On the Subject of Being Awesome:

Comic Book Short: Finding Cover

2012-02-05T16:37:00.000-08:00

I've been putting together a few short stories in comic book form to collect into a short self-published anthology to show editors at the Emerald City Comic Con in March. I've been both writing and illustrating the stories and it's been a ton of work, but a lot of fun and a big learning experience. Here's a preview from the comic, with one of the short stories, titled "Finding Cover"...

Comic Book Short: Two Men Walk Into A Bar

2012-02-03T18:04:00.000-08:00

Comic Book Short: The Writer

2012-02-03T01:03:00.000-08:00

The Farmer

2012-01-23T21:27:00.000-08:00

A paper crane sat in the middle of the trail that morning, right in the shadow of the abandoned tower. The farmer stooped and picked it up, puzzled.

The farmer walked past the abandoned tower every time he went to town. Nearly every weekend he had to take that trail to get supplies, and so he would pass the tower on the way there, and again on the way back, and not once had he ever heard a sound from within, nor seen any movement. So where had this come from?

He unfolded the crane, and inside, a message was written:

Dear noble sir, it read. I have watched you from the top of my tower for many years now, and think you very handsome. I believe I may love you. I am trapped here by oni who have cast a curse on me so that I may only be carried out of this tower by the man I love. Please help me.

Thinking it odd, but never one to turn down a woman in distress, the farmer turned to the tower and approached the door. Mounted above it was a blood-red katana and an oni mask of matching color. Shrugging his shoulders, the man slowly opened the door. He slipped inside the dark, musty room, which was nothing more than the floor and the bottom of a flight of stairs. He tiptoed to the stairs, but before he could take the first step, a flash of light burst in front of his face.

Floating in front of him was the bodiless head of an oni. It glowed an eerie green and had large tusks and horns protruding from its grotesque face.

“She will not love you. Turn back,” it growled in a voice that seemed to speak directly into the farmers mind.

The farmer shoved the levitating head out of the way and ascended the steps to the second floor, where he was met by a second oni.

“No matter what you do, she will never love you. Turn back.”

The farmer pushed ahead anyway. All told, there were nineteen floors, each with their own oni, which each warned him similarly.

Finally, panting heavily, the farmer reached the top, where there was a door. He pushed it open and stepped inside. There was a bed inside, and sitting upon it was the most beautiful woman the farmer had ever seen. He gulped nervously and tried to look presentable. He greeted her warmly and told her that he had received her note and that he was going to take her away with him. She smiled a dazzling smile and embraced him tightly, and then kissed him.

“Thank you, my love,” she whispered sweetly in his ear. “I knew you’d come.”

He led her back down the stairs, but the oni did not appear this time. Without any struggle, they left the tower, and walked down the trail back to the farmer’s home.

There they stayed for nineteen months, and they were deeply in love and deeply happy. But on the day before the twentieth month, the woman asked him an odd question.

“When are you going to take me to my castle?”

The farmer was puzzled at the question.

“What castle do you mean?”

“I am a princess after all, surely you didn’t think to rescue me without having a proper castle to take me back to?”

“I confess that I didn’t, my love. But I’ll build you a castle if that would make you happy.”

“Yes, do it now.”

“It will take time, my love.”

“Then you should get all of your fellow samurai to help you,” she said irritably.

Another strange thing to say, the farmer thought.

“I am not a samurai, my love. I am a farmer.”

“Then you must become one. I can’t be with a lowly farmer.”

“I will train to join the samurai, for you, but it will take time.”

“Time is something I do not have,” she hissed.

“Am I not worth waiting for, my love?” the farmer pleaded.

“No, you are not. I do not love you anymore and never will,” she said coldly.

The farmer stared at her in shock. He could feel his soul crumble as she spoke those words.

“I miss my home, please take me back.”

The farmer nodded silently and picked up a lantern. He led her down the trail to the tower and opened the door for her, tears welling up in his eyes. She lifted his chin and looked at him intensely.

“Do not cry,” she said with a smile. “A little part of you will always be with me.”

She kissed him gently and then disappeared into the shadows of her tower. The door shut silently behind her. The man collapsed to his knees, sobbing. He looked up to the top of the tower, hoping to see her face looking down, but he saw nothing. His gaze lowered down the tower until it fell upon the oni mask and the blood-red sword. He pulled them both down from their place above the door and tied the mask on.

He raised the blade…

A New Year's Poem

2011-12-31T01:10:00.001-08:00

This,
And every year after,
I resolve

To write.
To wrong.
To sleep in too long.

To laugh.
To cry.
To ask myself why.

To hurt.
To heal.
To not be afraid to feel.

To create.
To inspire.
To stoke an artistic fire.

To run.
To hide.
To explore far and wide.

To try.
To fail.
To try again to no avail.

To live.
To love.
To not care what's above.

To forgive.
To repent.
To never be content.

To accept.
To understand.
To hold someone's hand.

To stay true to myself.
And to never stop discovering who that is.

Character Design

2011-12-28T00:44:00.000-08:00

The digital art I did that inspired the following story

"Which one is next?" says the voice in the darkness.

The man (that's what he thinks he is at least) in the glass, gel-filled tube listens. And somehow, he understands.

"This one, Lord," says the voice's shining assistant. "Subject #419."

The conveyor belt whirs beneath the man in the tube and jolts him sideways. He stops directly in front of the voice, and suddenly becomes acutely aware of his own mortality.

A mechanical arm drops down in front of the man in the tube. It has an orb at the end which emits a beam of red light. The soulless eye peers through the man, seeing his every atom, yet not seeing him at all.

"And what makes this one so special?" the voice in the darkness asks.

"Nothing, father," answers the assistant. "He's utterly unremarkable."

The soulless eye returns to whence it came, leaving the man in the tube alone once more.

"As they all are. It's what makes them perfect for these experiments. They're utterly disposable, but they are always trying to prove otherwise."

The man in the tube feels hopelessness without ever having felt hope. He feels as if he has failed, yet he knows not the terms of victory.

"Shall we subject him to the experiments then?" asks the assistant.

If only the man in the could speak. But he has not learned how. He has not had the joy of hearing language for the first time.

But if he could, this is what he would say right now. This is how he would answer the assistant's question.

"Yes. And though I may never know again the nature of my own existence, I will defy you. I will defy you by being happy in the face of your mad science. I will be nothing but a data point to you, but if I must be that, then I will be an outlier. I will not conform to you natural laws and give you the outcome of being unremarkable and dead that you hypothesize."

That is what he would say if he could speak. But he can't.

"Dump him in simulator ninety-two," says the voice coldly. "Maybe he'll surprise us."

They Have No Answers

2011-12-21T02:05:00.000-08:00

Jormungand writhed about the feet of Janus as Quetzalcoatl returned to the shores from which Ra departs each day.

The hero of the story stood before them, in awe.

What answers could they provide?

More important yet, what questions could be asked of them?

He pulled out his eye and cast it into the River Styx.

“Why am I alone?” asked the hero. “What did I do that I deserved to be forsaken?”

“You did nothing at all to deserve it,” answered the snake(s) of Coatlique’s face. “And that is the greatest crime of all.”

The hero watched as the woman had to empty her cup and Loki screamed in pain as the venom struck his eyes. The shriek shook the mountain, causing Sisyphus to drop his crucifix.

“So it’s meaningless then?”

“Everything has meaning,” Izanagi told him. “Which makes meaning fairly meaningless.”

Ishmael and Abel ran past the hero, fleeing Cain and Jacob. Hades cursed Zeus for his trickery.

“I don’t understand.”

“Now you’re getting somewhere,” said Coyote. “The first step is admitting you don’t know you have a problem.”

Hercules got drunk and ran Balder through with mistletoe. The world ended.

“Where do I go now? What can I do?”

“Forward,” Anansi told him, “Something.”

The flood then receded, and Brahma helped Noah unload the animals.

“And what of love?” asked the hero of the story.

“Good question,” the universe told him.

Slight change to my last post.

2011-10-02T00:34:00.000-07:00

So, instead of trying to overhaul this blog, I've decided to just start from scratch on a new one. That way I can keep posting here with new stories when I want to and I can post comic articles on the other without messing up the focus of either. My new blog is called Serious Issues, and will feature news from the comics and graphic novel industry, reviews, articles on the medium, interviews and more. I have a few posts up there already, focusing on digital comics, the comic art site Project Rooftop, and quick thoughts on news from the passed couple of days. I've also moved a couple of reviews and essays on comics over to that blog from their previous location here. I have a few guest writers and an interview or two lined up already, so things are well underway. I hope it interests you enough to follow the other blog as well.
--Matt

The Return

2011-09-30T16:13:00.000-07:00

I know it's been a while, but I'm back for now. Today is my second day off in 25 days, and I have lots of time off this week, so what better time to return to blogging? However, I do think I'm going to be shifting the focus of the blog for a while. I'm going to be discussing comics and reviewing them. I've been writing mostly comics lately, and that is harder to share regularly than the short prose that I was doing. So, for now at least, I'll be shifting the blog into a more comic book discussion focus. I'm going to try to be updating every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. I'll also be re-formatting the blog a bit as well. I hope you all stick around enjoy this new direction.
--Matt

Fables for Japan

2011-09-10T15:22:00.000-07:00

Been a while since you all have heard from me, but I thought the few blog followers I have would be interested in this project. I started something called "Fairy Tales for Japan" in March of this year in an attempt to raise money for disaster relief in Japan after the earthquakes. Several artists joined with me to create an illustrated book that would be sold for charity. For various reasons, it fell through. Fortunately, Jason Minor stepped in and took charge of the project. It is now called Fables for Japan and is much bigger and better than I could have ever hoped. It was released today as a digital download. It is $4.95 for 124 pages of art, story, poetry and comics! I'm very excited that the project became what it did, and I'd love for you all to buy a copy (it will work on any device, including computers, that can read PDFs) and spread the word.
Fables for Japan Website
Purchase Fables for Japan
Follow Fables for Japan on Twitter and Facebook

Capes 101: A Case for Superheroes in the Classroom

2011-08-17T22:13:00.000-07:00

In Talking With Gods, a documentary about acclaimed comic writer Grant Morrison, Morrison presents his unique perspective on Superman: “…then for me the big thing was discovering superhero comics, because suddenly, there were people who could stop the bomb, Superman could take an atom bomb hit to the chest and just shake it off…[and then I realized] that the bomb, before it was a bomb, was an idea, and suddenly that understanding: Superman was a better idea, so why not make [Superman] real instead of [the bomb]?”

Ever since Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster created Superman in 1938, superheroes have become an integral part of American culture. As American as jazz or rock and roll, the superhero comic book is an art form that has persisted and evolved for over seventy years, changing to reflect the times that it exists in. However, their importance has always been contested by those who believe that superheroes are nothing more than children’s characters. Even though children are taught the myths of the Greeks, Romans and Norse, the myths that are being written for and by our culture are largely being ignored. Despite some critics’ demonization of the medium and claims of their immorality and immaturity, comic books actually teach history and cultural values in a way that uses classical mythological archetypes and filters them through a window that is uniquely American, and therefore should have a place in the curriculums of American classrooms. Superheroes are American myths that reflect many of the traits that are prevalent in the classical myths, making old tropes new and relevant again for a modern era, all while providing a window into American culture unlike any other genre, by placing our heroes into events reflective of those in the real world.

Like most great stories, the best place to start in the tale of the superhero is at the beginning. In this case, the beginning is Action Comics #1. Released on April 18^th, 1938, Action Comics was an anthology of eleven different stories, published by National Comics, which would later become comic book titan DC Comics. Of the eleven stories in the issue, only the first one would be remembered because it was none other than the first appearance of Superman. The first superhero, Superman was created by writer Jerry Siegel and artist Joe Shuster in a thirteen page story that they sold to National for only$130—and it almost got rejected. However, despite everyone’s expectations, Superman would go on to become one of the most globally recognizable characters of all time.

America is commonly referred to as a “melting pot” of cultures due to the countless immigrants that it accepts from all over the world, and at no time in the country’s history was this truer than in the late 1930s and early 1940s. Hitler had risen to power in Germany and had begun his march of death across Europe, and hundreds of thousands of refugees fled their homes in search of new beginnings in the New World. America was becoming a country of immigrants scared the world’s first global supervillain.

It’s only appropriate then that the world’s first superhero should be an immigrant himself. Sent from the dying planet Krypton, Superman was the sole survivor of his race. As a baby, he was placed in a rocket and sent away from a world about to be ravaged by destruction and death. And where should he land but in the perfect American farm town of Smallville. Superman was a foreigner the likes of which had never been seen before, but America embraced him and made him one of their own. In fact, he became the best American of all. As time went on, Superman eventually adopted the catchphrase of “truth, justice, and the American Way.”

Siegel and Shuster had managed to tap into hopes and dreams of America’s immigrants perfectly. Their creation was the embodiment of the American dream, and with every boldly and patriotically colored page sent the message to readers that they too can become their own Superman if only they hold true to the American Way.

The war in Europe quickly escalated into a nightmare that not even the most enthusiastic skeptic could have imagined. And as the American troops finally were sent overseas, in the pages of Action Comics, Superman joined them. In his adventures, Superman encouraged his readers to help out by buying war bonds and recycling materials for the war effort, all while his stories depicted him battling the Nazis. However, his patriotism was about to be one-upped.

In December of 1940, a year prior to the attack on Pearl Harbor, Timely Comics—eventually renamed Marvel Comics—published Captain America Comics #1 by writer Joe Simon and artist Jack Kirby. The issue had what would become one of the more striking and iconic images to ever appear in a comic book: a masked man adorned in the American flag landing a solid right hook on the jaw of none other than Hitler himself. Captain America struck a chord with American audiences instantly. In an ironic twist on Hitler’s idea of the master race, Captain America’s secret identity, Steve Rogers, was a blond haired and blue-eyed teenager. Simon and Kirby, both Jews themselves, had created a hero that proved to be so popular that it sold nearly a million issues every month. Captain America tapped into the intense patriotism and anti-Nazi attitudes of the time, as well as people’s desire to help out, even if they couldn’t be overseas. Like Superman and many other popular heroes of the time, Captain America’s comics encouraged readers to buy war bonds and support the effort, but it also took it a step further. The character of Steve Rogers was also a volunteer. A skinny and sickly boy, Rogers was unable to fight in the arm forces, despite his desire to help. However, after volunteering for a military experiment, Rogers becomes the superhuman Captain America, and gets to fight on the front lines. The story resonated with many readers at the time, and encouraged them to keep volunteering, and someday they’ll get their chance.

Captain America has stayed a patriot throughout his publication history, but how he has expressed that has often changed to reflect the attitudes of the American people at the time. In summer 1972’s Captain America #153 Steve Rogers abandons the Captain America costume altogether and takes up the identity of “Nomad.” A nomad is someone who is wandering and has no fixed home, and so the name was a good fit for the character. The story occurred after Steve Rogers learned that a high-ranking government official was the leader of a secret organization of super-terrorists. The story occurs just after the Watergate scandal came to light. Captain America’s reaction mirrored that of many Americans at the time who were unsure of whether they could trust their government or their country.

Yet another example of Captain America reflecting public opinion is found in the 2006 series Civil War. In the story, a disaster occurs which prompts the government to call for the registration of all superhumans. Captain America staunchly opposes the act, calling it an invasion of privacy, and goes to battle against the government-sanctioned Iron Man for his opinions. He is eventually captured and sent to trial, but is assassinated on the steps leading up to the courtroom. The series has several direct parallels to the September 11^th, 2001 attacks and their aftermath with the enactment of the Patriot Act. Captain America echoed the sentiments of many Americans who called the unconstitutional, while more pro-war voices were heard through the character of Iron Man—a billionaire weapons designer by profession. Captain America is a character who has numerous examples of his character reflecting the political climate of time he is in.

After World War II ended, superheroes fell from the limelight. The greatest villain the world had ever seen had been defeated, and people just weren’t responding in the same way to the heroes. It was the end of what comics historians call the Golden Age of comics. After witnessing the horrors of war, the world was jaded and cynical, and so crime and horror comics became the predominate genres of the medium. Superman, Batman, Captain America, and other highly popular characters continued, but not with the same success that they once had. Hundreds of lesser-known heroes vanished into obscurity as well. The stage was set for a new villain to come on to the scene.

In the early days of the Cold War between the United States and the Soviet Union, paranoia ran amuck and censorship followed closely behind. The scare of communists living within the United States—specifically in the media and entertainment industries—left the door wide open for self-appointed moral crusaders to heavily restrict artistic expression. The cinema-rating Hays Code was replaced in the late 1940s by the much more rigid MPAA and book burnings were not uncommon, a fear that was famously portrayed in Ray Bradbury’s 1953 novel Fahrenheit 451. And unfortunately, the already declining comic book industry was not to escape.

The primary opponent of comic books was psychiatrist Fredric Wertham. With his best-selling book Seduction of the Innocent, Wertham managed to convince hundreds of thousands of Americans parents that comic books were a primary cause of juvenile delinquency. He defines the negative comics as “crime comics,” which he writes are any “comic books that depict crime, whether the setting is urban, Western, science-fiction, jungle, adventure or the realm of supermen, “horror” or supernatural beings. Wertham asserts that because children can’t fully comprehend what they read, any depiction of crime in any context—even if portrayed as villainous—will lead them toward a life of crime themselves. He also goes on to blame comics for negative and deviant sexual development, illiteracy and other undesirable traits. Despite research that modern science would disregard, Wertham’s claims were taken as truth by countless Americans. There were mass-burnings of comics of all kinds, sales for the industry plummeted, the United States Congress made an inquiry into the comics industry, and publisher EC Comics was forced to cease publishing all of their comics altogether, switching instead to magazines. The comic book industry was forced to implement a self-censorship group called the Comics Code Authority that wouldn’t be abolished until over fifty years later.

Comic books were in a steady decline until the beginning of what has been christened the Silver Age of comics, which is generally accepted as starting in 1956 when writers Robert Kanigher and John Broome, along with artist Carmine Infantino created the modern version of the Flash. A wave of new DC Comics heroes such as Green Lantern and Hawkman were reimagined into the more iconic versions known today. But the superhero genre was about to get turned on its ear by the newly renamed Marvel Comics.

Writer Stan Lee and Captain America artist Jack Kirby, inspired by the space race of the time, sent four individuals into outer space in 1961. They returned to Earth as the Fantastic Four and they were to be the first of many heroes created by Lee, Kirby and a host of other artists for Marvel. In the next few years they would create the Incredible Hulk, Iron Man, Spider-Man, Daredevil, the X-Men and many other pop-culture icons.

There were three main themes of 1960s American culture that were prevalent in their superheroes: radiation, outer space and the civil rights movement. The space race was present in super-heroes that would venture into space, under the sea, or other dimensions, such as the explorer teams Fantastic Four and the Challengers of the Unknown, the test pilot turned space cop Green Lantern and last surviving Martian escaping to Earth, the Martian Manhunter. Space was a frontier being explored with superpowers as much as it was with rockets. The atomic bombs dropped on Japan at the end of WWII and the subsequent nuclear arms race between the USA and USSR meant that radiation was something that was frequently on the minds of many Americans, despite little being known about it. Comic writers alleviated these fears by using radiation as something mysterious and wonderful, as they used a radioactive spider bite, a gamma bomb, and nuclear waste to give Spider-Man his wall crawling powers, to unleash the power of the Hulk, and to give Daredevil his heightened senses. The third topic that weighed heavily on the minds of comic writers of the 1960s was the civil rights movement. African Americans across the country were rallying against segregation and racism in American society. Despite the generally peaceful nature of the protests, there was a fear of African Americans and they were often seen as a threat. These themes were explored heavily in the pages of The X-Men where young mutants (individuals born with superpowers) were hated and feared for no reason. They were forced to keep their powers a secret or they risked getting slaughtered by government Sentinels—giant robots tasked with exterminating mutants. Paranoia and the fear of those that are different was a prevalent theme in the series and has continued to this day, as the X-Men have recently moved to San Francisco and their metaphors deal more with the gay rights movement.

As comics and the United States moved into the 1970s, the cynicism of the Vietnam War grew to its peak. Moral lines dealing with war and killing were blurred as many citizens protested against the war altogether. America was unsure if it was a good guy anymore. The comic book superheroes reflected this mindset by coming up with a new breed of gritty heroes that would eventually be known as “anti-heroes.” They were killers who worked in the shadows, and made you frequently question whether they were worse than the criminals they killed. The two most popular characters of this type—Wolverine and The Punisher—both debuted in 1974, less than a year before the fall of Saigon, marking the end of the Vietnam War. They both were the protagonists of their own stories, but they frequently and often brutally murdered criminals and villains, a practice that was very rare for superheroes outside of killing Nazis thirty years prior. They were both very cynical characters unlike the sunny Supermans and joking Spider-Mans of decades prior. The Punisher’s origin story even had him as a veteran of the Vietnam War. Both employ an anti-government mindset built into their origins. Wolverine was tortured and experimented on by the government, turning him into the killer that he is, while the failure of government law enforcement led to Frank Castle’s family getting murdered by the mob, leading him to take law into his own hands as the Punisher. The sentiment of the government failing and creating mentally wounded and violent people is a reflection of the very high rate of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder among returning soldiers. Many citizens viewed this as the government’s fault because of their continuation of the war.

Superheroes provide a uniquely American filter for teaching the history of the twentieth century. They evolve along with the culture that they are portraying and reflect the prevalent ideas of their times. However, history is not the only subject that superheroes provide a useful perspective for. Literature and mythology are also a topic easily analyzed.

Renowned psychologist Carl Jung first introduced the concept of the archetype in the early twentieth century by suggesting that certain abstract ideas and images are present in all humans in a “collective unconscious” only accessible through dreams and imagination, which are then expressed as art. This is how Jung accounted for similar stories—such as stories of massive floods—popping up in several cultures that are unconnected. Joseph Campbell—a respected authority on comparative mythology—later took the idea of archetypes further in his 1949 book The Hero with a Thousand Faces where he asserts that stories and mythologies that have lasted thousands of years longer than cultures that created them all share similar structures and tropes. With these widely-discussed theories in mind, a discussion of superheroes really becomes a discussion of American myths.

The commonalities between ancient myths and superhero comics are numerous, but one of the most important is that both types of story exist within a common universe, where characters from one story can crossover and appear in another. This was most apparent in the Greek myths with the story of the Argonauts which tells of a group that includes Heracles, Theseus, Orpheus, Jason and dozens of other heroes that had already had their own stories told. The Argonauts could even be thought of as a “super team” much like the Avengers or Justice League of modern day, where the greatest heroes band together to conquer enemies they couldn’t individually.

One of the premier super-groups in comics is the Justice League of America. A team of all-star DC superheroes, membership in the JLA is the absolute pinnacle of superheroics. The roster rotates, but there is a specific line up that the comics have always come back to—and that remains the most beloved—which is informally known as the “Big 7.” The seven include Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, the Flash, Green Lantern, Aquaman and the Martian Manhunter. Much like the JLA, the gods among those of Olympus were often in flux, but there was an exalted group of Twelve Olympians that represented the best of godhood. They were Zeus, Poseidon, Hades, Hera, Dionysus, Apollo, Artemis, Hermes, Athena, Ares, Aphrodite, and Hephaestus. The groups themselves have parallels, but there are many analogous traits amongst the individuals as well.

Wonder Woman draws many parallels to Athena, a warrior goddess and goddess of wisdom. Both characters had unnatural births, with Wonder Woman being carved from stone and Athena emerging from the head (or testicle depending on the source) of a titan. Wonder Woman wields the “Lasso of Truth” which connects to Athena’s theme of wisdom, and on Wonder Woman’s home island of Themyscira they even worship Athena. The Flash and the messenger god Hermes make many connections in both appearance and ability. They both are capable of moving at incredible speeds, and they both sport winged shoes, and the helmet of the Golden Age Flash is a direct copy of Hermes’ winged helmet. Finally, Aquaman uses many of the same tropes as Poseidon. Both are portrayed as rulers of the seas, and are traditionally shown wielding a trident.

An archetypal trait in heroes throughout mythology is the presence of what is commonly referred to as an “Achilles Heel.” Named for the character Achilles in The Illiad, the term refers to a singular and debilitating weakness that can be either physical or a character flaw. The most famous Achilles Heel among superheroes is Superman’s weakness to the substance known as kryptonite. Superman is nigh invincible unless he is in the vicinity of or attacked with an object made of kryptonite. This weakness to a particular substance is a common archetype. One of the more well-known stories is from the Norse myths, in which the god Baldur is a nearly unstoppable warrior until he is shot with an arrow made of mistletoe. Often, the weakness must be overcome in order to become the hero. These are often character traits that cause some personal tragedy. Before Heracles (the Greek form of Hercules) went off on any adventures, he had a wife named Megara and several children. One day he was driven into an uncontrollable rage, and blinded by anger and manipulated by Hera, murdered his whole family. His guilt over his action drove him to do penance via the Twelve Labors, after which he became the hero he was destined to be. The story has many parallels to the origin of Spider-Man, whose selfish use of his abilities led to his beloved Uncle Ben being murdered. Feeling responsible, he began using his powers for good rather than personal gain.

A primary heroic archetype that Campbell outlines is that heroes of the great stories will either die or descend into darkness in some way, only to return better than they entered. In Homer’s Odyssey the main character, Odysseus is lost at sea and can’t find his way home until he gives in and sacrifices to the dead to summon spirits of a prophet, fallen comrades and his mother. He effectively descends into the spirit world—or Hell—before returning with the answers he needs and returns home. In the 1990s, DC Comics created a new villain called Doomsday who succeeds in killing Superman. However, Superman is revived by his Kryptonian technology about a year later and returns to save the world from Doomsday. In both cases, the hero must “die” before they can be victorious in their quest. These stories recur throughout nearly every society’s myths with examples including Jesus Christ, Gilgamesh, Ra and many others. The pattern is just as prevalent with superheroes, with such characters as Captain America, Batman and Green Lantern all having a life-death-rebirth story.

