See my ongoing series, featuring everyday superheroes, the Dynamo Brothers. The Ghouls of Little Monsterington tells the story of the Lonely Ghoul, who doesn’t, for some un-ghoulish reason, hate all mankind. One-panels are of course one concept, one punchline. (Now and again, two.)
You will also discover in the Cartoon House, my project of translating a 19th century French novel, Filles de Cabanil, by Paul Féval, which is for my own education, and your entertainment.
The vibrations of a clock, now striking midnight, hung in the air. A candle rested on the table, and not one of the five lamps was lit. This poor little light, trembling, and so oppressed by the vast night, lent a scant few gleams to the black paintings on the wall, while the gilding of the armchairs flickered strangely in the shadows. The eye lost the chains a few feet from the lamps, which seemed suspended in a void, for the vault overhead was invisible.
One perceived two doors open, this of the oratory, where the ornaments of the gothic altar appeared vaguely, and that of the bedchamber, where one discerned a dark form lying on a white bed.
The windows shone like gems, for the light of the moon was stronger than that of the candle. The one overlooking the south caught especially the full rays, and projected onto the flagstones images of saints in pallid colors.
There was an old man asleep on a straw pallet, not far from the door of the alcove, and on an armchair, slim and insubstantial in the massive immensity of her seat, a young woman who watched, her head propped on her hand.
Close by her was the candle, and below the candle, a small morsel of bread. The light, lost everywhere else, in the too vast length of the chamber, fell near the young woman, giving lively illumination to her graceful and delicate beauty.