Character Ideas for a Short Story by Trilobite Disco
Thinking about making a little comic or something out of this short story
“One hand grips the steadfast doorknob,” by Trilobite Disco, I made some idea sketches for its characters.
*Check out the whole story from the title link above or below the sketches.
One hand grips the steadfast doorknob,
shaking it wildly, the way they do in films, to show it’s definitely not going anywhere, my skin pale from the tightness of the grip and the franticity of the twisting, while the other, also with similar reasons for its paleness, tugs at the hand of THE GUEST, who is not reacting as quickly as I am and, as such, is still in her chair, probably wishing she could eat the succulent meal the cook has prepared, but, arm now askew and fork in the puddle of gravy expanding on the floor, cannot, and my eyes send acute and worrisome images to my brain of the dust shaken from each ceiling beam in series towards my father at the head of the table, covering first THE GUEST’s portion in grey skin sand, then Mother and the cousins’, then Mardible’s, like a dusting of some disgustingly ancient sugar, the noise of which is inaudible over my father’s shrieks of BEN WHAT ARE YOU DOING SIT DOWN NOW YOURE EMBARRASSING THE GUEST ICANTBELIEVEYOUALLTHETIME which continue while he starts to thump his fists into his meal, mashing the turkey into a pink jelly between his fingers with a mixture of pain and delight in his eyes and everyone looks up, between the slats, as the bristling legs become visible and we all know what’s up there and I’m making eyes at them as if to say TIME TO GO OK? but their eyes skim from mine and, looking away, they concentrate on Father and the tantrum coming out of him GODDAMITIMSICKOFTHESHAMETHESHAMETHE…a pale fleshy rod has shot down from the ceiling and into his shoulder-neck joint, a tennis ball sized puncture, his bloodshot eyes still furious, and an engorged lump of skin runs down towards his chest and is visible under his pristine and now overly tight dress shirt; Mardible vomits and looks bashfully around while only half surreptitiously scraping it into her recently dry cleaned handbag, the piercing sound of which is still imperceptible under Father’s now unintelligibly gargled complaints, which Mother tries to remedy by discretely passing him a serviette, but is stopped short as another barbed appendage shoots downwards into her bare right thigh, Father had ordered this limb exposed as he liked to grip it while driving, as she stifles a whimper and, shaking, continues to pass the–now much needed–serviette to Father, who by this point has been dragged to such a height by whatever creature wants them that the swings of his fists towards his plate of smashed meat no longer reach the gloop but just arc in the air leaving splashes of brown and red on the once spotless table cloth and doilies, presents from esteemed friends of his wife, who now struggles to one foot to pass him the serviette which he ends up just battling out of her medically dewrinkled hand, before lifting his red faced head at THE GUEST and sputtering,
pauses to spit on the soiled doilies, and finishes