The parallels don’t need to be quite so old, either. When creating Batman, Bob Kane admitted to having been influenced by the (at the time) new pulp character Zorro—where Batman gets his habit of swinging from ropes and fighting crime—and by the visuals of Dracula in the 1931 film of the same name starring Bela Lugosi—apparent in the “bat” motif and the dramatic shadowy cape. The character is also known to his readers as “the world’s greatest detective,” a characteristic inspired in no small part by Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. Stan Lee has been open about his influences while writing the character of the Incredible Hulk, citing The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson as an inspiration for Bruce Banner’s transformations into a rampaging monster. Both stories featured a brilliant scientist accidentally causing a dark and monstrous reflection of himself to physically manifest and wreak havoc. In early issues the two were even more similar, as the Hulk only appeared at nighttime—though this quickly and famously changed to the monster appearing only when Banner got angry. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is also a thematic inspiration for the Hulk, as both monsters have their origins in unrestrained science, not to mention the similar appearance of both characters and the combination of fear and violent hostility that the general public immediately has for both creatures. Some of these literary classics were less than a hundred years old when the superhero began to come on to the scene, and so their prominent influence on them is a warped American reflection of the mostly European popular culture characters that the superheroes were succeeding.

When teaching students—no matter the subject—it is important to make the material relevant and relatable to them. So, when teaching to American students, it would make sense to use material that is created, inspired and influenced by the culture they live in. No medium is more distinctly American than superhero comic books. As has been discussed, they provide unparalleled insight to what was important to the people of the time. Whether it’s the immigration boom of the late ‘30s in Superman, the patriotism of WWII in Captain America, the space race in the Fantastic Four, or the cynicism of the Vietnam War in the Punisher, superhero comics can teach history in an exciting and engaging way that will cause students to look at history in a different way. But history isn’t the only place that superheroes can be applied. In literature, mythology and sometimes philosophy classes, students are taught the stories of the pantheons of the Egyptians, Greeks, Romans and Vikings. If these gods and heroes of ancient and long-passed civilizations are taught to students, then so too should superheroes, the modern manifestation of the same stories. When students are interacting with material that is more relatable to them—as superheroes are—they are more likely to enjoy and put effort into understanding it. These modern myths don’t need to replace the ancient ones, just supplement them. The story of Heracles could be taught alongside that of Spider-Man or The Odyssey could be supplemented by The Death of Superman. For literature courses with more modern focus, characters such as the Incredible Hulk can even be analyzed as interpretations of even more recent works of literature such as The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde or Frankenstein.

There are countless ways in which comic book superheroes can be integrated into American classrooms. For many subjects, they will provide perspective for students that is contemporary, relatable, fresh and engaging in a way that centuries-old material simply can’t do.

Superheroes need to be in American classrooms. Not for reasons of truth or justice…but because it’s the American Way.

This was originally written for my WR 123 class.

The American Nightmare: Examining America's Monsters in "American Vampire"

2011-07-20T10:45:00.000-07:00

"Every age embraces the vampire it needs.” –Nina Auerbach

More than most works in the vampire genre, writer Scott Snyder and artist Rafael Albuqueque’s comic book series American Vampire embraces the concept of vampires changing to match the needs of the society they are in. Explaining the changes in vampires as new species emerging, Snyder explores what America needs in from its vampires across several decades and areas. In the 1880s in the wild of Colorado, in 1925 in the emerging media capital of Hollywood, in 1936 crime-ridden Las Vegas, and in the Pacific front of Taipan in 1943, each presents a new strain of vampire and the new ways that they prey on America.

The first five issues of the series feature the origins of Skinner Sweet, the first American vampire. A notorious outlaw of the wild west, Sweet was just as much a vampire to society before even being bit. He is a noted murderer, thief, rapist, and glutton. An interesting thing to note is that of all his crimes, his gluttony—manifesting as a “sweet tooth”—is the thing that is his nickname. This focus on gluttony betrays his biggest crime: that he always hungers for more. During his arc, he comes into conflict with a cartel of European bankers that are vampires. During this time, the west was being settled, and America was trying to distance itself more and more from the European powers that once claimed dominion over the continent. America was busy forging its own identity and getting out from the older nations’ shadows. So, this is the time when the new American vampire emerges and separates itself as a newer, stronger breed than the Europeans he comes into conflict with. Skinner is the first American vampire because he is from a time when America needed its own monsters. Holding onto Europe wasn’t good enough anymore. Pear asks Sweet in the third issue, “I’m a vampire? Like them?” and he replies, “Oh, no, Dolly. You’re a vampire like me. And believe me, there’s a big difference.”

The next time to be explored is 1925 in Hollywood, California. This era was the birth of the movie star. Hollywood was just starting to become the center of the motion picture industry, and gaining the grandeur and mystique that came with it. In a way, Hollywood is becoming the capital of “The American Dream,” a place where anyone can go and make it big. However, the Dream isn’t so clean-cut all the time. As the vampires in this arc show, there’s an ugly side to the American Dream. The vampires are portrayed as the producers and directors and big shots at the movie studios. They’re the ones in charge of saying who does or doesn’t get to experience the Dream. They prey on the naiveté of the Americans who buy into the Dream, and this is exactly how they lure Pearl in to devour her. They seduce her with a chance to meet someone who can help her “make it,” but she ends up having Hollywood drain the life from her instead. As the vampires say in issue five, “A young actress, plucked from obscurity and given her big chance? It plays directly into the great national fantasy…the fantasy that everyone counts equally…It’s a country of Grand Delusions.” However, this isn’t the only vampire that Pearl finds in Hollywood. The very nature of the American Dream and of Hollywood makes it extremely competitive and cutthroat, an atmosphere that can create monsters out of formerly good people. Pearl’s best friend Hattie purposefully transforms herself into a vampire because she wants to have an edge over Pearl and an “in” with the vampires in charge. She knows the dark and nasty nature of what she’s turning herself into, but she betrays Pearl anyway, and all for her own Grand Delusion. The American Dream is the real vampire in this story.

Starting in issue six, the narrative moves to 1936, Las Vegas, Nevada. It’s the height of the Great Depression for the rest of the country, but Vegas’ economy is booming thanks to the construction of the Hoover Dam, the biggest construction project in American history. A mantra repeated forebodingly by many of the citizens is “Bless the Dam”; a sentence with clear double meaning. We are introduced to a character named Cashel McCogan, who is the chief of the Vegas police force, and is tasked with trying to control the crime running rampant in the town. For the first time, prostitution and gambling has been legalized, but with it comes murders and other violent crime. The owners of the casinos are vampires, and so is the local whorehouse, owned by one Skinner Sweet. The vampires have taken advantage of the thousands of construction workers living in the area now by creating all of the entertainment they could want. However, in true vampiric fashion, they are draining Vegas of its morals and disease and crime are ravaging the city. The vampires are using their influence to bring out the worst in the people of Las Vegas, including Cashel’s father, a man belonging to an ancient breed of vampires. He hasn’t killed a man in over 700 years, but when the newer vampires come to town and exploit the city, they draw out the ugliness in all of the people there, and Cashel’s father reverts to his old ways, and is eventually killed for it. The true vampire here is the desire for money, sucking the moral blood from the city.

Finally, in issue thirteen, we are taken to Taipan during the Second World War, where a squad of vampire hunters has been sent on a special mission to find a rumored nest of Japanese vampires. When they find the vampires, they are faceless and more like animals than any other breeds seen so far in the series. They attack in waves of hundreds and retain none of their personalities. It is soon discovered that the Japanese have been breeding them purposefully, transforming their own villages into weapons. This is a metaphor for a problem that the American military faced in WWII when facing Japan. The Japanese were willing to sacrifice themselves meaninglessly and freely to hurt the enemy, and the government was content treating their soldiers less like humans and more like weapons, a practice shown in the use of kamikaze pilots and banzai charges. These purposeful suicides and tossing away of life was a hard thing for the average American soldier had a hard time wrapping his head around. The breeding of faceless vampires to use as weapons is just a fictional extension of the war ideology that Japan was using at the time. The monsters, ironically, were the ones encouraging the practice, not the vampires or kamikazes themselves.

Whether it’s forging a new American identity by creating our own monsters in the wild west, the vampiric draining nature of the American Dream, the unchecked desire for wealth sucking our morals dry, or the disregard for life in war, Snyder and Albuquerque’s American Vampire uses Nina Auerbach’s theory and weaves it beautifully into the ongoing narrative of the series. By making us take a good long look at our monsters, American Vampire forces us to take a look at ourselves as well.

I originally wrote this paper for my ENG 256 class.

Another Hiatus...

2011-06-28T19:05:00.000-07:00

...but for good reason. I've been busy writing, you can be sure! But just not blog stories. I've been working on a new comic series that I'll tell you blog buddies about once we get farther along, but just to prove that I actually am writing, here's some concept art from the series from my collaborator, Niko.

As you can see, he's extremely talented, and I'm excited beyond belief to work with him. I'll update you on the series when we get further into it, but I figured I'd share what I've been up to.

A Reader's Guide to Pantheon

2011-05-28T23:21:00.000-07:00

EDIT: Pantheon now has its own page! Click the tab at the top of the page.

As promised! Here's a guide as to how all of the stories in the Pantheon saga fit together! I'm not going to write them in any sort of real order, as it makes it harder to keep some of the reveals under wraps. I originally thought of this story as a comic book series, which is a medium that lends itself to this style of storytelling a bit better than prose, which tends to be more linear.

The story is broken into 5 "books" which are broken down into smaller chapters. Though the reading order will roughly be the order of how I write it, this list is chronological. There are significant time jumps between each book, which is what separates them. The chapters marked with "???" are chapters that haven't been written yet, and are actually several chapters. It's just a simple way of showing a gap in the story. Also, the titles here don't match up with the titles on the actual posts, but these will be the official ones, due to the pattern.

Book 1: The First Council
Chapter 1: Ra
Chapter 2: The Fates
Chapter 3: ???

Book 2: The Storm
Chapter 4: Mars
Chapter 5: Thor
Chapter 6: Jupiter
Chapter 7: Zeus

Book 3: The Gathering
Chapter 8 Gucup-Cakix
Chapter 9: Hades
Chapter 10: ???

Book 4: The Hero
Chapter 11: Janus
Chapter 12: John
Chapter 13: ???

Book 5: The Uprising
Chapter 14: ???

Pantheon: Born in Fire

2011-05-26T00:06:00.000-07:00

Johnathan stumbled from the chair he'd fallen asleep in toward his coat and helmet. He was in a daze, still unsure of whether he was waking up or whether he was beginning to dream. He suited up in a matter of seconds, and slid down the pole to the truck just as the sirens came to life and screamed at him, ordering him to wake. He climbed in and sat down as he rubbed his eyes.

"What do we have, Brian?" Johnathan asked his friend. Brian Gray was Johnathan's best friend. They'd known each other since high school, which they'd graduated from a decade ago, and had worked for the fire department ever since. Brian was a bald African American, with a welcoming face and mischievous smile.

"Big fire in the house across the street from you. Started on the second story."

"Oh god. Natasha and Isaac."

"Natasha? Isn't that the girl you were telling me about?"

"Did everyone get out of the house?" Johnathan asked with rising panic.

"Calm down, John. We don't know. We won't until we get there. Just chill out and get ready to do your job."

"Isaac's room is on the second floor."

Natasha was a young single mother who lived across the street from John. John spent a lot of time helping her around the house and spending time with her seven year-old son, Isaac. They went for regular walks together, and Isaac always listened, mesmerized, to John's stories about firefighting.

The firetruck sped through the streets of Phoenix, weaving between traffic. After a few more excruciating minutes, the tires screeched to a halt, and Johnathan and his team leaped out of the truck. Another fire engine had made it ahead of them, and was already blasting water at the billowing orange and red inferno that was the roof of Natasha's house. As Johnathan's boots hit the asphalt of the street, a firefighter burst through the door, covering a coughing and crying Natasha. John rushed to her and caught her as she stumbled forward.

"Tasha, where's Isaac?" Johna asked urgently. She coughed up smoke violently and barely gasped out her words.

"His room. Couldn't get to him."

John left her with the fireman who had rescued her, pulled down his mask and rushed inside. As he ran through the doorway, he heard Brian yelling at him to turn back, but he kept going. The house was lit up from every corner with haunting orange light, and smoke swirled like the greedy tendrils of some formless demon. John sprinted up the precariously weak stairs. A beam fell behind him as he got to the top, rendering the stairs useless.

A wall of fire stood in the hallway between him and where Isaac's room was. John took a deep breath and prepared to run through it, when the flames parted in front of him. Thinking it strange, but not wanting to waste time, he hurried to Isaac's door.

He yelled Isaac's name, but could hear nothing over the violent cracking of flame and splintering of wood. He slammed into the door to Isaac's bedroom with his shoulder, and it collapsed into the room. John saw Isaac huddled in the corner crying.

Without saying a word, Johnathan grabbed Isaac and took him in his arms and rushed to the window. He kicked it open and began to climb out. As he was about to step out, the room behind him exploded, knocking him and Isaac out through the window. Johnathan held Isaac tight as they fell the two stories. Johnathan landed hard on his back, and felt several bones shatter.

Then it all went dark.

Pantheon: Beginnings

2011-05-23T21:32:00.000-07:00

Note About This Story: This is part of the whole story I've been developing over the abandoned A-Z Challenge. It's title is tentatively "Pantheon." As is hopefully obvious by now, the story isn't being told chronologically at all. I'll shall compile a post explaining my method and the order and whatnot whenever it strikes me to do so (probably soon). I'm going to try to resume regular updating as of this post, sorry for the long break.

Johnathan Pax climbed the stairs in no direction and every. Like he did most nights, he was visiting his friend Mr. Escher at his immense house. That night, unbeknown to Johnathan, would be the last time he would visit the house. The last time for a very long time, at least.

The stairs climbed ever somewards and Johnathan walked that way and this. He searched for Mr. Escher, but just like every other night, he knew not where to look, nor how to get anywhere. He walked along the wall and up the floor and down the ceiling, all-side up and no-side down, searching for clues to the whereabouts of his elusive friend.

But to no avail.

Johnathan sighed in defeat and walked down a flight of stairs which he climbed up to a door. It was taller than any door he'd ever seen. It stretched all the way up into the sky, if there had been one tonight. It was made of smooth mahogany and carved with intricate designs of monsters and gods and heroes and villains. the bottom of the door depicted the Underworlds, and the carvings weaved and flowed up the door, showing a fantastic version of Earth right at Johnathan's eye-level. If he could see the top, Johnathan knew he'd see the Overworlds. Johnathan lazily examined the pictures of Earth, and gasped. There, carved into the door, was Johnathan himself. He was standing atop a mountain, battling a creature made of clouds and lightning. He was puzzled, but not entirely sure he should be. He knocked the enormous gold knocker, and the door swung open.

There was a short corridor with another door, albeit a normal sized one, on the other side. Standing right in front of the door was a bearded man wearing a white robe. He stared directly at Johnathan in a way that was somehow both welcoming and imposing. Johnathan walked up to him.

"Hello Johnathan Pax."

Johnathan found himself tongue tied.

"In times such as these, it is often better not to speak," the man said reassuringly. "I am here to tell you to embrace what is to come. Embrace your beginning. Become who you are."

The man turned away from Johnathan to open the door, and that's when Johnathan saw how strange the man really was. On the back of his head was another face, identical to the one on the front, beard and all. The rear-face smiled and winked at Johnathan as the man turned around, holding the door open.

Johnathan took one step through the doorway and

"Wake up, man!" Brian smacked Jonathan, who shook the dreams from his head. The alarm was blaring and the other firefighters were already racing down the pole to the trucks. "We got a call. Fire's right across from your house!"

Apology For Tardiness!

2011-04-19T22:17:00.000-07:00

While I fully intend to continue with the A-Z theme, I doubt I'll be finishing it within the allotted April time. Life recently got a lot more busy recently with school, and I recently started coaching for a middle school track team, and that's been using up what used to be my writing time. I'll get around to the blog when I have free time, but I apologize for the delay for those of you looking forward to the rest of the story. I hope you think the wait will be worth it!

H is for Hades

2011-04-11T12:45:00.000-07:00

So close to being caught up! One more tonight? We'll see. For now, we follow Seven Macaw on his first assignment for his new master...

The screams of the damned echoed off of the cavern walls. The ghostly form coiled in the terrifying throne made of human skulls was motionless, save for the tatters of his night-black cloak waving in the gentle breeze. He had the shape of a man, but it was as if he was made of shadow. The only part of skin that was visible was his hands, and they were pale nearly to the point of being translucent. His cloak was torn and ripped in a tangled mess of shadowy cloth. His breathing was slow, gravelly and pained.

As soon as the little demon entered his domain, Hades felt his presence. The frail black bird with the glowing eyes and teeth that called itself Seven Macaw approached the Greek lord of the dead.

"Greetings, fearful Lord Hades, master over all of... Hades..." Seven Macaw cackled in mock respect.

"What do you want, minor demon? What is your business here?" Hades voice was like the last gasp of air escaping a dying body.

"My master has sent me to seek your alliance. My master is--"

"I know exactly who he is. I smelled his stench on you before you were in sight. I have no interest in helping him."

"But--"

"Argue with me and you will not leave this place, Seven Macaw. I have powers of giving you pain that those little Hero Twins never could dream of. Now leave before I lose my patience."

Seven Macaw turned around hurriedly and flapped furiously out of the cavern and out of Hades. Hades walked over to a bubbling cauldron that was hidden away in the corner of his chamber.

"Lords of the Dark Realms," Hades called out. "I send you this message: the gears have begun to spin. We must convene and decide our position in the coming war."

G is for Gucup-Cakix

2011-04-09T22:25:00.000-07:00

Another tale of myth, this one set farther into the future of our little tale. This story stars a deity of the ancient Maya. A character from their holy book, the Popul Vuh...

Poor Gucup-Cakix. The one they call Seven Macaw lays there, a fallen star, a bird that has been knocked out of his tree. The Popul Vuh tells us of the Hero Twins, and how they found Seven Macaw in his tree, pretending to be the sun. Poor Seven Macaw. Poor false sun. He is a demon of folly. He should not pretend to be the sun. The Hero Twins shot him out of his tree with their blowguns, and he fell to the ground. But he took one of the Hero Twins' arms with him with his sharp beak. The Hero Twins have stolen his eyes and his teeth, and he can no longer pretend to be the sun. Poor Seven Macaw.

But what is this? Poor Seven Macaw lays in the dirt and a stranger approaches. The stranger is cloaked in shadow, but no matter, for poor Seven Macaw is blind without his eyes. But Seven Macaw can hear.

"Help me," says Seven Macaw. "I am blind and weak, and have been knocked from my tree. Help a poor stranger! Help poor Seven Macaw!"

"I know what it is like to be knocked unfairly from your perch, wise Gucup-Cakix," said the stranger. "I will help you."

"You are very kind, stranger. You are very kind to blind, weak, shamed Seven Macaw."

The stranger set poor Seven Macaw back upon his branch in the tree.

"I do what little I can for a kindred spirit. Tell me, Seven Macaw. How would you like to be placed on a perch higher than your own? How would you like to be placed on a perch that gave you the power to take revenge on those who wronged you?"

"Oh stranger, you are most generous. I would like that very much. Very much indeed."

The stranger took Gucup-Cakix and set him upon his shoulder.

"Then come with me, little wronged demon. We have much to discuss."

F is for the Fates

2011-04-09T16:32:00.000-07:00

I'm almost caught up! We'll see if I can pull this off with another post tonight and I can be back on schedule after tomorrow. This story is a direct follow-up to the last one, just starting the next scene from a slightly different perspective...

His body was young and chiseled, but his withered face and platinum white beard betrayed his age. The whiskers on his face sparked with blue electricity, and his eyes were glowing grey like storm clouds. He sat in the throne at the end of the hall that was built onto the top of the unclimbable Mount Olympus. The hall was lined with five chairs on either side and another across from where Zeus sat. Thunder shook the hall and he rose from his seat to greet his guests.

The sun flared brighter suddenly, and a screeching falcon made of fire rode down a ray of light and landed forcefully on the floor of the hall. It stood up and from the flames formed a man with a falcon's head. A bright orb of light ignited behind his head and floated there, like his own personal sun. Ra, the greatest of all the gods of Egypt, turned to Zeus, nodded his head in greeting and took his seat.

As Ra sat, two ravens, black as a starless night, perched themselves on the back of one of the thrones. Then, as if forming out of the air itself, an enormous hulk of a man began to form. He had a pointed hat like that of a witch, a large staff made of the finest oak, and wore a green tattered vest and shorts. One of his eyes was cloaked in shadow, while the other glowed with golden light.

As Odin finally became fully solid, an unassuming Japanese man carrying a bladed spear climbed up to the top of the mountain. He stood quietly and entered the hall, and Izanagi of Japan took a seat next to Ra.

Lastly, stepping out from between the seconds, was Coatlicue. Her face was both two snakes and one, and her body was made of hands. She had long, sharp talons for fingers, a skirt made of serpents, and all of her features were never quite the same between moments.

"Welcome, most revered of All-Mothers and All-Fathers," Zeus thundered. "I, Zeus to be Jupiter, welcome you to Olympus.

"I'm sure you all know each other, but for the sake of formality, introductions are in order. From the Africa in the south, Ra, sun god of Egypt. From Asia in the east, Izanagi, creator of Japan. From Europe in the north, Odin, the King of Asgard, patron of the Norse. And, from the Americas in the west, Coatlicue, undifferentiated mother of the Aztec.

"I chose you because you are the greatest of your continents. I ask you to come here to form the Council of the Gods. I propose we forge an alliance between us to protect not only ourselves, but Earth as well, should ever problems arise that become to great for any one of us to handle alone."

"Ha!" Odin roared in laughter. "What problem could be too big for the warriors of Asgard to handle?"

"Many a scenario that I can think of, Odin. What if Hela and Hades and Anubis threw open their gates upon your shining city, and you were overrun with the dead? I ask for this alliance as a preemptive measure, for what if the gods of evil have the same idea?"

"A compelling argument, skyfather," Odin admitted. "I shall agree to your alliance."

"Agreed," hissed Coatlicue bluntly.

"I also agree," said Izanagi.

"And I shall make it unanimous," Ra finished.

"I am glad to hear it, my friends. We shall meet again soon to discuss our future together."

In the same glorious ways they had entered, the gods left the hall of Olympus, leaving Zeus sitting alone but content. After a few minutes, he stood to leave, but at that moment, three old crones emerged from behind the throne at the other end of the hall. They each were hunched and wore dark cloaks that cast shadows across their haggard faces. Between the three of them, they shared a mess of yarn and string that they wove furiously into something as they walked. It couldn't be told what it was they were making, but Zeus knew that he should hope they never finished.

"Greetings, Fates," said Zeus. "What occasion is it that I get a visit from the daughters of Erebus?"

"You've doomed thine self, wielder of lightning," growled Atropos.

"One day soon, you and all of Olympus shall fall from grace," continued Lachesis.

"An it shall be your alliance that casts you down," ended Clotho.

"Sisters, what do you me--" Zeus began to ask, but it was too late. As silently as they had come, they were gone, and Zeus was once more alone.

E is for Egypt

2011-04-08T01:14:00.000-07:00

I apologize for falling behind with my stories. I'm going to the best I can to catch up. There are going to be quite a few mythology themed stories, and they're all building up to something bigger. The groundwork of the idea has been in my head for a long while, and the first story written in this universe was my story from last year, "Stormclouds and Chariots." The "A" story featuring Atlas may or may not tie into it, I'll decide later. Now, please allow me to shift your attention to Cairo in the early days of civilization...

The man stood casually in the shadows of the Cairo alleyway, leaning, unnoticeable, against the warm wall. He wore nothing but a white cloth around his waste and sandals. He was bald, and had darker skin, and there was a falcon perched upon his left shoulder.The man peered distractedly down the alley at nothing in particular, while the falcon stared intently down the busy main street that ran perpendicular. The street was lined with food vendors on either side, trying to pass their product off to the shoppers that filled always the markets at that time of day.

But the food and people were not what interested the man's falcon. The bird's fierce gaze was focused on the far end of the street, which opened into the sands of the desert, and then farther still out where there were hundreds of slaves dragging enormous stone blocks across the arid landscape, piling them to the heavens. The falcon watched intently, and though it was far away, it could see each glistening drop of sweat on their worn and beaten bodies.

A second man approached from the other end of the alley. He was tall, had pitch black skin, and red eyes. The first man turned and looked at him.

"Hello, son," said the first man.

"Hello, father," he said, looking at him irritably. "You could at least have the courtesy to look at me when I talk to you."

"Oh, settle down," said the falcon, turning its head and looking at its son. "You know how I like watching them."

"Yes, well, you have business to attend to. Some new god has asked an audience with you."

"What do they want?"

"He would not say."

"Well, Anubis, what did he say?"

"He only told us his name, and that you'd come when you heard it. He said his name was Zeus."

Ra smirked and went back to watching the workers. Anubis stood, waiting impatiently for a response.

"Father? What should I tell him?"

"Nothing. I'll tell him myself."

The falcon flapped its wings and soared into the clear blue sky above Cairo. As it rose into the air and out of sight, the man that it had been perched on crumbled to dust.

D is for Depth

2011-04-05T00:38:00.000-07:00

I'm taking part in a blogging challenge where each post is themed off the letters of the alphabet. Today is a tale from the depths of the ocean...

"Command, we have just reached a depth of 35,810 feet and are still diving," said the captain into the radio. "We are now partaking in the deepest manned submarine dive in history."

The captain set the radio back on its hook and congratulated the crew in the red-lit control room of the U.S.S. Alexander.

"Well done, men," he said in his salty voice, "I'm very proud of you all. Now keep us on a steady course downward and keep in mind that everything we see from here on out has never been seen before."

The captain left the room and shut the door behind him. The room was silent, save for the steady pinging of the sonar and the omnipresent hum of the engines. Each of the crew members were focused on their own instruments, ready to face the unknown.

"Slow speed," said the navigator after a few minutes. "We're coming up on something large, probably a large out cropping from the side of the trench. Proceed with caution."

Without a word, the submarine's engines eased their whirring by a bit, and the room was silent once more. The captain soon returned to the control room, curious as to the situation.

"What's going on? Why'd you slow down?" he growled impatiently.

"Navigation reads an outcropping ahead sir, and we're slowing down to adjust," said one of the crew members.

"Well, navigation, how do we look now?"

"We..." the navigator paused. "That's odd."

"What is it?" asked the captain.

"It's gone. I don't know how, but it's gone now. How can something that big just disappear?"

"Probably a minor instrument malfunction," the captain answered. "We can't be sure how they'll hold up at these depths."

Suddenly, the noise of the engines ceased.

"Why'd you turn off engines? Full speed ahead!" the captain demanded.

"That wasn't us, sir."

"Then what the hell was it?" the captain yelled.

"I'm not su--"

The crewman's sentence was cutoff by a subdued metallic banging reverberating throughout the ship.

"What is going on, dammit? I want some fucking answers, and I want them now!" The captain was in a frenzy of confused fear and rage.

"We're not picking up anything on the instruments, sir."

Just as the captain was about to continue his tantrum, the lights went out in the control room. It was pitch black and silent, except for a tiny sound of dripping water.

The lights flickered on and off feebly, never quite making it completely back to full brightness. The captain walked over to the radio communicator and pulled it off of its hook and held it in his hand. The pounding from outside became a groaning of bending metal. The water dripped faster inside the control room. Then, the groaning became screeching and tearing. Water began rushing into the room, and the power flickered on one last time for a few seconds.

"Command," the captain said into the radio, "I think we woke something up."

Facebook Artwork

2011-04-03T21:05:00.000-07:00

I've had a fun little side project going where I've been taking Facebook pictures of my friends and turning them into colorful pieces of art. I've been having a lot of fun with it, and thought I'd share the pictures so far! Let me know what you think!

Brad and Jacob (Eagle added)

Claire

Colin and Grant

David

Dustin

Dylan

Jamie

Jasper (Zeppelins added)

Jazmin

Katie

Manuel

Marie

Sarah

Sean

Tayler

Tim

C is for Circus Cosmic

2011-04-03T16:59:00.000-07:00

I'm taking part in a blogging challenge that requires a theme each day that begins with the letters of the alphabet. Today's is a concept I've had gestating in my head for a while, and I'll almost certainly come back to it at some point.

"Beings of the Andromeda Nebula!" roars the Ringmaster's hologram from the center of the arena. "I hope you have enjoyed the show so far! We here at Circus Cosmic appreciate you all attending today. Now, we have our final act of the night!"

The several thousand sentient beings that are packed into the seats cheer in anticipation. I roll my head around to stretch my neck and I quiver in anticipation. My antigrav platform is hovering hundreds of feet above the floor of the Big Top, but the lights are all on the Ringmaster, so the audience is unaware of my presence.The Big Top's arena floor is an enormous screen showing a galaxy of stars.

In the center is the blue hologram of the Ringmaster, who is making grandiose gestures at the crowd as he talks them into a boil of excitement. The Ringmaster is a truly terrifying being. His form is that of a slender and lanky human with pitch black skin that is covered in eyes everywhere except his face should be. His abdomen opens into a gaping mouth full of long razor-sharp teeth. He has no face and wears no clothes save for a black top hat tilted cockily upon his head.

"This act," he announces in a tone of morbid thrill, "is unlike anything you've ever seen. It is-- without a doubt-- the most dangerous act in the entire universe."

The audience is in a frenzy now, beyond ready to see me perform. The floor of the Big Top splits down the center and, with a mechanical whir, pulls apart to each side, revealing a swirl of light beneath the floor, spiraling in to the blackest spot of black you can imagine, directly below the Ringmaster's projection.

"I assure you, you are quite safe!" the Ringmaster says to the terrified audience. "This is a controlled environment, and you are in no danger. Our trapeze artist, however, is not so lucky."

The spotlight mounted on my antigrav platform lights me from below, revealing me to the audience.

"Straight from the planet Earth in the Orion Arm of the Milky Way galaxy, the death-defying Grayson 'Mister Gravity' Miller shall swing on his trapeze from his antigrav platform, across the center of a black hole, and onto a platform on the other side of the arena. Please, do not try this at home."

I take a deep breath and take hold of the trapeze bar. I throw my legs over it so I'm hanging upside down from the bar by my knees. I take another breath and shove off of the platform.

I fall faster than I ever would on Earth. I rush toward the black hole at an unbelievable speed. The momentum carries me past the center, where I let go, just as the first bar disintegrates and disappears into the void. I can feel my entire body being pulled down hungrily. I back-flip to the next bar that I barely grab with my hands. I feel the momentum of the initial fall starting to lose its battle with the immeasurable gravity of the black hole. I swing and barely make it to the platform on the other side where I collapse ungracefully onto the floor. The second bar is sucked down into the black hole as well, just as I let go.

The floor closes, hiding the black hole, and my antigrav platform floats down to the center of the arena next to the Ringmaster, now physically walking out onto the floor. I stand wobbly to my feet and the awestruck crowd cheers deafeningly.

"Ladies and gentlemen," cries the Ringmaster, "the fabulous Mr. Gravity of Earth! Seen here, and only here, at the Circus Cosmic!"

B is for Black Enigma

2011-04-02T17:18:00.000-07:00

I'm taking part in a blogging challenge where each day's post is themed by the letters of the alphabet. Today's is a one- off story set in the world of The Black Enigma. Click the Black Enigma tab at the top of the page to read more on the story. The following takes place between the events of Masquerade and Raven.

THE BLACK ENIGMA: SMOKE

Sir Skull's eyes were locked on her legs from across the table. As she tended to do, Sister spider was sitting up on the round table with her one stilettoed foot set flat upon the surface, which curved her fishnet-clad legs seductively up into the skin tight black leotard that she was wearing. Her hair was as black as coal. It was a perfect match for her soul.

Snapping out of his lustful daze, Sir Skull scanned the rest of the room. To his right, Baron Boom was smoking through a large cigar, and it filled the eerily lit room with thick white smoke, giving the scene a dreamlike haze. The baron wore a blood red tuxedo with a stark white mask, and his trademark monocle. Between him and Sister Spider sat the ever-silent Great Muerte. He wore a dark crimson mask that covered his entire face and head, along with a matching collar that stood dramatically up to the height of where his eyes would be. He too dressed in a suit, though his was that of a stage magician's and was black. His magnificent cape--attached to his shoulders with golden clasps-- flowed off of him and down around the chair to the floor. His mysterious top hat sat ominously upon the table in front of its master.

The seat to Sir Skull's left was the only one empty, but at that moment, its intended resident was entering the room-- right through the wall. The Poltergeist walked through the brick wall, as if he were a ghost, as some believed he was. He was enveloped in a flowing white hooded cloak, and seemed to have glowing white warpaint on his black face. As always, he was heavily armed, with several guns strapped to his ghostly torso, along with belts of ammunition. He walked silently through the back of the chair, solidified, and took a seat.

"Dramatic as always," chuckled Baron Boom.

"Now that we're all here," began Sir Skull, "I suppose it's time to discuss the score. So far, Baron Boom is leading the competition with twenty-six kills at the mayor's party earlier today."

"Twenty-seven actually," said the Baron. "I hit someone with the car while I was getting away."

"Well, the media was reporting twenty-six. And you know the rules: the kill only counts if it makes the news and you don't get caught. The unfortunate Mister Twenty-Seven failed to make the 6 o'clock."

"Damn rules."

"We here at the World Murder League are nothing if not fair, Baron," said Skull.

"So how'd you go about it, Boomy?" cooed Sister Spider as she twirled her hair around her finger flirtatiously.

"I dressed up as that Black Enigma fellow and blew the place up in a suitably ostentatious fashion."

"Dramatic as always," quipped the Poltergeist flatly.

"I'd kill you, but it wouldn't make the news," the Baron retorted.

"Well before this gets out of hand, let's wrap this up," said Sir Skull, standing from his seat. He was dressed in black form fitting body armor with painted white in places to give him the look of a skeleton. He wore a black fencing mask as well, which had a skull painted on it. His rapier hung from his hip. "Does anyone have any other kills to report?"

The group was silent. The smoke from Boom's cigar lingered in a swirling cloud of grey-white tendrils above the table.

"We have nothing left to discuss then. This marks the end of week one. We have nine more weeks in Pulopolis, then it's on to Rio. I'll see you all in a week."

A is for Atlas

2011-04-01T21:31:00.000-07:00

I'm taking part in a blog challenge where you post each day with the theme being each letter of the alphabet.

Mine is the burden of all burdens. I hold up the sky. I am Atlas. No one can match my strength, but no one can match my pain either. No one can ever understand the weight of my suffering. I stand atop this hill for all eternity, with the sky heaped upon my aching and weary shoulders, and so I shall remain for eternity. For who would wish to trade places with me? Who would wish to carry the load that I carry?

A villager approaches. He climbs the hill in his rags, limping along the trail with his walking stick. He is old and feeble. What does business could a peasant have with a Titan? He hobbles to my feet and falls to his knees. He is sobbing.

"Mighty Atlas," he cries, "I ask for your help. I ask that you might carry my burden, and in turn, that I might carry yours, at least for a while."

"Peasant, you know not what you ask, or you would never think to ask it."

"I know all too well what I am asking, skybearer."

"Intriguing. What is the burden that you carry, that you are so desperate to take mine?"

"My wife," says the peasant through his sobbing, "she has died from illness. She has died, and I cannot bear to tell my son and two daughters. You may think it cowardice, but as a father, I can't bring myself to inflict such pain upon my children. I sent them to stay with my sister while I tended to their mother."

"So, you wish me to tell them, and in exchange, you shall hold up the sky?"

"Yes, mighty Atlas. That is my prayer. Ease my burden."

"Then my load is yours to carry, naive peasant."

I heave the sky off of my shoulders and place it on the back of the quivering man. For a moment, I think I hear him sigh. I shrink down to human size and take on the appearance of the man and pick up his walking stick. I stretch my arms for the first time in centuries and walk down the hill to the village. I feel as if I could float right off of the Earth, I am so free, so weightless. I find the peasant's sister's hut and walk inside.

Immediately, I see three small children, the eldest girl can't yet be seven years of age, the young son barely three. They see me enter and rush at me, and shower me with hugs. They look up at me with wide eyes, hoping with a child's hope that I come bearing good news. I look down at their eyes and feel sorrow.

"How is mother?" asks the middle sibling, a girl.

I clench my teeth, and try to make the words come, but I cannot. I avert my eyes from theirs and hold them tight.

"I..." I pause, not knowing what to say. "I do not know, children."

They look worried, but their hope has not gone away. My lie pains me inside.

"I must return to your mother. I will come again soon." I walk out the door without another word and make the long walk back up my hill, my eyes staring at the ground the whole way. I approach the man and silently lift the sky off of his back and onto my own.

"Your burden," I tell him as I settle into my all too familiar stance, "is greater than mine."

There Were Pixies Dancing

2011-03-13T17:08:00.000-07:00

There were pixies dancing happily about in a circle. In the center of the circle was an intricate design made of the petals of roses and daisies. There were exactly a dozen pixies in all. They were varying shades of glowing pink and purple, and about 4 inches tall. They had beautiful butterfly wings and long flowing hair that was decorated with petals and ivy. Each of them was female, and each of them was naked.

They danced about the flower petals because it was a very special day. It was the first day of spring. They had all emerged from their dens that morning after a long sleep through the winter, and immediately took to arranging the petals for their ritual. When they completed the dance, their magic would be released and spring would officially start.

There was a prince walking through the woods, on a hunt for a princess, or a stag, or a dragon or whatever it is that princes hunt in the woods. He was searching and trudging through the trees and brush when he stumbled upon a circle of glowing pink and purple creatures. And they appeared to be dancing.

How peculiar! thought the prince. I wonder what manner of insect they are. The prince crept closer to the circle, and saw the pixies for what they really were.

"Pixies!" he exclaimed. "Impossible!"

The prince startled the pixies with his shouting, and they panicked and scattered away into the bushes and trees. They peered out at the prince from behind leaves and branches, waiting for him to leave.

"No, don't go!" he said. "I won't hurt you."

One of the pixies fluttered its wings nervously and came out from its hiding place. The prince held out his hand with his palm up, inviting her to come to him. She warily floated over to him and landed in his hand and sat there. The prince raised her to eye level and examined her.

"Well aren't you beautiful?" the prince said to her. She pulled her legs in close timidly and turned away, as if she were embarrassed. She said something to the prince in a quiet, high-pitched voice, but he couldn't hear her. "What was that? Can you speak louder?"

She tried again, but she was too small, and her voice wouldn't reach his ears.

"I wish I could hear what you were saying. I imagine you have a lovely voice. I'm sure I could hear it if we were the same size."

Hearing this, the pixie perked up, and fluttered happily up to the prince's mouth. She tossed some sparkling dust on his lips and kissed them gently. There was a flash of golden light and the prince was no longer there. There was a pile of his fancy clothes where his feet had been. The pixies all came from their hiding places and flew down to the clothes. After a quick search, they found a tiny naked man, buried under a pair of trousers. It was the prince! But he had been shrunk down to pixie size. He was bent over, trying to cover himself.

"What happened?" he cried. "Why am I tiny?"

"You wished to be the same size as me, so that you may hear what I was saying," said the pixie that he had been holding as she approached him.

"I wanted you to be big, not me tiny!" he declared.

"Well you should have specified, then. At least you can hear me now, like you wanted, yes?"

"I didn't want it that bad!" cried the prince.

"Well," said the pixie, obviously offended, "now you won't get to hear it at all."

The pixies gathered their petals from the ground and flew off into the woods to complete their dance elsewhere. The prince stood there, tiny, naked, and alone.

A gnome came out of the trunk of a tree and plodded clumsily over to the prince.

"I seen the whole thing," said the gnome. "She cast a spell yeh."

"How can I break it?"

"Yeh gotta kiss a prinsis of course," the gnome chortled.

"Where could I find a princess around here?" the prince said sadly.

"Well," the gnome chuckled, "you already kissed one."

The prince's shoulders slumped and he fell to the ground with a hopeless thud.

"Best be mindin' yer manners nextime, purty boy."

There Was A Troll Under The Bridge

2011-03-12T14:12:00.000-08:00

There was a troll under the bridge. He had olive green skin, was the size of a young elephant, and had hair in places he shouldn't. His lower jaw jutted out and two large yellowing canines stuck up out of his mouth like tusks. His bridge wasn't particularly nice. It covered him when it rained, and it hadn't yet collapsed under the weight of the people entering or exiting the village, but there wasn't anything special about it. It was just wood. The babbling brook that flowed under the bridge supplied the troll with water and enough fish to eat to sustain himself. Occasionally a gruff old billy goat or a pig or other farm animal would wander under the bridge and he'd have a treat, and the villagers would become angry with him, but they were too frightened to ever do anything about it.

The knight had been re-assigned to patrolling the part of the woods that the bridge was in recently, and so he did not know of the troll. One day, he tied his horse to a tree and walked down to the shore of the stream to cool off. He splashed his face with the water and drank a bit. His gaze turned toward the bridge where he saw the troll. He cried out, startled, and stumbled over into the mud.

"Stay back!" he yelled, drawing his sword. The troll sighed and turned away from the knight, withdrawing into the shadows under the bridge. The knight, somewhat surprised that the troll had obeyed him, sheathed his sword. He took a deep breath of relief, and then coughed and gagged. "What is that horrible stench? Is that you?"

"You don't smell like roses either," the troll replied.

"Well, it's not easy to stay fresh in this armor and in this summer heat," said the knight.

"It's about as easy for me to bathe as it is for you," said the troll. "The stream barely covers my ankles."

"Well why don't you go somewhere else then?"

"I can't," the troll murmured. The knight heard something that sounded like the rattling of chains from under the bridge.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were locked up."

"I've been here for longer than anyone living in the village has been alive. They have long since forgotten that they're the reason I can't leave. They fear me for no reason at all."

"Why don't you tell them?" the knight asked. "Surely they'd understand."

"Because I've eaten a few animals because I'm starving. They think I'll eat them next if they get too close."

The knight could hear the sadness in the troll's voice, and couldn't but feel sympathy for the monster. He drew his sword and walked up to the troll. He found where the chain was hooked to the bridge and started to hack away at the lock.

"Let's get you out of here, friend," said the knight as he sliced at the chain with all his might. He swung his blade again and again, but he hardly made a dent. He tried until he had no strength left, and collapsed on the shore, peering into the water. "I'm sorry. I tried."

The troll was silent, but he stood and then sat down right behind the knight. As the knight gazed into the sparkling water, he saw something gleaming in the sunlight, half buried in the mud about a foot from him. The knight walked into the water about a yard and pulled the object up. He cleaned it off and found that it was a rusted metal breastplate, not unlike his own.

"How'd this get here?" the knight asked as he felt an enormous hand close around his neck.

"Apparently, they didn't tell you how the last guy lost his job."

The Dark Room, part 7

2011-03-10T22:44:00.000-08:00

The man sat back down as another, closer still to the boy, stood up. He had a fork in his hand, which he angrily and repeatedly stabbed into the table, creating a dull thud noise. With his free hand, he reached to the lid of the next platter, licked his lips and and lifted it with vigor.

Thousands of fire ants and glowing scorpions and hairy black spiders flowed out across the table, like a terrible clattering avalanche of legs and pincers and stingers. The boy squealed in fright and backed up against the wall as they came toward him. He shook and curled up in a ball as they overcame him. The raven cawed in a manner that sounded like horrible gleeful laughter. The boy yelled and swatted at the insects and arachnids but it made no difference. They covered every inch of him and scurried in a frenzy over his body.

"Are you afraid of the creepy crawlies?" the raven screamed. From the raven's gaping beak, snakes slithered out by the dozens and joined the bugs on the boy. They coiled and slid around him, hissing their tongues and rattling their rattlers, and squeezing their bodies about him.

The dragon swooped in, and a purple flame spilled forth from his mouth, in an attempt to clear away the insects. His efforts were valiant, but futile, and they did not stop coming.

"Are you afraid?" the raven screeched.

"Don't be!" roared the dragon, as purple flame erupted from its nostrils and mouth. "You are brave! And I am here."

The boy cried out meekly and curled up tighter.

"You are afraid!" the raven said in triumph.

"No, he is brave!" the dragon boomed. "Be brave young one!"

"I'm not afraid!" the boy screamed from beneath the pile of creeping creatures. The man slammed the lid down in frustration, causing the spiders and ants and scorpions and snakes to disappear.

The boy stood up, shivering. The dragon flew over and perched itself on the boy's shoulder.

"You are very brave," he said. "You mustn't give in."

"I won't," said the boy.

"We will feed," the raven cawed. "That I assure you."

The Dark Room, part 6

2011-03-09T09:12:00.000-08:00

The boy could feel himself flipping backwards, and the air rushing by him. Whenever he caught a glimpse of see a circular light above him, and it kept getting smaller and smaller. He righted himself, so his arms and legs were spread in an X shape, and he became aware of the dragon and the raven diving on either side of him.

"Are you afraid of falling?" the raven repeated with a worrying glimmer in his blood red eye. The boy didn't answer. He clenched his teeth as the air rushed by his face, and didn't want to open his mouth to respond to the raven.

"Are you afraid of falling?" the raven asked again, louder.

"I..." the boy began to whisper feebly.

"Why would he be?" the dragon interrupted from the other side of the boy. The dragon's nostrils sparked warmly. He looked at the boy as reassuringly as a dragon is capable. "Are you in pain?"

"Well, no," the boy answered.

"Do you feel like you are in danger?"

"No, not particularly."

"Do you feel like this is really happening?"

"No... no this feels fake," the boy said confidently.

"Are you afraid?!" the raven screeched at the top of its lungs.

"No, I'm not," the boy said with a smile. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes, he was laying on the floor, with the chair tipped over. The two demons that had pushed him over were circling a few feet above him, giggling.

The man set the lid back on the platter and they disappeared.

Mere Mortals

2011-03-01T13:02:00.000-08:00

Artwork by Jacob Risenhoover

In case you've been wondering what it is that's been keeping me so busy lately, here's your answer: this is the wraparound cover for the pitch for a comic book series called "Mere Mortals" that I'm writing with artist Jacob Risenhoover. I'll be taking it to Seattle this weekend to show to publishers at Emerald City Comic Con. I'm very excited about this project, and I'm very thankful for all of Jacob's hard work. I'll keep you guys updated on any news regarding the series.

The Dark Room, part 5

2011-02-26T20:12:00.000-08:00

"Flee," the raven whispered to the boy. "Before it's too late."

"Be brave," the dragon said in his other ear.

The man across from the boy lifted the lid of the platter slowly, and as he did, thick black smoke billowed out from under it, swirling down the sides of the table. The tendrils of the dark smoke slithered across the floor, curling around the legs of the chairs. It flowed over the table as well, heading towards the boy like a wave of black serpents.Red orbs of light shown from within the smoke, as if there were hundreds of eyes of un-seeable creatures peering out of it, and the boy felt like each eye was trained on him.

"Do you fear the unknown?" asked the raven slyly.

The boy felt the tentacles of smoke coiling about his ankles and sneaking up his legs.

"You must be courageous. Do not give in."

The boy gritted his teeth and looked down the table at the man who had lifted the lid. The man was smiling hungrily.

"I am not afraid," said the boy defiantly.

The smile on the man's face disappeared instantly. He slammed the lid down on the platter, and all of the black smoke disappeared with a poof. The man opposite the boy sat back down in his seat, and simultaneously, another stood up. He smiled a toothy smile, eerily similar to the first man's. He put his hand on the platter lid closest to him and chuckled. He lifted the lid and a pair of demons, blood red and screaming, shot out. They slammed into the boy's shoulders, knocking his chair backward and sending him tumbling.

And tumbling...

And tumbling...

"Do you fear falling?" asked the raven cruelly.

The Dark Room, part 4

2011-02-25T01:13:00.000-08:00

On the other side of that oddly un-assuming door was a dining hall that very much made up for it. It was as long across as a city block, and the table that sat in the center of the hall extended nearly the entire length. It was covered with ornate candelabras, shining silverware and expensive china, fourteen places down either side, and one at each end. At each place along the table there was a solid wood chair with a tall back, and all up and down they were carved with images of monsters devouring children and demons torturing them, and phantoms sucking their souls out. As the boy approached the chair closest to him, he could make out more of the terrible details engraved in the dark ancient wood. He leaned in to examine the horrible art and it made him uneasy.

"Be careful," muttered the dragon on his right shoulder.

"No," cracked the raven, "be afraid."

At that moment, doors that the boy had not previously noticed opened up on either side of the dining hall, and twenty-nine identical short, fat men in business suits trotted out and took their seats at all but the one closest to the boy. They had slicked-back black hair and wore dark sunglasses, and they showed no emotion. They sat silently, except the one at the far end of the table, who sat scraping to knives against each other menacingly.

"Please," he said with a cold smile, "take a seat."

"Be careful," the dragon whispered again.

"Be afraid," repeated the raven sharply.

The boy climbed into the disturbing woodwork of the chair and sat nervously at the end of the table. The man at the opposite end of the table continued sharpening his knives. The boy didn't say anything. He looked down the table, and couldn't help but notice that he was the only one without silverware or a plate. The boy chose not to think too much of it.

"Be afraid."

The man at the other end of the table stopped sharpening his knives and set them down gently on the black table cloth. All of the twenty-nine pairs turned and looked right at the boy.

"Dinner is served," said the man at the end. There was a flash and puffs of smoke all the way down the table. After the smoke cleared, the boy saw six covered silver platters along the center of the table. The man at the end put his hand on the first and smiled toothily, as a predator would to its prey. "Let's see what the first course is."

The Dark Room, part 3

2011-02-23T00:02:00.000-08:00

He climbed lower, slower, deeper into the depths of the old dying dark house. The stairs spiraled counter-clockwise downward and were very steep. Every ten steps or so, there was a torch mounted on the wall that feebly flickered a weak orange glow, but they all seemed to have given up trying to keep the shadows at bay centuries ago. The boy went down, down, down. Spiralling into the depths of the house. He wished to leave the staircase, but there were no doors, no windows, no escape. Only the hope that there was a bottom, and that the bottom wasn't worse than the top.

"Where does this lead?" the boy asked the raven that still occupied his shoulder.

"Lead? Led. Lead? Poison. Pain. Death?" the raven babbled, cryptic as ever.

The boy sighed and clutched his dragon and continued on down the stairs. He soon came to another torch, much like the ones he had passed countless times before on his journey downward. This one was slightly different, however, in that it glowed purple instead of orange.

"How strange," the boy said to himself, no longer expecting the raven to tell him anything of value. He reached up on his tip-toes and pulled the torch off of the wall and examined the flame. It cracked loudly and a dozen purple-glowing fairies shot out of it, and began to swarm the boy, pinching him and biting him. He tried to swat them away, but they zipped and zoomed and buzzed in circles around his body and head. Finally, the boy caught one of the pixies by its wings and trapped it in his hands.

"Stop!" he demanded of the remaining purple nuisances. "Or I'll squash her! I'll do it!"

The fairies all screeched to a halt in mid-air and hovered in place. Then they all buzzed around so that all eleven of them were on eye level with the boy. They were glowing little women with violet skin and fluorescent pink hair. They were naked and they had narrow cat-like eyes, sharp teeth and slender clawed fingers. The boy could see that they were genuinely concerned for their friend that he held captive.

"Please," they begged in high-pitched, rhythmic unison, "let her go."

"How do I know you won't just attack me again?" the boy asked.

"We won't! We swear it."

"Prove it."

"How about we free your poor little dragon there?" the fairies asked.

"Free him from what?"

"His curse of course," said the fairies.

"He doesn't have any curse," the boy replied, confused as to why they'd think such a thing.

"If he hasn't a curse, then why isn't he moving, or breathing fire, or flying about like any proper dragon would be?"

"True enough, I suppose," the boy conceded. He set his dragon on the stair steps. "Break his curse, and I'll free your friend."

The fairies flew quickly down to the stuffed dragon and began to cast powders and dusts over it, until the dragon was covered in glowing purple. Then, one of the fairies flew down in front of the dragon and kissed its snout gently. There was a bright flash of violet light, and the boy was blinded momentarily. When he regained his vision, in the place where his dragon had been, there now was a real dragon. It was about the same size-- a foot and a half from snout to tail-- and looked the same, but now it was moving, and in place of its cotton and fabric was now shining red scales and yellow skinned wings and horns. It stretched like a cat and yawned, a cloud of smoke escaping from its mouth.

"That's much better," he said in a gravelly voice. He flapped his wings a few times and glided to the boy's unoccupied shoulder, and perched himself opposite the raven.

"Wow," said the boy. "You weren't kidding. Here's your friend back." The boy released the fairy he held in his hands and it darted away and over to its kin. "No hard feelings, I hope?"

"Of course not," said the fairies. "Good luck to you."

The fairies shot off up the staircase, and out of sight. The boy turned around, with his raven and his dragon, and walked down the steps of the spiralling staircase. He hadn't taken but twenty steps when he came to the bottom. And at the bottom of the seemingly un-ending staircase, there was a door. There was nothing special about the door, other than it being the end of an un-ending staircase. It was made of wood that looked aged, but in respectable condition, had no design or ornamentation of any kind, and had a standard round brass doorknob. All in all, it was a spectacularly average door.

So, the boy opened it.

The Dark Room, part 2

2011-02-21T16:28:00.000-08:00

The feet of the boy's pajamas shuffled silently across the deep grey rug. The painted eyes that lined the walls seemed to follow the boy as he walked past them, and he felt like he was shrinking. He set his eyes on the end of the hallway that he walked toward, but it seemed to be moving ever farther from where he was.

"Fa," cackled the raven. "A long long way to run."

"Please, raven, tell me what is going on," the boy pleaded as he began to try to run in a a panic down the hallway, but going nowhere.

"Shh!" the raven shushed him. "The eyes have ears."

The boy went quiet and stopped moving. He stood perfectly still. He looked behind him and at the paintings, wary of the shadowy things that he felt were hiding in the nooks and crannies of the dark weathered house. Seeing nothing, he looked back to the end of the hallway, and he was there. The boy stood, befuddled and disturbed, looking down into the stairwell at the end of the hallway that he had somehow traversed. He looked back, and saw that the hallway hadn't been all that long to begin with. He clenched his stuffed dragon tightly to his chest and shivered. He looked down the stairwell again. It curved down and to the left, and from the flickering orange glow, there was a torch or candle lighting it from farther down.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" the boy asked the raven.

"Do you see another way?"

The boy silently agreed and began descending the steps, hugging the brick wall as he went.

The Dark Room, part 1

2011-02-21T00:55:00.000-08:00

The boy woke up.

The room, like the sheets of the unfamiliar bed he found himself in, and like the curtains of the dusty windows, and the wooden panelling of the walls, was dark. Jet. Raven.

A frightful squawk startled him out from under the sheets of which he'd no recollection of. He looked to his right, in search of the origin of the ungodly sound. He could see nothing. Even if there were something to be seen, he wouldn't have seen it, because the room was so very dark. He turned his gaze back to the dusty window with the black velvet curtains. Perched on the sill was a raven. It was as the color of the void, but for its eyes that glowed an unsettling crimson. It shook gently and unruffled its feathers, and regarded the boy with a hint of condescension.

"You'll do, I suppose," spoke the raven to the boy. The boy tilted his head in puzzlement. "Go on then, get up. We best be getting you out of here before they find you."

"Before who finds me?" the bewildered and befuddled boy asked the fowl creature.

"Them. They. Those. Things. There. The. Thirty. Thieves," the raven uttered cryptically and menacingly, turning its head so but a single blood colored eye peered at the boy.

"Pardon?" the boy said weakly, now even more confused than before.

"I told you to get up, didn't I?" the raven cackled. "Do what you're told, boy."

Hesitantly, the boy slid off of the bed onto the creaky boards of the aging floor. He still wore his pajamas, and the stuffed dragon that he took to bed with him every night was held tightly under one arm. The raven glided over to the boy, making no more sound than he did color, and perched himself on the boy's shoulder.

"The door."

And so there was one. The boy could not recall seeing a door in that particular spot on the wall before the raven had mentioned it, but it had been quite dark. He couldn't shake the feeling, though, that there hadn't been a door at all before the raven had said there was. The boy stumbled across the rotting floor to the door and grasped the handle, turning it gently and as silently as he could. He squeaked the door open, and stepped outside that very dark room, into a hallway that was every bit as lightless. He closed the door behind him. He began to walk cautiously down the ancient hallway, glancing at the all-seeing portraits that lined the walls, and stepping ever so carefully across the black rug that didn't seem to end.

The Theatre De Pénombre, part 4

2011-02-19T16:53:00.000-08:00

Click here for chapters one, two, and three.

They arrived at the next town early the next morning. Rowland hadn't said a word since they left his village, and Rebecca had responded in kind by not looking at him for an equal amount of time. Puppy purred and took turns rubbing up against both of their legs, either oblivious or simply not interested in the tense mood. The wagon creaked to a halt and Rowland could hear they neighing and sputtering of the horses out front.

"Get back in that chest and don't come out until I tell you to," Rebecca said without looking at him. Rowland picked up Puppy and followed her instructions, weary of conflict.

Rowland could hear the back door open and what sounded like the same man as before--the Grandmaster-- spoke to Rebecca.

"I don't think we'll be needing you for the opener, dear. Rest up for the show tonight."

"Of course, Grandmaster," she replied. "Good day."

The door squeaked gently closed. Rebecca walked angrily over to the chest and kicked it as hard as she could, making Rowland jump and hit his head once more on the lid of the chest.

"Ow," he moaned as he lifted the lid and Puppy pushed off of his crotch and out of the chest. "I'd like if we could take turns with the physical and emotional beatings. Both at the same time is getting to be a bit much."

"It's no one's fault but yours, Rowland."

"Oh, definitely not. You're the one sending mixed messages. Do you like me or not? Because the love-hate attitude is really confusing."

"That isn't even relevant. You can't come with us. As soon as the opening performance starts, you're getting out of this wagon and you're staying here."

"Well, unfortunately, you haven't given actual answers to any of my questions. If you would do that, I might be more cooperative about getting out of your hair."

"You are unbelievable, Rowland."

"Why can't I go with you? You said they'd kill me. Why?"

"Because," Rebecca sighed in defeat, "these people, in this group, we aren't good people. We aren't normal people. And we don't take kindly to strangers."

Rowland sat down next to Rebecca and put his arms around her.

"Then teach me to be one of you."

"It isn't that easy. And if you knew, you'd never want to do it."

"I want to be with you, Becc. I'll do whatever it takes." Rowland brushed her golden hair out of her face and lifted her chin gently so that she was looking at him for the first time since they left his village. She kissed him passionately, and he held her tight to him. She kissed his cheek and down his neck.

Rowland felt her teeth sink into his neck quickly, and then back out. She looked at him, with tears in her eyes, as his vision began to blur and he became dizzy. He heard her whisper, "I'm sorry," and then everything went dark.

Blogfest

2011-02-16T00:01:00.000-08:00

This is for a Blogfest (details here) that I'm partaking in to expose myself to more followers. Basically, I and a bunch of other bloggers answer the following questions, and then go to all the other blogs participating. So, heeeeere we go...

1. What is your favorite word? This is an utterly un-answerable question. I did have a running joke in my junior year English class about the word "juxtaposed" though, so I'll go with that.
2. What is your leased favorite word? Jaguar. Because everyone pronounces it "jag-wire" and I find it intensely irritating.
3.What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? Creatively, bookstores, and being somewhere with nothing to do. It gets my mind going because I have nothing else to focus on. Spiritually, a good philosophical or moral debate always works. Emotionally, a really good book or comic.
4. What turns you off? Stress, trying to force my imagination to work. Emotionally/spiritually, closed-minded people. Even if you have a different opinion than me, I can respect you. But not if you can't see other opinions.
5. What is your favorite curse word? Abra kadabra. (get it...? No? Oh well...)
6. What sound or noise do you love? My cat purring and my girlfriend's voice.
7. What sound or noise do you hate? Two balloons rubbing together. Gives me goosebumps.
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Physical therapist. I think it would be rewarding and fun.
9. What profession would you not like to do? Anything to do with fast food. Been there, done that. Never again.
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you enter the Pearly Gates? "Wow! I mean... too bad about the landing, but... that was really cool."

150th Post: "A Zeppelin Over Paris"

2011-02-14T00:00:00.000-08:00

Axel slid the rusting steel door of the zeppelin open and the cold wind of the Paris sky rushed across his face. He pulled his goggles over his eyes and strapped his flight cap on. He tightened the leather belts that criss-crossed his chest, holding the heavy pneumatic tank on his back. He looked behind him at the three other men in his squadron, doing similar motions with their harnesses and gear. Axel looked back out of the opening, gazing at the golden-orange glow of the Paris night life below.

Seemingly from nowhere, Axel began to hear the sound of propellers. Then he saw it, below their zeppelin was a massive airship, rising slowly toward them. Every one of its dozens of cannons pointed at Axel's ship. A powerful speaker system sent a deep and menacing voice into the air.

"I am Captain Jackson Henry," said the speakers, "the commanding officer of the Aerospear. By the authority of the Irongate Empire, I order you to land your ship immediately or be blown out of the sky."

Axel turned and faced his gathered allies, now ten of them, the pilots and crew having abandoned their posts at the controls.

"Let's fly," Axel said with a smirk. He leaped out of the zeppelin and clicked a knob on his chest plate counter-clockwise. There was a loud hiss of released steam and wings unfolded from Axel's back, as did a propeller and tail rudder. He banked hard down toward the Aerospear and his friends followed, as their ship was blasted into oblivion in the Paris sky.

This marks 150 blog posts. This story will be turned into a piece of artwork for the Steampunk art show a friend of mine is organizing. This may or may not be continued. Let me know what you think!

My arguement against hate

2011-02-10T23:03:00.000-08:00

A lot of the people in my family have always been very intolerant and flat-out racist. I've got quite a few emails forwarded recently from family members who will remain unnamed. Today, I got sick of it. This is the email, followed by my reply (bare with me it's lengthy):

"ALL EUROPEAN LIFE DIED IN AUSCHWITZ By Sebastian Vilar Rodrigez

I walked down the street in Barcelona , and suddenly discovered a terrible truth - Europe died in Auschwitz ... We killed six million Jews and replaced them with 20 million Muslims. In Auschwitz we burned a culture, thought, creativity, talent. We destroyed the chosen people, truly chosen, because they produced great and wonderful people who changed the world.

The contribution of this people is felt in all areas of life: science, art, international trade, and above all, as the conscience of the world. These are the people we burned.

And under the pretense of tolerance, and because we wanted to prove to ourselves that we were cured of the disease of racism, we opened our gates to 20 million Muslims, who brought us stupidity and ignorance, religious extremism and lack of tolerance, crime and poverty, due to an unwillingness to work and support their families with pride.

They have blown up our trains and turned our beautiful Spanish cities into the third world, drowning in filth and crime.

Shut up in the apartments they receive free from the government, they plan the murder and destruction of their naive hosts.

And thus, in our misery, we have exchanged culture for fanatical hatred, creative skill for destructive skill, intelligence for backwardness and superstition.

We have exchanged the pursuit of peace of the Jews of Europe and their talent for a better future for their children, their determined clinging to life because life is holy, for those who pursue death, for people consumed by the desire for death for themselves and others, for our children and theirs.

What a terrible mistake was made by miserable Europe ..
***********************************
The Global Islamic population is approximately 1,200,000,000; that is ONE BILLION TWO HUNDRED MILLION or 20% of the world's population. They have received the following Nobel Prizes:

Literature:
1988 - Najib Mahfooz

Peace:
1978 - Mohamed Anwar El-Sadat
1990 - Elias James Corey
1994 - Yaser Arafat:
1999 - Ahmed Zewai

Economics:
(zero)

Physics:
(zero)

Medicine:
1960 - Peter Brian Medawar
1998 - Ferid Mourad

TOTAL: 7 SEVEN

The Global Jewish population is approximately 14,000,000; that is FOURTEEN MILLION or about 0.02% of the world's population. They have received the following Nobel Prizes:

Literature:
1910 - Paul Heyse
1927 - Henri Bergson
1958 - Boris Pasternak
1966 - Shmuel Yosef Agnon
1966 - Nelly Sachs
1976 - Saul Bellow
1978 - Isaac Bashevis Singer
1981 - Elias Canetti
1987 - Joseph Brodsky
1991 - Nadine Gordimer World

Peace:
1911 - Alfred Fried
1911 - Tobias Michael Carel Asser
1968 - Rene Cassin
1973 - Henry Kissinger
1978 - Menachem Begin
1986 - Elie Wiesel
1994 - Shimon Peres
1994 - Yitzhak Rabin

Physics:
1905 - Adolph Von Baeyer
1906 - Henri Moissan
1907 - Albert Abraham Michelson
1908 - Gabriel Lippmann
1910 - Otto Wallach
1915 - Richard Willstaetter
1918 - Fritz Haber
1921 - Albert Einstein
1922 - Niels Bohr
1925 - James Franck
1925 - Gustav Hertz
1943 - Gustav Stern
1943 - George Charles de Hevesy
1944 - Isidor Issac Rabi
1952 - Felix Bloch
1954 - Max Born
1958 - Igor Tamm
1959 - Emilio Segre
1960 - Donald A. Glaser
1961 - Robert Hofstadter
1961 - Melvin Calvin
1962 - Lev Davidovich Landau
1962 - Max Ferdinand Perutz
1965 - Richard Phillips Feynman
1965 - Julian Schwinger
1969 - Murray Gell-Mann
1971 - Dennis Gabor
1972 - William Howard Stein
1973 - Brian David Josephson
1975 - Benjamin Mottleson
1976 - Burton Richter
1977 - Ilya Prigogine
1978 - Arno Allan Penzias
1978 - Peter L Kapitza
1979 - Stephen Weinberg
1979 - Sheldon Glashow
1979 - Herbert Charles Brown
1980 - Paul Berg
1980 - Walter Gilbert
1981 - Roald Hoffmann
1982 - Aaron Klug
1985 - Albert A. Hauptman
1985 - Jerome Karle
1986 - Dudley R. Herschbach
1988 - Robert Huber
1988 - Leon Lederman
1988 - Melvin Schwartz
1988 - Jack Steinberger
1989 - Sidney Altman
1990 - Jerome Friedman
1992 - Rudolph Marcus
1995 - Martin Perl
2000 - Alan J. Heeger

Economics:
1970 - Paul Anthony Samuelson
1971 - Simon Kuznets
1972 - Kenneth Joseph Arrow
1975 - Leonid Kantorovich
1976 - Milton Friedman
1978 - Herbert A. Simon
1980 - Lawrence Robert Klein
1985 - Franco Modigliani
1987 - Robert M. Solow
1990 - Harry Markowitz
1990 - Merton Miller
1992 - Gary Becker
1993 - Robert Fogel

Medicine:
1908 - Elie Metchnikoff
1908 - Paul Erlich
1914 - Robert Barany
1922 - Otto Meyerhof
1930 - Karl Landsteiner
1931 - Otto Warburg
1936 - Otto Loewi
1944 - Joseph Erlanger
1944 - Herbert Spencer Gasser
1945 - Ernst Boris Chain
1946 - Hermann Joseph Muller
1950 - Tadeus Reichstein
1952 - Selman Abraham Waksman
1953 - Hans Krebs
1953 - Fritz Albert Lipmann
1958 - Joshua Lederberg
1959 - Arthur Kornberg
1964 - Konrad Bloch
1965 - Francois Jacob
1965 - Andre Lwoff
1967 - George Wald
1968 - Marshall W. Nirenberg
1969 - Salvador Luria
1970 - Julius Axelrod
1970 - Sir Bernard Katz
1972 - Gerald Maurice Edelman
1975 - Howard Martin Temin
1976 - Baruch S. Blumberg
1977 - Roselyn Sussman Yalow
1978 - Daniel Nathans
1980 - Baruj Benacerraf
1984 - Cesar Milstein
1985 - Michael Stuart Brown
1985 - Joseph L. Goldstein
1986 - Stanley Cohen [& Rita Levi-Montalcini]
1988 - Gertrude Elion
1989 - Harold Varmus
1991 - Erwin Neher
1991 - Bert Sakmann
1993 - Richard J. Roberts
1993 - Phillip Sharp
1994 - Alfred Gilman
1995 - Edward B. Lewis
1996- Lu RoseIacovino
TOTAL: 129!

The Jews are NOT promoting brain washing children in military training camps, teaching them how to blow themselves up and cause maximum deaths of Jews and other non Muslims. The Jews don't hijack planes, nor kill athletes at the Olympics, or blow themselves up in German restaurants. There is NOT one single Jew who has destroyed a church. There is NOT a single Jew who protests by killing people.

The Jews don't traffic slaves, nor have leaders calling for Jihad and death to all the Infidels.

Perhaps the world's Muslims should consider investing more in standard education and less in blaming the Jews for all their problems.

Muslims must ask 'what can they do for humankind' before they demand that humankind respects them.

Regardless of your feelings about the crisis between Israel and the Palestinians and Arab neighbors, even if you believe there is more culpability on Israel 's part, the following two sentences really say it all:

 

He did this because he said in words to this effect:
 
'Get it all on record now - get the films - get the witnesses - because somewhere down the road of history some bastard will get up and say that this never happened'
 
Recently, the UK debated whether to remove The Holocaust from its school curriculum because it 'offends' the Muslim population which claims it never occurred. It is not removed as yet. However, this is a frightening portent of the fear that is gripping the world and how easily each country is giving into it.

It is now more than 60 years after the Second World War in Europe ended. This e-mail is being sent as a memorial chain, in memory of the, 6 million Jews, 20 million Russians, 10 million Christians, and 1,900 Catholic priests who were 'murdered, raped, burned, starved, beaten, experimented on and humiliated' while many people looked the other way.

Now, more than ever, with Iran , among others, claiming the Holocaust to be 'a myth,' it is imperative to make sure the world never forgets.

This e-mail is intended to reach 400 million people. Be a link in the memorial chain and help distribute this around the world.

How many years will it be before the attack on the World Trade Center 'NEVER HAPPENED' because it offends some Muslim in the United States?"

'If the Arabs put down their weapons today, there would be no more violence. If the Jews put down their weapons today, there would be no more Israel ." Benjamin Netanyahu

General Eisenhower Warned Us It is a matter of history that when the Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces, General Dwight Eisenhower, found the victims of the death camps he ordered all possible photographs to be taken, and for the German people from surrounding villages to be ushered through the camps and even made to bury the dead.

THE FOLLOWING IS MY REPLY:

I'm sorry, but this is simply racist and nothing else. I'm sending this not to start a fight, but to show you the truth. This is wrong.

Here are some of the things Muslims have done:

Invented the base-ten decimal point number system
Invented solutions for linear and quadratic equations
Invented Algebra
First to calculate the diameter of the earth (when Europe still thought it was flat)
First to prove that the planets and stars followed the same physical laws as Earth
First to prove the principle of conservation of mass
Conducted the first organized scientific research
Determined of the solar year as being 365 days, 5 hours, 46 minutes and 24 seconds
Determined the base equations of trigonometry
Proved the existence of the vaccuum
First to distinguish metal and non-metal elements
Devised new methods of breaking Ciphers
Introduced the scientific method
Discovered the distance between the Earth and the sun
Pioneered neurosurgery
Pioneered pharmaceutical practice
etc.

You know why they didn't get Nobel Prizes? Because they didn't exist yet. Pure and simple. You know who else got a Nobel Prize? Barack Obama. Who you hate. I'd hardly take that seriously.

This guy also doesn't know what he's talking about in regards to Muslims in Spain. They've been living their since at least 711 AD, when the Moor army came in from northern Africa. Muslims have been inhabiting the Iberian Peninsula ever since that time.

The next point I'd like to make is this: Christianity and Judaism both acknowledge and validate the fact that Islam follows the same God. In the story of Abraham in Genesis, Abraham has a son with his slave, thinking his wife infertile. He names this son Ishmael, intending to leave him his inheritance. Shortly after, his wife becomes pregnant with Isaac, and Ishmael and his mother are left to die in the desert. They pray to God, who answers them telling Ishmael that he will "father a great kingdom." Ishmael is acknowledged by ALL THREE of the big monotheistic religions as being the father of Islam.

In this vein, here are a few things you might not have known about Islam:

The following figures are acknowledged as prophets:
Jesus, Abraham, Noah, Lot, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Job, Moses, Aaron, David, Solomon, Elijah, Jonah, and John the Baptist. Every one of which are also in the Bible.

The word "Allah" means "God." Just like "Jehovah" and "Yaweh" in Judeo-Chistianity.

The term "jihad" simply means "holy struggle." For everyone except violent extremists, this refers to the internal struggle between righteousness and sin.

Christians slaughtered nearly 10 MILLION Muslims in the Crusades. To put that in perspective, that's about a twentieth of the entire population of the world at the time. They did it for nearly identical reasons as what Muslim extremists use to justify their actions today.

There is a line in the Declaration of Independence that goes like this: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal." To cast aside a people using gross generallizations and flat-out lies is against everything this country stands for. Please don't jump to racism and intolerance of billions of peaceful Muslims just because a few extremists twisted their religion to violence. We don't hold it against all Germans what Hitler did. We don't hold it against all Christians what the leaders of the Crusades did. You can't blame the entire religion for the mistakes of a few.

"Then said Jesus unto him, Put up again thy sword into his place: for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword."--Matthew 26:52

The word "sword" could easily be replaced by the word "hate."

Love,
Matt

Black Enigma Sketchbook: The Raven and Dr. Toxic

2011-02-08T20:26:00.000-08:00

Check out a couple of pages from my sketchbook, featuring characters from The Black Enigma! This installment features the recently introduced Raven and the mysterious new Dr. Toxic! Let me know what you think. For more sketches of characters in Black Enigma's world, click here and here.

Black Enigma's new ally, The Raven! Introduced in the latest chapter of The Black Enigma

A character yet to be introduced: Dr. Toxic!

Creator Owned Awesome: THE INFINITE VACATION

2011-02-07T23:42:00.000-08:00

Wish you could pay a fee and change every detail in your world to exactly the way you wanted it, over and over again? Well, as they say, there's an app for that.

There you have the basic premise of The Infinite Vacation, the brand new series from Image Comics's Shadowline imprint, written by rising star Nick Spencer and illustrated by Christian Ward.

The Infinite Vacation is set in a world where hopping between alternate realities has become a big industry. With the click of a touch-screen button, the people inhabitting this world can switch places with any of the infinite versions of their own life. The possibilities are as big as you want: spill your coffee on your crotch? Hop to a reality where you didn't. Want to be an astronaut? Well, there's an alternate version of you that's got you covered. This is a world of infinite possibility... and zero accountability.

The main character of the series is Mark. He's a bit of an infinite vacation app addict. Mark never makes mistakes, because he switches realities every time he does. However, every time, he seems to end up just as bored and unsatisfied with his life as before.

There has only been one issue released so far, so there's not a whole lot of story revealed yet, but we do know that a bunch of alternate reality Marks are being killed off and that Mark meets a mysterious purple haired girl.

The idea of the series is intriguing, to say the least. It's a philosophical, mind bending story in the style of Inception and The Matrix movies, and so far, Nick Spencer has pulled it off beautifully. The art is also superb. It's psychedelic and colorful, filled with trippy details and tie-dye watercolors, as well as some truly unique layouts. Christian Ward really blows this series out of the water with his art.

This is a great series for newcomers to the comic scene, as it's only one issue in and it's not part of any larger universe of stories. It's a lot of fun and gorgeous to look at. I'd highly recommend giving The Infinite Vacation a shot.

The Infinite Vacation is a comic book series published through Image's Shadowline imprint. It is written by Nick Spencer with artwork by Christian Ward. The first issue is in stores now.

Creator Owned Awesome: Daytripper

2011-02-06T23:45:00.000-08:00

I'll just be upfront about my bias on this one: this is one of the best comics I've read. Ever. Daytripper by twin brothers Gabriel Ba and Fabio Moon is a comic book that will tear your heart out with every chapter, and you'll keep coming back for more.

It's hard to talk about Daytripper without doing one of two things: spoiling it or not doing it justice. Daytripper is really simply a story about life. And more specifically presented through one life in particular, the life of Bras de Oliva Domingos, a Brazilian writer. Each issue is one day in his life. They are not sequential, and take place anywhere from the day he was born to the day he dies. Which, incidentally is every day.

Confused? Allow me to explain...

If you read this you'll find out that at the end of every chapter, which are each turning points in Bras's life, Bras dies. They are hardly forced or contrived deaths, but ones with real emotion and build up. And there is a reason. This isn't shock-value and it's not some weird super power or sci-fi trope. He simply dies, and then, in the next chapter, it's as if he didn't. Bras dies for very a very specific reason and by the time the series ends, the reader will learn the lesson right along with Bras.

The artwork is very soft and real, with gorgeous watercolors. The characters are instantly recognizable no matter what the age, and the world they inhabit seems real and full. Nothing is left to chance in this series.

Daytripper is one of the very few comic book series that I've felt truly emotionally moved by. In fact, I've been meaning to read a second time, but each time I try, I never feel quite up to the heartache. Reading the series as it came out once a month was a moving experience, and I'm sure reading it in the recently released trade paperback is just as gripping.

If you read one graphic novel in your life, make it Daytripper.

Daytripper is a ten issue limited series from Vertigo, written and drawn by Fabio Moon and Gabriel Ba. The trade paperback collection of the whole series is out now.

Creator Owned Awesome: Cowboy Ninja Viking

2011-02-05T16:59:00.000-08:00

Just so you're aware ahead of time, this book is every bit as awesome as its title suggests. Recently completed, Cowboy Ninja Viking is an Image Comics series by writer A.J. Lieberman and artist Riley Rossmo that follows the main character, a "triplet" named Duncan on his zany adventures around the world.

Duncan has multiple personality disorder. Sometime in the past, a particularly shady corner of the government kidnapped him and a dozen or so others with similar afflictions and performed experiments on them (because that's pretty much what the government does). These experiments involved programming their personalities to have certain skill sets that would be advantageous for a black-ops agent to have. Duncan's three personalities that he's programmed with? You guessed it: a cowboy, a ninja and a viking. That means that he can throw a ninja star as well as he can shoot a revolver. And he's not too shabby with a battle axe either.

The first 5 issue story arc of CNV sees all of the Triplets--except Duncan-- go rogue. Duncan is tasked with the thankless and very dangerous task of bringing in the rest of the triplets. The story is much more complex than the title implies. While the concept provides ridiculous visceral fun, it also has a very deep and psychological thread of finding one's identity at its core.

The action and emotion is brought to life by the talented pencil of Riley Rossmo, who renders the series in a beautifully chaotic style that fits the themes of the title perfectly. Most issues are colored in a monochromatic fashion, which uses color masterfully to drive home emotional moments. Rossmo's lines are loose and sketchy, and sometimes a bit unfocused, but it's always done intentionally and effectively, because really, that's what the series is about.

If there's one complaint I could make about the series, it's that it ended too soon. After only ten issues in, the series was canceled for as-of-yet unknown reasons. The end of issue ten was hardly climatic, and it was obvious the creators intended to keep going. It's sad to see such a fun series go, but I'm thankful for what we got.

To end on a high note, last November, Disney bought the film rights to Cowboy Ninja Viking and hired Zombieland writers Paul Wernick and Rhett Reese to write a script. The film has no release date yet, but it is an exciting prospect, and hopefully the success will inspire a continuation of the series sometime in the future.

CNV to me, is really what comic books are all about. Taking the most off-the-wall crazy cool ideas that no other medium would ever even look at and turning them into something fun and entertaining.

Cowboy Ninja Viking is a comic book series published through Image Comics' Shadowline imprint, and is written by A.J. Lieberman and drawn by Riley Rossmo.Both volumes are now out in trade paperback.

Creator Owned Awesome: AMERICAN VAMPIRE

2011-02-04T16:57:00.000-08:00

I'll be upfront about this: this is probably one of the few creator owned comics that doesn't need extra publicity. Launched about about a year ago, American Vampire from Vertigo was surrounded with buzz. The main source of that buzz was the name of one of the co-writers: Stephen King. With each of the first five issues featuring two different stories, Stephen King would make his first foray into writing specifically for comic books by writing half of the issue, set in the American Old West.

Then, something happened that shocked everybody.

Over the course of the first five issues, it became apparent that the first half of each issue, written by series creator Scott Snyder, was actually better than King's half. While the entire package was spectacular, no one was expecting Snyder to outshine who many regard as a modern master. Surely, thought many critics, it was just a fluke.

Now, eleven issues into the series, Scott Snyder and series artist Rafael Albuquerque have silenced even the harshest of critics with their series.

Set throughout American history, American Vampire plays with the classic vampire mythology in an intriguing new way by asking the question: what would a new species of vampire be like? The first arc revealed to readers that after arriving in the new world, the old breed of European vampires didn't create a single new American vampire. Until they had a small accident. In King's story, it was revealed that Skinner Sweet, a sadistic cowboy outlaw became the first of a new breed of American vampire, one with entirely new strengths and weaknesses. We follow Sweet throughout various eras in the following stories, including Las Vegas during the construction of the Hoover Dam, the Prohibition, and even 1930s Hollywood, where we meet our protagonist, Pearl, an aspiring actress.

The series is rendered beautifully by Rafael Albuquerque in a style that is just sketchy enough to be perfect for the rough and rural American settings, as well as shocking horror.

The series will be moving on to World War II and beyond in the coming months, and the next issue, #12, is a perfect jumping on point for new readers, as it's the start of a new story arc. This series is one of the most solid out there, and is definitely worth picking up.

American Vampire is a comic book series published by Vertigo, and written and created by Scott Snyder, with art by Rafael Albuquerque. The first hardcover is out now, with the second due for release in May.

On the Subject of Being (Creator Owned) Awesome

2011-02-04T12:56:00.000-08:00

About a week ago, Eric Powell, creator of the Dark Horse Comics' The Goon, set the comic book Internet community ablaze with a YouTube video asking for a call-to-arms to support the diversifying of the comic book medium. Powell said the following:

No other entertainment industry is sustained from one genre and 50 year old material. The comic book industry is living off of decades old company owned super hero titles while shoving new original content to the side. The result is the industry has slowly been losing readers for years and alienates anyone who is not interested in reading books about guys in tights

Among other things, which caused him to pull the video after a few days. It turned out to be quite controversial to many people, because many saw it as an attack on superhero fans. Despite that quite clearly not being the case, he made a follow up statement via Facebook:

I work in satire and humor. Apparently those aspects of the video were lost on some people. If anyone misconstrued the meaning, my exact quote at the end of the video was, “We have to make original creator owned content just as vital to sustaining this industry as the Marvel and DC super hero books.” And that’s exactly what I meant and feel. At no point did I say or even allude that no one should buy Super Hero comics. I believe diversification is the only way to keep this industry vital and strong. Our country just went through a major “TOO BIG TO FAIL” scenario. Marvel and DC control 70% of the market and there are plenty of reasons that the corporations that own them could find to stop producing comics and use those super hero properties in more profitable ventures. I still believe that to be a legitimate fear.

Frankly, I feel like Powell--while his execution might have failed-- hit the nail on the head. I agree that comics in general need to broaden their horizons if they're ever to get rid of the "nerd in the basement" stigma they've been carrying for decades. I commented on Powell's Facebook page saying the following:

While the point is spot on, here, I really think not enough blame gets put on the audience. I work in a shop, and I know that people are very unwilling to try something new, regardless of quality. While Marvel and DC could put more effort into diversifying their output, it's hard to blame them when no one will buy anything that isn't wearing tights. They are a business.

That said, a huge part of this is getting the audience back. Comic readers are getting older and older, and young people like me are few and far between. To have a diverse output, we need a diverse audience. The only long-term solution to getting a diverse audience is by getting kids and teens back in comic shops. This is where Marvel and DC are truly failing. They control the comic book "gateway drugs." 99.99% of people who regularly read comics started because of superheroes. Marvel and DC hold the icons, the brand recognition, and everything they need to bring younger readers in, but they continue to cater to the dying 40 year old reader population. If we get more a more diverse audience, then they are going to want a larger range of entertainment.

I want to make sure my point is misconstrued the same way Powell's was. The fact of the matter is, I love superheroes. They're probably about 70% of what I buy in single issues (in TPB/Graphic novel form, I buy a lot more non-superhero). But the problem is that they're not creating new fans. The reason they aren't is because Marvel and DC are comfortable to "keep on keepin' on" with their current audience. That audience is getting smaller and is getting older all the time. What the Big 2 fail to realize is that the majority of their readers got into superhero comics twenty to forty years ago as little kids. That's when you create fans: when they're kids. And we don't need fans of just superheroes (though there's certainly nothing wrong with that) if this industry is to survive. What we need is fans of comics. People who are willing to read things because they look good, or they seem interesting, not because they have Batman.

Look at the comic book industry in comparison to movies or music. If movies acted like comics, 90% of what ended up in theaters would be westerns, most of which would be sequels to John Wayne movies. And if actors wanted to make a living, they would have to be in those westerns, regardless of whether that's what they wanted to do. And that's wrong. Not because there's anything inherently wrong with westerns (or superheroes) but because there are a thousand other genres--and their potential fans-- that are getting shafted. It's essentially saying that if you want to read comics, you better like superheroes, if not, we don't need you. That's a very short-sighted mindset.

I'm already reading a healthy amount of creator owned comics, and am in the process of producing one. The only thing left for me to do is promote the good stuff that is out there already. So, stay tuned to On the Subject of Being Awesome, where I (and possibly some guest reviewers) will be posting reviews of recent creator-owned books that you should go out and read. If you have anything you'd like reviewed, or have a review you'd like posted, shoot me an email at drfunkphd@yahoo.com and I'll post it. I'll be posting at least one review every day this week, starting later today.

As always, thanks for reading.

--Matt Funk

The Black Enigma: Raven, part 3

2011-02-04T00:33:00.000-08:00

For the preceding chapters in The Black Enigma series, click the tab at the top of the page.

"So, what do you go by, flyboy?" I ask my tenuous ally.

"This ebony bird," he says cryptically, " is but a stately raven of the saintly days of yore."

"Okay," I tell him as I reload my harpoon lines, "you're really going to have to stop talking like that. It's creepy, and I have no idea what you're saying."

"It, like I," he responds smugly, "am The Raven."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Raven. Though, if you don't mind, can we keep the Poe to a minimum for the rest of the night?"

"I suppose," he chuckles. "Some people just don't appreciate literature."

"Let's get moving, smart ass," I say, as I turn around. I sprint to the edge of the roof and leap off. I soar across the gap and land smoothly on the roof of the adjacent building. I head toward the bay, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. I'm sprinting across the roof of an apartment building when I hear a dull hum approach me from behind.

"There's an easier way to do that, you know," The Raven says as he glides up next to me. He swerves behind me and hooks his arms under my armpits, lifting me once more into the air. We soar high over the city streets, the lights glimmering far below us like neon stars in an asphalt sky. We bank slowly down to the warehouses near the harbor, and I tell The Raven to land. We come to a silent landing on the roof of an abandoned meat-processing plant.

"Black Enigma to Brains," I talk into the tiny speaker in my glove.

"What the hell happened, Mark?!" Harvey shouts into my ear. "You've been silent for twenty minutes!"

"Our impostor planted a few explosives as a gift for whoever came looking for the bullet. I barely made it out."

"Well that was a huge waste of time. Come back home and we'll talk about our next move."

"Actually, I was hoping I could still go for that big drug bust we talked about earlier."

"Mark, you almost got blown up a half hour ago, now you want to fight a warehouse full of criminals?"

"I can handle it," I tell him slyly. "I have backup."

"Backup? What are you talking about?"

"Just trust me, here, okay?" Harvey says nothing. I can hear him groan on the other end of the line. "I'm going to need the location of that warehouse."

"You're a maniac, Mark," Harvey sighs. He takes another long pause and then finally continues. "Three blocks south from your current location, the one closest to the water. Warehouse 85."

"Your a doll, Brains," I tell Harvey as I grin cheesily. "A real doll."

I click off my communicator and turn back to The Raven, who is perched impatiently on the edge of the roof. He looks up at me and taps his fingers impatiently.

"Well?"

"Time to get to work."

The Black Enigma: Raven, part 2

2011-02-02T23:46:00.000-08:00

For the previous chapters in The Black Enigma, click the tab at the top of the page.

Looking down, now thirty stories up, I apologize in my mind to the sidewalk. I normally don't get so intimate so quickly, but I have no choice in the matter. I am drawn to the concrete as if by gravity. Oh wait.

I twirl as best I can to face up and shoot my other harpoon line in an effort to catch myself, but it bounces uselessly off of a pane of glass. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. What a crappy way to go.

I get hard from my right side, like getting rammed by a linebacker. The wind rushes sideways across my face, and I feel as if I've stopped falling. I open my eyes and see that my feeling was correct. I look to my right and see a beaked black mask and goggles covering a man's face. That man has what looks to be some sort of jet turbine strapped to his back along with to huge steel wings. As soon as I'm done recovering from the shock of my fall, I'll begin to be shocked by my mechanical flying hero.

Banking down and to the left, we make a soft spiral and land gently on the rooftop of one of the many science labs run by Pulopolis University. My avian savior sets me down, and wobbly kneed, I collapse onto my buttocks and breath a shaky sigh of relief.

"Whoever--and whatever--you are, thank you," I gasp. "I was seconds away from being graffiti."

"Indeed," says the winged man. "you would have been Nevermore." He clicks something inside his aviator jacket and his wings give a pneumatic hiss and begin folding into themselves. They collapse into a barely noticeable position next to the turbine on his back. "Is it the Black Enigma whom I've caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster?"

"Yes, I am the Black Enigma," I say, a bit puzzled. "Though I'm not positive if that's what you're asking."

"Thing of evil!" he exclaims as he draws a pistol and points it at me. "You're a wanted criminal. You killed all of those people at the mayor's party!"

"No, I'm not, I've been framed. That was an impostor. I'm the good guy."

"Tell this soul with sorrow laden why it should believe you."

"I don't know. I have no proof."

"You must convince me you're noble, or I tie you up and leave you at the doorstep of the police station."

"How about this," I say as calmly as possible, my eyes fixed on the end of his gun's barrel. "I have the location of a major cocaine shipment that the Farleones are unloading tonight. We'll go bust it together and I'll show you that I'm one of the good guys, all right?"

The flying masked man is silent for a moment. Then he holsters his gun and pulls his goggle up onto his forehead. He extends his hand to me and he helps me up.

"Fair enough. But one wrong move," he drags his finger across his throat threateningly. "Merely this and nothing more."

The Black Enigma: Raven, part 1

2011-02-01T23:49:00.000-08:00

For the previous chapters in the story, click The Black Enigma tab at the top of the page.

"The computer is reading the bullet as being four floors below you, Enigma," Harvey's voice tells me through the earpiece in my right ear. "That's the forty-first floor. Looks like some sort of suite according to the blueprints I'm looking at."

"Your computer's a pile, Harv," I tell him bluntly. "I'm on top of a damn skyscraper. How would that car get this far up?"

"He may have found the bullet," Harvey says. "You should investigate either way."

"Whatever," I sigh irritably.

My city is restless tonight. The moon is ominously bright, and the sky lit up with the blinking neon mask that Pulopolis wears with unashamed vanity. The wind whips my through my hair and makes my trenchcoat flutter like a black flag defiant of surrender. The howling air chills me to the bone, and it causes eerie concrete screams to swirl from the corners of dead-ended alleyways. I shiver in the night.

I fire a harpoon line into the roof of the building and tug on it to make sure it's secure. Then I lower myself slowly down the side of the wall, the small motor mounted on my wrist whirring as it lets out more line. Step by step I walk down the glass panes. After what seems like hours of trying to not look down, I finally reach my floor. Cupping my gloved hands around my mask, I peer inside. The room is a very expensive looking penthouse. There are no lights on, and it appears to be absent of life.

I pull a small laser out of my pocket and cut a big circle in the glass and push it into the room gently. It lands with a dull thud on the thick carpet and I step inside.

"Harvey, I'm in."

I peek inside the side rooms but there are no occupants. I find a desk in the bedroom and begin going through the drawers. They are all empty, except the last one. I pull a normal white envelope out of the drawer and open it. My tracking bullet falls out and clinks on the desk, followed by a folded letter. I unfold it and click on a light.

Hello there, it reads in a flourished handwriting. I imagine you're one of the Farleone's goons, come to find me. Slick little bullet you have there. Not too subtle though. Better luck next time. Well, that is if you can survive the next thirty seconds to even have a "next time." Sincerely, The Black Enigma.

"Oh shit," I say, dropping everything. I sprint out of the bedroom toward the window. There's a deafening boom, and I dive through the hole I made just as the heat from the bombs in the room hit me. I exit the window at the same instant that it shatters and I grab for the rope I had climbed down on.

I miss.

I look down.

Forty-one floors down, a man on the sidewalk looks up at me, and I imagine his face looks the same as mine does right now.

TOP SECRET PROJECT

2011-02-01T11:59:00.000-08:00

Art by Jacob Risenhoover

Check out this gorgeous first image from the comic book that I'm working on! Don't want to give away too much yet, but stay tuned to the blog for updates on this project.

So Much Happening

2011-01-31T12:26:00.000-08:00

I apologize for the non-existent updates as of late. Currently, I have a lot on my plate. Just to give you an idea of what I'm trying to take care of right now:

-Apply for graduation from COCC (should happen in August)
-Apply to attend CWU in September
-Apply for (a ton of) scholarships to fund my CWU education
-Apply for my major/minor at CWU
-Get my transcripts from COCC to CWU (must happen after the first thing)
-Get my transcripts from MVHS to CWU
-Midterms
-Sign up for spring classes sometime this month
-Save money for Emerald City Comic Con in March
-Plan to attend ECCC in March to try to promote my series to editors
-Work on getting the first issue done
-Write/edit more scripts for following issues
-Edit the first 50 pages of my novel
-Work at Pegasus Books
-Try to find second job
-Try to keep my girlfriend happy by finding time for her
-Oh yeah, and I have a blog

So, as you can see, I'm pretty swamped with stuff. However, I fully intend to get back to the blog. I'm hoping to resume regular updates tomorrow night, and then keep it going until I can't handle it again. This has been a really really good exercise for me as a writer, and I need to try to keep improving. This is a great way to do it, and I really need to stay committed. As always, thanks for reading.

--Matt

The Theatre De Pénombre, part 3

2011-01-23T17:08:00.000-08:00

Rowland stood, stunned, in the dimly lit wagon. He was unsure of what to do next and looked around nervously. Puppy meowed loudly, apparently bored. He was sitting on top of a large chest. Rowland walked over and opened, curious as to its contents. It contained piles of unorganized costumes and clothes, and it was over six feet long. More than large enough to contain Rowland.

"Perfect," he muttered. He climbed into the chest and buried himself in the soft costumes. He grabbed Puppy and pulled him in as well. He shut the lid of the chest and waited silently for Rebecca to return. He shut his eyes and fell asleep to the sound of Puppy's purring.

The wagon jerked forward and jerked Rowland awake. Startled, he smacked his head on the lid of the chest. He could hear Rebecca's voice outside. Lifting the lid slightly, he peered out of the chest. Rebecca was talking to the tall man who Rowland had seen performing as Saturninis.

"You did well tonight, Rebecca. I suspect you'll be good enough to play larger parts soon," he told her.

"Thank you Grandmaster."

"I'll let you change out of your costume. Have a good night." The man Rebecca called Grandmaster opened the door to the wagon and jumped out of the slowly moving vehicle and headed for the members of the caravan behind them. Rebecca closed the door and turned back inside. She began removing her costume and turned toward the chest that hid Rowland. Rowland ducked back inside and shut the lid. Seconds later, the top squeaked open and Puppy meowed loudly and leaped out at Rebecca, who caught him in surprise.

"Oh, hello there. You're Rowland's cat aren't you?" she talked to Puppy as she stroked his fur. "How did you get in th..."

Rebecca trailed off and set Puppy down.

"Rowland. Get out of there. Now."

Sighing in defeat, Rowland lifted the lid and climbed clumsily out of the chest, a pink dress slung over his shoulder. He grinned nervously at Rebecca.

"Are you insane?!" she barked at him.

"What's the big deal, Becc? I want to come with you. It's not like I'm going to sabotage your productions or something. I'll help out."

"You don't understand. You can't be with us. They'll kill you."

"I'm sure they'll be happy to have a helping hand."

"No, Rowland, they will actually murder you."

"Why? Why do you think it's that big of a deal?"

"Rowland, there are a lot of things you don't understand here. You need to leave as soon as you can."

"If I don't understand, why don't you just explain?"

"It isn't that simple. You'll leave when we get to the next town. No more questions."

"Becc, I--"

"Shut up, Rowland. Just... shut up."

The Theatre De Pénombre, part 2

2011-01-19T23:46:00.000-08:00

As sunset came, the stage was set. Where there once had been an empty town square, there was now a wooden stage some twenty-five feet across and ten feet deep. The townsfolk gathered quickly and filled every open space from which the stage was visible. They stood packed up against the edge of the stage all the way back to the closed doors of the shops on the edge of the square. Surrounding houses and storefronts opened their windows on every story and excited spectators peered out. Not much happened in Rowland's little town, and the Theatre De Pénombre was one of the few times that the people got truly excited.

The curtain rolled back slowly, and all candles and lamps were extinguished in the square. A line of short orange flames flickered to life about the edge of the stage, lighting the set. Performers in white togas entered from both sides of the stage, their faces lit from below. The fire's orange glow cast deep shadows on the folds of cloth and the surfaces of their faces, giving the actors an appearance of being carved from stone.

Rowland, still at his place at the steps of the building at the far end of the square, placed Puppy on his shoulders again and crept around the edges of the crowd toward the wagons behind the stage. The actors began their performance with brilliant charisma and grace.

"Noble patricians, patrons of my right, defend the justice of my cause with arms, and, countrymen, my loving followers, plead my successive title with your swords..." the actor playing Saturninus spoke with a voice like deep crimson velvet.

Rowland and Puppy snuck around to where the troupe had parked their wagons behind the stage. Three of them had been transformed into the stage, but there were several left, and they had been put in rows out of sight but near enough that some of the actors could use them to change costume. Rowland walked quietly up to the door of one of the wagons. He glanced around to make sure was looking, took a deep breath, and knocked quietly on the wooden door.

"But let desert in pure election shine, and, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice."
A hinge creaked as a small window in the door opened enough for two mesmerizing eyes to peer out at their visitor. The window closed and the door swiftly opened. A pair of arms grabbed Rowland by his vest and tossed him inside with almost imperceptible speed, throwing him like a doll across the floor. The door was shut just as quickly as it was opened.

A candle was and the soft glow lit up the face of a beautiful young girl. She had a gentle face, blonde hair and was about the same age as Rowland. Rowland moved an irritated Puppy off of his leg and smiled up at the girl. For reasons unimaginable to Rowland, she looked furious.

"What are you doing here, Rowland?" she hissed through her teeth at him. Rowland stood up as his smile faded. Confused as to why she was upset, he looked at her and held her hand.

"I needed to see you again," Rowland answered softly. "I want to come with you."

"Absolutely not," she yelled as loudly as a whisper would allow.

"Why not? There's nothing for me here. And I love you, Rebecca."

"You can't come with us Rowland. You don't love me, either." She yanked her hand out of his and turned away.

"What is your explanation for last year then?"

"Rowland, it was one kiss."

"And what kind of man would I be if I left you with but one when you'll be longing for so many more?"

Rebecca rolled her eyes and groaned. As she was about to respond, there was another rapping upon her door.

"You're almost up, Becc. Get a move on," said a voice from outside.

"Be right there," she called. Turning back to Rowland, she pointed an accusing finger at him. "As for you, you'd better be gone when I get back."

She turned to leave, but Rowland grabbed her by the arm. He pulled her in close and kissed her. He felt Rebecca relax and melt in his arms for a moment, but it was not to last. She pushed him away and ran out the door.

The Theatre De Pénombre, part 1

2011-01-15T12:53:00.000-08:00

That day, they came to town, and this time, Rowland was ready. He remembered when they had come the year prior. They had unfolded their wagons into a stage in the middle of the village square and put on a production of Macbeth. It was wonderful. Rowland told his mother that it had been the best performance yet, just as he had every time they came to town for the passed 15 years of his life.

But this time was different.The Theatre De Pénombre arrived in their caravan of color, their wagons and horses decorated in every imaginable hue. They danced and twirled and cart-wheeled in full costume down the main road to the village square. Their costumes covered their entire bodies, never revealing an inch of skin. Stopping next to the fountain in the center of town, they poured out, all 36 members of the troupe. Blowing their horns, plucking their lutes and lyres, shaking their tambourines and swaying their hips, they played and danced a jubilant song.

Rowland was napping in the barn on a pile of hay with his cat, Puppy. Puppy was a black, lanky cat, that followed Rowland around everywhere like a dog, which is how she gained her name. They both awoke instantly at the sounds that poured through the barn door. Rowland jumped up with a smile. Grabbing his sack from the ground, he sprinted out the door, Puppy following close behind. Rowland arrived just as they began their second song. He had to stand on his toes to see the performance over the crowd that had quickly gathered. He reached down and Puppy climbed up his arm and perched herself on Rowland's shoulders. Rowland grinned as he watched the dancers and acrobats flip and spin around on the walls of the concrete fountain.The second song came to an end and the crowd cheered and whistled. A tall male performer, dressed as jester in red and black checkered clothes stood on the shoulders of two other performers.

"Thank you for your applause!" the jester yelled happily. "You are too kind. Please be sure to come back tonight at sunset for the Theatre De Pénombre's presentation of Titus Andronicus! And bring your friends!"

The jester took a bow, bent his knees and back-flipped off of the other men's shoulders, landing, with a graceful splash, in the water of the fountain. The crowd cheered once more and slowly dispersed. All except Rowland and Puppy. They found a set of stairs nearby and watched the troupe go about their busy work, going in and out of wagons and setting up their stages in preparation for that night's fateful performance.

Sorry for the slacking

2011-01-10T21:50:00.000-08:00

I've been less than regular with updates for the passed week or so, unfortunately. I just started winter term last week, and so I've been adjusting to the new schedule. I've also recently started working with an amazing new artist on my comic book series. I've had some trouble holding on to people, so I have my fingers crossed that I can hold on to him and get a finished product out. I've been working on editing and reworking my scripts and doing character descriptions and that sort of thing as well, so I have been doing a lot of writing, just not on the blog. I'll try to get back to updating again as soon as possible, but be patient with me. Thanks for reading.
--Matt

The Black Enigma: Masquerade, part 3

2011-01-08T16:07:00.000-08:00

"What the hell?" I mutter. I watch as the impostor fires a clip into the crowd, wounding several partiers. I begin to move Harvey towards the door, since I'm supposed to be his bodyguard.

"There is only one crime lord in this town," the man ruining my good alter ego's name declares. "Any newcomers would do well to remember that." He pulls the pin on a hand grenade with his teeth and tosses it into the crowd, where it explodes, killing half a dozen people instantly. The fake laughs sadistically and dashes out the hole that he came through.

My fingers load a bullet into my pistol as I begin to shove people out of the way in a hurry toward the doorway. I finally push through the panicked crowd onto the steps outside just as the "Black Enigma" speeds down the road in a black sports car. I unload a clip into the back of the car and he screeches around a corner and out of sight.

Harvey emerges from the crowd and walks up next to me.

"Some bodyguard you are. Dashing off, leaving me unprotected like that.," he says with mock irritation.

Minutes later, ambulances and police cars begin arriving by the dozens, paramedics and officers rushing in to haul out the wounded and secure the scene. Dozens of people are rushed to the nearest hospital, and there are twenty-six bodies rapidly losing heat on the marble floor.

"Well that makes our decision for us," Harvey says. "We don't have a choice but to go after both sides now."

"Great," I reply. "That's much easier."

"Don't whine, Mark." Harvey's limo pulls up in front of us.

"Harvey! Harvey!" Mayor Crup yells feebly as he waddles toward us. "What the fuck was that, Harvey? That guy worked for you and your dad?"

"No, he definitely did not," Harvey tells him sternly. We both get in the limo and drive off. Harvey groans and hangs his head. "This is a mess."

"Well those cops are in your dad's pocket, so there shouldn't be too much heat."

"You think this will stay with them, Mark? Over twenty people taking dirt naps? That goes to the feds, and they are definitely not in my dad's pocket."

"Well that can only be good for us, right?" I ask. "We're trying to take down your dad, having the law on our side is a plus."

"No, it isn't. If he goes to jail now, so do I. I'll be an accomplice. And so will you. And even if we don't, and it's just him, we get our funding cut, and we have these new guys to contend with."

"So we need to find the impostor and bring him in before the feds get near the case, correct?"

"Obviously, Mark. But we have nothing to go on."

"Remember those tracking bullets you had made for me?" I ask him.

"Yeah wh..." he pauses as a grin grows across his face. "Nice work."

The Black Enigma: Masquerade, part 2

2011-01-08T00:17:00.000-08:00

For previous chapters, click the tab at the top of the page.

I straighten my mask as Harvey straightens his white suit. We climb the steps to the enormous oak doorway and enter the mansion, finding ourselves in a vast white marble ballroom flanked on both sides by a curving staircase. Harvey snags a shrimp off of an unsuspecting servant's tray and slurps it down before we enter the crowd. They are all dressed extravagantly, and every person is masked.

"God, Harv, what are we doing here?" I ask him anxiously.

"Not much for parties, Mark?" he asks in retort. "Just relax. We're here to do some reconnaissance. If these newcomers dad is so worried about are as rich as I suspect, they'll definitely be here."

"Damn it, Harvey," I say irritably, "everyone here is wearing a mask!"

"And so are you. Use it to your advantage."

I groan and follow him as he weaves through the crowd. I scan the occupants of the ballroom, uselessly searching for anonymous master criminals. I see nothing but masks. I feel like I'd see the same thing even if they were in public.

A short, round man bumps into Harvey gently. His head is bald save for the sides, where grey hairs stick straight out. He's wearing a black suit and dark blue tie, with a matching mask. He grins with yellow, nicotine-stained teeth at Harvey.

"Psst, Harv," he whispers, "it's me!" The short fat man lifts his mask just enough for Harvey to catch a glimpse of his face.

"Good evening, Mayor Crup. How did you recognize me?"

"You wore the same bloody mask last year, boy. You have to mix it up a bit if you're going to fool old Crup."

"Apparently so, sir. Looks like a great party, so far," Harvey replies with a fake grin.

"A raging success, of course," the mayor replies, oblivious to Harvey's feigned flattery. "All my parties are. Come, let me introduce you to some people."

The mayor grabs Harvey's hand and pulls him through the crowd to a secluded corner where two men and a woman are drinking and chatting from behind their masks. The first man is of average height and build, and wears a top hat, and a red and black suit. His mask is bright red and covers his whole face except for his eyes. The second man is pale-skinned and wears a tight-fitting white suit, with a white mask that covers his eyes and curls upward from them into his platinum-blonde hair, and downward as well, next to his protruding cheek-bones. The woman wore a seductive black dress with fishnet leggings. She had a long curving body, accentuated by her dress and dangerously high heels. Her mask was black, though it's details were lost behind her long, raven hair.

"Harvey, this is Sir Steven Skellion, from Britain," Mayor Crup motions to the man in white, "Mister Josef Moria ,from Spain, and the lovely Miss Cynthia Asi, from France. They are with a group that gathers talented individuals from all over the world to join, and then they pick a city, and for one year, they go to that city to donate to its charity's and help make it a better place. This year, they've picked Pulopolis! Isn't that lovely?"

"Quite lovely, indeed," Harvey replies as he kisses Ms. Asi's hand. "What was the name of your organization, again, madame?"

"The Champions of Charity," says Mr. Moria stiffly.

"Well, Pulopolis is glad to have such generous benefactors as yourselves. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to mingle. If I don't catch you again, you all have a nice evening."

We melt into the ocean of aristocrats, and quickly out of the sight of the mayor and his European friends. Harvey looks up at me knowingly.

"So what do you think of so-called 'Champions of Charity,' Mark?" he asks me slyly.

"I think that we fou--" before I can complete my sentence, an explosion shakes the room. The wall opposite the doors is blown to bits, and dust and smoke cloud the air instantly. People begin to scream and run towards the doors, but there are too many of them to make any sort of real progress. There's another explosion, and I'm positive I see blood spray. The debris finally settles, and standing in the gaping wound in the mansion is a man wearing a black trenchcoat and masquerade mask. He is standing confidently with a handgun in one hand and a grenade in the other. He has a sadistic grin on his face, and scans the faces of the crowd hungrily.

"I am," the man yells, "the Black Enigma!"

The Black Enigma: Preview

2011-01-06T23:55:00.000-08:00

The mysterious Sir Skull

Blogger was tweaking out last night and so I didn't get a new chapter in. Today, between and after classes, I was working on these sketches! We've already caught a glimpse of Sir Skull in the Filth epilogue, but who are the four newcomers, and whose side are they on?

Character sketches of newcomers to The Black Enigma's world

The top left is Sister Spider! She is a masked femme fatale who ensnares her prey with nets and ropes. Below her is The Poltergeist, the gun-toting spectre of the night. On the top right you'll find The Great Muerte, master magician! His enchanted hat and cape hold powers not even he knows the limits of. Finally, there is Baron Boom, the expensive and explosive man of monocled mystery.

Stay tuned to the blog to find out more about these newcomers to Pulopolis, and be sure to click the Black Enigma tab at the top of the page to catch up on the story thus far!

--Matt

The Black Enigma: Masquerade, part 1

2011-01-04T23:20:00.000-08:00

For more on The Black Enigma, click the tab at the top of the page.

The Present, Pulopolis:

I sit in the back seat of the limousine, facing Harvey. He is wearing a white suit and is sipping from a martini glass. He has as dark of skin as you can have while still being called white, and has a thin moustache that runs by the sides of his mouth to meet up with his goatee. He is chatting on his cell phone with his father, Anthony Farleone, Pulopolis' biggest crime boss. The conversation seems typically one-sided, as Harvey says very little. I can't make out any words, but it's clear that Anthony is yelling angrily on the other end. Finally, Harvey tells his father goodbye and hangs up. He rubs his forehead irritably and downs the martini like a shot. He groans and smiles painfully at me.

"Business, Mark," he says distractedly. "It's always business with that man. Apparently that dog fighting ring that this Black Enigma character broke up last week wasn't one of his gigs, it was some new crime syndicate from out of town. Now they think that the Black Enigma was working for the Farleones and they've been hitting a bunch of our operations in retaliation."

"Well that worked even better than we hoped," I reply contentedly.

"No kidding. Nice work, Mark. This does present a problem going forward, however."

"How so?"

"We have two choices. Option one, we keep doing what we're doing, taking down all crime, without exception. Unfortunately, the new guys realize you weren't working for my dad, and both of them come after you. Our other choice is to keep fighting only the new guys and keep up this masquerade of working for the Farleones. That works in the short term, but it ends up creating large scale gang war and eventually, whoever wins ends up filling the role of both syndicates, creating one that's as large as both combined."

"No good options there," I say as I scratch my chin.

"Agreed."

"So, who are these new guys?"

"Good question. No one really knows." Harvey pours himself a glass of red wine. "We know there are multiple heads, and they are recently arrived from outside the city. That's about all we know. That's why dear-old-dad was so furious on the phone just now. He's used to knowing everything. But these guys are very well hidden."

"Great," I sigh, "That makes this much easier."

"Well, don't stress too much, because we're here." Harvey motions outside as the limo slows gently to a stop. a young man dressed formally and wearing a red feathered mask open the door and held it as Harvey and I climb out. I motion to the driver in the limo and he drives off.

"Where is 'here', exactly, Harvey?" I ask him as I look around. We're at a large Victorian-style mansion, and expensively dressed people were exiting their flashy cars and walking up the wide steps to the enormous open doorway.

"I didn't tell you?" Harvey says in mock surprise, knowing full well that he hadn't. "The mayor is throwing a masquerade ball for charity. Here, put this on."

Out of his suit pocket, Harvey pulls a black mask that was decorated with feathers and curving flourishes. I put it on and look at him. He's wearing a white mask that curves down over his nose as if it were a beak.

"This is absurd," I tell him.

"Anything but," Harvey retorts with a wink "With people like this, a masquerade is the only place where they are being truly honest with themselves."

The Red and Blue Clad Alien

2011-01-02T23:17:00.000-08:00

The red and blue clad alien smashed his fist down into the purple monster one final time. The battle was over and he had won. The shining city he called home was safe from the menace once more. At least for now. He hovered above the damaged street, winked at some onlookers, and flew off into the robin-egg sky. And then he kept going. He kept going until the blue pastel turned slowly into black velvet, sprinkled with twinkling white.

He turned at looked down on his city from thousands of frozen miles above. There was no escaping the sound. The city's roar came to him. But it wasn't a roar to him. It was a million pleas.

"Come on Adam, we're going," the alien could hear a woman say.

"No mommy, I want to stay with daddy," he hears a young boy reply. The alien could hear the tears splashing on the floor.

"We're going now, Adam!" she yelled.

"Mary, you can't take him," he could hear the man beg, "you can't leave. I'm sorry. Please don't leave."

"It's over, Peter," the alien heard the boy scream and the door slam. He heard the tears fall still, from all three of them. He didn't need to use his eyes to know that the woman wasn't going back up those stairs tonight.

The alien wiped his own eyes, but his tears didn't fall. They floated for a second in the gravity-less vacuum and then froze. He looked down at his city from space. He saw into a window high above the street, into an office. There was a friendly-looking man with glasses and brown hair typing away at a desk. The alien could hear him humming a song.

"Hey John," said another man who walked up to his desk. "I have some bad news."

The man named John stopped humming and looked up.

"What is it, Bob?" he asked, trying to hide the worry in his voice.

"I don't know how to say this, John, so I'll just come out with it. We're getting rid of you. You do great work here, and everyone loves you, but the company is taking a hit in this economy, just like everyone else. And... well, we have to make cuts. I'm sorry, John, I really am."

"Bob," John said holding back tears, "I can't lose this. Jen can't work because of the cancer. How am I supposed to pay for her treatments? How will I feed my kids?"

"I'm sorry John. It wasn't my choice."

The alien looked away. He blocked the noise out as best he could. He could defeat monsters and villains. He could stop bullets. But he wished more than anything, that he could save people from the real things.

"Come on, hand it over, Jack," he could hear a young boy feign a deep voice. The alien honed his ears to it and looked down at the city. "Hand it over!"

"It's mine, Tyler!" another boy yelled.

"Not any more it isn't. Don't make me hit you," the alien could see a boy cornered under a tree by a larger boy. The small boy was clutching his lunchbox tightly to his chest. The alien flew back to the city as fast he could. Faster than a bird. Faster than a plane. Faster than a speeding bullet.

He landed on the grass behind the larger boy forcefully, causing the earth to shake. The larger boy stumbled and fell to the ground. The alien stood tall over the boy, his bright red cape flowing magnificently in the breeze. Tyler screamed loudly and sprinted out of the park. The alien extended his hand to Jack and helped him to his feet. Jack's lunchbox was blue and had a yellow and red "S" logo on it. Jack smiled up at the alien.

"Thank you," Jack said. He then took half of his sandwich out of the box and handed it to the alien. The alien smiled brightly. They both sat in the shade of the tree, on that warm, beautiful summer's day and ate lunch together.

The sandwich, the alien decided, made it all worth it.

A Sports Bar At 1900 Baum Road

2010-12-31T00:21:00.000-08:00

The seven men took a seat around the table in the dimly lit sports bar. The smells of old cigarettes and greasy meat filled the air. The circular seat that circumvented the scratched wooden table was made of dark crimson leather.

"Drinks are on me, boys," Nick told them.

"What about food? I'm not thirsty, but I could eat a baby!" Hugh exclaimed.

"Just don't eat too much," Nick replied with an amused smile.

The waitress came over and took their orders. They all ordered various beers, except Hugh, who ordered beefsteak and potatoes, and H.M., who asked for water. She smiled cheerfully at them at skittered off to the kitchen in her precariously high heels. The seven men began talking cheerfully with one another, excited to catch up with old friends. They rarely were all together at once, but at one time in their lives they had been inseparable.

"So, Nick, how's the old lumber business?" Smith asked. Smith was a wide, round man with an impressively thick moustache and a distracted, almost lifeless gaze.

"It's chugging along, as ever," Nick replied. Nick had been a lumberjack his whole life. He had prosthetic arms and legs. "Thanks for asking. And yourself? Clock-making treating you well?"

"Monotonous and unchanging," Smith said bluntly.

The waitress returned with the beers and water. She informed Hugh that the beefsteak and potatoes would be just a few more minutes, then left to attend to another table. Hugh moaned and slumped in his chair.

"Kill me now!" he droned dramatically. "Whatever method you choose would be more humane than leaving me to die from hunger."

"Oh stop whining, Hugh," said Leonard. "You'll be perfectly fine. You've been hungry your whole life, yet here you are, alive and growling."

"Well, if that's how you feel, you'll be the one dragging my corpse outside after I keel over in a couple of minutes."

"Some things never change," Leonard sighed. He was a tall lanky man with spindly, crooked blond hair and he had the friendliest smile that you had ever seen.

"But what if he's right?" Jack said nervously. "People weren't made to work without food."

"He'll be fine Jack," Nick assured him. Jack was as tall and lanky as Leonard, but bald, and with sun-burnt skin. He was always grimacing uneasily and glancing about.

At that moment, the waitress appeared next to Hugh with a steaming plate. She set it on the table in front of him with some silverware--which he ignored-- and he began devouring it voraciously.

"So little sophistication, that one," said H.M. He had a nice coat and tie on, as well as a pair of glasses that would have looked perfectly at home on a librarian. He was of average build, though he was a bit short. His moustache was very French-looking, and was long and curled at the tips. "If you were one of my students back at the Royal College, you would've been reprimanded for such manners."

"Let him eat, H.M.," Nick said. "At least he's enjoying himself."

They all chatted amongst themselves and drank their beers and water for hours. They laughed and had a grand old time. Eventually, when it was well passed midnight, they walked out of the sports bar and took a stroll down the snow-dusted sidewalk. The flakes fell gently to rest on the very tips of their noses and eyelashes, and crunched underfoot, just enough to be satisfying, but not enough to soak into their shoes. They continued to reminisce about adventures of days long gone as they walked down the deserted streets of the city.

"I'm afraid," said Leo suddenly. He had been oddly quiet the whole evening. "I'm afraid of what may happen to us if we grow too far apart."

Leo was an enormous, muscular man. He had long blond hair and a thick blond beard, and weary eyes.

"What do you mean, old friend?" Nick asked gently.

"How long has it been since we all got together like this? Does anyone remember? How long shall it be until it happens again? What if it never does?"

"Of course we'll see each other again, Leo," Leonard said, hugging his friend's shoulder.

"So we'll just keep pretending until we forget?" Leo said. "Or until we die?"

"What do you mean, pretending?" Jack asked nervously.

"You all haven't been thinking it this whole time? Don't lie. Where are Shaggy Man and Saw Horse? They showed up last time. This time? Not a word. There were barely any of us that made it here in the first place, and there are fewer and fewer each time we get together."

The other six men stood in solemn silence. The snowflakes seemed heavier as they fell on their shoulders. The orange fluorescence of the street lights seemed to dim a bit in their eyes. Of course they remembered.

"There is nothing to do," Nick whispered.

"That is bullshit, Tin Man!" the Cowardly Lion roared. "We can go back. We can find Dorothy and Ozma. We can be home again."

"Damn it, Lion, you know it isn't that easy!" Nick argued.

"What choice do we have? What kind of life is this? Sitting in this bleak, magic-less world, withering away until we die, and the memory of our home with us? We used to be heroes back home, Nick. This isn't how heroes act."

"I..." Leonard started slowly. "I agree with the Lion."

"Scarecrow, please don't encourage--"

"You don't get to tell me what to do, Tin Man," Scarecrow said assertively. "You aren't the emperor of anything here."

"I can't let any of you get hurt!" Nick Chopper yelled, then fell to his knees sobbing. "I can't... I promised her..."

"Then lend me your axe, Tin Woodman," Lion said to his oldest friend, "and defend us, as we shall you, to your dying breath. Let us take back Oz."

The Tin Woodman sniffled and wiped his eyes with his palms. H.M. Woggle-Bug T.E. extended his hand and helped him to his feet.

"We only do this," Tin Man said, "if we all do it. H.M.? Hungry Tiger? Tik-Tok? Pumpkinhead? What say you?"

They all nodded confidently.

"You win, Lion," the Tin Woodman said. "Let's go home."

Board To Death

2010-12-28T18:17:00.000-08:00

I peer around the corner of the hallway into the parlor. I hug the wall closely, sticking to the shadows--of which there are many in this vast old house. At the other end of the hallway I see the old man walk out of his bedroom and stroll casually down the hall in the opposite direction. He walks at a brisk pace, and whistles to himself as he goes. From the direction he's going, I deduce that he's headed downstairs.

Lightning flashes outside the window behind me, followed immediately by a huge crash. I am startled and turn around quickly. I then return to the hallway to see the old man gone. Damn.

I straighten my monocle and trot down the hallway parallel to the one I believe the old man to be in, hugging the walls. I cut across the observatory to the other hallway, just in time to see the old man disappear down the staircase. I follow him at a distance, moving as slow and silently as possible. He gets to the ground floor and veers off to the right. Headed toward the kitchen for a midnight snack, perhaps?

I descend the rest of the stairs in pursuit, and peek around the wall to the right. I was correct, he is entering the kitchen. Gluttonous old pig.

There is a heavy golden candelabra mounted on the wall. It's not lit, so I pull it from its perch and stalk after my prey. I push the door to the kitchen open slowly, praying it doesn't creak. I see through the sliver of an opening, the old man humming to himself in briefs as he pulls ingredients from the fridge and cabinets to make a sandwich.

I pull away from the door, and grip the candelabra tightly with both hands as if it were a baseball bat. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. I then barge into the kitchen and swing the candelabra wildly at the old man, smashing it into the back of his skull with a dull crack. He drops instantly to the floor, his body limp and his head bleeding profusely. I set the candelabra on the counter and bend down to press two fingers to his wrist. No pulse. Dead.

I drag his body out of the kitchen and, with a quick glance around, quickly to the entrance of the cellar. I pull open the ancient wooden door and shove the body down the stairs, where it tumbles to a halt at the bottom. I close the door, dust myself off and ascend the stairs to my quarters, feeling quite content with myself.

2 Hours Later:

The woman in the red dress with long black hair points an accusing finger at me. All eight of the guests are standing in the cellar in a circle around the body of poor Dr. Black, who was so brutally murdered early that night. The woman holds a blood-stained candelabra in the hand that isn't pointing at me.

"It was Colonel Mustard!" Miss Scarlett declares, "In the kitchen, with the candlestick!"

Damn.

SAMURAI: Acronyms

2010-12-28T01:02:00.000-08:00

So, the guys in charge of naming stuff really like acronyms. A lot of the major weapons to come out of the SAMURAI labs are given these absurdly contrived acronyms for names. Hell, even SAMURAI is one: Super-powered Anti-Monster Unit and Robotic Arsenal Initiative. It's kind of ridiculous.

Oh, by the way, my name is... actually very classified. But what I can tell you, is that I am the pilot of the
Winged Assault and Response Robotic Interface, Omni Rank, also known as the WARRIOR. See? Acronyms.

The WARRIOR is the best giant robot in the SAMURAI organization, and I'm the best pilot. It has more guns than you'd care to know about, it can bench press the moon, and it can fly. It also looks like some sort of bad-ass mechanical shogun, so that helps too.

I'm currently about to arrive in Nagasaki, where a giant two-headed electric snake monster is about to come ashore. The monster is the standard hundreds-of-feet tall, jet black, with a white belly and spikes that start at the heads and run down to the end of the tail. Of course, it also has intimidatingly large fangs protruding from its mouth. It's swinging its tail wildly around the beach, tossing bolts of electricity randomly to nearby conductive objects. It lunges with both heads down at the civilians who are running in terror. The heads don't seem to be working together, however, as they frequently try to move in opposite directions at the same time, preventing them from achieving any of their goals, though they do manage to swallow a few beach-goers.

It kill my rear thrusters and come in for a landing on my giant robot feet, just in front of the two-headed lightning snake. I waste no time and fire two large rockets from my robotic wrists straight into both faces. The monster tumbles backward unsteadily but shakes it off. Both faces lock their eyes on me. That was a poor choice. Now I've given it something to focus on.

POLL

2010-12-26T21:40:00.000-08:00

Go to the main page for this blog and scroll down below all the posts and you will find a poll, right above the "About Me" section. The poll asks which of the ongoing series I've been writing you enjoy the most: The Black Enigma, The Strange Casefiles of Horatio Morgan, SAMURAI, or Stormclouds and Chariots?
I desire your input, and the results will steer the course of the blog. I have ideas for all of the stories, the hard part is prioritizing. So, go vote!
Thanks for reading (and voting),
Matt

The Black Enigma: Holes, part 3

2010-12-26T21:07:00.000-08:00

For previous chapters in The Black Enigma story, click here.

There is a hole where my dreams should be.

I try to sleep, but the dark is as elusive as comfort. I twist restlessly in my waking, and even more restlessly still in my sleep. When my eyes do stay shut, and I manage to grasp the fragile fleeting tendrils of slumber, I dream of a hole where my brother should be. I dream of bullet holes and holes in the ground, and holes in hearts. I dream of a hole, starting in the center of the city and growing outwards, devouring all in its path, swallowing the entire city into the earth. And then there is a gravestone by the hole, and as I'm about to read it, I wake, trembling, sweating, my heart pounding.

So many holes that need filling.

I return to work the next morning at the Pulopolis Public Library. I take my place behind my desk on the second floor, amidst the crime and detective fiction section. I have always had the same fascinations as Johnny, I just took them in a different direction.

My desk-mate Helen arrives a couple of minutes later, sets her purse behind her chair and sits down. She is a bespectacled brunette about my age of average looks and height. She has worked here as long as I have, and has always been a good friend to me. She glances at me at of the corner of her eye a few times as she shifts some books and papers around on her side of the desk before speaking.

"Hey Mark," she says gently. "Rough night?"

I simply nod my head, not even making eye-contact.

"I'm sorry. If you need someone to talk to, I'm here for you, alright?"

"Thank you," I say after clearly my throat. I blink my eyes to keep the tears down. "I'm alright for now, though. I appreciate the offer."

I try to make myself look busy so as to avoid her worried gaze. The day goes by in relative silence. The library is never busy in this city. No one in Pulopolis reads anymore. Not when there are people to murder and steal from. And it's a Monday to boot. No one is here.

I shelve books and write out forms and orders, and file papers away. My tasks go by monotonously and slowly, and never are granted my full attention. My conversation with Harvey from last night is never far from my mind.

Finally, the clock's diligent hands all stand at attention, and Helen tells me that I can take my lunch break first. I thank her for her kindness and pick up my coat and put it on. I walk down the stairs and out the front door into the fog. I get the feeling that I won't be seeing Helen again any time soon. I am saddened a bit at the notion, and pause to look up at the second story window. I hesitate for a moment, and take a step back toward the library door. I reach into my pocket and look at the business card with Harvey Farleone's name and phone number on it. I turn away from the library and walk down the sidewalk into the thick fog that concealed the surface of the city from prying eyes.

"Harvey?" I say into my cell phone as the gray envelopes me, "I have an answer for you."

Site Update!

2010-12-25T21:05:00.000-08:00

The On the Subject of Being Awesome blog now has three new pages! At the top of the page, you'll see tabs for the Home page, a page dedicated to The Strange Casefiles of Horatio Morgan series, a page for The Black Enigma series, and a Selected Reading page.

As always, the Home page will list the seven most recent blog posts.

The Strange Casefiles of Horatio Morgan page lists all of the chapters of the ongoing story of the Victorian paranormal detective, along with a blurb on the story and a picture of Horatio and Thaddeus. It's a good place to catch up with one of the blog's main series if you've missed any chapters.

The Black Enigma page is dedicated to the pulp vigilante and lists all of the chapters, a reading order, and the origins of the character, as well as the original character designs. Great way to catch up on the series.

The Selected Reading page contains a list of some of my (in my opinion) better short stories that I have written for the blog. Check it out if you're new and looking to see what stuff I've written thus far.

All three of the new pages will be continually updated as is necessary. Be sure to check them out and leave me any feedback that you may have.

Thanks for reading,

Matt

The Black Enigma : Holes, part 2

2010-12-25T18:19:00.000-08:00

This story takes place shortly after the events of this story,before the events of this story, and directly after Holes, part 1.

"What do you know?" I growl at Harvey.

"Regretfully," he sighs, "everything."

"Tell me now."

"I was getting there, stop interrupting. Johnny was a good detective. Probably the best one on the entire Pulopolis police force. You see, Mark, the P.P.D. is almost entirely in my father's pocket. Johnny was one of the few that wasn't."

"So your father had him killed. Great."

"You know what they say about assuming," he quips. "Actually, Johnny was working with me to try and take down the corruption. My sister and I fed him leads about my father's operations, ones that were too big for the police chiefs to turn a blind eye to. Apparently, he got one too many solid cases, however, because he--along with Martha-- was taken out by the police themselves. My father is furious with them now. They did it without his permission and they killed his daughter."

I stay silent. I know that Pulopolis is not exactly a shining beacon, but I'd never have thought it was this bad. Is he telling the truth? He must be. He has no reason to lie about something like this. And it would take a real bastard to twist his own sister's death to his advantage.

"I appreciate you telling me this," I tell him quietly. "I'm sorry for judging you so quickly."

"I can't say I blame you," he says solemnly. "Apology accepted. I have one more thing I'd like to discuss with you."

"What would that be?"

"Well," Harvey pauses thoughtfully, "How would you like to continue your brother's work?"

I look at him stunned. I don't know what to say. How could he expect me to do something like that?

"I'm not a cop," I stammer.

"I know that. I think that it may have been naive to think that sending one good snake into a pit of bad ones could solve the problem. No, I think a different method will be required."

"What do you think I can do? I'm a damn librarian."

"This city needs a hero and a symbol. I want that to be you. I'll do what I did for Johnny, but you'll be totally outside the law. You'll be masked and anonymous, and you'll have all of my resources backing you."

"I don't know anything about being a hero. I can't fight. Hell, I've never even shot a gun."

"I can provide you with all of the training you'll need and then some," Harvey tells me. "But there's a catch. You'll have to leave your old life behind and pose as my bodyguard when you aren't on the streets fighting corruption."

I think silently and glare out the window. I scratch the scruff that has been gathering on my face since I heard of Johnny's death. I can't deny there's a hole in the city. A hole that needs to be filled with justice. There's also a hole in me. One that needs vengeance to be filled. These holes can be filled by me filling this role that Harvey is describing. All while blowing holes in the dark void of crime that is swallowing Pulopolis.

"I need to think about this," I tell Harvey.

"I understand," he says as he hands me a business card. "Call me on that number when you have an answer."

I nod my head in acknowledgement as the limo pulls up in front of my apartment building. I thank Harvey for the ride and step out into the puddle-ridden sidewalk. I look up and see that the sky has ceased crying. The moon shines brighter than I've ever seen it in this smog-cursed city. It shines bright. As if a hole of light has pierced the darkness.

Santa Claus: SlayRide

2010-12-25T00:03:00.000-08:00

'Santa Claus stretched his arms wide and yawned as he dismounted his sleigh onto the snowy roof. He yawned loudly and smiled.

"Last one," he sighed, walking to the chimney. "Then it's back to the ol' workshop."

Santa lifted one leg up into the chimney. Suddenly, he was hit by a high-velocity snowball in the solar-plexus. He lost his balance and rolled down the roof and slammed into the ground below.

"What was that?" he moaned as he got up. From around the corner of the house, a few dozen sharp-toothed snowmen with glowing red eyes emerged. "Great... Humbugs."

You see, Humbugs are evil spirits intent on destroying Christmas, and try to impede Santa on his quest every Christmas Eve. They have a knack for posessing Christmasy objects and turning them into evil creatures. Snowmen are a favorite of theirs.

"I'm on the last house. Don't you guys ever give up?" Without a word, the snowmen charged at the jolly old elf. Santa roared and tore his shirt from his body, revealing his enormous pecs, finely scul[ted abdominal muscles, and his bulging arms. He swung his fists wildly at the first two snowmen, beheading them both. A spinning back kick knocked the mid section from a third.

"Rudolph, attack!" Santa called. Instantly, red lasers began blasting from the reindeer's nose on the roof, incinerating snowmen left and right. The Humbugs were losing badly. They ran for cover behind some nearby bushes.

Suddenly, the snowmen formed into a monstrous mega snowman, and it towered above the roof of the house. It reached down and tore the Christmas lights off the house, and began swinging them wildly, like they were a whip.

Santa sprinted to the house and climbed back to the roof. He quickly unharnessed Rudolph and mounted him. They took off into the air, circling above the megasnowman's head. Rudolph shot lasers from his nose, but the snowman just shrugged them off. Santa steered the reindeer into the monster's gaping mouth, where he jumped off, and was swallowed. The Humbug laughed maniacally at his victory. Then he stopped. Santa Claus tore through abdomen of the snowman with his fists, and it roared in pain. Santa climbed up to the monster's face, and with a single punch, destroyed it.

Santa returned to the sleigh and put on a spare shirt. He walked to the chimney, slid down, and placed the presents around the tree. He then returned to the North Pole and went to sleep.

And that's the story of what happened to your snowman, Billy.'

'Dad, I saw you back into it with the car.'

'Merry Christmas, Billy.'

The Black Enigma: Holes, part 1

2010-12-24T18:21:00.000-08:00

This story takes place shortly after the events of this story and before the events of this story.

The box that contains my brother lowers slowly into the abyss of worms and dirt that they call a grave. It's just a hole. A bullet hole in the body of the Earth, just like the one in Johnny's head. I have matching one in my heart. I loved my brother more than anything. He was the only family I had left. I am alone. Empty. A hole.

Johnny was a cop. He was a good man. Why would someone want him dead?

I look across the hole in the ground and look at his fellow police officers. They are solemn, staring down at the black coffin, their hats in their hands, rain pouring like tears down their bodies. They look like they want to weep, but the sky is already doing it for them.

I stand there for hours. I watch the hole in the ground become a scar of fresh dirt amongst the green grass. A hole of color. And what is the graveyard if not an enormous hole in this city? Holes within holes.

It becomes dark. A hole in the sky, perhaps? Fitting. I still stand by Johnny's gravestone, clutching the blood-red roses that are becoming bruised in the rain. I set them down finally and walk down the cobblestone path that weaved down through the graveyard to the gates. I walk out onto the sidewalk and look up at the stormy sky. It's still crying. At least I won't mourn alone.

A black limousine's lights pierce my eyes from down the street. It stops right next to where I'm standing on the sidewalk and the rear window rolled down.

"Are you Mark Colt?" the young, European looking man in a black suit asks me.

"Yeah," I say warily. "Why are you asking?"

"I'm very sorry about your loss. My sister was killed just minutes before your brother. Johnny was the first on the scene. I can't help feel that we could relate to each other, and was wondering if you'd like to talk."

I look up and down the street and see no other cars. I may as well get a ride home.

"Sure," I say, and the man opens his door. I step in and sit on the perfectly upholstered seat across from him. "Thanks for the ride. What's your name?"

"Harvey Farleone. My sister was named Martha." He extends his hand to me to shake it. I don't return the gesture.

"Farleone? Like the mob boss?" I ask accusingly.

"My father. But just because I'm related doesn't mean I approve of his actions."

"You sure don't seem to have a problem with his money," I say gesturing around the limo.

"A necessary facade to keep. I'd rather not be killed by my father," Harvey replies.

"I think I'll walk from here, thanks," I tell him with disgust.

"Please hear me out, Mark."

"I'm good, actually."

"I'm sorry if you're uncomfortable," he tells me bluntly. "But frankly, you're only getting out if I want you to, and you may as well hear what I have to say."

"Not interested," I reply.

"Is that so? So you'd rather not know why your brother is rotting in a hole?"

End of Suggestionator

2010-12-24T00:40:00.000-08:00

It's sad, but true. Over the passed few days, I've been trying figure out stories for the remaining suggestions, but they are either a) so weird I can't think of anything b) too specific and the story writes itself or c) I didn't know enough about the subject. So, apologies to Lauren, Cody, Ben, Zach, Sarah, Katie, and Chris. I actually plan to do Colin's suggestion tomorrow night, but other than that, I'm done with this. It's been fun, and I may come back to some of the ideas in the future, and I'll probably do another Suggestionator series at some point. So, again, apologies to those who didn't get a story. In case you missed them, here are the stories that did get made:

Cameron: "write about the customers"

Andy: "angels, demons, kittens, Jell-O Pudding, Bill Cosby"

Jasper/Justin Combo Deal: Part 1 and Part 2

Jazmin: "the last comic book on the shelf"

David: "guitar, schizophrenia, acid, hotel, chevy"

Manny: "China, disease, fast food, giant worm, rave"

Zach V.: "blind faith leads to death"

Suggestionator 2010: Blind Faith Leads to Death

2010-12-21T01:05:00.000-08:00

Today's Suggestionator is from Zach, who said "Blind faith leads to death." This ended up being quite a bit heavier than the others so far. For more on Suggestionator 2010, click here.

He was a young Christian man. He loved his god and his country, and was unwaveringly loyal to them both. He had been tasked by his priest to join the holy knights in the Crusades. He was to fight for all he held dear by retaking the land that was the birthplace of his religion. He was to draw his sword and defeat the heathens that defiled the ground of his forefathers.

He is a young Muslim boy. He loves Allah and he loves his country. He would do anything to protect them. He has been told by the men with guns that the only way to please Allah is to take up arms in Jihad. He fights all he holds dear by repelling the infidel from his people's home. He loads bullets in his gun and straps a bomb to his chest to send the invaders to their punishment.

He could not read, and neither could the village people. But his priest could. His priest told them what the Bible said. The priest told them of the Commandments. The priest told them that they shall not kill or steal or commit adultery. The priest told them how Jesus saved through love. The priest told them how the Christian God is to be feared and obeyed. The priest told them that the Bible commanded them to take up arms and kill the heathens that stood in their way, so that they may retake what is rightfully theirs.

He can not read, and neither can anyone in his village. But the men with guns can. They read the Qur'an to the people of the village. They tell the people of Allah's will. The men with guns tell them that they shall not steal or commit adultery or kill. They tell how every Muslim struggles within themselves to not sin, and that struggle is the true Jihad. The men with guns read from the Qur'an of how Allah is a god of oneness and how he does not take sides, for he is all things. The men with guns tell the village people that the Qur'an tells them to kill the infidels that come to their land in the name of Allah.

He packed up his things and sheathed his sword. He kissed his mother and father goodbye one last time. He went and joined the other men in the village square. The king's army rode into town, and the men of the village all fell in and marched with the army of God to retake the Holy Land.

He tosses his gun over his shoulder and packs what little he owns. He bids his parents farewell. He goes to the edge of the village where he climbs into one of the many trucks that the men with guns had brought with them. They drive off into the desert to defeat the invaders.

He wasn't a skilled swordsman. He was wounded in his first battle in Jerusalem.

He isn't a very good shot. He can't shoot a single infidel.

He laid there on the ground bleeding.

He is abandoned by his group in the midst of a fire fight.

The heathens surrounded him to take him prisoner.

The infidels circle him, intending to make him talk.

With his sword, he ran himself through.

He pulls the cord on the bomb strapped to his chest.

He dies for God. Because God wants it that way.

Suggestionator 2010: "China, disease, fast food, giant worm, rave"

2010-12-18T23:04:00.000-08:00

Yet another Suggestionator story! This one is courtesy of Manny who gave me the words "China, disease, fast-food, giant worm, rave" to work with. Here ya go!

This is Chad. He is twenty-two, single, and he's still living with his parents. He has a lot of (online) friends, and can definitely destroy your paladin*. Chad is standing behind the register of a McGreasey Burger at 10am on a Sunday. His job kind of sucks**, but that's fitting, because he loves in Sucktown, USA, which is located somewhere over there. You probably haven't heard of it, because you don't suck enough***.

Today is a particularly sucky day behind the counter of the suckiest suck-hole in Sucktown, because it's slow. When it's busy at the McGreasey Burger, Chad has something to focus on, and doesn't have time to stop and think. But, when it's slow, Chad has nothing to do except think, and when Chad thinks, he thinks about how sucky his job is, which in turn makes his life suck, and how he should probably exercise more, and why don't girls talk to him, and the food here sucks, and Sucktown is really not where he wants to spend the rest of his life.

Chad picks his nose and wipes it on the underside of the cash register. As soon as he removes his finger, the ground begins to shake violently. Before Chad has time to apologize to God**** about his obviously grievous health-code violation, Chad is knocked over on to the ground. He watches as a gaping hole appears in the lobby, swallowing all of that half of the building into the earth, tables, chairs, and the only working mop.

As Chad lays on the ground screaming like a wee girl, a monstrous worm, pale, horrifying, and towering over the roof, emerges from the hole. The worm has a huge mouth, filled with serrated, razor-sharp rows of teeth. It's easily a hundred feet tall, and as big around as an ancient redwood tree*****. He roars at the cowering cashier.

Chad screams. Yet again, it bears a striking resemblance to that of a small girl.

NOTES FOR 1st SECTION:
*This assuming that you do, indeed use a paladin. Chad made no guarantees that he could destroy any other class of character. But your paladin? He will make you paladin bend over and take it like a man.
**This is purely Chad's opinion. The author isn't not making a statement about McGreasey Burger franchises, nor is he using this to illustrate passed experiences in similarly named fast-food establishments.
***This statement is void if you are:
a) a vacuum cleaner
b) a prostitute
c) a tornado
d) a politician
****Chad doesn't actually practice any sort of religion. He's just one of those douche bags that start grovelling when they think they're about to die.
*****This simile only works if you're thinking of a very large ancient redwood tree. Not a small, or even moderately sized ancient redwood tree.
END NOTES FOR 1st SECTION

-------------------------------------------------------------

Hours earlier (ignoring time zones) in Beijing, China:

This is Jim. Jim is an earthworm* of average intelligence and build for an earthworm his age. He's also single, but only temporarily. Jim is a real hit with the ladies,** so he isn't too worried. He's just taking it easy before finding the right one.

Jim is currently chilling in the sewers below a rave in a club in Beijing, banging his head*** to the sick beats. He hangs there with a few future female prospects, getting his freak on****. The rave eventually ends, and the ladies leave, with Jim having scored a few numbers.

Jim happens to be seated in a prime position right below a drain from which a janitor has just dumped the remains of various substances that he found in the club after the partiers had left. These all fell right on top of Jim. Little does Jim know, this potent mixture of ecstasy, acid, vodka and Windex***** is about to change his life forever. Jim's worm body, absorbing just the right combination of chemicals, begins to grow and mutate at an astonishing rate, turning him into a colossal mega-worm******.

Thinking that he should seize this incredible opportunity, Jim decides to burrow straight down, through the Earth's mantle, to America, where he can finally be free*******. So he does.

NOTES FOR 2nd SECTION:
* No, I didn't do that on purpose. It's a total coincidence. Don't sue me.
** Earthworms are hermaphrodites. Roll with it.
*** Actually, that might be his tail...
**** "Kids, getting your freak on is bad."--Jesus
***** "Kids, don't do Windex."--Jesus
****** This only works on earthworms. Don't try this, it will not turn you into a superhero. You'll probably just die, and dying isn't a super-power.
******* Unless Jim wants to yell "fire" in a movie theater.
END NOTES FOR 2nd SECTION

-------------------------------------------------------------

It's now been established that Chad is a total wuss. He is cowering behind the counter of the McGreasey Burger, crying like a woman*. What Chad thinks is roaring, is actually just Jim trying to order a Double Greasey Combo with a medium Spittle. The problem is miscommunication, as Chad doesn't speak Chinese.

Instead of getting someone to translate, Chad calls the police. As Jim continues to try to order, two of Sucktown's finest** pull up in their squad cars, and began opening fire on Jim. The small caliber rounds bounce off of Jim's mega-worm skin, and one bullet even hits a passing pigeon***. Jim asks them very politely in Chinese to please stop, but they don't speak Chinese either. The police officers then completely overreact and call the military. Jim tries once more to order, but Chad is sprinting as fast as his under-worked legs can carry him across the parking lot to his mom's van that he drove to work today.

Jim, being completely appalled at the service, cuts Chad off and eats him. Jim belches and realizes that he might have been a bit drastic, but damn it, he's hungry, and if he would've just got his Double Greasey, this wouldn't have happened.

Jim worms his way back to the counter and asks for a manager. No one has time to respond to Jim's request, though, because the tanks have arrived. Just as they're about to fire and blast Jim into oblivion, Jim glows an eerie green color, and, with a flash of light, he returns to being a normal**** earthworm.

And that is the story of the day that Sucktown didn't suck. At least for a little while*****

NOTES FOR 3rd SECTION:
* That isn't sexist. If you think it is, you're probably a woman.
** Not actually very fine. It's kind of a comparative thing.
*** His name was Carl. He had a wife and two kids, with another on the way. He had so much to live for. And they took it all away. Those bastards.
**** When it is said that he is "normal," that is of course not taking into consideration Jim's uncanny ability to get women earthworms to sleep with him simply by using horribly cheesy pick-up lines.
***** This is not counting that one time.

Suggestionator 2010: "guitar, schizophrenia, ACID, hotel, chevy."

2010-12-17T23:45:00.000-08:00

For the details on Suggestionator 2010, click here. Today's story is from David, who said "guitar, schizophrenia, ACID, hotel, chevy." I kind of forgot about the Chevy part once I got going, so sorry about that. I think it's entertaining nonetheless.

Eddy Thunder is the richest rock-star on the face of the Earth. Eddy Thunder is--to be frank-- really ~~~~ing awesome.

When he was but a young lad, Eddy Thunder climbed a tall mountain with an electric guitar strapped to his back. When he reached the top, he plugged his guitar into a storm cloud, and with music powered by lightning, he shredded on his guitar, and melted the faces of the gods. He tore power-chord-sized holes in the heavens and blasted waves of liquid epic into their almighty ears.

The gods head-banged in approval and granted Eddy Thunder three wishes. His first wish, he asked that his guitar be given magical properties, so that he may slay his demonic enemies with hellfire and lightning spitting forth from his strings. The gods reached a black fingerless-gloved hand out of the clouds and it grabbed Eddy Thunder's guitar. The hand emitted a bright white light, and handed the guitar back, now infused with god-like power.

His second wish, Eddy Thunder asked for a band unlike one ever assembled before. A band sculpted out of brimstone and ~~~-kicking; one that could rock the very fabric of reality, and trash the hotel of the universe. So the gods threw up devil horns and three almighty rockers emerged from the rock that Eddy Thunder stood on, along with their instruments. Eddy Thunder dubbed his band the Deities of Doom, and it rocked.

For his third wish, Eddy Thunder asked the gods for eternal youth for him and his band, because old people are total ~~~~es. The gods granted him his wish, and with a righteous metal-scream, they left.

Eddy Thunder and the Deities of Doom descended from the peak and went on a world tour the likes of which the world had never seen. They battled ninjas on stage in Tokyo. They had a shoot-out in a saloon in Houston. Eddy out-thundered Thor in Oslo, and wrestled a bear in Moscow.

Eddy Thunder has now gone on over a dozen world tours and released 69 albums, each of which went platinum in a single day. He is currently taking some down time in his palace that is staffed completely by his personal army of super-models.

Eddy Thunder. He's pretty ~~~~ing awesome.

********************************

Edward Thomas can hear the TV talking. Not that he can process the words. It is above and to the right of his hospital bed, and it's currently trying to play the voice of the evil media corporations over the monotonous rhythm of the EKG.

"Police had to remove a homeless man from a convenience store roof last night," says the reporter's botoxed lips that sit below her nose-job, which is attached to her fake face, atop of which sits her bleached-blond hair, which flows down to her implanted breasts. "During the thunder storm, 28 year old Edward Thomas climbed up there and held his guitar straight up in the air."

If Edward could see the screen, he would watch footage of him being dragged into a police car as he grunted out words:

"I want to share my sound with you."

"The police apprehended the normally civil street-musician and took him to the hospital. We have reports that he is currently in a coma. A drug overdose is the suspected cause."

"But he just wants to share his music with you, Jan," the strong-jawed male co-host says mockingly. They both laugh.

"What a nut job. We'll be back after the commercial break."

Suggestionator 2010: The Last Comic Book On the Shelf

2010-12-17T14:06:00.000-08:00

You can find the details on Suggestionator 2010 here! Sorry for the delays in story production. I fell asleep early Wednesday night and went to see Tron: Legacy last night. So I'll be trying to do three posts today. We'll see if that happens. Today's suggestion comes from Jazmin, who told me to write about "the last comic book on the shelf."

It had been a long time since anyone had dared to hope. Hope was just one of the many things the bombs took away. They took everything and everyone. They took without prejudice or bias. They disregarded skin color, religion, and moral character. They most certainly didn't care how much anyone prayed or begged, or how thick of a wall they were hiding behind. They kept launching... and falling... and taking. And they loved everyone equally.

But eventually, the world ran out of bombs and rockets. And everything was silent. The shattered remains of the once great species stayed hidden away in the tunnels and caverns, like vermin they may once have shunned. They rebuilt down there, they survived. They dared not to emerge, for fear of what they might find. For fear of some new Hell that waited to be unleashed upon them. They feared fire, and radiation, and poison gas and nothingness. Nothingness most of all.

The boy was too young to remember the world before. He would ask his father of stories of the old world. His father tried to think of the stories. But all he'd think was of war, of disaster, of pain, of anger, of hopelessness. All before the bombs ever came.

So, he told the boys stories of the shining cities that stood tall, where men could fly and you never feared. He told him of the shadowed alleyways where evil men were never safe, for that's where the bats dwell. He told him of the skyscrapers from which men swung by webs, and of the heroes from wars long past who sat, frozen in ice, waiting to fight for us once more. He told the boy that somewhere in the tunnels, there were rats and turtles as big as men training to fight back. He warned his son that the CD player that he had saved, might not be a CD player at all.

His son asked him where the heroes had gone. He asked why they didn't stop the bombs. He asked why they had abandoned everyone.

"I don't think they ever abandoned us," his father said. "I think we abandoned our heroes."

It was twenty years later, and the boy was a man. His father had passed away some years ago. By now, the remnants of the human race had begun emerging from their holes, in search of something better. What they found, though, was what they feared. Nothingness.

There was ash, and charred segments of brick and concrete walls. There were skeletons on the streets and roaches and beetles.

The man wandered a street where he imagined men had flown above sometime before. He walked in and out of long abandoned and destroyed stores examining what little survived, hoping to find something of usefulness.

He came to a small shop. It was missing two-and-a-half walls, and nearly everything inside had burned. He could tell that at one point, there had been countless posters pinned to the walls, from the black rectangles of ash stuck on the walls. There were the remains of toys, in melted plastic packaging, scattered across the floor. Decaying wooden shelves that had once held books and magazines held piles of ash.

There was one shelf, however, that was hidden away in the back. It held something colorful. The man walked over to the color, drawn like a moth to a flame. He picked up the small magazine. It was miraculously untouched, save for a couple of charred corners. The man examined it, not knowing what it was. He had never learned to read, because he had never had anything that needed reading. He simply looked at the picture on the cover.

There, on this thing he held in his hands, the last thing of its kind, was a man, attired in bright colors. His cape was blowing regally behind him. He was high above a shining city, like the ones the man's father had told him about.

And he was flying.

Suggestionator 2010: Combo Deal, part 2

2010-12-15T12:08:00.000-08:00

I apologize for the delayed post. I was without my computer all night.
I decided to combine two of the suggestions into one story, here, and I think the result is going to be better because they really just fit. As it's two suggestions, it's also twice the length, and so this one will be a two parter! The two suggestions were Justin with "laser, meson, badger, cargo ship, cactus" and Jasper with "steampunk otter space pirates." Hope you enjoy it guys! (Part one is located here)

As Stripe rose to his feet, a face appeared on his hologram projector. It was a particularly smug looking otter with a red bandanna over its head that held down its ears. It had a scar along its right cheek bone, and appeared to be young.

"Good evening, Captain!" The otter greeted Stripe cheerfully. "If it is evening. I can never keep track in space."

"I'm going to kill you Canadensis. You've caused too much damage already, and I'm not going to let you take this ship."

"Please, Captain, call me Densis," he replied mockingly. "And I don't want the Titan. I just want what you're carrying."

"Not a chance, pirate scum," Stripe growled. "You don't know what you're toying with."

"A top secret experimental weapon. A meson bomb. I'm no physicist, but it seems to me that it wipes out all the neutral subatomic particles around it to implode, creating a shockwave of temporary, but still unimaginably destructive black holes. Sound about right, Captain?"

"You... how did you know?" Stripe said, shocked.

"I'm pretty resourceful, Cap. You should no that by now. Now you can hand over the bomb, and I won't be forced to board you and take it with gratuitous violence."

Stripe reached into his uniform and removed a black sword hilt. He pressed a button, and a glowing red blade emerged from the hilt. Densis's face flickered away.

"Prepare to be boarded!" Stripe yelled. He turned and ran out of the bridge as a second explosion hit the ship.

"Ship breached," said a robotic female voice over the ship speakers. "Ship breached. All security to hangar."

Stripe got into an elevator with a squadron of four heavily armed and armored security officers. Each one had a dark visor and helmet over their face and head, and matching breastplates and arm and leg guards. They carried high-powered laser rifles and had beam swords and pistols on their belts. The elevator door opened into the hangar.

Lasers were already flying in every direction. The sleek rustic form of the Steampunk was visible through the gaping, smoking hole in the wall, and pirate otters were pouring in on jetpacks. The otters were forcing the Titan's crew into close-combat, where they were more skilled with the blade. Others flew above on their jetpacks and fired from above, taking out the others. The Steampunk opened up its side and enormous plasma cannons emerged and began firing into the side of the ship, providing more entry points for the Steampunk's crew to board.

An otter with a jetpack came barreling off of the Steampunk and through the hole in the hangar. He flew straight over the battle and right at Captain Stripe, and tackled him. They both tumbled across the metal hangar floor and then came to a stop with Densis pinning Stripe down. The otter captain pulled out his beam sword and held it against Stripe's throat.

"Take me to it."

"Never."

"Take me to it now, or I destroy the Titan completely. It's all the same to me."

Stripe glared up at him angrily and nodded slightly. Densis reached into Stripe's uniform and removed the captain's beam sword. Densis stood up and let the unarmed captain to his feet.

"Move," Densis ordered. He held his beam sword to Stripe's back and they entered another elevator.

"What do you intend to do with it, exactly?" Stripe asked solemnly as the elevator shot upward. "Ransom?"

"I intend to disarm it and destroy all evidence of it," Densis replied simply.

"What?" Stripe said, shocked. "Why would you do such a thing? There's no gain for you."

"No gain?" Densis hissed angrily through his teeth. "Saving millions of lives doesn't seem like a gain to you?"

"I fail to see how this saves lives, pirate."

"Because I prevent your corrupt Intergalactic Alliance overlords from using it. What do you think they planning to do with a bomb that is capable of so much destruction? It could wipe out a solar system! No one should have that power. Especially not the criminals that are paying you and your men."

Stripe stood silently. The elevator door opened and Stripe led Densis down a long hallway to a blast door. Stripe entered a code on the keypad next to the door and it opened. Suspended in the middle of the circular chamber was a cube, about as big as a human head.

"That's it?" Densis asked warily.

"You're the expert," Stripe retorted.

Densis pulled a communicator from his vest and talked into it. "I've got it. Lock on my position for pick up."

Stripe glared at the otter pirate angrily.

"You've ruined me with this," he growled. "I'll be stripped of my rank, maybe even discharged."

"Well, at least they haven't stripped you of your morals, eh, Captain?"

At that moment, the room started vibrating, and a hole melted through the ceiling. Two otters fell through, attached to tow lines. One pointed his gun at Stripe while the other grabbed the meson bomb. The otter with the bomb tugged on his line, and was reeled back up through the hole. Densis walked up to the second otter and held onto the line.

"Tell your bosses I said 'hi', Captain," Densis said to Stripe. He tugged on the line and bothe otters flew up through the hole, back to the Steampunk.

Suggestionator 2010: Combo Deal!

2010-12-14T01:17:00.000-08:00

I decided to combine two of the suggestions into one story, here, and I think the result is going to be betterm because they really just fit. As it's two suggestions, it's also twice the length, and so this one will be a two parter! The two suggestions were Justin with "laser, meson, badger, cargo ship, cactus" and Jasper with "steampunk otter space pirates." Hope you enjoy it guys!

30,157 AD:

Captain Stripe of the Intergalactic Alliance's 616th fleet strolled confidently out onto the bridge of his starship. He was the commanding officer on the I.A.S. Titan, a Class Omega battlecruiser and cargo carrier. It was the flagship and pride of the 616th. The Titan was currently transporting a top secret military weapon to a base on an asteroid outpost on the other side of the galaxy. Only Stripe knew what the weapon actually was, and he was sworn to secrecy.

Captain Stripe was a badger from Earth. Not a badger as we know them now, however. He was a six foot tall, highly-evolved anthropomorphic badger, with all the dexterity and intelligence of a human being. He even walked on two legs. This was not an uncommon occurrence at this point in Earth's existence, as now homo sapiens shared dominance of the planet with various other evolved mammals, such as otters, bears, dogs, cats and monkies.

The crew of the Titan was made up of various Terran species, and even a few sentients from other planets. They were handpicked from the elite of the 616th, and were all the very best at what they did.

Stripe walked to the center of the bridge and brought up a large green hologram in front of him. It was a highly detailed map of the sector they were in, complete with real-time movement of planets, asteroids and other ships. Using his clawed, furry hands, he directed the smaller starfighters that were escorting the Titan.

"Pilot," Captain Stripe ordered, "take it nice and easy on the asteroid field up ahead. This is not cargo we can take risks with."

"Yes, sir," answered the pilot, a surly looking gorilla. "Reducing thrusters to ten percent."

Stripe ordered a squadron of fighter escorts to scout ahead of the Titan as they entered the asteroid field. He watched them on his hologram as the darted amongst the space rubble. All of a sudden, the hologram, and all of the lights flickered off and then back on again. The starfighter scouts were gone from the hologram.

"Report!" the captain yelled. "Engineering, what just happened?"

"It appears that was isolated to us, sir. Only the bridge lost power momentarily. Everything is back online now, and all readings are positive."

"Pilot, cut the engines."

"Cutting engines, sir. Thrusters reduced to minimal output."

"Navigation, is there any way around this field?" Stripe asked.

"No, sir. We're too far in now, and backing up is too risky."

"Do we have any contact with the scouting party?"

"Nothing, sir," responded the raccoon in charge of communications.

"I want all remaining starfighters on high alert. Any fighters not out there already, get them out."

There was a loud explosion, and the Titan shook violently. Stripe was knocked off balance and fell to the ground.

"Report! What hit us?!" he barked, standing back up.

"Sir," one of the officers said urgently, "we're under attack. It's the Steampunk."

To be continued!!!

Suggestionator 2010: "angels, demons, kittens, jell-o pudding, bill cosby"

2010-12-13T00:49:00.000-08:00

To view the Suggestionator 2010 details and suggestions, click here.
Next suggestion comes from Andy, who said "angels, demons, kittens, jell-o-pudding, bill cosby." I think this ended up being a pretty decent story, though I ended up not being able to fit the Jell-O in there. Hopefully Andy can forgive me.

The kitten is fluffy, round and black-furred. It peers around the corner into the living room, where the child is watching "The Cosby Show" on the television. It rolls its eyes and sighs and dashes behind the couch. How the **** did I get stuck with this ****y-*** job? the kitten thinks to himself. What makes this rugrat so ****ing special anyways?

The kitten's name is Snuggles. The demon that is currently controlling the form of the kitten is named Larry, and he absolutely abhors being called Snuggles. Satan recently tasked him with killing the two year old on the other side of the couch. Because Satan is a bit of twisted old bastard, he told Larry to do it by way of possessing the family's new pet kitten. Larry thinks it's simply a job to keep him busy, but when your boss is Satan, you don't ask questions.

The family that Larry-Snuggles belonged to was a fairly average, middle-class, suburban family living in southern California. There was nothing at all remarkable about them, as far as Larry-Snuggles could tell. There was the wife, who was a reasonably attractive, stay-at-home mom, the husband was a hard-working and honest accountant, and the child was their first, and her name was Daisy.

Larry-Snuggles had been acquired about a week ago, and the family loved him--despite his utter loathing of them. The same day that Larry-Snuggles had been brought home to Daisy, they had also got a yellow Labrador puppy. The puppy's name is Bones. Larry-Snuggles hates him with a fiery passion and has decided that he was going to kill Bones immediately after killing Daisy.

Larry-Snuggles peers around the couch at the little girl and kneads his front paws on the couch, sheathing and unsheathing his claws. A single drop of saliva splashes on the top of Larry-Snuggles's head, and he flinches and looks up. He sees Bones standing behind him, his mouth agape, and his tongue hanging out. Larry-Snuggles wipes his head with his paw and turns away, muttering.

"Worthless pile of **** animal," he says quietly.

"That's not nice," Bones whines. Larry-Snuggles turns around and stares at Bones, baffled.

"You can talk?" he asks.

"So can you," Bones says matter-of-factly.

"True enough," Larry-Snuggles says shrugging, "But that's because I'm actually a demon. And you aren't a demon."

"Nope. Not a demon."

"Damn it. Must you interfere with everything, Steve?" Larry-Snuggles moans. "Eternal damnation in the fiery pits is bad enough without you messing up every assignment I'm given."

Steve is an angel. He's currently housed in the body of Bones. He is tasked by God to make sure that Larry succeeds in as little mischief as possible. Why, just earlier in the week, Steve had helped a blind man crossing the street, thwarting Larry's plan to run him over with a sixteen-wheeler. Larry and Steve both understood that there was nothing personal about their rivalry, it was purely professional. But they were incredibly competitive, nonetheless. Steve is currently on a particularly lengthy winning streak, and Larry is getting peeved.

"It's my job, Larry," Steve-Bones says, "you know that."

"Yes, but I have quotas to fill here. The boss will crucify me if I don't come home with this one. Just give me a break here."

"No can do, pal," Steve-Bones replies. "By the way, your head is sizzling."

Larry-Snuggles screams and swipes at his smoking head. "What did you do to me?!" he cries.

"That's where my drool landed. I'm an angel. That makes my saliva holy water."

"You disgust me," Larry-Snuggles hisses. Steve-Bones opens his mouth wide and gives the possessed kitten a huge lick.

"I know," he replies, as the ethereal form of the demon leaves the confused feline. Larry turns to Steve-Bones and raises both of his middle fingers to him. Bones just pants dumbly.

*******

Ka-crack! goes Satan's whip. It's one of Satan's favorites, actually. It's lined with great white shark teeth that have been dipped in king cobra venom. It's also on fire. Satan mostly likes the fire.

Ka-crack! goes the whip as it digs into Larry's crimson scaly demon-flesh.

Ka-crack!

"I can't tolerate this kind of failure, Larry," Satan says in his businessman voice. "It's just unacceptable."

Ka-crack!

"But master," Larry says in between lashes, "why did they matter? That family was completely ordinary!"

Ka-crack!

"No," says Satan sternly, "they weren't."

Ka-crack!

"What was so ****ing special about them then?!"

Satan pauses in his torture to re-apply venom to the teeth of the whip.

"They were happy."

Ka-crack!

Suggestionator 2010: "Write about the customers"

2010-12-12T00:15:00.000-08:00

To view the Suggestionator 2010 details and suggestions, click here.
I'm going to go out of order on the suggestions as I have ideas come to me. Cameron's suggestion was "write about the customers." I work with Cameron at Pegasus Books of Bend, our local comic store, so that's what he was referring to. Hope you like it Cameron (and Jasper and Duncan too, if they read it).

It was a day like any other. Or at least it started out as one. It was 1:33pm on a December Saturday, and I was standing behind the counter at the comic book store. I flipped the page of the latest issue of New Avengers (which is interesting enough to read, but crappy enough not to spend money on) and glanced out the window, and saw the snow blow gently across the sparse downtown streets. The neon sign in the window read "open" but the white powder covering the sidewalks told Bend to stay inside.

It was a slow day. There had been a few regulars in to pick up their comics, and a board game player or two, but nothing extraordinary. I returned my attention to the comic book on the counter and chuckled as Spider-Man made a poop joke.

The bell on the door jingled softly and a quick gust of cold air swept in, followed by the door closing a bit too forcefully. I looked up and saw a well-built man in a long grey coat. He had glasses and a hat to accompany his warm smile and strong jaw-line. He had dark black hair that was all neat but for a single curl hanging in front of his forehead. He smiled warmly and I greeted him.

"Hi, how are you?" I said, putting the comic out of sight under the counter.

"I'm just fine, thanks," he replied. "It's pretty chilly."

"I know, I can't stand it," I replied.

"I've vacationed in colder spots," he said, as he looked at a collection of Prince Valiant comic strips.

"Can I help you find anything?" I ask the visitor.

"No, I don't think so. I'm just browsing. Thank you though."

"Alright. Just so you know, the used books on the other side of the store are half of the cover price," I told him habitually. He nodded in acknowledgement and wandered over to the used section.

I walked around the store for a few minutes, straightening books while the customer browsed the books silently. I was returning a copy of The Hunger Games back to its appropriate place on the shelf when I heard the man say something from the other side of the shelf:

"Oh no. Not now."

Instantly, the window shattered into countless shards as a grey-skinned man dressed in an off-color Superman costume crashed into the store.

"You am not looking for Superman," he grunted at me with crossed eyes.

"Excuse me?"

"Bizarro am not looking for Superman."

"Kid," the customer poked his head around the corner. "Are there any phone booths around here?"

"Who uses phone booths?" I asked, confused.

"Customer service is great in this store! Bizzaro am not trying to talk!"

"Just answer me!" the customer said urgently.

"Yeah, actually. There's one down that street," I said as I pointed down Bond Street. "Probably the last one in the county."

The customer ignored my remark and dashed out the door towards the phone booth. I turned back towards the crazed Superman fan that had crashed through the window.

"Bizarro not wants Superman later!" he yelled at me.

"Superman?" I asked warily. I dashed around the corner and grabbed the latest issue of the "Grounded" story arc and handed it to him. The writing was crap, but he didn't seem like much of a critic. He stared at the cover for a moment, then tore it in half and tossed it on the floor.

"Bizarro am not wanting real Superman!"

The bell on the door jingled again.

"Wish granted, Bizarro."

Superman punched Bizarro straight back out the open window. He turned to me and winked, then shot out after him.

I looked down at the floor. There was broken glass everywhere, an issue of Superman laid in shreds, and a copy of Ice Towers had been destroyed by Bizarro in his entry.

"Duncan is going to be so pissed," I said.

SAMURAI: Laser-Beam Shark-Dragon

2010-12-11T14:11:00.000-08:00

I narrowly dodge the laser beam that blasts out of the shark's mouth. Yes, laser beam, yes shark. Though, to be fair, it's a giant shark (giant meaning humpback whale sized). And it's also flying and has short clawed arms and legs. Sort of a dragon-shark. The laser isn't so hard to accept now, is it?

I'm an agent of SAMURAI, so it's my job to take this guy down before he causes too much damage. There are three different divisions of SAMURAI: experimental weapons division, giant robots division, and superhuman division. I'm one of the latter. My name is Warrior Who Strikes Like Tsunami. It sounds cooler in Japanese.

So, back to the shark-dragon. He flaps his enormous wings above the water, hovering in place. The force of his wings creating huge waves that are crashing up into the harbor, and gale-force winds to accompany them. I fly straight at him, my blue and white spandex super-suit protecting me from the wind sheer. He fires another blast from his mouth, and I roll quickly to the right, dodging it. He roars in anger as I slam into him, putting my super-strength to use. I punch holes into his snout, but it has no effect except aggravating him further.

I need to change my strategy. I can't let him get above land.

I push forcefully off of his snout, slamming his mouth shut. I fly at top-speed to his leathery wings and grab on. I hold on tightly as he flaps wildly, trying to throw me off. I pull with all my strength and tear a huge hole in the wing, which covers me in purple dragon-shark blood. He flails in mid-air, unable to to keep flying with just one wing, and he crashes into the sea.

You'd think that would be a job well done. You'd be wrong. See, there are two things wrong here. First one, I fell into the water with the shark-dragon, and he's super pissed right now. Second thing, is he's still alive. Tokyo has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to giant monsters. That means I have to put this sucker down.

The monster whirls around, now much quicker in the water. He looks at me and opens his mouth wide and lunges at me. I shoot into his mouth and down his throat. You'd be surprised at how often getting eaten is actually part of the plan. Now comes the gross part. I put my super-strength to use one more time and double-punch a huge hole out of the creature's stomach. I fly to the surface and out into the open air, covered in purple monster ooze and sea water.

Just another day at the office.

SAMURAI: Secret Anti-Monster Unit and Robotic Arsenal Initiative

2010-12-10T00:17:00.000-08:00

"Wow," my partner said to me, staring straight up. "He's a big one."

"Yeah," I said in agreement. "And I think he might be growing."

We have some pretty unique problems here in Tokyo. Most big cities are worried about their economies, or their effect on the environment, or something like that. We don't give stuff like that too much thought here (though we try to keep radioactive waste to an absolute minimum). Our problems are a bit bigger than that. The USA is always complaining about their immigrants. Well they can complain once they've seen the characters we get. At least Mexican people work.

Yeah, our problems are pretty gargantuan. And it's my job to deal with them, as a SAMURAI field agent. That doesn't mean I get to walk around with a ponytail and swinging a katana either. Though I do get to use katanas when I feel like it. No, usually these sort of problems take weapons with a bit more kick. I'm just one of the guys who gets to pull the trigger.

I'm Hayato Murakami, I'm an agent of SAMURAI, and I fight giant monsters.

Short teaser for an upcoming story. More to come!

The Strange Casefiles of Horatio Morgan, Chapter 7

2010-12-09T01:04:00.000-08:00

For the previous chapters in the series, click here.

"Lovely night, isn't it, Ferris?" Horatio asked his surly companion as the strolled the gas-lit streets of London.

"Quite," Ferris said distractedly.

"I've been meaning to ask you something, Ferris. Why is it that you were able to change in daytime? There's no moon, let alone a full one."

"We can do it at will. However, when there's a full moon, we can't control the transformation during a full moon," he answered in his gruff voice.

"I see," Horatio said thoughtfully. "Why was Roderick outside, then, knowing that?"

"I don't kn--" Ferris was interrupted by Horatio shushing him and yanking him by the shirt into dark side alley and holding a hand over his mouth. Horatio held a finger to his lips and pointed. Three men rounded the street corner. They had hoods over their heads and were dressed in black cloaks with gold trim and wore decorative masks that were bright crimson. They talked quietly to one another and walked slowly with their hands together like monks. They turned down another street and out of sight. Horatio motioned for Ferris to follow and they snuck after the three.

They wound through the streets, keeping a safe distance from them, but never letting them out of sight. As they went farther, more of them came out of houses and alleyways to join the group. They grew in number as they went, until there were over twenty of them.

A nearby clock tower began chiming the notes of the witching hour. The group came to join numerous others already gathered, and knelt, as if they worshipped the chimes.

"The Temple of Time," Horatio said quietly, "it's Big Ben."

Season's Beatings

2010-12-07T22:30:00.000-08:00

I couldn't think of a story tonight, so I drew you a quick picture instead.

The Black Enigma: Filth, epilogue

2010-12-07T01:33:00.000-08:00

He stared down at the city streets far below, through window panes distorted with sheets of rolling rain, his frame silhouetted by fluorescent lights from a skyscraper on the opposite side of the street. He twirled his sword frivolously as he took a haughty sip of red wine from a sexually curved glass. All the lights in the penthouse room behind him were off, the only light was that which entered through the window, causing an dull, eerie, multi-colored blanket to be tossed across the walls.

The door behind him opened and a short, pathetic, snivelling man waddled toward him on a bridge of light cast by the opened door.

"Sir Skull," the little man whined, "forgive my...hff... intrusion. But we have just got some...hrn...unfortunate...news from your dog-fighting tournament."

Sir Skull raised his silk-robed arm and slowly sipped his wine, never looking away from the window. "And?"

"And it appears it has been...urr... discovered, and the dogs...heh... let loose, and...ahem... many men were killed." He coughed and sniffed his nose loudly, sucking his mucus farther back into his nostrils.

Sir Skull stood silent. He sipped his wine one more time. "And this is all we know?"

"Apparently...hhk... the man who did it... hak!... calls himself 'The Black Enigma.'"

"That room," Sir Skull said slowly in a silky French accent, "was filled to capacity with thugs and killers, and you're trying to tell me that one man was able to take them all down?"

"Ahem... yes, sir," the little squeaked.

"Is that all you have to tell me?"

"Yes, sir."

Sir Skull grabbed the little man by the back of his neck and raised him off the ground. He moved his sword with near imperceptible speed and ran him through his stomach. He pulled the sword out as smoothly as it had entered and smashed the man against the window, which shatters, and the man falls to the puddled pavement below.

"An enigma," Sir Skull said to himself between sips of wine, "is just begging to be solved."

The Black Enigma: Filth, part 3

2010-12-05T21:34:00.000-08:00

I move slowly and casually around the edges of the screaming mob. Curses and vulgarities are tossed about as casually as their money and the innocent dogs' lives. They yell angrily down into the middle where two dogs snap at each others' throats for the benefit of their owner's wallet. I sneak up behind the guard next to the iron door. I pull a tranquilizer dart out of the inside of my coat and stab it into his jugular as I pull the keys out of his pocket. I unlock the heavy door and slide inside, and pull it shut behind me.

I turn and see rows of cages housing angry starved dogs of all breeds. They look at me with hungry eyes and bear their teeth with a combination of growls and whimpers. I turn to lock the door, and hear the unmistakable sound of two pistols behind me. I turn around and see two men, who I presume to be canine slave-drivers, pointing their firearms at me from the other end of the room.

"Well," I say as I reach unnoticeably into my coat pocket, "this isn't the lady's room." I toss a couple smoke-pellets at the criminals and dive for cover as they open fire. The smoke fills the room quickly and I can hear the two men coughing wildly. I dart around the room, following the wall. Drawing my escrima sticks from my jacket, and leap at them from behind. I land a solid blow on the back of one of their heads, and he goes down instantly. The second whips around and fires his gun wildly, missing me by a healthy distance. I bring my right stick down on his wrist hard, breaking it, and he drops the gun. I extend my right arm, and bring the end of the stick swiftly across his face, and he falls to the ground.

I take miniature plastic explosives out of the inside pockets of my trenchcoat and stick them on the locks to each cage. There were about fifty dogs in all. I wake one of the two men and sit him up.

"I need your help with something," I say politely.

"Fuck you man," he growls at me. I smack him across the face with the escrima stick again, knocking him out. I wake him again.

"I need your help with something," I repeat.

"You got it," he says groggily. "Anything."

"You're too gracious. Now, I've set explosives on each of the cages here. I have the detonator. I'm going to go out there in the middle of all those scumbags, and let loose the two dogs fighting. When I'm clear, I need you to open that door. Can you do that?" He nods at me and I pat him on the shoulder. "Good. Because if you don't, I will hunt you down and put a bullet between your eyes."

I stand and walk over to the door. Before unlocking it, I make sure my pipe is filled. I click the key, and step out. I push my way down through the crowd until I'm right next to the fenced in dog-fighting ring. I take every smoke pellet I have left and toss them into the ring, blinding everyone in the room. I put a tranquilizer dart in each of the dogs to keep them from attacking me, and step over the fence. I wait for the smoke to clear, and strike a pose filled with ego and machismo. I puff on my pipe and the smoke clears, revealing me, standing in the center of a hundred criminals and low-lifes, with the fence down, and the dogs unconscious. They yell insults and threats at me, but I just smirk and chuckle.

"You are all scum," I say loudly, silencing the crowd. "Criminals, depraved and worthless. You are filth. And you've been flowing over this city's streets un-opposed for far too long. That changes now. I am The Black Enigma, and I'm coming for you."

I bend down and give both dogs the antidote, who wake instantly and angrily. I fire my harpoon line into the ceiling high above and start retracting it, raising me into the air to safety as the dogs begin attacking the nearest spectators. I detonate the explosives and see my helper throw the door open and the dogs pour out into the crowd, attacking hungrily. I swing on my cable to the door I'd come in from and land safely on the ground. I shut and bolt it, and turn down the tunnel from which I came. I can hear barks and screams and cries from within the room.

"Not bad," I say to myself. "Not bad at all."

The Black Enigma: Filth, part 2

2010-12-05T00:49:00.000-08:00

My unfortunate victim passes out instantly. I lift him off the ground and toss him in the dumpster for safe keeping. I pull my pipe from my mouth, let a ring of smoke escape my mouth, and glance down at the puddle that the man had landed in. In my reflection, I am wearing red gloves, a black domino mask, black pants and boots and a long black trench coat with red buttons over a dark brown shirt and red tie. I am The Black Enigma.

I walk over to the entryway to the subterranean scandal and remove the manhole cover. A pungent stink belches forth from the exposed orifice in the asphalt. Waste, death and crime assault my nostrils with astounding force. Its a aroma that can be described most aptly as filth.

I use the flash light built into the tips of my gloves' index fingers and scan the bottom of the hole for potential ambushes. Seeing nothing but bile-green water and rats, I descend the iron ladder into the liquid scum and vermin. I step in, ankle deep in feces and urine, and draw my gun. I hold it with both hands, right finger on the trigger, left shining its flashlight. I scan once more around and see nothing suspicious. I realize now that I have a problem. I am unsure of which way the first two men had gone in the tunnel.

"If I were filth, which way would I go?" I ask myself quietly. I glance down at the sewage flowing around my feet and see its flowing to my right. "I suppose I'd follow the rest of the filth."

I begin walking down the tunnel with the direction of the stream. Every step seems to echo endlessly in either direction, and the squeaking rats seem to surround me at all times. After a long time, the exact duration of which I'm not sure, I begin to hear barking and voices from further down the tunnel. I flick off my finger light and proceed slowly, hugging the slimy gray wall. The barking is louder now and I see lights coming from an opening ahead. I make way to the corner, and the roar of human yells, canine barks, and bestial growls is deafening now.

I peer slowly around the corner and see an unnaturally large guard blocking the entrance. No way I'll be able to take this behemoth down one-on-one. I holster my gun and reach inside my right glove and click something. I straighten my jacket, and strut around the corner and walk confidently straight at the rhinoceros of a man.

"Hey, who the he--" He begins to try to stop me but I slam my right palm into his sternum, which sends him flying into the wall, and limply, he crumples into the scum. Glove-taser.

Before anyone can notice, I dart inside and find a shadowed corner to observe from, unnoticed. The room is the size of a small school cafeteria, with a domed ceiling and a floor that descends to what I assume is the area where the dogs are fighting. There are over a hundred shady looking individuals crowded in the center, blocking my view, but that's where most of the barking is coming from. Most. Where are the rest of the dogs? I scan the perimeter of the room and see an iron door directly across from me, and another plus-sized individual guarding it. And just like that, I have a plan.

The Black Enigma: Filth, part 1

2010-12-04T01:04:00.000-08:00

The skies of my city were weeping. I watch the steamy breath from my nostrils mingle with the smoke of my pipe as the clouds' tears drew rivulets in the creases in my trench coat and dripped off the ends of my hair before my eyes. The all too familiar wail of distant police sirens plays a melody against the beat of the rain striking concrete. The rhythm it composes is like the beating of a heart that keeps the city flowing. But it's a black heart. A heart that pains itself with every pump.

I crouch here, perched among the dark spires high above the neon and asphalt. It is the witching hour, but in this town, there is always more than magic afoot. I glance down into the alleyway to my left and see two men removing a man hole cover. I watch as they glance around nervously and descend into darkness. Another man comes up from the hole and covers it back up. He walks over and stands behind a nearby dumpster, cloaked in shadows. Catching a smoke between his sanitation shifts? Not likely.

I back up from my perch on the edge of the building. Taking a pinch of tobacco from my pocket, I make certain my pipe is suitably loaded. I tighten my mask, straighten my trenchcoat. With ease, I take a running leap and land silent on the roof of the building across the alley, which the man is leaning against. I stand and brush myself off and peer down at the man below, who doesn't seem to have noticed my acrobatics. I lock my wrist-mounted harpoon zipline onto the roof, pull out one of my pistols, and began to lower myself down the wall, as if I were just another of the countless raindrops. A few feet above the man's head, I reach into my pocket and drop three smoke-pellets into the alley. The next thing the shocked, blinded and coughing man knows, I am behind him with my arm around his neck and the barrel of my gun pressed aggressively against his temple.

The rain quickly washes away the smoke, and I can see my victim clearly. He is a scruffy man, with ragged clothing. From his smell, I can tell he likes cheap cigarettes and even cheaper liquor. He squirms futilely and grunts colorful phrases at me. I reach around and pluck the cigarette from his mouth and toss it to the pavement, where it hisses in a puddle. I remove my pipe from my mouth and pass it under his nostrils, letting the smoke invade his olfactory.

"Smell that?" I ask in my best tough-man growl, "That's what real tobacco smells like. If what you were smoking tastes half as bad as it smelled, it would still make me vomit."

"Who the hell are you, man?" he squeaks in an attempt at machismo.

"I might answer you after you answer all of my questions. Why did those two men go down there?"

"I'm telling you! You a cop or something?"

"I told you, I'm in more of a mood to ask right now. Now tell me why they went down there."

"No way!" he says defiantly.

I pull my pipe out of my mouth once more and press the hot end against neck, leaving a circular red burn.

"Ah! Shit!" He pulls away in pain.

"Tell me."

"Okay okay! Jesus!" he whines. "They got a dog fighting league going on down under. Those two guys were just small time. Not owners, just going to bet. I'm the lookout."

"That wasn't so hard was it?" I let go of him and toss him on the asphalt. He lands on his back in a puddle, looking up at me. I point my gun at his chest and pull back the hammer. "And to answer your question," I fire the gun, which sticks a bright red tranquilizer dart into him. "I am The Black Enigma."

Meet The Black Enigma

2010-12-03T13:02:00.000-08:00

Click to biggify.

Please forgive the poor scanning quality. The above is the preliminary design for a pulp-noir-detective character I created last night/this morning with the tentative name of "The Black Enigma." He came about from a desire to write Batman stories, but, having told myself that I'd never write fan-fic, I had to make a Batman-esque character. The only thing I had to go off of initially is that he was going to be a darkly-clad vigilante and he had to have a domino mask. The first botched attempt is seen in the top left. I decided that the face looks too much like Green Lantern, and the rest of the design already looked boring. The next one I gave up on quickly because I pretty much had started drawing Kato from Green Hornet. My best design is the colored full body shot. I'm pretty happy with it. It ended up being a sort of visual mash-up of Sherlock Holmes and Will Eisner's Spirit. In the top right are also some random names that a was tossing around. I think that Black Enigma is the strongest one though. Storywise, I'm not quite ready to reveal anything yet, but that may change come tonight's post. Tell me what you think of the name and the look.