Noir Rough Draft

[Designer.Trey]

NOIR

This didn’t take me too long. An evening, roughly. Also, because it’s noir, in usual cases, is a series of scattered monologue blurbs, intentional misspellings and bad punctuation are both present to aid the atmosphere of the story. Please enjoy and let me know what you think.

Imagine that this is a comic and every space represents a scene or a panel. The book is about eight pages, front and back. The illustrations should come vividly to mind. If not, I did something wrong.

Needless to say, it's all copyrighted.

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She turned away, buryin’ her bruised face in her hands. This wasn’t the first time he’d hit her. I felt my fists clench hard.

It was late. The indoor parking lot cast a dim, sour light over us. The night outside stank like garbage.

I clasped her arms and asked her why. Why she puts up with it. I had to know. Even though deep in my gut, I already did.

She didn’t answer. She never answered.

I’d seen enough of this shit to last me a lifetime.

When you pin on a badge in New York every mornin’ for a livin’, you get used to it. But not like this. This was different. It was personal. She was my daughter, for God’s sake.

She was part of me and she was gettin’ slapped around worse than a two-dollar whore.

I’d been having a bad day already. Then this. It made me feel sick and angry. I burned like hellfire inside.

Before I could think, I was in her car. The key was still in the ignition. For a moment, I saw her distant silhouette in the mirror. I pulled out in a flash and before she could talk me out of it, I was a pair of fading taillights.

Then I was there. He saw me pull in. There was a cold moment when he must’ve known.

I took the badge off. Tonight, it was personal.

The preservation of peace could kiss my ass.

I approached the door, knockin’ it in with a fury that must’ve turned every head in that filthy pub.

He was perched at the bar like an anxious vulture, but before I could reach him, he took flight.

I pulled out my berretta. A flash of light and a screamin’ crowd later, the place was all ours. I found the key and locked us up tight, shovin’ the pistol into its holster.

Last week I was shootin’ guys like me.

He froze, reachin’ his swollen mitts into the smoky air, the gold band shinin’ around his left ring finger. It was almost poetic, what came next.

“What do ya want with me, John?”

He’s a big boy. I’ll let him figure it out.

I punched him so hard I felt my knuckles touch the skull on either side of his nose. Then I hear a snap and he hits the bar behind him, cheap glass breakin’ everywhere.

I stood him up. I cranked back my fist.

Maybe that’s enough. He’s bleedin’ bad.

He brought a fist to my face. I tasted blood.

I reconsidered.

I threw my force across his kisser a few times.

All at once, he lay on the floor, cursin’ and spittin’ blood and vomit, tryin’ to cradle himself.

My boot played some ball.

I’d pull him up just to knock his ass back down. Again and again. Now I know why folks play dominos.

He was shakin’ like the craven wife beater he was.

I had only just begun.

I pulled him up again, his face wet with blood and sweat. He was movin’ his mouth, but all I could hear were slurred echoes.

All I could see were his dirty kids in that wooly-rugged, piece o’ shit apartment—hungry—sweatin’ all over themselves. I could see him at his cushy job. I could see him at the casino blowin’ it all. I could see his fist in her face. I could taste her blood.

I let the demon out of my lungs, loud and hard.

He fell fast, pissin’ himself.

I straddled the bastard.

I swore to myself I’d hit him a hundred times for every hair on her head and I must have come close.

He was everythin’ I hated—the rapists, the drug-dealers, the pimps, the gangsters, organized crime, the crooked law—all the things I had spent all my life trying to destroy.

Everything went numb.

Before I knew it, I was clicking an empty handgun with flashing, red and blue lights at my back. I heard familiar radio static.

I closed my eyes.

[Designer.Trey]

I am looking for reviews. So if you read it, please tell me what you think. Otherwise, I wouldn't have posted it here.

[The Anti-crest]

It's okay. Obviously since it is this type of Noir, it will have some sort of feel of Sin City, but I think the biggest problem is that you aren't setting it up with any images other than what the narrator provides. If it were drawn and read like this, there would be no frames that work the magic of comic books, which is showing one thing and saying another to give you a subliminal reference. It creates wonder and intrique that regular stories can not do. Metaphore is important to writing, be it visual or otherwise. The story is very straight and to the point. No real shock or suspense.

[xtylerx]

The thing about message boards like this is that people tend to critique only those authors who have critiqued their work. So get out there and make some e-friends (or enemies) and people will be more likely to offer up some criticism.

[Worthless]

I think this is great, but I do not know how it would work as a comic. If what you were trying to do was create visuals, then you win! But from an artist's view point, most of what I would want to do with it is self explanitory in the narration and would come off redundent. However, I am not a professional so ....

[Designer.Trey]

Worhtless, I've seen your work. You are very nearly professional quality. Your review means a lot.

And you're absolutely right. It's more de'script'ive and less script.

I'd better try writing for noir in a comic book format.

[Staplebug]

"I punched him so hard I felt my knuckles touch the skull on either side of his nose"
That's a beautiful black humour you've got there. I don't think this is a comic - it's a text story, there's nothing left for pictures to do that the text doesn't.

And I'm sorry to say that as a story, I found it cliche and uninteresting - but I don't think it was about writing a story, was it ? As an exercise in style, it's enjoyable.