Sheepo
The Freeman
- Joined
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Due to a recent interest in writing I've decided to attempt to translate Watchmen (or more likely, a chunk or chunks of Watchmen) into a regular novel. I realize going in that Watchmen is a comic and that attempting to translate it in all its depth and style to any other medium is inevitably impossible. My goal is to do it as much justice as I can. I selected Watchmen because it is so widely read, particularly on this forum, allowing the most possible people to criticize it. It's also considered the best example of the medium, and for good reason, which will give me the greatest content to work with. I hope to do this by page, and hope to do two or three pages every day or so. How often I'll update this here, we'll see. Please, realize I'm not trying to take a dump on something you love, and tell me how I can make it better.
Copyright 1986, 1987 DC Comics
I only did the very first page tonight. I'm pretty tired, but I wanted to start this off ASAP so I don't lose track of things and never get to it. It's pretty writing heavy and low on varied visuals, so it's a pretty tough start.
Copyright 1986, 1987 DC Comics
I only did the very first page tonight. I'm pretty tired, but I wanted to start this off ASAP so I don't lose track of things and never get to it. It's pretty writing heavy and low on varied visuals, so it's a pretty tough start.
The shiny yellow button rested against the gutter and smiled up at the world, a single drop of blood splattered over its big black eye. Blood flowed under around the cheery button into the gutter.
Rorschach’s Journal: October 12th 1985: Dog carcass in alley this morning, tire tread on burst stomach. This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face.
A pair of brown shoes stepped into the pool of blood as it oozed over the sidewalk and down into the sewers like a sticky waterfall.
The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown.
A butcher was spraying the blood off of the sidewalk and yelled at the man who marched through the blood. The man went on, indifferent, clutching tightly to his plywood sign, which declared “THE END IS NIGH”.
The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout "Save us!"... and I'll look down and whisper "No."
The butcher called out to the man, indignant and confused, but the man continued to walk away, leaving a crimson trail of shoeprints behind him.
They had a choice, all of them. They could have followed in the footsteps of good men like my father, or President Truman. Decent men who believed in a day's work for a day's pay.
The man went on his way and the butcher returned to his task. People, trucks, trash, were going about their day. They adjusted to get around the blood-drenched sidewalk.
Instead they followed the droppings of lechers and communists and didn't realize that the trail led over a precipice until it was too late. Don't tell me they didn't have a choice.
A hand reached through the shattered window that looked straight down, hundreds of feet all the way down to the busy street and the red stain.
Now the whole world stands on the brink, staring down into bloody Hell, all those liberals and intellectuals and smooth-talkers... and all of a sudden nobody can think of anything to say.
“Hmm,” the detective said as he grabbed the glass with his other hand, “That’s quite a drop.” He peered down into the busy traffic and people of the city. The pool of blood was just a misshapen dot now.
Rorschach’s Journal: October 12th 1985: Dog carcass in alley this morning, tire tread on burst stomach. This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face.
A pair of brown shoes stepped into the pool of blood as it oozed over the sidewalk and down into the sewers like a sticky waterfall.
The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown.
A butcher was spraying the blood off of the sidewalk and yelled at the man who marched through the blood. The man went on, indifferent, clutching tightly to his plywood sign, which declared “THE END IS NIGH”.
The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout "Save us!"... and I'll look down and whisper "No."
The butcher called out to the man, indignant and confused, but the man continued to walk away, leaving a crimson trail of shoeprints behind him.
They had a choice, all of them. They could have followed in the footsteps of good men like my father, or President Truman. Decent men who believed in a day's work for a day's pay.
The man went on his way and the butcher returned to his task. People, trucks, trash, were going about their day. They adjusted to get around the blood-drenched sidewalk.
Instead they followed the droppings of lechers and communists and didn't realize that the trail led over a precipice until it was too late. Don't tell me they didn't have a choice.
A hand reached through the shattered window that looked straight down, hundreds of feet all the way down to the busy street and the red stain.
Now the whole world stands on the brink, staring down into bloody Hell, all those liberals and intellectuals and smooth-talkers... and all of a sudden nobody can think of anything to say.
“Hmm,” the detective said as he grabbed the glass with his other hand, “That’s quite a drop.” He peered down into the busy traffic and people of the city. The pool of blood was just a misshapen dot now.
