

Over the sea, loud bangs like firecrackers could be heard for miles. In the town, the sirens echoed through every street, loud as they were. Down by the pier, a young man with a long red overcoat added five more souls to his list.

“Nothing but the best…”

05-16-2006, 10:13 PM
Mr. Blonde, that was pretty good for a short story with tons of description of the action and thoughts of the characters. It did seem that it was more description than was needed at times (read it twice to make sure I read it right). In general this 17 year old has a fascination with death, right? This is a sick guy you've got there, but I would like to see it when you have it in comic form. A lot of the descriptions are gonna have to be cut and cut and cut some more and still be able to get your message across. I'd be able to give a better critique when you post it in comic form. (there's no perfect way to do it in comic form)

05-17-2006, 12:21 AM
im sure the comic book style isnt that hard

Great, thanks for driving another nail into my heart! ;)

More seriously, though...this story seems to work fine just the way it is. I don't see why you'd go to the added effort of taking a prose story that already works and change it to a different medium. In comics form, you'd have to add visual elements -- at the expense of the atmosphere and glimpses into Vincent's perceptions already conveyed in the narration. The comic book page can show us what a character looks like...but is that really essential here, when the real story is what's going on inside his head?

The ideal comics story is one that can be told best in comics form. Something that needs both the images and the words to convey the full impact. If the story can be told just as well in prose form, I say keep it that way! Instead, take a story that doesn't quite work in words alone and try retelling it in comics form.

Looking forward to more...

05-17-2006, 06:13 AM
It's pretty good. I agree that this can stay prose, but if you want to take it to a different format, go for it. It would be cool to see. I had it somewhere around The Usual Suspects look.

But... and this here is a "big booty shakin" but...

You have to fix that grammar and punctuation before you post. Seriously.

"learnt" should be learned
"As if" big no-no, Valley Girl
"his own flowing out like a river" unflowing double preposition
"Whilst Vincent stumbled over to the arched doorway, the small fire that ebbed the matchstick down to cinders, licked at the thick shag of the embracing carpet." with the small fire, and licked? that's a weird image actually.

These are just a few. There's more... so go over it again to polish it up. Unless it's a first draft, but rarely do you want to show first drafts for crits. Only if you're completely lost, but I don't think you are. Nice adjectives by the way.

Mr. Blonde
05-18-2006, 01:08 PM
great critique guys, thanks a lot.

by the by im not a valley girl, i happen to be male, but i will take your points under consideration. This i think is the second or third draft, im not sure i might have fixed some of the errors on my own read through, looking now i have made some genuine mistakes. As i said this my be the second draft, as i have all of them saved on my comp, i might have pasted that one here.

As for the comic format, i felt a lot of the description of the enviroment would be easy to translate to comic, but i see what you mean about vincent's mind, as it stands, i didnt want to run before i could walk, and this was just a short story i thought would be good as a comic. Looking at it it would certainly lose a lot in translation i agree, but no matter, i have plenty of ideas. ;)

The overall idea was he was learning to be a professional killer, i figured they started early, but yes he has quite the penchant for sadism, and i didnt want to overstate the fact that he was going into a profession with it, more leave it open that he might just be a murderer, i thought it was a good angle making the central character of the story a villain.

thanbks a lot for the advice guys ill hit you up soon with some more stories, glad you liked it though :har: