I've just posted a bunch of old work recovered from old Myspace blog posts. After losing so many writing sites I hope that this will now be the definitive place to store and read all my work.
Here are the Comicbook Rockstar posts which I will be continuing as my career in comics develops.
Comicbook Rockstar
Here are the short stories that make up the superhero dating series TwentySix.
TwentySix
And here are just some random short stories that I really like:
Short Stories
I'll be focusing on some other older works I enjoy soon as I work on new scripts.
See what a mix of the old and new can produce.
K
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Star Wars: Jedi Battle Old School Script
Page 1
PANEL 1- Wide shot to show the entire city of a high tech futuristic world and atop a huge silver skyscraper (Even the flying cars don’t go this high) stand two men.
PANEL 2- Zoom in. One dressed in a dark cloak (Mal-Zey Kahnn) the other (Meh-Ran Kahnn) in his Jedi robes.
PANEL 3- Zoom in close behind Meh-Ran Kahnn. Shot from his waist with his lightsaber in the foreground and Mal-Zey Kahnn in the background. Both men hold unignited lightsabers in their hands.
PANEL 4- Similar shot from Meh-Ran Kahnn’s waist.
Page 2
PANEL 1- Shot of Meh-Ran Kahnn. A look of grim determination on his face.
MEH-RAN: Mal-Zey Kahnn! For atrocities committed against your kin and clan…
PANEL 2- Opposite of panel 1 shot of Mal-Zey Kahnn. Mal-Zey grins menacingly from beneath his hood. His smile is the only thing visible, and barely.
MAL-ZEY: What clan? They’re all dead…
PANEL 3- Back to Panel 1 shot of Meh-Ran.
MEH-RAN: And by the authority of the Jedi Council…
PANEL 4- Same as Panel 2.
MAL-ZEY: Don’t make me laugh. I know full well that they no longer support your vengeance-fueled quest to bring me in. Something about your methods…
PANEL 5- Same as panel 1 but now Meh-Ran is getting enraged.
MEH-RAN: I ORDER you to lay down your lightsaber and surrender yourself!
PANEL 6- Same as panel 2 but now with one hand Mal-Zey is pulling back the hood of his cloak.
MAL-ZEY: That’s not what you really want…you want to pry it from my cold, dead fingers…tell me, am I right…
Page 3
PANEL 1- Big panel shot of Mal-Zey with his hood thrown back. He looks almost identical to Meh-Ran with tribal tattoos around his eyes.
MAL-ZEY: Brother?
PANEL 2- Meh-Ran still enraged even further.
MEH-RAN: YOU ARE NO LONGER MY BROTHER! PREPARE YOUR SOULSELF! FOR NOW, YOU DIE!
PANEL 3- Wide shot similar to page 1 panel 3, pulled back just a bit to see Meh-Ran’s lightsaber ignite.
PANEL 4- Wide shot similar to page 1 panel 4, pulled back to see Mal-Zey’s lightsaber ignite as well.
Page 4
PANEL 1- Meh-Ran charges swinging his lightsaber.
PANEL 2- Mal-Zey raises his lightsaber before him, but otherwise stands unmoving.
PANEL 3- Meh-Ran slams his lightsaber down and Mal-Zey blocks it. This should be a huge panel. Emphasis on the sparks between their lightsabers.
Page 5
Short but fluid shots to give that quick kung fu quality of a lightsaber duel.
PANEL 1- Mal-Zey pushes Meh-Ran back a few steps.
PANEL 2- Mal-Zey whips his lightsaber around and goes for a side shot.
PANEL 3- Meh-Ran swings his lightsaber down and blocks it.
PANEL 4- Meh-Ran whips his lightsaber up and swings for Mal-Zey’s neck. Mal-Zey’s lightsaber shoots up and blocks.
PANEL 5- Meh-Ran swings his lightsaber around tries the same attack from the other side.
PANEL 6- Mal-Zey blocks, knocking Meh-Ran’s lightsaber wide.
Page 6
More short, quick, and fluid shots.
PANEL 1- Mal-Zey thrusting his lightsaber, Meh-Ran flipping to the side.
PANEL 2- Mal-Zey slams his lightsaber down and Meh-Ran backflips, barely avoiding it.
PANEL 3- Meh-Ran leaps with an upward thrust meant for Mal-Zey’s head.
PANEL 4- Mal-Zey ducks and spins around and swings his lightsaber in an upward stroke just missing Meh-Ran and slicing some antennae and various arrays in half.
PANEL 5- Meh-Ran brings his lightsaber around and swings low. Mal-Zey leaps in the air.
PANEL 6- Mal-Zey lands atop a large rectangular device (like the massive air conditioners on top of buildings in NYC).
Page 7
PANEL 1- Meh-Ran stabs his lightsaber into the massive machine.
PANEL 2- Meh-Ran leaps into the air ripping the machine in two. Mal-Zey forward flips over Meh-Ran’s lightsaber’s arc.
PANEL 3- Mal-Zey lands in a defensive crouch with his back slightly turned towards Meh-Ran.
MAL-ZEY: Not bad, brother! If you fought like this back then maybe that wife and runt of yours would still be alive.
PANEL 4- Meh-Ran has lost it. A berserker fury has taken over. He runs at Mal-Zey.
PANEL 5- The lightsabers slam together sparking.
PANEL 6- Mal-Zey leans in close as they are pushing against each other’s lightsaber.
MAL-ZEY: That’s it brother, use that rage! Only by embracing the Dark Side will you destroy me!
Page 8
More fast and furious panels.
PANEL 1,2,3,4,5,6- Meh-Ran swings his lightsaber around. Meh-Ran lets loose with a barrage of strong blows. Mal-Zey blocks most with no problem, but the last few get a little closer than he’d like. Mal-Zey is backing up, the edge of the building is getting closer. The winds are getting fiercer as well.
Page 9
PANEL 1- Mal-Zey is blocking and looking a little nervous. He’s very close to the edge.
MEH-RAN: What’s the matter, brother?
PANEL 2- Mal-Zey is right on the edge now.
MEH-RAN: May your soulself burn in the Eternal Fires of Saizu!
PANEL 3- Meh-Ran swings his lightsaber down about to cut Mal-Zey down, or at least knock him from the building.
PANEL 4- Mal-Zey dives and rolls to Meh-Ran’s left.
PANEL 5- Meh-Ran is in mid arc as Mal-Zey brings his lightsaber around. He is aiming for Meh-Ran’s forearm.
Page 10
PANEL 1- Huge panel of Meh-Ran’s lightsaber arm being sliced in two by the elbow. Meh-Ran is holding back the pain.
PANEL 2- Shot close up of Meh-Ran’s arm holding the lightsaber as it plummets over the side of the building. It should be miles upon miles to the ground. We shouldn’t even see the ground.
PANEL 3- Close up of Meh-Ran’s face. Pain, rage, and fear.
PANEL 4- Shot of Mal-Zey with his lightsaber still ignited, chuckling to himself.
PANEL 5- Shot of the arm and lightsaber a little further than before.
PANEL 6- Full shot of Meh-Ran turning to his right to face Mal-Zey. He is extending his left arm.
Page 11
PANEL 1- Shot of the lightsaber being ripped free from Meh-Ran’s lost arm and flying through the air.
PANEL 2- Shot of Mal-Zey chuckling again, with his lightsaber raised about to strike.
PANEL 3- Close shot of Meh-Ran’s lightsaber flying up into his left hand.
PANEL 4- Huge panel of Meh-Ran slicing a gash across Mal-Zey’s chest. Mal-Zey is very surprised, to say the least.
Page 12
PANEL 1- Mal-Zey looks up and he is pissed off. But he is also smirking.
MAL-ZEY: My, my, brother…I didn’t know you had it in you to be so…brutal. I like it.
PANEL 2- Meh-Ran readies for another strike to end this.
PANEL 3- Mal-Zey throws his hand forward.
PANEL 4- Meh-Ran is slammed backwards off the side of the building.
PANEL 5- Downwards shot of Meh-Ran falling backwards.
PANEL 6- Mal-Zey readies himself and leaps off the side off the building.
MAL-ZEY: WAIT FOR ME BROTHER!
Page 13
PANEL 1- Mal-Zey drops through the air feet first, streamlining his body, to catch up to Meh-Ran. Lightsaber still ignited.
PANEL 2- Side shot of Meh-Ran flailing through the air and Mal-Zey catching up as they plummet down the building past domed catwalks filled with surprised onlookers.
PANEL 3- Mal-Zey turns his body to catch the wind to slow himself, and attacks with his lightsaber.
PANEL 4- Meh-Ran blocks the blow with his lightsaber.
PANEL 5- The two men spin through the air while swinging their lightsabers wildly, blocking each other’s shots.
PANEL 6- Meh-Ran whips himself backward through the air.
Page 14
PANEL 1- Meh-Ran and Mal-Zey just miss a domed catwalk, each of them passing on either side.
PANEL 2- Mal-Zey leans forward, shooting towards Meh-Ran, lightsaber stretched forward.
PANEL 3- Meh-Ran curls up and spins over Mal-Zey’s head.
PANEL 4- Meh-Ran uncurls, and lashes out with his lightsaber, Mal-Zey blocks.
PANEL 5- Meh-Ran shoots his hand out, while still gripping his lightsaber.
PANEL 6- Mal-Zey slams against the building, letting out a loud “Ooomph!”
Page 15
PANEL 1- Meh-Ran then points and shoots his hand upwards.
PANEL 2- Mal-Zey is still woozy from the hit against the building. His lightsaber gets yanked free from his hand and flies upward.
PANEL 3- Meh-Ran moves in close and grabs Mal-Zey. Meh-Ran holds his lightsaber just inches from Mal-Zey.
MEH-RAN: I will have my revenge before I die!
PANEL 4- Meh-Ran about to strike, suddenly looks very surprised, as does Mal-Zey.
Page 16
PANEL 1- Side shot of the two slamming into a passing flying car.
PANEL 2- The car is big enough so they didn’t damage it too bad, they just smashed into the roof. It stops flying and hovers.
PANEL 3- The two men are very woozy but are getting to their feet. An alien pops out of the roof hatch.
PANEL 4- Shot of the alien. He looks pissed off.
PANEL 5- Shot of the two men from the alien’s POV. They are broken, battered, and beaten and look very, very pissed off too.
PANEL 6- The alien mocking a whistle goes back into the hatch, sealing it behind him.
Page 17
PANEL 1- Meh-Ran turns back to Mal-Zey. He reignites his lightsaber and begins walking towards Mal-Zey. Mal-Zey is looking up, discretely.
MEH-RAN: Now, I finish this.
PANEL 2- Mal-Zey holds his hand out.
PANEL 3- Shot of Mal-Zey’s lightsaber falling through the air.
PANEL 4- Huge panel of Mal-Zey, who, in one fluid motion caught his lightsaber and blocks Meh-Ran’s strike.
Page 18
PANEL 1,2,3,4,5,- Various shots of the lightsaber duel continuing atop the hovering car. Fast, furious, and just nasty fighting.
PANEL 6- Mal-Zey tackles Meh-Ran and they drop off the car.
Page 19
PANEL 1- Meh-Ran is struggling with Mal-Zey as they fall.
PANEL 2- They continue to struggle as a catwalk is approaching fast.
PANEL 3- Big panel of them smashing through the roof and hitting the catwalk. No one is on this catwalk. Meh-Ran takes the brunt of the fall.
PANEL 4- The two men lay there unable to move for the moment.
Page 20
PANEL 1- Mal-Zey is scrambling as he lays flat against the ground for Meh-Ran’s lightsaber, which is just out of his reach. Meh-Ran sees what he is reaching for and pulls him back by his leg.
PANEL 2- Mal-Zey is crawling towards it and Meh-Ran is dragging himself along using Mal-Zey’s robes.
PANEL 3- Closer and closer. Mal-Zey’s fingers are an inch away. Meh-Ran is almost lying next to Mal-Zey.
PANEL 4- Mal-Zey grips the lightsaber. Meh-Ran grabs Mal-Zey around the neck.
PANEL 5- Shot of the lightsaber igniting.
PANEL 6- Shot of a manic Meh-Ran as he SNAPS Mal-Zey’s neck.
Page 21
PANEL 1- Big panel of Meh-Ran pushing himself to his feet. The Mal-Zey corpse lies at his feet.
PANEL 2- Shot of Meh-Ran looking solemn and remorseful.
MEH-RAN: What have I done brother? What have I become? I am the true tragedy of our clan. I have let our legacy die in disgrace and hatred.
PANEL 3- Meh-Ran picks up his lightsaber.
MEH-RAN: Forgive me my clan, forgive me Meh-Li, Meh-Bya…
PANEL 4- Meh-Ran looks distantly at Mal-Zey’s body.
MEH-RAN: Forgive me brother…I’m sorry I wasn’t able to save you this time.
PANEL 5- Meh-Ran drops to his knees, lightsaber in hand.
Meh-Ran: May Tensou have mercy on my soulself.
Page 22
PANEL 1- Half page close shot of Meh-Ran driving his lightsaber into his stomach.
PANEL 2- The rest of the page is a far shot of the catwalk, centered on Meh-Ran lying dead on his side, next to Mal-Zey. Lightsaber unignited.
PANEL 1- Wide shot to show the entire city of a high tech futuristic world and atop a huge silver skyscraper (Even the flying cars don’t go this high) stand two men.
PANEL 2- Zoom in. One dressed in a dark cloak (Mal-Zey Kahnn) the other (Meh-Ran Kahnn) in his Jedi robes.
PANEL 3- Zoom in close behind Meh-Ran Kahnn. Shot from his waist with his lightsaber in the foreground and Mal-Zey Kahnn in the background. Both men hold unignited lightsabers in their hands.
PANEL 4- Similar shot from Meh-Ran Kahnn’s waist.
Page 2
PANEL 1- Shot of Meh-Ran Kahnn. A look of grim determination on his face.
MEH-RAN: Mal-Zey Kahnn! For atrocities committed against your kin and clan…
PANEL 2- Opposite of panel 1 shot of Mal-Zey Kahnn. Mal-Zey grins menacingly from beneath his hood. His smile is the only thing visible, and barely.
MAL-ZEY: What clan? They’re all dead…
PANEL 3- Back to Panel 1 shot of Meh-Ran.
MEH-RAN: And by the authority of the Jedi Council…
PANEL 4- Same as Panel 2.
MAL-ZEY: Don’t make me laugh. I know full well that they no longer support your vengeance-fueled quest to bring me in. Something about your methods…
PANEL 5- Same as panel 1 but now Meh-Ran is getting enraged.
MEH-RAN: I ORDER you to lay down your lightsaber and surrender yourself!
PANEL 6- Same as panel 2 but now with one hand Mal-Zey is pulling back the hood of his cloak.
MAL-ZEY: That’s not what you really want…you want to pry it from my cold, dead fingers…tell me, am I right…
Page 3
PANEL 1- Big panel shot of Mal-Zey with his hood thrown back. He looks almost identical to Meh-Ran with tribal tattoos around his eyes.
MAL-ZEY: Brother?
PANEL 2- Meh-Ran still enraged even further.
MEH-RAN: YOU ARE NO LONGER MY BROTHER! PREPARE YOUR SOULSELF! FOR NOW, YOU DIE!
PANEL 3- Wide shot similar to page 1 panel 3, pulled back just a bit to see Meh-Ran’s lightsaber ignite.
PANEL 4- Wide shot similar to page 1 panel 4, pulled back to see Mal-Zey’s lightsaber ignite as well.
Page 4
PANEL 1- Meh-Ran charges swinging his lightsaber.
PANEL 2- Mal-Zey raises his lightsaber before him, but otherwise stands unmoving.
PANEL 3- Meh-Ran slams his lightsaber down and Mal-Zey blocks it. This should be a huge panel. Emphasis on the sparks between their lightsabers.
Page 5
Short but fluid shots to give that quick kung fu quality of a lightsaber duel.
PANEL 1- Mal-Zey pushes Meh-Ran back a few steps.
PANEL 2- Mal-Zey whips his lightsaber around and goes for a side shot.
PANEL 3- Meh-Ran swings his lightsaber down and blocks it.
PANEL 4- Meh-Ran whips his lightsaber up and swings for Mal-Zey’s neck. Mal-Zey’s lightsaber shoots up and blocks.
PANEL 5- Meh-Ran swings his lightsaber around tries the same attack from the other side.
PANEL 6- Mal-Zey blocks, knocking Meh-Ran’s lightsaber wide.
Page 6
More short, quick, and fluid shots.
PANEL 1- Mal-Zey thrusting his lightsaber, Meh-Ran flipping to the side.
PANEL 2- Mal-Zey slams his lightsaber down and Meh-Ran backflips, barely avoiding it.
PANEL 3- Meh-Ran leaps with an upward thrust meant for Mal-Zey’s head.
PANEL 4- Mal-Zey ducks and spins around and swings his lightsaber in an upward stroke just missing Meh-Ran and slicing some antennae and various arrays in half.
PANEL 5- Meh-Ran brings his lightsaber around and swings low. Mal-Zey leaps in the air.
PANEL 6- Mal-Zey lands atop a large rectangular device (like the massive air conditioners on top of buildings in NYC).
Page 7
PANEL 1- Meh-Ran stabs his lightsaber into the massive machine.
PANEL 2- Meh-Ran leaps into the air ripping the machine in two. Mal-Zey forward flips over Meh-Ran’s lightsaber’s arc.
PANEL 3- Mal-Zey lands in a defensive crouch with his back slightly turned towards Meh-Ran.
MAL-ZEY: Not bad, brother! If you fought like this back then maybe that wife and runt of yours would still be alive.
PANEL 4- Meh-Ran has lost it. A berserker fury has taken over. He runs at Mal-Zey.
PANEL 5- The lightsabers slam together sparking.
PANEL 6- Mal-Zey leans in close as they are pushing against each other’s lightsaber.
MAL-ZEY: That’s it brother, use that rage! Only by embracing the Dark Side will you destroy me!
Page 8
More fast and furious panels.
PANEL 1,2,3,4,5,6- Meh-Ran swings his lightsaber around. Meh-Ran lets loose with a barrage of strong blows. Mal-Zey blocks most with no problem, but the last few get a little closer than he’d like. Mal-Zey is backing up, the edge of the building is getting closer. The winds are getting fiercer as well.
Page 9
PANEL 1- Mal-Zey is blocking and looking a little nervous. He’s very close to the edge.
MEH-RAN: What’s the matter, brother?
PANEL 2- Mal-Zey is right on the edge now.
MEH-RAN: May your soulself burn in the Eternal Fires of Saizu!
PANEL 3- Meh-Ran swings his lightsaber down about to cut Mal-Zey down, or at least knock him from the building.
PANEL 4- Mal-Zey dives and rolls to Meh-Ran’s left.
PANEL 5- Meh-Ran is in mid arc as Mal-Zey brings his lightsaber around. He is aiming for Meh-Ran’s forearm.
Page 10
PANEL 1- Huge panel of Meh-Ran’s lightsaber arm being sliced in two by the elbow. Meh-Ran is holding back the pain.
PANEL 2- Shot close up of Meh-Ran’s arm holding the lightsaber as it plummets over the side of the building. It should be miles upon miles to the ground. We shouldn’t even see the ground.
PANEL 3- Close up of Meh-Ran’s face. Pain, rage, and fear.
PANEL 4- Shot of Mal-Zey with his lightsaber still ignited, chuckling to himself.
PANEL 5- Shot of the arm and lightsaber a little further than before.
PANEL 6- Full shot of Meh-Ran turning to his right to face Mal-Zey. He is extending his left arm.
Page 11
PANEL 1- Shot of the lightsaber being ripped free from Meh-Ran’s lost arm and flying through the air.
PANEL 2- Shot of Mal-Zey chuckling again, with his lightsaber raised about to strike.
PANEL 3- Close shot of Meh-Ran’s lightsaber flying up into his left hand.
PANEL 4- Huge panel of Meh-Ran slicing a gash across Mal-Zey’s chest. Mal-Zey is very surprised, to say the least.
Page 12
PANEL 1- Mal-Zey looks up and he is pissed off. But he is also smirking.
MAL-ZEY: My, my, brother…I didn’t know you had it in you to be so…brutal. I like it.
PANEL 2- Meh-Ran readies for another strike to end this.
PANEL 3- Mal-Zey throws his hand forward.
PANEL 4- Meh-Ran is slammed backwards off the side of the building.
PANEL 5- Downwards shot of Meh-Ran falling backwards.
PANEL 6- Mal-Zey readies himself and leaps off the side off the building.
MAL-ZEY: WAIT FOR ME BROTHER!
Page 13
PANEL 1- Mal-Zey drops through the air feet first, streamlining his body, to catch up to Meh-Ran. Lightsaber still ignited.
PANEL 2- Side shot of Meh-Ran flailing through the air and Mal-Zey catching up as they plummet down the building past domed catwalks filled with surprised onlookers.
PANEL 3- Mal-Zey turns his body to catch the wind to slow himself, and attacks with his lightsaber.
PANEL 4- Meh-Ran blocks the blow with his lightsaber.
PANEL 5- The two men spin through the air while swinging their lightsabers wildly, blocking each other’s shots.
PANEL 6- Meh-Ran whips himself backward through the air.
Page 14
PANEL 1- Meh-Ran and Mal-Zey just miss a domed catwalk, each of them passing on either side.
PANEL 2- Mal-Zey leans forward, shooting towards Meh-Ran, lightsaber stretched forward.
PANEL 3- Meh-Ran curls up and spins over Mal-Zey’s head.
PANEL 4- Meh-Ran uncurls, and lashes out with his lightsaber, Mal-Zey blocks.
PANEL 5- Meh-Ran shoots his hand out, while still gripping his lightsaber.
PANEL 6- Mal-Zey slams against the building, letting out a loud “Ooomph!”
Page 15
PANEL 1- Meh-Ran then points and shoots his hand upwards.
PANEL 2- Mal-Zey is still woozy from the hit against the building. His lightsaber gets yanked free from his hand and flies upward.
PANEL 3- Meh-Ran moves in close and grabs Mal-Zey. Meh-Ran holds his lightsaber just inches from Mal-Zey.
MEH-RAN: I will have my revenge before I die!
PANEL 4- Meh-Ran about to strike, suddenly looks very surprised, as does Mal-Zey.
Page 16
PANEL 1- Side shot of the two slamming into a passing flying car.
PANEL 2- The car is big enough so they didn’t damage it too bad, they just smashed into the roof. It stops flying and hovers.
PANEL 3- The two men are very woozy but are getting to their feet. An alien pops out of the roof hatch.
PANEL 4- Shot of the alien. He looks pissed off.
PANEL 5- Shot of the two men from the alien’s POV. They are broken, battered, and beaten and look very, very pissed off too.
PANEL 6- The alien mocking a whistle goes back into the hatch, sealing it behind him.
Page 17
PANEL 1- Meh-Ran turns back to Mal-Zey. He reignites his lightsaber and begins walking towards Mal-Zey. Mal-Zey is looking up, discretely.
MEH-RAN: Now, I finish this.
PANEL 2- Mal-Zey holds his hand out.
PANEL 3- Shot of Mal-Zey’s lightsaber falling through the air.
PANEL 4- Huge panel of Mal-Zey, who, in one fluid motion caught his lightsaber and blocks Meh-Ran’s strike.
Page 18
PANEL 1,2,3,4,5,- Various shots of the lightsaber duel continuing atop the hovering car. Fast, furious, and just nasty fighting.
PANEL 6- Mal-Zey tackles Meh-Ran and they drop off the car.
Page 19
PANEL 1- Meh-Ran is struggling with Mal-Zey as they fall.
PANEL 2- They continue to struggle as a catwalk is approaching fast.
PANEL 3- Big panel of them smashing through the roof and hitting the catwalk. No one is on this catwalk. Meh-Ran takes the brunt of the fall.
PANEL 4- The two men lay there unable to move for the moment.
Page 20
PANEL 1- Mal-Zey is scrambling as he lays flat against the ground for Meh-Ran’s lightsaber, which is just out of his reach. Meh-Ran sees what he is reaching for and pulls him back by his leg.
PANEL 2- Mal-Zey is crawling towards it and Meh-Ran is dragging himself along using Mal-Zey’s robes.
PANEL 3- Closer and closer. Mal-Zey’s fingers are an inch away. Meh-Ran is almost lying next to Mal-Zey.
PANEL 4- Mal-Zey grips the lightsaber. Meh-Ran grabs Mal-Zey around the neck.
PANEL 5- Shot of the lightsaber igniting.
PANEL 6- Shot of a manic Meh-Ran as he SNAPS Mal-Zey’s neck.
Page 21
PANEL 1- Big panel of Meh-Ran pushing himself to his feet. The Mal-Zey corpse lies at his feet.
PANEL 2- Shot of Meh-Ran looking solemn and remorseful.
MEH-RAN: What have I done brother? What have I become? I am the true tragedy of our clan. I have let our legacy die in disgrace and hatred.
PANEL 3- Meh-Ran picks up his lightsaber.
MEH-RAN: Forgive me my clan, forgive me Meh-Li, Meh-Bya…
PANEL 4- Meh-Ran looks distantly at Mal-Zey’s body.
MEH-RAN: Forgive me brother…I’m sorry I wasn’t able to save you this time.
PANEL 5- Meh-Ran drops to his knees, lightsaber in hand.
Meh-Ran: May Tensou have mercy on my soulself.
Page 22
PANEL 1- Half page close shot of Meh-Ran driving his lightsaber into his stomach.
PANEL 2- The rest of the page is a far shot of the catwalk, centered on Meh-Ran lying dead on his side, next to Mal-Zey. Lightsaber unignited.
Titanium Old School Script
Page 1
Panel 1- The night skyline of a futuristic city. There are billions of lights coming from all over. I was thinking something similar to Neo-Tokyo in just about any anime.
CAPTION:
CONFLICT. US VERSUS THEM. IT’S THE ONLY UNIVERSAL CONSTANT I’VE SEEN.
Panel 2- Zoom in to a fairly deserted street where there are flipped over hovercars as well as other futuristic looking innovations. Two groups of men are firing at each other with fairly sophisticated and highly destructive handguns and are causing massive property damage. The two groups are wearing black suits with two different designs. One group’s suits have a “UC” symbol and the others have a Government Seal. The men with the Government Seal are slightly outnumbered.
CAPTION:
I HAVE A THEORY THAT LIFE IS CONFLICT. THAT’S WHY ALL HUMANS GRAVITATE TOWARDS THINGS THAT WILL HELP CREATE PROBLEMS MORE THAN SOLVE THEM.
Panel 3- Closer in on the firefight as the government soldiers are being gunned down. It doesn’t stop them from holding on and continuing to fire away. One of the hovercars is in flames.
CAPTION:
THERE WILL NEVER BE AN END TO WAR. IT WILL JUST CHANGE AND ADAPT. AS LONG AS THERE IS A CAUSE, THERE WILL BE MEN WILLING TO DIE FOR IT.
Panel 4- Extreme downshot, with a heavy vertigo feeling to it. A shiny, metal-skinned man with black hair and dressed in a black suit with no shoes stands on the edge of one of the skyscrapers at least 30 stories up. He is faced away from us and is standing on the very edge of the building and is about to fall off. His tie is flapping in the wind.
CAPTION:
DYING FOR A CAUSE ALMOST SEEMS LIKE THE SMART MOVE. AHH, DEATH. IT SOUNDS SO INVITING.
PAGE 2
Panel 1- The metallic man is plummeting towards the firefight below. He is looking up towards us with a look of bliss on his face (otherwise he should always have a cold, emotionless look, devoid of any passion or interest) as the wind whips his suit wildly.
CAPTION:
IN TIMES LIKE THIS, I JUST HOPE THIS FALL WILL BE DIFFERENT. I HOPE THIS WILL BE THE ONE TO END THE CONFLICT. FOR ME AT LEAST.
Panel 2- The government and UC soldiers all dive for cover as the metallic man drops right into the flaming hovercar and the car explodes sending everyone flying backwards.
PAGE 3
Panel 1- The aftermath of the scene. All the soldiers are stunned into a moment of cease fire. The ones still standing are looking over the debris to see what has happened. The remains of the hovercar are scattered about and there is a large smoking crater where the metallic man landed.
Panel 2- Close up on the remains of the hovercar. There is a lot of smoke coming from the crater but we can’t get a good look in.
Panel 3- Same shot as Panel 2, but now there’s a metallic hand rising from the smoke.
CAPTION:
DAMN.
Panel 4- The metallic man steps out of the crater. His suit is charred into non-existence. He has just enough of a suit left to cover his privates. His hair is a mess and he looks like he is very, very grumpy.
CAPTION:
DIDN’T EVEN FEEL IT THIS TIME.
Panel 5- The metallic man steps between the two sets of soldiers and looks towards the government side. In the background we can see the UC soldiers are getting ready to open fire.
METALLIC MAN:
RUN.
PAGE 4
Panel 1- The metallic man stomps towards the UC soldiers as all sorts of laser blasts bounce off his metal skin. The metallic man has a look of bored hostility. More like he’s annoyed than anything else. He leaves potholes behind as footprints. In the background the government soldiers all run off into the distance.
CAPTION:
HAVE TO FINISH THIS AS FAST AS I CAN. LEAVE AS MANY ALIVE AS POSSIBLE.
Panel 2- The metallic man stops in front of the hovercar the UC soldiers were using as cover. The UC soldiers are backing off but continuing to fire away. The metallic man has his foot raised behind him, about to let loose with a kick.
CAPTION:
HOPEFULLY THIS WILL MAKE FOR A SUITABLE MESSAGE.
Panel 3- The metallic man has let loose with a soccer kick, sending the hovercar flying towards us.
Panel 4- The hovercar slams into the UC building shattering the giant statue of the UC logo (UC superimposed over the globe).
PAGE 5
Panel 1- The metallic man is walking away from the UC building. In the background the soldiers have all stopped shooting and are standing dumbstruck as they look up at the hovercar that is jutting out of their destroyed UC monument.
Panel 2- The metallic man is walking down the street. Hidden eyes are peering out of the windows lining the street.
CAPTION:
ONCE, MY ACTIONS JUST NOW WOULD HAVE HAD PEOPLE CHEERING MY NAME.
NOW, DISTRUST...FEAR.
THESE PEOPLE DON’T KNOW THE WORD HERO.
Panel 1- The night skyline of a futuristic city. There are billions of lights coming from all over. I was thinking something similar to Neo-Tokyo in just about any anime.
CAPTION:
CONFLICT. US VERSUS THEM. IT’S THE ONLY UNIVERSAL CONSTANT I’VE SEEN.
Panel 2- Zoom in to a fairly deserted street where there are flipped over hovercars as well as other futuristic looking innovations. Two groups of men are firing at each other with fairly sophisticated and highly destructive handguns and are causing massive property damage. The two groups are wearing black suits with two different designs. One group’s suits have a “UC” symbol and the others have a Government Seal. The men with the Government Seal are slightly outnumbered.
CAPTION:
I HAVE A THEORY THAT LIFE IS CONFLICT. THAT’S WHY ALL HUMANS GRAVITATE TOWARDS THINGS THAT WILL HELP CREATE PROBLEMS MORE THAN SOLVE THEM.
Panel 3- Closer in on the firefight as the government soldiers are being gunned down. It doesn’t stop them from holding on and continuing to fire away. One of the hovercars is in flames.
CAPTION:
THERE WILL NEVER BE AN END TO WAR. IT WILL JUST CHANGE AND ADAPT. AS LONG AS THERE IS A CAUSE, THERE WILL BE MEN WILLING TO DIE FOR IT.
Panel 4- Extreme downshot, with a heavy vertigo feeling to it. A shiny, metal-skinned man with black hair and dressed in a black suit with no shoes stands on the edge of one of the skyscrapers at least 30 stories up. He is faced away from us and is standing on the very edge of the building and is about to fall off. His tie is flapping in the wind.
CAPTION:
DYING FOR A CAUSE ALMOST SEEMS LIKE THE SMART MOVE. AHH, DEATH. IT SOUNDS SO INVITING.
PAGE 2
Panel 1- The metallic man is plummeting towards the firefight below. He is looking up towards us with a look of bliss on his face (otherwise he should always have a cold, emotionless look, devoid of any passion or interest) as the wind whips his suit wildly.
CAPTION:
IN TIMES LIKE THIS, I JUST HOPE THIS FALL WILL BE DIFFERENT. I HOPE THIS WILL BE THE ONE TO END THE CONFLICT. FOR ME AT LEAST.
Panel 2- The government and UC soldiers all dive for cover as the metallic man drops right into the flaming hovercar and the car explodes sending everyone flying backwards.
PAGE 3
Panel 1- The aftermath of the scene. All the soldiers are stunned into a moment of cease fire. The ones still standing are looking over the debris to see what has happened. The remains of the hovercar are scattered about and there is a large smoking crater where the metallic man landed.
Panel 2- Close up on the remains of the hovercar. There is a lot of smoke coming from the crater but we can’t get a good look in.
Panel 3- Same shot as Panel 2, but now there’s a metallic hand rising from the smoke.
CAPTION:
DAMN.
Panel 4- The metallic man steps out of the crater. His suit is charred into non-existence. He has just enough of a suit left to cover his privates. His hair is a mess and he looks like he is very, very grumpy.
CAPTION:
DIDN’T EVEN FEEL IT THIS TIME.
Panel 5- The metallic man steps between the two sets of soldiers and looks towards the government side. In the background we can see the UC soldiers are getting ready to open fire.
METALLIC MAN:
RUN.
PAGE 4
Panel 1- The metallic man stomps towards the UC soldiers as all sorts of laser blasts bounce off his metal skin. The metallic man has a look of bored hostility. More like he’s annoyed than anything else. He leaves potholes behind as footprints. In the background the government soldiers all run off into the distance.
CAPTION:
HAVE TO FINISH THIS AS FAST AS I CAN. LEAVE AS MANY ALIVE AS POSSIBLE.
Panel 2- The metallic man stops in front of the hovercar the UC soldiers were using as cover. The UC soldiers are backing off but continuing to fire away. The metallic man has his foot raised behind him, about to let loose with a kick.
CAPTION:
HOPEFULLY THIS WILL MAKE FOR A SUITABLE MESSAGE.
Panel 3- The metallic man has let loose with a soccer kick, sending the hovercar flying towards us.
Panel 4- The hovercar slams into the UC building shattering the giant statue of the UC logo (UC superimposed over the globe).
PAGE 5
Panel 1- The metallic man is walking away from the UC building. In the background the soldiers have all stopped shooting and are standing dumbstruck as they look up at the hovercar that is jutting out of their destroyed UC monument.
Panel 2- The metallic man is walking down the street. Hidden eyes are peering out of the windows lining the street.
CAPTION:
ONCE, MY ACTIONS JUST NOW WOULD HAVE HAD PEOPLE CHEERING MY NAME.
NOW, DISTRUST...FEAR.
THESE PEOPLE DON’T KNOW THE WORD HERO.
Comicbook Rockstar . 7 – Seventh Street
No apologies.
Ive been busy changing everything once again. The brief hiatus of this column has seen me through some strange times. I left for the Boston Comicon last September as a vegetarian, non-smoking, New York boy. I had just made my NYC status official after having lived in NYC for a year.
That Thursday morning before the con I finally visited the top of the Empire State Building. It was raining and I was there with my ex Diana. We were trying to make a nice day of it but the weather would have none of that. It was grey and rainy and windy. But still, we smiled, and we tried to make it a happy moment. Two friends parting. She bought me a I heart NY t-shirt. I left for Boston that night.
I came back from Boston and I was suddenly hungover and living in New Jersey. My sincerest thanks to J & Jong for putting me up. Shout outs to Erin, Sarah, Steph, and Laura (What up L-diddy?). In NJ it seems my sense of direction is completely wrong in more ways than one. North was South. South. North. Last year, I reversed, and now, I had inverted.
Meat. It was turkey. It sucks. I wanted to be a vegertarian. I really did. I had a Buddhist like mindset about it all. I did it for two years having given up at the foodcourt of the mall where Dawn of the Dead was filmed. Chris and I were sitting there having just gotten our usual mid-day Pittsburgh Con lunch. The Chinese joint chicken special. You know. Free sample?! Well, one particular piece was just about the foulest little chunk of flesh that was ever consumed. Im easily traumatized by food, so that with a hundred hours of PETA video brainbashing I was eager to stop eating animals.
And I held out. For awhile. But when J brought those damn Starbucks sandwiches back to the apartment, well, I lit up a smoke and ate a damn turkey sandwich by god. Six years of not smoking gone in an instant. I know it seems bad, but something told me I needed to do this. And more.
Nights spent on Jareds floor. Cold in the heat, hot in the cold. Im still drunk as Jared tries to lift my head and slip a pillow underneath it. But Im done. Were out on the weekends as the Young Turks, Disciples of Strange; the East Village Kings. 7305. Lucys. Black & Tan.
..
Days spent with a family. The Estes. Ben, Lee & Jen. I think thats how it goes on the answering machine. I love them dearly. When I had nothing and nowhere left to go, they took me in and loved me as one of their own. Nate and I became blood brothers; Jedi & Padawan, Padawan & Jedi. I slept in Bens room while he was away in Ireland. Thank you Ben. I hope you had fun over there and I want to smoke my stogie with you when you get back.
Lee & Jen. Man, what a couple. They laugh, they love, they drink, they puke, they host, they fight, they welcome, they teach, they believe, they wrestle; theyre family. It was an amazing honor and privilege to see them turn a house into a home. THANKS AGAIN for allowing me to be your humble guest who did his best to clean up and not be a bother.
I knew I was family when I was doing shots with Jen and saw Lee naked. Thanks to the Estes and Hettel families who welcomed a sad soul into their holiday festivities. It was nice to feel like family again. Yay! Presents!
Too bad Im broke. Unemployments gone and Im trying to figure out a way to have enough money for gas to get to any job that may call back, and then hopefully out to NYC to go out drinking and maybe dancing but probably puking, although possibly scoring. Christmas comes with a double paycheck and money from my parents. Thank you to you both who have saved a slacker son from complete financial failure.
Happy New Years! Twothousandsix?!! Damn. Youll be thirty this year. I moved to NYC on my 28th birthday. Now I was suburban Jersey, living on the fault line of ghetto and kingdoms, much like where I grew up in Wheatley Heights. East Orange felt like an old, long lost, childhood home.
Three months in the Garden State and I am blessing my beloved mother every day as the EZPass gets me around New Jersey, to my job and straight back into Manhattan. A job that I soon quit; a graphic design job with Alphagaphics, and then start a customer service training for Cingular. Its a good time, hanging out with a bunch of characters, and getting paid to draw in MSPaint and conquer that most wicked of PC games, Solitaire. Gotta hit the phones after a few weeks.
..
So I quit, just a few days after I go out on a thirty-six hour Brooklyn bound date during the blizzard of 06. Meganificent. I'm nearly completely broke but I have one last paycheck from Cingular. This money is spent on a small food purchase at Target, a tank of gas, and the rent for my new apartment. On Seventh Street.
I move out. On my own. Well, sorta. With a roommate. Not a girlfriend. For the first time since I was twenty one years old, I had my own space to do with as I please. I decorated it with the essentials, aka whatever fit in my Eclipse. Lee & Jen drive me out a mattress, sheets, pillows, and a blanket. Its the epicenter.
My 15 Powerbook and Dell Inspiron 2600 (may as well be Atari 2600) sit at the foot of the bed. Chow Yun Fat is on the wall by this window, next to a portrait Chris drew of me as Wulong. By the other window I have trinkets, including a superball, bottle caps, stones, Ninja Monkeys, a Green Lantern power ring, my sunglasses, two Flash figures, and a Buddha.
Dirty laundry pile is straight along the wall, while the clean clothes are a mound before me. My jackets (including my high school leather jacket with Aerosmith airbrushed on the back, the last birthday gift given to me by my Grandma) now hang in the closet beneath a shelf full of CDs, VCDs, DVDs, copies of Liquid Fury, and a humble library of graphic novels & paperbacks. Another smaller shelf just above the closet holds my cowboy hat, a beautiful vase courtesy of MB, and my Curious George stuffed animal; purchased on September 21, 1976 for a bouncing (oddly yellow) baby boy named Kurt Joseph Christenson.
So here I am. Brand new. Spun around. Made whole.
Things the new Kurt enjoys:
Independence.
His own space.
New York City. Daily.
Having Netflix again.
Rod Stewart.
Downloading comics.
Scrubs. Finally being able to see Oldboy. And Serenity.
That should have been up there under Netflix.
My new haircut. Supercuts. St. Marks.
I need a new one already.
Muy Thai. Tai-chi.
Lifting weights in the mirror.
Admitting embarrassing things.
Getting breakfast.
Making lunch.
Affording dinner.
Buying rounds.
Lady Strange.
The Faces.
Horse the Band!
My old job back. More money, less hours.
Just had a week off.
Brooklyn.
iPod shuffle.
The Cinematic Underground.
Cigarettes.
Jurassic 5
Adult Swim on Demand.
12 oz. Mouse
Downloading comics.
Teen Titans. Comics.
Sleep.
Getting things written.
***
And to end things on a more literate note, heres Shakespeares Sonnet 7 which I received earlier today from my Sonnet-a-day email:
VII.
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract and look another way:
So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.
***
Write or Die.
K
Comicbook Rockstar 6: sixsixsix
Lift the curse of those feelings which oppress men, which force them into wars they do not want, and consign them to work from whose fruits they never benefit Assume within oneself perversion and crime, not as exclusive values, but as a prelude to their integration into the totality of humanity. Participate in the destruction of a world as it presently exists, with eyes open to the world which is yet to be.
We were the losers of Universe K. Cowboy Outcasts of the Lost Earth. The Superheroes that came out of the Left Field of Reality. The Bad News Bears of the Multiverse. Operation: TenTon.
The hard luck veterans of the twenty-thousand mind war, infinity constantly just a hair's breadth from ultimate annihilation from the most sinister of forces. Hatred, corruption, crime, and genocidal ideologies slammed at the doors of this world and every Wednesday the battle would begin again and again, forever fighting the good fight.
We're a diverse pantheon of the hopeful creative individual, imagination given flesh. Within our minds we have the power of epic conflict that is begging to be set free. These very words are the magic formula I must constantly type in order to keep pace with these mighty beings. But our powers came with a price. A charge. A duty. A holy mission. A promise.
We must keep every malevolent spirit in all of creation from spilling forth from the darkness. The Devil is banging on our souls and there we sit like a lock on a mighty chain that stretches across this country and even across an entire ocean. Hell was seeping through the crack called New Jersey.
I'm the NYC Kid and, along with my sidekick Spider, I patrol the East Village, keeping a lockdown on things, the girls and the bars in particular. By day Im holed up with Captain Mad Dog Estes. He has a complex out in Jersey, hidden among the suburbs. Hes a natural leader, one you didnt mind following into a showdown with the devil. He keeps his family close, with an eternal eye out for the looming apocalypse. On the other side of town, Doc. Malbrough sits with a vigilant watch over his baby girl and his Mrs., a sixgun in each hand. Kai-Zen, the triads former ninja assassin, and J.B., the tough as nails private dick, are stationed a few miles away, protecting the armory. (The selection of goggles is astounding, not to mention disguises for undercover work. Essential in the biz.) Speaking of undercover, Statutory Browns in deep undercover work, infiltrating and penetrating certain key areas of local Jersey corruption.
MC Samurai keeps a vigilant watch over fuckin Baaahhhston, while honing his swordsmanship at his mountain temple. Purple Turtle? Well, he operates just outside Philly, from within a nuclear power plant, where its said his bizarrepowersoriginated. Around the corner is the undercover paramilitary superagent I can only refer to as Project: Khoi. Suffice to say, Phillys covered.
Spreading further out across the country, over in Ohio, we find Major Freeman, who, not only hosts a bezerker fourth dimensional Viking God within himself, but also toils endlessly, preparing the fallout shelters and a backup bunker from which we can defend the world if the evil is ever able to break through. We then turn to the mad genius of Chicago, Dr. Phalex. Surely the power to warp the very fabric of reality could not be in safer hands. When backups needed, the Windy City can also depend on modern day pulp hero, Mr. Burnham. Whether its mummy mobsters or demonic pirates, Blazin Burnhams got it covered with a southpaw and a grin. Prof. Polacek, better known as the Mysterious Minotaur, gets in on the action in Chi-town when hes not scouring spell books, searching for some way to keep the wicked hordes at bay.
A little further out, deep in the Wild Plains of Imagination, Utah, Doug Hills wrestles the Savage Cave Giants, the Ferocious Feral Men, and the Cutesy Cosmic Cheerleaders from Malibu X. Its true. Lucky guy. And I said across an ocean, did I not? Masters, Jason Masters. Currently stationed in South Africa, the man has seen it all. He rocknrolls his way through certain doom and dances out of the room with a deadly karate chop or a devastatingly charming smile. And what group would be complete without the cowboy rogue we call Our Man Mitch. Lee found him wrasslin monsters from the badlands, before finishing up early enough to rock the stage of Mollys Drinkin Shack. Last we saw, he tossed his belongings into the back of his hotrod and blazed down the highway to rocknroll hell. Fire is rocknroll, my friend. Fireis rocknroll.
The devil is asking me to let him out. Hes showing me all that he can offer, for all of us. The accomplishments we can achieve if only I was to say it would be okaybut its not. I cant. The bastard knows Im the weak one though. He visits me every day, just to whisper in my ear all the reasons I should just give in, just give it up and let it all come to me and all of us, but at what cost. So I run and superspeed and leap and jump and flip away, hoping that his voice wont follow, wont seep into my brain and draw me back to where Ill be weak and helpless before his power.
I feel his pull as I bounce through the city, so I soar across the East River and fly on home. Im holed up on Long Island and gripping the sides of my keyboard with all my might. Dont. And suddenly I feel ashamed. Ashamed at being so weak. What would the others think of me? Wasnt I one of them? Wasnt I strong enough to march into battle beside them? I was, goddammit. My mind began to clear and I remembered who I was. I looked around at my family and friends, the people who were there when I grew up and first headed into the eternal struggle. I pledged my service to the betterment of mankind in this very town, in this very house, in the very room I am sitting here typing this.
I was bathed in the radiant light of enlightenment and it dawned on me that we didnt need the devil to get what we wanted. We just need to build and work and fight for our creations in the world around us. Hokey mumbo jumbo about potential and the beauty of creation came too, but I was busying glimpsing the future, watching the parties and fun wed be having. Im no divine being, just a man. A superman, like my brothers in arms.
~TenTon4Life~
K
We were the losers of Universe K. Cowboy Outcasts of the Lost Earth. The Superheroes that came out of the Left Field of Reality. The Bad News Bears of the Multiverse. Operation: TenTon.
The hard luck veterans of the twenty-thousand mind war, infinity constantly just a hair's breadth from ultimate annihilation from the most sinister of forces. Hatred, corruption, crime, and genocidal ideologies slammed at the doors of this world and every Wednesday the battle would begin again and again, forever fighting the good fight.
We're a diverse pantheon of the hopeful creative individual, imagination given flesh. Within our minds we have the power of epic conflict that is begging to be set free. These very words are the magic formula I must constantly type in order to keep pace with these mighty beings. But our powers came with a price. A charge. A duty. A holy mission. A promise.
We must keep every malevolent spirit in all of creation from spilling forth from the darkness. The Devil is banging on our souls and there we sit like a lock on a mighty chain that stretches across this country and even across an entire ocean. Hell was seeping through the crack called New Jersey.
I'm the NYC Kid and, along with my sidekick Spider, I patrol the East Village, keeping a lockdown on things, the girls and the bars in particular. By day Im holed up with Captain Mad Dog Estes. He has a complex out in Jersey, hidden among the suburbs. Hes a natural leader, one you didnt mind following into a showdown with the devil. He keeps his family close, with an eternal eye out for the looming apocalypse. On the other side of town, Doc. Malbrough sits with a vigilant watch over his baby girl and his Mrs., a sixgun in each hand. Kai-Zen, the triads former ninja assassin, and J.B., the tough as nails private dick, are stationed a few miles away, protecting the armory. (The selection of goggles is astounding, not to mention disguises for undercover work. Essential in the biz.) Speaking of undercover, Statutory Browns in deep undercover work, infiltrating and penetrating certain key areas of local Jersey corruption.
MC Samurai keeps a vigilant watch over fuckin Baaahhhston, while honing his swordsmanship at his mountain temple. Purple Turtle? Well, he operates just outside Philly, from within a nuclear power plant, where its said his bizarrepowersoriginated. Around the corner is the undercover paramilitary superagent I can only refer to as Project: Khoi. Suffice to say, Phillys covered.
Spreading further out across the country, over in Ohio, we find Major Freeman, who, not only hosts a bezerker fourth dimensional Viking God within himself, but also toils endlessly, preparing the fallout shelters and a backup bunker from which we can defend the world if the evil is ever able to break through. We then turn to the mad genius of Chicago, Dr. Phalex. Surely the power to warp the very fabric of reality could not be in safer hands. When backups needed, the Windy City can also depend on modern day pulp hero, Mr. Burnham. Whether its mummy mobsters or demonic pirates, Blazin Burnhams got it covered with a southpaw and a grin. Prof. Polacek, better known as the Mysterious Minotaur, gets in on the action in Chi-town when hes not scouring spell books, searching for some way to keep the wicked hordes at bay.
A little further out, deep in the Wild Plains of Imagination, Utah, Doug Hills wrestles the Savage Cave Giants, the Ferocious Feral Men, and the Cutesy Cosmic Cheerleaders from Malibu X. Its true. Lucky guy. And I said across an ocean, did I not? Masters, Jason Masters. Currently stationed in South Africa, the man has seen it all. He rocknrolls his way through certain doom and dances out of the room with a deadly karate chop or a devastatingly charming smile. And what group would be complete without the cowboy rogue we call Our Man Mitch. Lee found him wrasslin monsters from the badlands, before finishing up early enough to rock the stage of Mollys Drinkin Shack. Last we saw, he tossed his belongings into the back of his hotrod and blazed down the highway to rocknroll hell. Fire is rocknroll, my friend. Fireis rocknroll.
The devil is asking me to let him out. Hes showing me all that he can offer, for all of us. The accomplishments we can achieve if only I was to say it would be okaybut its not. I cant. The bastard knows Im the weak one though. He visits me every day, just to whisper in my ear all the reasons I should just give in, just give it up and let it all come to me and all of us, but at what cost. So I run and superspeed and leap and jump and flip away, hoping that his voice wont follow, wont seep into my brain and draw me back to where Ill be weak and helpless before his power.
I feel his pull as I bounce through the city, so I soar across the East River and fly on home. Im holed up on Long Island and gripping the sides of my keyboard with all my might. Dont. And suddenly I feel ashamed. Ashamed at being so weak. What would the others think of me? Wasnt I one of them? Wasnt I strong enough to march into battle beside them? I was, goddammit. My mind began to clear and I remembered who I was. I looked around at my family and friends, the people who were there when I grew up and first headed into the eternal struggle. I pledged my service to the betterment of mankind in this very town, in this very house, in the very room I am sitting here typing this.
I was bathed in the radiant light of enlightenment and it dawned on me that we didnt need the devil to get what we wanted. We just need to build and work and fight for our creations in the world around us. Hokey mumbo jumbo about potential and the beauty of creation came too, but I was busying glimpsing the future, watching the parties and fun wed be having. Im no divine being, just a man. A superman, like my brothers in arms.
~TenTon4Life~
K
Comicbook Rockstar 5: The Power of Love
TenTon has annihilated the 2005 con season and rocked out ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Boston as final proof that we are the nuclear bomb of cool. There was drunken debauchery, rockin' riffs, and many a sexual innuendo. But what I ultimately got out of it all, is a sense of family.
These boys are not just friends, they are brothers. Truly something deeper than just a bunch of starving creators have banded together here. This is a group that found each other because we were meant to. I never imagined I would be surrounded by the coolest of the cool, the baddest of the bad, and they would accept me and love me as one of their own. That's right, love. I said it. There is true TenTon love here baby.
I think I've been missing something vital for so long in my life. I had become so jaded and cynical over the past few years that I had forgotten what an honest love for people I used to have. Somewhere over the last decade I had become what I always swore I wouldn't: Someone closed-hearted and content with spreading negativity to everyone around me. I have a newfound love for my fellow man again, and I find myself not being intimidated by people as much anymore.
I was also letting expectations of people reading my work stop me from writing. I found myself paralyzed every time I sat down at my computer to work. I found I was censoring my thoughts and trying to perfect every word and line so as not to disappoint. But I was letting someone down. Me. I had forgotten what had driven me to write in the first place. That true moment of joy I felt as I put down the words for no one other than myself, not even thinking that anyone would ever read it and being content with the fact that I was putting something together so that I could make sense of things.
Self-love is the hardest thing in the world for me to actualize. I had always torn myself down, expecting to beat anyone and everyone else to the punch. I was extra sensitive my whole life, so an offhanded comment from a friend or family member would send me careening into the chasm of self-hate. I never thought myself good enough, smart enough, or capable enough to do or get anywhere in this life. Now I can see that the only reason I didn't get or do the things I wanted in life was because of these self-imposed limitations.
Now I can see that I'm not alone in all this either. Seems most people have felt these things I've been writing about here. Hopefully something I'm saying here speaks to a part of all you fine readers out there. And for those that aren't reading these columns, that's aight. A big middle finger to all those sucka MCs that don't, but much love to all of you that are reading these here words of mine. I love you all and have a hug for each and every one of you. Seriously, just ask next time you see me. I have love for all y'all.
Big ups to the TenTonKrew, especially to Senor Scott St. Pierre and his lovely wife Karen who put us up in Baaaahhhhston while we drank ourselves silly. I personally had a total blast and miss you guys.
Also, much love to Jay and Jong who are letting me crash at their swank pad. Thanks homies!
K
These boys are not just friends, they are brothers. Truly something deeper than just a bunch of starving creators have banded together here. This is a group that found each other because we were meant to. I never imagined I would be surrounded by the coolest of the cool, the baddest of the bad, and they would accept me and love me as one of their own. That's right, love. I said it. There is true TenTon love here baby.
I think I've been missing something vital for so long in my life. I had become so jaded and cynical over the past few years that I had forgotten what an honest love for people I used to have. Somewhere over the last decade I had become what I always swore I wouldn't: Someone closed-hearted and content with spreading negativity to everyone around me. I have a newfound love for my fellow man again, and I find myself not being intimidated by people as much anymore.
I was also letting expectations of people reading my work stop me from writing. I found myself paralyzed every time I sat down at my computer to work. I found I was censoring my thoughts and trying to perfect every word and line so as not to disappoint. But I was letting someone down. Me. I had forgotten what had driven me to write in the first place. That true moment of joy I felt as I put down the words for no one other than myself, not even thinking that anyone would ever read it and being content with the fact that I was putting something together so that I could make sense of things.
Self-love is the hardest thing in the world for me to actualize. I had always torn myself down, expecting to beat anyone and everyone else to the punch. I was extra sensitive my whole life, so an offhanded comment from a friend or family member would send me careening into the chasm of self-hate. I never thought myself good enough, smart enough, or capable enough to do or get anywhere in this life. Now I can see that the only reason I didn't get or do the things I wanted in life was because of these self-imposed limitations.
Now I can see that I'm not alone in all this either. Seems most people have felt these things I've been writing about here. Hopefully something I'm saying here speaks to a part of all you fine readers out there. And for those that aren't reading these columns, that's aight. A big middle finger to all those sucka MCs that don't, but much love to all of you that are reading these here words of mine. I love you all and have a hug for each and every one of you. Seriously, just ask next time you see me. I have love for all y'all.
Big ups to the TenTonKrew, especially to Senor Scott St. Pierre and his lovely wife Karen who put us up in Baaaahhhhston while we drank ourselves silly. I personally had a total blast and miss you guys.
Also, much love to Jay and Jong who are letting me crash at their swank pad. Thanks homies!
K
Comicbook Rockstar 4: The Quest For Peace
Int. New York City Apt. - Night
The Meaning of Life.
I'm in bad shape. I'm looking out at myself and feel it all falling apart, no matter how hard I'm trying to hold it all together. Maybe it's just the September blues, or the bi-polar/manic-depression kicking in, but whatever's going on it's hard to concentrate.
I can't write this now. Not in this state.
Morning. Back now. Things look better. I've just been having a rough time of it lately. It's a yearly thing really. Every September as far back as I can remember has had me go through the wringer. And as is par for the course, September is nearly over before I even got used to it being here.
I've locked myself away for the last two weeks and just tried to write. It was an agonizing process. I took every opportunity to do all this other miscellaneous nonsense and made excuses to myself. I wasn't sure what I was afraid of, what it was I was trying to avoid, but I had buried myself beneath research and outlining for long enough. It was time to get something done.
So I started, and it was awful and difficult and my eyes darted around the room, as my mind raced. I couldn't help but think of all the other things I needed to do, the people I needed to call, etc. So I slapped myself back into action and pushed through it. It sucked, but I got a major chunk done and I was happy.
But it got me to thinking for this column. Why was it I was having such a hard time finishing these projects? I thought long and hard about it. More distraction I suppose, but I think it helped. I realized that I had changed so much since these projects began, and that I had somehow lost my connection to who I was when I came up with these ideas.
I was always idealistic. A romantic utopian even. Naive? Certainly, but filled with a nearly inextinguishable hope in my fellow man. Then came 9/11 and something had snapped in me. I remember sitting there for days on end, glued to the TV and computer monitor unearthing any shred of information I could find on anyone and everyone involved. This led me down a path filled with conspiracy theories, human rights abuse, civil liberty abuses, and on and on. I became disillusioned and often found myself in the middle of shouting matches with co-workers as our soldiers invaded another country.
I felt insane, or more to the point, sane in an insane world. But what's the difference really? Here I was, a lone voice calling out to any who listened about the injustice going on world wide and I was consistently ignored by peers. I made meek, veiled threats against the government and Bush in the secret hopes that the FBI, who had their Long Island branch right next to the office I worked at, would come and pay me a visit.
But they didn't. Nothing happened. I didn't reach anyone, or help enlighten anyone and I became more distraught. I would never reach them, I could never change anything, or help anyone. And that's all I really wanted to do for as far back as I can remember; help people in the best ways I could. So I gave up. I retreated and withdrew. I gave up on politics for the sake of my stomach and surrendered.
In doing so, I think I lost something vital to me. Something that gave me the drive to write. The drive to live, really. And that was my passion. My passion to help and learn and become involved with others. I just wanted to exist and live as happily as I could without wanting to curl up into the fetal position and check out mentally. So I did like the Romans did, and ignored it all with a drink in my hand. And kept on drinking until I didn't care.
I was happy, distracted by free movie screenings, my fair share of drugs, and lots of late nights at the bars. New York City is full of things to keep your mind busy and unthinking. That introspective nature just doesn't give up so easily though. It crept up on me and started making me sad almost at random. Something wasn't right, and I needed to figure it out.
So I went back to what's always helped. The words. I just kept writing and writing until all the junk sitting on top got cleared away and I could see what the problem was. I had lost direction. I had lost who I was. I had given up trying to help, given up on trying to get something done. My passion for life and writing and the world at large was just about gone. So when it came surging back these last few weeks, it was quite the shock. To be honest, most of this I'm just putting together as I write this right here.
Hopefully, trudging through the next few weeks will see me back and whole. I have lots of lofty goals set for myself and I'm not getting anywhere sitting here spinning my wheels. There's a world that's outside this window here and it's not going to wait for me to catch my breath. And I know everything I write these days seems like a manifesto, a declaration, a call to arms, without the surging forth of the troops into battle. But each one of these columns brings me closer, and every two weeks in-between I get more and more done.
I may not be able to hurl all the world's nuclear missiles into the sun, but I know I can make a difference. Even if it's only to those around me, but then again, they're the ones who deserve it most of all.
This column is dedicated to Chris Chua & Diana Zuluaga, who have had faith and encouraged me, even in my worst moments. Thank you.
K
The Meaning of Life.
I'm in bad shape. I'm looking out at myself and feel it all falling apart, no matter how hard I'm trying to hold it all together. Maybe it's just the September blues, or the bi-polar/manic-depression kicking in, but whatever's going on it's hard to concentrate.
I can't write this now. Not in this state.
Morning. Back now. Things look better. I've just been having a rough time of it lately. It's a yearly thing really. Every September as far back as I can remember has had me go through the wringer. And as is par for the course, September is nearly over before I even got used to it being here.
I've locked myself away for the last two weeks and just tried to write. It was an agonizing process. I took every opportunity to do all this other miscellaneous nonsense and made excuses to myself. I wasn't sure what I was afraid of, what it was I was trying to avoid, but I had buried myself beneath research and outlining for long enough. It was time to get something done.
So I started, and it was awful and difficult and my eyes darted around the room, as my mind raced. I couldn't help but think of all the other things I needed to do, the people I needed to call, etc. So I slapped myself back into action and pushed through it. It sucked, but I got a major chunk done and I was happy.
But it got me to thinking for this column. Why was it I was having such a hard time finishing these projects? I thought long and hard about it. More distraction I suppose, but I think it helped. I realized that I had changed so much since these projects began, and that I had somehow lost my connection to who I was when I came up with these ideas.
I was always idealistic. A romantic utopian even. Naive? Certainly, but filled with a nearly inextinguishable hope in my fellow man. Then came 9/11 and something had snapped in me. I remember sitting there for days on end, glued to the TV and computer monitor unearthing any shred of information I could find on anyone and everyone involved. This led me down a path filled with conspiracy theories, human rights abuse, civil liberty abuses, and on and on. I became disillusioned and often found myself in the middle of shouting matches with co-workers as our soldiers invaded another country.
I felt insane, or more to the point, sane in an insane world. But what's the difference really? Here I was, a lone voice calling out to any who listened about the injustice going on world wide and I was consistently ignored by peers. I made meek, veiled threats against the government and Bush in the secret hopes that the FBI, who had their Long Island branch right next to the office I worked at, would come and pay me a visit.
But they didn't. Nothing happened. I didn't reach anyone, or help enlighten anyone and I became more distraught. I would never reach them, I could never change anything, or help anyone. And that's all I really wanted to do for as far back as I can remember; help people in the best ways I could. So I gave up. I retreated and withdrew. I gave up on politics for the sake of my stomach and surrendered.
In doing so, I think I lost something vital to me. Something that gave me the drive to write. The drive to live, really. And that was my passion. My passion to help and learn and become involved with others. I just wanted to exist and live as happily as I could without wanting to curl up into the fetal position and check out mentally. So I did like the Romans did, and ignored it all with a drink in my hand. And kept on drinking until I didn't care.
I was happy, distracted by free movie screenings, my fair share of drugs, and lots of late nights at the bars. New York City is full of things to keep your mind busy and unthinking. That introspective nature just doesn't give up so easily though. It crept up on me and started making me sad almost at random. Something wasn't right, and I needed to figure it out.
So I went back to what's always helped. The words. I just kept writing and writing until all the junk sitting on top got cleared away and I could see what the problem was. I had lost direction. I had lost who I was. I had given up trying to help, given up on trying to get something done. My passion for life and writing and the world at large was just about gone. So when it came surging back these last few weeks, it was quite the shock. To be honest, most of this I'm just putting together as I write this right here.
Hopefully, trudging through the next few weeks will see me back and whole. I have lots of lofty goals set for myself and I'm not getting anywhere sitting here spinning my wheels. There's a world that's outside this window here and it's not going to wait for me to catch my breath. And I know everything I write these days seems like a manifesto, a declaration, a call to arms, without the surging forth of the troops into battle. But each one of these columns brings me closer, and every two weeks in-between I get more and more done.
I may not be able to hurl all the world's nuclear missiles into the sun, but I know I can make a difference. Even if it's only to those around me, but then again, they're the ones who deserve it most of all.
This column is dedicated to Chris Chua & Diana Zuluaga, who have had faith and encouraged me, even in my worst moments. Thank you.
K
Comicbook Rockstar 3: With A Vengeance
Three strikes. Third time's the charm. Three Stooges.
Who the hell am I anyway?
What the hell do I have to say?
Where the hell am I going?
My favorite movies as a kid were Raiders of the Lost Ark, Die Hard and Back to the Future. I even said that I wanted to be an archeologist in my fifth grade yearbook. I think I have it around here somewhere. I got a photo of my face on Indiana Jones' body at Great Adventure and had it printed up on a t-shirt. A shirt my friends would pull out in High School and sport around the halls.
I had all the Back to the Future collectible movie cards in a shoebox, and it was the absolute first ride I made my family go on when we visited Universal studios. I'll see if I can dig up those pics too. And Die Hard, well, I remember a blissful feeling of being like Bruce Willis once when I was playing guns up at my cousin's house, where he lived on a remote court. I had all the neighborhood kids gunning for me, but I was too slick. I came alive with a plastic gun in my hand shooting down the other kids.
I spent my teenage years in Massapequa, Long Island. New York City's parking lot. You know, Strong Island, the Surburban Island off Manhattan. Queens and Brooklyn have totally disavowed being part of us, but it's all the same landmass until the Midtown Tunnel or East River bridges baby.
Massapequa, home to the Baldwin Brothers, Joey Buttafucco, and Steve Guttenberg. And it was/is as suburban as it gets, with a McDonald's every mile, a diner every half mile and a gas station every 20 feet. I smoked Marlboro Reds over some mozzarella fries and gravy after driving out to Long Beach to hang out on the beach all night. I had a paper route at 11 years old, helped deliver soda and candy to train stations all across the island at 13, worked at Adventureland on the kids' teacups (aka the vomitorium), King Kullen, Waldbaum's, K-Mart, Sears, and Jiffy Lube. Eventually, I went to Nassau Comminuty College where I graduated with my Associates Degree after taking every writing course I could.
I'd always been writing. As long as I could remember really. I remember a soap opera-ish, anti-hero drama from junior high, involving my rebellious friend Dennis, and my first girlfriend Nicole. I also re-read recently two short stories from my English class in tenth grade. The first was about a hard boiled detective facing demons summoned to start Armageddon. The other about Sparky, the Wonder Yak, who sought enlightenment and which borrowed heavily from Ren & Stimpy's Shaven Yak. And I recall receiving an award for a short poem that I banged out as an assignment that went to some state level competition. I accepted it almost as an afterthought in my Marvin the Martian t-shirt and jean shorts at the holiday concert.
Oh yeah, and as an aside, I had long hair. Sebastian Bach long hair. I know there's some bad pics floating around. I even won best hair in my high school yearbook. Sigh. Best hair. I had begun growing it out in Junior High after seeing Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure. I wanted that Ted S. Preston, Esquire look and it just kept on growing. Besides, the bowl cuts and spiked hair was getting played out.
But I digress.
I always felt like someone who could write, but not a writer in name. I could transform words to help a person experience a situation, even one I had never been in myself, but I had nothing of substance to say. With a handful of pretentious poetry, three scenes from a Tower of Brahma screenplay, and a false start on a sci-fi novel, I pretty much left college and accepted my life as a failed writer. I had nothing to say. No life experience to really share.
My life had been imagined for most of my high school years as I, along with my friends, roleplayed every concievable genre, from cyber-punk to fantasy to Vampire the Masquerade, which I even LARPed once. Once. But the majority of games were superhero which were inspired by the fact that I had found comics just a few years earlier and with a new batch of sci-fi/fantasy-centric friends, I plunged into comic books, and the multiverse of superheroes.
The Burton Batman movie, the GI Joe cartoon, and Mad Magazine had driven me to seek out these so-called books. I had always been an avid reader, often pouring through whatever books I took out of the library before the day was done. I guess my love for comics came when I first started really getting into Garfield, Peanuts, and the rest of strips from the funny pages (I read Brenda Starr for years, and hey, it had a guy with an eye patch in it, and that's cool dammit). I would take the collections of comic strips out of the library and pour through them from the minute we got into the car. So later on, when I saw that Norm Breyfogle Detective comic (404 I think?), that silent issue (85) of GI Joe featuring Storm Shadow as a good guy, and Wolverine 17 & 18 sitting on the racks…I was hooked. I went to 7-11 as often as possible picking up all sorts of books and a batch of Hot Tamales for the bike ride home. I rolled up a Jim Lee Uncanny X-Men and tucked it in my back pocket as I rode my Mongoose BMX home.
Over my teenage years I had the good fortune to be reading comics at their best and yet their worst. I was there as Image burst on the scene and I was there for the late 80's DC for books like The Question and the development of Vertigo. I felt as if my brain would explode every time I devoured another Grant Morrison Doom Patrol, Peter Milligan Shade the Changing Man, or Garth Ennis Hellblazer. Sure, I read all the superhero stuff too. I've been reading the Flash steady since just after Mark Waid jumped on the book and totally turned it around and reinvented the superhero in a post-modern age. I will never forget where I was when I read issue 100 of the Flash where he first discovers the Speed Force (I was in the upstairs lounge of Nassau Community College's library). I thought he was dead. They actually got me. They had moved me.
Nothing else read as fast, or looked as cool, or had as many crazy ideas as these amazing little addictive pamphlets. I resorted to buying $10 worth at the local comic store and tossing $30 in afterwards when no one was looking. I was a junkie and I needed a constant fix. Comics are great for that. Comics are definitely the crack of fiction. A (used to be) cheap fix of mad ideas, stunning art, and deep rooted Freudian/Mythological opera. Not to mention the often dingy and scary places you needed to hit up in order to score.
I gave it up, semi-cold turkey almost two years ago. Sure, I pick up a graphic novel here and there, but I was sportin' a $200 a month habit and in the end that's all it was. A habit. It wasn't fun, it wasn't fresh, and it made me more depressed and took money away from doing anything outside in the real world, with other people. Yes, DVDs and CDs certainly played a major factor in depleting my funds and the consumption of my time, but that was a separate $100 a month habit all its own. But damn if I didn't read some mind altering comics and see some kick ass Hong Kong flicks in that time.
These are things I did and sought out to take up my time. I always thought you could see an intriguing pattern in the likes and interests of a person when you take a close look at them. I'm not sure what my entertainment really says about me anymore, and in a lot of ways I've stopped worrying about it. These things are supposed to be fun distractions from a often cold, and cruel reality. For too long I had myself under a microscope, or like a detective following clues to determine who I was and what I stood for, and where exactly I was underneath the debris of thirty long, white, comic book boxes.
Coming out of your hole and piecing together your life seems so obviously simple in the end. I just stopped reading and started writing. Whatever I needed to go through, whatever battle within my head I needed to survive, I survived it and came out writing. It was ugly and unrewarding a lot of the times, but that's not that point is it? How many people really become stars after winning on Star Search? It has to be done for the love of doing it, or it has to be done in order to save yourself. That joy, pain, and hunger that drive creative types to creatin', that's what's real in this world, and that's what gets you where you want to be.
I have an idealistic view of humanity and want a creative revolution to be born of these fertile times we live in. We live in a world that in many ways is becoming more and more fictional every single day. PR, spin, and celebrity worship guide our daily routines, and are involved in the epic wars, disasters, and personal madness that plague us all. It's my intent to help as far as I can. Ego aside, I know I have the ability to write, but what nearly killed my passion to write was a lack of direction and purpose. I don't know if I have the answers to help people, but I know that I needed help and I did it for myself by utilizing my talent as often as possible.
The more I write, the better my life becomes. Coincidence?
Ahhh, this all seems like trite psychobabble in retrospect. Some nostalgia wrapped around a fat, hard to swallow pill. Maybe it'll flow more naturally next time. Maybe not.
But you gotta keep going, right?
K
Who the hell am I anyway?
What the hell do I have to say?
Where the hell am I going?
My favorite movies as a kid were Raiders of the Lost Ark, Die Hard and Back to the Future. I even said that I wanted to be an archeologist in my fifth grade yearbook. I think I have it around here somewhere. I got a photo of my face on Indiana Jones' body at Great Adventure and had it printed up on a t-shirt. A shirt my friends would pull out in High School and sport around the halls.
I had all the Back to the Future collectible movie cards in a shoebox, and it was the absolute first ride I made my family go on when we visited Universal studios. I'll see if I can dig up those pics too. And Die Hard, well, I remember a blissful feeling of being like Bruce Willis once when I was playing guns up at my cousin's house, where he lived on a remote court. I had all the neighborhood kids gunning for me, but I was too slick. I came alive with a plastic gun in my hand shooting down the other kids.
I spent my teenage years in Massapequa, Long Island. New York City's parking lot. You know, Strong Island, the Surburban Island off Manhattan. Queens and Brooklyn have totally disavowed being part of us, but it's all the same landmass until the Midtown Tunnel or East River bridges baby.
Massapequa, home to the Baldwin Brothers, Joey Buttafucco, and Steve Guttenberg. And it was/is as suburban as it gets, with a McDonald's every mile, a diner every half mile and a gas station every 20 feet. I smoked Marlboro Reds over some mozzarella fries and gravy after driving out to Long Beach to hang out on the beach all night. I had a paper route at 11 years old, helped deliver soda and candy to train stations all across the island at 13, worked at Adventureland on the kids' teacups (aka the vomitorium), King Kullen, Waldbaum's, K-Mart, Sears, and Jiffy Lube. Eventually, I went to Nassau Comminuty College where I graduated with my Associates Degree after taking every writing course I could.
I'd always been writing. As long as I could remember really. I remember a soap opera-ish, anti-hero drama from junior high, involving my rebellious friend Dennis, and my first girlfriend Nicole. I also re-read recently two short stories from my English class in tenth grade. The first was about a hard boiled detective facing demons summoned to start Armageddon. The other about Sparky, the Wonder Yak, who sought enlightenment and which borrowed heavily from Ren & Stimpy's Shaven Yak. And I recall receiving an award for a short poem that I banged out as an assignment that went to some state level competition. I accepted it almost as an afterthought in my Marvin the Martian t-shirt and jean shorts at the holiday concert.
Oh yeah, and as an aside, I had long hair. Sebastian Bach long hair. I know there's some bad pics floating around. I even won best hair in my high school yearbook. Sigh. Best hair. I had begun growing it out in Junior High after seeing Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure. I wanted that Ted S. Preston, Esquire look and it just kept on growing. Besides, the bowl cuts and spiked hair was getting played out.
But I digress.
I always felt like someone who could write, but not a writer in name. I could transform words to help a person experience a situation, even one I had never been in myself, but I had nothing of substance to say. With a handful of pretentious poetry, three scenes from a Tower of Brahma screenplay, and a false start on a sci-fi novel, I pretty much left college and accepted my life as a failed writer. I had nothing to say. No life experience to really share.
My life had been imagined for most of my high school years as I, along with my friends, roleplayed every concievable genre, from cyber-punk to fantasy to Vampire the Masquerade, which I even LARPed once. Once. But the majority of games were superhero which were inspired by the fact that I had found comics just a few years earlier and with a new batch of sci-fi/fantasy-centric friends, I plunged into comic books, and the multiverse of superheroes.
The Burton Batman movie, the GI Joe cartoon, and Mad Magazine had driven me to seek out these so-called books. I had always been an avid reader, often pouring through whatever books I took out of the library before the day was done. I guess my love for comics came when I first started really getting into Garfield, Peanuts, and the rest of strips from the funny pages (I read Brenda Starr for years, and hey, it had a guy with an eye patch in it, and that's cool dammit). I would take the collections of comic strips out of the library and pour through them from the minute we got into the car. So later on, when I saw that Norm Breyfogle Detective comic (404 I think?), that silent issue (85) of GI Joe featuring Storm Shadow as a good guy, and Wolverine 17 & 18 sitting on the racks…I was hooked. I went to 7-11 as often as possible picking up all sorts of books and a batch of Hot Tamales for the bike ride home. I rolled up a Jim Lee Uncanny X-Men and tucked it in my back pocket as I rode my Mongoose BMX home.
Over my teenage years I had the good fortune to be reading comics at their best and yet their worst. I was there as Image burst on the scene and I was there for the late 80's DC for books like The Question and the development of Vertigo. I felt as if my brain would explode every time I devoured another Grant Morrison Doom Patrol, Peter Milligan Shade the Changing Man, or Garth Ennis Hellblazer. Sure, I read all the superhero stuff too. I've been reading the Flash steady since just after Mark Waid jumped on the book and totally turned it around and reinvented the superhero in a post-modern age. I will never forget where I was when I read issue 100 of the Flash where he first discovers the Speed Force (I was in the upstairs lounge of Nassau Community College's library). I thought he was dead. They actually got me. They had moved me.
Nothing else read as fast, or looked as cool, or had as many crazy ideas as these amazing little addictive pamphlets. I resorted to buying $10 worth at the local comic store and tossing $30 in afterwards when no one was looking. I was a junkie and I needed a constant fix. Comics are great for that. Comics are definitely the crack of fiction. A (used to be) cheap fix of mad ideas, stunning art, and deep rooted Freudian/Mythological opera. Not to mention the often dingy and scary places you needed to hit up in order to score.
I gave it up, semi-cold turkey almost two years ago. Sure, I pick up a graphic novel here and there, but I was sportin' a $200 a month habit and in the end that's all it was. A habit. It wasn't fun, it wasn't fresh, and it made me more depressed and took money away from doing anything outside in the real world, with other people. Yes, DVDs and CDs certainly played a major factor in depleting my funds and the consumption of my time, but that was a separate $100 a month habit all its own. But damn if I didn't read some mind altering comics and see some kick ass Hong Kong flicks in that time.
These are things I did and sought out to take up my time. I always thought you could see an intriguing pattern in the likes and interests of a person when you take a close look at them. I'm not sure what my entertainment really says about me anymore, and in a lot of ways I've stopped worrying about it. These things are supposed to be fun distractions from a often cold, and cruel reality. For too long I had myself under a microscope, or like a detective following clues to determine who I was and what I stood for, and where exactly I was underneath the debris of thirty long, white, comic book boxes.
Coming out of your hole and piecing together your life seems so obviously simple in the end. I just stopped reading and started writing. Whatever I needed to go through, whatever battle within my head I needed to survive, I survived it and came out writing. It was ugly and unrewarding a lot of the times, but that's not that point is it? How many people really become stars after winning on Star Search? It has to be done for the love of doing it, or it has to be done in order to save yourself. That joy, pain, and hunger that drive creative types to creatin', that's what's real in this world, and that's what gets you where you want to be.
I have an idealistic view of humanity and want a creative revolution to be born of these fertile times we live in. We live in a world that in many ways is becoming more and more fictional every single day. PR, spin, and celebrity worship guide our daily routines, and are involved in the epic wars, disasters, and personal madness that plague us all. It's my intent to help as far as I can. Ego aside, I know I have the ability to write, but what nearly killed my passion to write was a lack of direction and purpose. I don't know if I have the answers to help people, but I know that I needed help and I did it for myself by utilizing my talent as often as possible.
The more I write, the better my life becomes. Coincidence?
Ahhh, this all seems like trite psychobabble in retrospect. Some nostalgia wrapped around a fat, hard to swallow pill. Maybe it'll flow more naturally next time. Maybe not.
But you gotta keep going, right?
K
Comicbook Rockstar 2: Electric Boogaloo
August 2006.
The rockstar life is filled with ups and downs. That's the key to remember. It can't always be drunken orgies backstage after a killer gig. Sometimes it's vomiting on the sidewalk, people all sidestepping around you. Or even sometimes it's being stone cold sober, despite your best efforts, and wandering about feeling lost and empty.
It's always the expectations that ruin my days. I expect to zig and instead life zags, and I get frustrated at the unexpected disappointment. It's life's random surprises that really make or break you. The falls just keep you humble and on the right track I suppose.
For example, I'm sitting here out in Dirty Jerzee, lounging by the pool, and it's not really hot enough to actually jump in. Three days earlier I was trapped, sweating profusely and dying for this 80 degree weather.
Sometimes the words come and it feels like I'm channeling some foreign frequency that's just pouring the words from my fingertips. The other times I hate the words, I hate the ideas, and it all seems like a terrible waste of time. It's this polarity in the creative process that really interests me. It's in all aspects of life it seems. That roller coaster ride along the peaks and valleys of our emotional experience.
I was thinking about audiences and their relationship to creators. We, as creative individuals, have this burning desire to create some sort of externalization of our pain, our joy, our hopes. Sort of an emotional surgical procedure, sculpting these feelings into a work that stands as part of us, but yet a part removed.
Then we present it to the audience. They experience it, then process it and hopefully applaud, or else throw tomatoes, or, even worse, walk away in indifference. This transaction of meaning and expression opens up all sorts of games where insecurity messes with our minds. The applause seems to mean validation, an acceptance of our darkest or brightest bits. But this is where things go bad.
It became like a drug to me. I'd post a new short story, or essay, or photos, or whatever up on my online journal Now's The Time and I would (and still do) obsessively check who had visited and what comments they may have left.
The posts I just did for the hell of it were the ones that got the responses, just as inevitably the posts I made where I felt strongly about the results and just knew someone would get it and proclaim my greatness, there would be no comments at all.
This led me to a love-hate relationship with my readers. I was dependent on them, living for their acceptance, and I hated them (myself) for needing it so desperately. Eventually I found a balance where I didn't let myself get down about the lack of comments, and instead just kept at it. The more I did this, the more comments would randomly appear.
This carried through to other parts of my life and soon enough I started getting praise from family and friends that I never imagined would, or could, get me. And maybe that's not the point. They don't need to understand me. Or even like me really. The more I create for me, the more I change and grow. The more this happens, the more people will recognize it, and the less I need it.
Who do we create for? Why do we create at all? Are we motivated through early praise of our individual skills? Do we have a calling or inclination towards a specific medium? It's probably just me over-thinking it all, but for some reason I just can't stop…
I awoke the next morning, my fingers reaching along my neck as I felt the sharp point of the barb. Seems like someone did me the favor of shooting me with that emergency tranquilizer gun I keep handy for just such an emergency.
Bartender, gimme a pint. Cheers!
K
For more information on my works:
LIQUID FURY
The graphic novel I'm working on with Chris Chua.
It's a kung fu, revenge story, with a sci-fi/fantasy twist. Or as Chris and I like to say, it's kung fu abstrACTION, philosophical pulp.
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA
A pseudo-experimental novel that attempts to unravel my identity through my various character archetypes.
Two agents seek to end the world as we know it using the ancient puzzle, the Tower of Brahma.
TWENTYSIX
Alternating takes on superhero fiction through a series of short stories that have a running, evolving storyline.
Charles Crown, aka Thrust, aka the Kinetic Kid, is trying to save humanity from itself, unfortunately the closer he gets to figuring himself out, the more reality fragments all around him.
Feel free to comment…or not. Up to you.
The rockstar life is filled with ups and downs. That's the key to remember. It can't always be drunken orgies backstage after a killer gig. Sometimes it's vomiting on the sidewalk, people all sidestepping around you. Or even sometimes it's being stone cold sober, despite your best efforts, and wandering about feeling lost and empty.
It's always the expectations that ruin my days. I expect to zig and instead life zags, and I get frustrated at the unexpected disappointment. It's life's random surprises that really make or break you. The falls just keep you humble and on the right track I suppose.
For example, I'm sitting here out in Dirty Jerzee, lounging by the pool, and it's not really hot enough to actually jump in. Three days earlier I was trapped, sweating profusely and dying for this 80 degree weather.
Sometimes the words come and it feels like I'm channeling some foreign frequency that's just pouring the words from my fingertips. The other times I hate the words, I hate the ideas, and it all seems like a terrible waste of time. It's this polarity in the creative process that really interests me. It's in all aspects of life it seems. That roller coaster ride along the peaks and valleys of our emotional experience.
I was thinking about audiences and their relationship to creators. We, as creative individuals, have this burning desire to create some sort of externalization of our pain, our joy, our hopes. Sort of an emotional surgical procedure, sculpting these feelings into a work that stands as part of us, but yet a part removed.
Then we present it to the audience. They experience it, then process it and hopefully applaud, or else throw tomatoes, or, even worse, walk away in indifference. This transaction of meaning and expression opens up all sorts of games where insecurity messes with our minds. The applause seems to mean validation, an acceptance of our darkest or brightest bits. But this is where things go bad.
It became like a drug to me. I'd post a new short story, or essay, or photos, or whatever up on my online journal Now's The Time and I would (and still do) obsessively check who had visited and what comments they may have left.
The posts I just did for the hell of it were the ones that got the responses, just as inevitably the posts I made where I felt strongly about the results and just knew someone would get it and proclaim my greatness, there would be no comments at all.
This led me to a love-hate relationship with my readers. I was dependent on them, living for their acceptance, and I hated them (myself) for needing it so desperately. Eventually I found a balance where I didn't let myself get down about the lack of comments, and instead just kept at it. The more I did this, the more comments would randomly appear.
This carried through to other parts of my life and soon enough I started getting praise from family and friends that I never imagined would, or could, get me. And maybe that's not the point. They don't need to understand me. Or even like me really. The more I create for me, the more I change and grow. The more this happens, the more people will recognize it, and the less I need it.
Who do we create for? Why do we create at all? Are we motivated through early praise of our individual skills? Do we have a calling or inclination towards a specific medium? It's probably just me over-thinking it all, but for some reason I just can't stop…
I awoke the next morning, my fingers reaching along my neck as I felt the sharp point of the barb. Seems like someone did me the favor of shooting me with that emergency tranquilizer gun I keep handy for just such an emergency.
Bartender, gimme a pint. Cheers!
K
For more information on my works:
LIQUID FURY
The graphic novel I'm working on with Chris Chua.
It's a kung fu, revenge story, with a sci-fi/fantasy twist. Or as Chris and I like to say, it's kung fu abstrACTION, philosophical pulp.
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA
A pseudo-experimental novel that attempts to unravel my identity through my various character archetypes.
Two agents seek to end the world as we know it using the ancient puzzle, the Tower of Brahma.
TWENTYSIX
Alternating takes on superhero fiction through a series of short stories that have a running, evolving storyline.
Charles Crown, aka Thrust, aka the Kinetic Kid, is trying to save humanity from itself, unfortunately the closer he gets to figuring himself out, the more reality fragments all around him.
Feel free to comment…or not. Up to you.
Comicbook Rockstar
August 2006.
My sincere desire to put forth my honest acceptance of my chosen lifestyle is clamping on the shackles of inaction, non-writing. How can I let them know that I've discovered my lot in life and that I shall carry my burden for the rest of my days? How do I tell them that I was born…a rockstar?
I'm not sure how it happened. A lot of air guitar as a teen; theatrically performing 'Permanent Vacation' by Aerosmith in my socks and drawers at every home alone opportunity. Too many vodka blackouts and a drugs ingested for a normal job to make sense anymore. The frontal lobe epilepsy makes the most minute tasks seem impossible, and at the same time, the universe blooms chock full of potential.
I just want a social writing revolution, with a sixties-seventies rock 'n' roll lifestyle, where I jetset across the globe and vomit in bizarre locations in exotic locales. I'm not proud of it, but it's my destiny. No wait, I am proud of it. Actually I love it. I want a Philip K. Dick/Pink Floyd kinda life. A Grant/Jim-Morrison sex sandwich to sink my teeth into. A William S. Burroughs/Sigur Ros blend to cook up and inject into my thirsty veins.
I want sex, drugs, and the written word. And I won't settle for less than total revolution!
I try not to think about my writing, in fact I attempt to abolish all rational thought whilst slamming out word after word as my fingers nimbly dance out the twentysix variable symbology I use to telepathically stimulate thought and coalesce ideas in your skullmeats.
Distrust authority and make comics you bastards! I decree this and will take rubber mallets to your kneecaps if I don't see results. And yes, I expect the same lifelong limp if I don't comply as well. There is no option but to serve our will and recreate/reimagine the reality you thought you were stuck with.
Change your point of view and the world grows around you. Do it. I don't want to party alone. Open bar. I swear.
By the morning we'd forgotten all we had dreamed, and all that we had done. But after brunch, and a handful of painkillers, we'll be rewriting the revolution all over again.
Preachy preachy, Mr. Talky Talky. So much to say, so little done. Where are your drum fill short stories, the funky bass tone of comics, the blaring horns of poetry, the guitar solo movie scripts, and the lead singer novel? Never made it out of the garage band days.
Until now. Now I look back and see the pretentiousness steaming off the words above. Scathing myself for anything less than the most honest and open communication of ideas possible. I must become a true writer or else I face the hollow mirror of failure.
Everything has gone according to plan. Now to trigger the implosion.
K
My sincere desire to put forth my honest acceptance of my chosen lifestyle is clamping on the shackles of inaction, non-writing. How can I let them know that I've discovered my lot in life and that I shall carry my burden for the rest of my days? How do I tell them that I was born…a rockstar?
I'm not sure how it happened. A lot of air guitar as a teen; theatrically performing 'Permanent Vacation' by Aerosmith in my socks and drawers at every home alone opportunity. Too many vodka blackouts and a drugs ingested for a normal job to make sense anymore. The frontal lobe epilepsy makes the most minute tasks seem impossible, and at the same time, the universe blooms chock full of potential.
I just want a social writing revolution, with a sixties-seventies rock 'n' roll lifestyle, where I jetset across the globe and vomit in bizarre locations in exotic locales. I'm not proud of it, but it's my destiny. No wait, I am proud of it. Actually I love it. I want a Philip K. Dick/Pink Floyd kinda life. A Grant/Jim-Morrison sex sandwich to sink my teeth into. A William S. Burroughs/Sigur Ros blend to cook up and inject into my thirsty veins.
I want sex, drugs, and the written word. And I won't settle for less than total revolution!
I try not to think about my writing, in fact I attempt to abolish all rational thought whilst slamming out word after word as my fingers nimbly dance out the twentysix variable symbology I use to telepathically stimulate thought and coalesce ideas in your skullmeats.
Distrust authority and make comics you bastards! I decree this and will take rubber mallets to your kneecaps if I don't see results. And yes, I expect the same lifelong limp if I don't comply as well. There is no option but to serve our will and recreate/reimagine the reality you thought you were stuck with.
Change your point of view and the world grows around you. Do it. I don't want to party alone. Open bar. I swear.
By the morning we'd forgotten all we had dreamed, and all that we had done. But after brunch, and a handful of painkillers, we'll be rewriting the revolution all over again.
Preachy preachy, Mr. Talky Talky. So much to say, so little done. Where are your drum fill short stories, the funky bass tone of comics, the blaring horns of poetry, the guitar solo movie scripts, and the lead singer novel? Never made it out of the garage band days.
Until now. Now I look back and see the pretentiousness steaming off the words above. Scathing myself for anything less than the most honest and open communication of ideas possible. I must become a true writer or else I face the hollow mirror of failure.
Everything has gone according to plan. Now to trigger the implosion.
K
the end is beginning to start to finish
And now there's a movement and gathering of confluent forces forcing me ever forward. The other ones are won and then what is left is right and mighty. Run on, hide and see that now is dropping from the face of the earth and forever cascades into upwardly mobile crystallization.
This science is not nonsense, but it screams so wrong at me. It howls at me til the skin is windsheared from the muscle and the muscle torn from the bone. Why does the universe scorch my skull?
A speeding soaring solitary confinement as the guiding mind of masses, spinning, twisting, looping around in my fractal whirlwind wake. They whip around ricocheting off the sublime confines of their spaceship selves.
The captain engages the autopilot and steps back from behind the curtain. He casually whistles and snags a coffee. A wink and a nod at the flirty stewardesses as he strolls down the aisle. He's floating forward in slo-mo cool molasses as his ass makes its way down, down, down.
The passengers are molecularily vaporized and rematerialized in fluctuating prime number sequences pulsing and pulsating the pounding beat of the sweet night. Their faces are snapshots of happiness and blurs of pain. Moody hues rippling the gaps of their captured, frozen in time smiles.
Interstellar psychology never covered this. None of the manuals or training covered the actualization that these poor souls are the banshees of space, crying lonely eternal sighs into neverever. And it's all my fault.
It was my call. My choice. Decision. Fault. Condemn and send the condolences to my former address. The mail there all gets consumed in the flames of my jetstream as I fly this mean bastard around and through and collapsed into.
This science is not nonsense, but it screams so wrong at me. It howls at me til the skin is windsheared from the muscle and the muscle torn from the bone. Why does the universe scorch my skull?
A speeding soaring solitary confinement as the guiding mind of masses, spinning, twisting, looping around in my fractal whirlwind wake. They whip around ricocheting off the sublime confines of their spaceship selves.
The captain engages the autopilot and steps back from behind the curtain. He casually whistles and snags a coffee. A wink and a nod at the flirty stewardesses as he strolls down the aisle. He's floating forward in slo-mo cool molasses as his ass makes its way down, down, down.
The passengers are molecularily vaporized and rematerialized in fluctuating prime number sequences pulsing and pulsating the pounding beat of the sweet night. Their faces are snapshots of happiness and blurs of pain. Moody hues rippling the gaps of their captured, frozen in time smiles.
Interstellar psychology never covered this. None of the manuals or training covered the actualization that these poor souls are the banshees of space, crying lonely eternal sighs into neverever. And it's all my fault.
It was my call. My choice. Decision. Fault. Condemn and send the condolences to my former address. The mail there all gets consumed in the flames of my jetstream as I fly this mean bastard around and through and collapsed into.
The Secret of Me: TwentySix Towers of Brahma
She's running. Leaving. Sliding into the infinite where she'll be reduced to a sliver, a seed that I temporarily pried open and peered into the spiralling fractal eternity that is aligned with the outside and beyond. It's that one straight line from here to the complete and opposite side. And you're...I'm smack in the center.
Melting into a spinning flatness, Velocity Girl disappeared. She was flying upward and onward, diving inward and back through me. A brief flash as she stands completely inbetween everthing that is this reality.
I thought the world drab. It's dirt is now its shimmer. Velocity Girl's lingering gift for releasing her is a glimmer to all matter, a sparkle in each and every molecule. When I draw her in next time, I'll be ready to play the game her way.
"We were pretending...", she pouted, "Playing."
And suddenly I wanted to kill.
Who was this? An assassin...
Not likely. I thought this was a madness I was catching but reality is the pain that forced me to insanity's fair arms.
She made me a mad sexy one, rebirthed through beetle recycling, and ready for damage. Tossing down the pieces, staring madly at the fortunes of trinkets, I saw the secret of the universe revealed unto me.
I have a countdown to solve the riddle. I can't wait til the final nail-biting seconds to defuse my literal existence. The answers must be found now!
But regardless of pace, the journey unfolds as it does, not as you wish. The signal is vibrating the tether in the centre. It shakes loose words, broadcasting them to acres of neurons, snapping puzzle pieces of sanity onto the coffee table.
Coffee table...I'm drunk. The future? Past? It feels like a memory and my consciousness lets go and I get into the pilot seat and scream and holler as I whirl my empty vessel into the night, headed straight downtown.
To the ground, laid down, and then up again until you're laughing in all of their faces one by one. You look around and they look upon, smiling down and across. Penetrating glances, glaring prances, fairy dust dances with phallic accuracy.
Jokester, prankster, playing the games but I forgot that I told myself not to remember anything so as to fool us all, straight into the game. Our nights and dreams are all, it seems. Battle bravely, defending identity to its bitter end.
The girl dreams of the boy and he of her. That heart can't take the hurt, so, in hiding his dreams among the starry skies he rises and falls again. He knows, wanting to amuse and bemuse his lovely muse, so tries but fails to maintain his place. Quests for longing, meaningful masterpiece of my eye, I've gone inside.
Brainwash the self into betterment. Bridge that gap between perfection and yourself. Buy into the scheme that you've made to live within. Learn the rules and have fun. Further instructions lie...
Melting into a spinning flatness, Velocity Girl disappeared. She was flying upward and onward, diving inward and back through me. A brief flash as she stands completely inbetween everthing that is this reality.
I thought the world drab. It's dirt is now its shimmer. Velocity Girl's lingering gift for releasing her is a glimmer to all matter, a sparkle in each and every molecule. When I draw her in next time, I'll be ready to play the game her way.
"We were pretending...", she pouted, "Playing."
And suddenly I wanted to kill.
Who was this? An assassin...
Not likely. I thought this was a madness I was catching but reality is the pain that forced me to insanity's fair arms.
She made me a mad sexy one, rebirthed through beetle recycling, and ready for damage. Tossing down the pieces, staring madly at the fortunes of trinkets, I saw the secret of the universe revealed unto me.
I have a countdown to solve the riddle. I can't wait til the final nail-biting seconds to defuse my literal existence. The answers must be found now!
But regardless of pace, the journey unfolds as it does, not as you wish. The signal is vibrating the tether in the centre. It shakes loose words, broadcasting them to acres of neurons, snapping puzzle pieces of sanity onto the coffee table.
Coffee table...I'm drunk. The future? Past? It feels like a memory and my consciousness lets go and I get into the pilot seat and scream and holler as I whirl my empty vessel into the night, headed straight downtown.
To the ground, laid down, and then up again until you're laughing in all of their faces one by one. You look around and they look upon, smiling down and across. Penetrating glances, glaring prances, fairy dust dances with phallic accuracy.
Jokester, prankster, playing the games but I forgot that I told myself not to remember anything so as to fool us all, straight into the game. Our nights and dreams are all, it seems. Battle bravely, defending identity to its bitter end.
The girl dreams of the boy and he of her. That heart can't take the hurt, so, in hiding his dreams among the starry skies he rises and falls again. He knows, wanting to amuse and bemuse his lovely muse, so tries but fails to maintain his place. Quests for longing, meaningful masterpiece of my eye, I've gone inside.
Brainwash the self into betterment. Bridge that gap between perfection and yourself. Buy into the scheme that you've made to live within. Learn the rules and have fun. Further instructions lie...
TwentySix: 7 - the Ballad of Joy Random - Act 3 - the Overture
"I'm so sorry!", I weeped.
"Forgive me...", I pleaded.
"No.", she whispered.
I held her close, probably just a bit too tight, and tried to squeeze out what tears I had left in me. My dried out eyes betrayed me. I had nothing left to declare the sincerety of my emotions.
She was faced away from me, a blanket tucked around her separated us. My knuckles were still bloody and the sweat cascaded off my body, draining me of my final drops of liquid.
We huddled close despite the distance between us. Trapped in our own paradigm, escape consistently eluded us as our minds were kept busy with dramatics. The floodgates of emotion were thrown open drowning us in desperation and despair daily.
"Forgive yourself.", she added.
I went to say, 'I wish I knew how', but instead swallowed the words. A pitiful excuse spun from the lying maw of an earthborn sinner; a lie spit from the forked tongue of a monster. I was nothing but a beast clinging to my prey.
To forgive myself, I'd have to save myself. And I was far too busy putting her in danger, and saving her nightly, only to wind up capturing her, in true villainous form, and imprisoning her inside.
The dreams changed suddenly and if I was quick enough I could slide between and maybe end this cycle of mutual self destruction. Our spiralling stasis spun itself into a tower of sensation; A continual column of calamity from which we must break free.
I had to try and end this.
I exploded from the scene and shot straight into the maelstrom of encapsulating madness. I held her close below, but in order to work this out I'd have to go through our bond and come out on the other side.
Propelled out into the otherside I saw the vortex that whirlled about us. I lunged into the funnel and whirlpooled my consciousness down inside. I rode the electromagnetic wavelengths sliding further and further away from anything but us.
We were sections, avatars of altercation, swimming in the collective unconscious of eternity. Bound to each other in a dark pact, we plunged to the very bottom and beyond.
Our hatred mingled and fed off each other. Self-deploring immolation drilling deeper into numb sad sickness. Alone together we emptied the void, filling it with our ferocious insanity. There was no limit in this oppressive expanse of ourselves.
"I don't want to be a bad guy." I tried to look her in the eyes but saw only a reflection of isolation.
We mirrored our ugliness in a pairing of saint and sinner, the roles alternating in a chaotic pattern. I saved her, she damned me. She held me close, I hurt her deeply. Massochist and sadist scenerios switching like currents and circuits. A negative feedback loop careening into the yawning abyss.
I saw my hands around her throat, holding her down. I surged with pleasure, my cock growing rock hard as I increased the pressure arund her windpipe. She thanked me with her eyes. She was feeling something, even if it was only fear of me.
I found myself unable to stop as I pressed further. The princess, locked away from everything, isolated from sensation, she saw something in me. She had drawn me in, expecting maybe not me in particular, but someone with a hot darkness inside them.
I wanted to save her. Wanted her to give up the anguish that seared her, to stop her manipulative flaggellation of her flesh. I didn't want to know that I wanted to do this to her. To anyone. Ever.
But I do and I can't stop. I'm hurting her. Hurting all the hers who came before and made me feel small, made me feel stupid. I was using my power for revenge on the daughters of Eve. I was just an dirty atom infected with the serpent's curse.
"What is this madness that makes me love hate and hate love?!"
My grip slipped in the final moments and air sucked deep into her lungs over a raw throat. A raspy wind chime, an erotic sigh, a languishing breath of joy. She was alive.
I, too, was alive and wracked with horrific guilt. Was it her fault? My fault? Fate? Why did we have to go this far?
Out past the edge of fantasy, we danced out our unadulterated tactile and psychic torture; punishment, guilt, shame, humiliation. A shadow has swallowed us whole. I surrender to the blackest pit of my heart. I do whatever I feel without remorse. I hate that I want to do these things.
I hate myself. I am vile. I am filled with impulses that I can apparently administer without conscience or care. I was too polite and cowardly to admit that there never was a light inside me. There is only a cursed soul, doomed to enjoy the damnation and subjegation of the innocent.
"Shhh baby. It's okay. We both wanted this."
She cradles my head as I rock and weep for my entire life. A tear for every moment of regret, every shred of guilt, and all the buried deep desires burning me alive in the hellfire of my own design.
She removes the collar from around her neck and I will her free of me with all my might. I focus my rage on this tower she has trapped us in. Every damn corner of this infernal prison. She deserves more and I am too bogged down with self-pity to be of much use to her except to bring her down.
And so we hit bottom and the entire foundation of us rumbles and shakes. We hold each other, skin on skin, as the universe ended and we are born anew in a land of starlight.
"I'm..."
I go to say 'sorry', yet stop. I'm not sorry. And from the look on her face, neither is she. She wanted all this. The pain, the frustration, the play of it all. This is what life is and where it goes. The path it leads is sometimes amazingly intense and full of unforgiveable acts.
But we don't need to forgive. I don't need to explain. I tried to save her. I failed. As I always would. With her, with anyone. But I tried. Sure, I fell sway to the influence of sexual violence, a web she cast, just in order to ensnare me and show her how to save herself.
I hugged her tight, stood up and left. I didn't look back to see if she was crying.
But I knew she was and would be. As would I be, when I was able to cry once more.
"Forgive me...", I pleaded.
"No.", she whispered.
I held her close, probably just a bit too tight, and tried to squeeze out what tears I had left in me. My dried out eyes betrayed me. I had nothing left to declare the sincerety of my emotions.
She was faced away from me, a blanket tucked around her separated us. My knuckles were still bloody and the sweat cascaded off my body, draining me of my final drops of liquid.
We huddled close despite the distance between us. Trapped in our own paradigm, escape consistently eluded us as our minds were kept busy with dramatics. The floodgates of emotion were thrown open drowning us in desperation and despair daily.
"Forgive yourself.", she added.
I went to say, 'I wish I knew how', but instead swallowed the words. A pitiful excuse spun from the lying maw of an earthborn sinner; a lie spit from the forked tongue of a monster. I was nothing but a beast clinging to my prey.
To forgive myself, I'd have to save myself. And I was far too busy putting her in danger, and saving her nightly, only to wind up capturing her, in true villainous form, and imprisoning her inside.
The dreams changed suddenly and if I was quick enough I could slide between and maybe end this cycle of mutual self destruction. Our spiralling stasis spun itself into a tower of sensation; A continual column of calamity from which we must break free.
I had to try and end this.
I exploded from the scene and shot straight into the maelstrom of encapsulating madness. I held her close below, but in order to work this out I'd have to go through our bond and come out on the other side.
Propelled out into the otherside I saw the vortex that whirlled about us. I lunged into the funnel and whirlpooled my consciousness down inside. I rode the electromagnetic wavelengths sliding further and further away from anything but us.
We were sections, avatars of altercation, swimming in the collective unconscious of eternity. Bound to each other in a dark pact, we plunged to the very bottom and beyond.
Our hatred mingled and fed off each other. Self-deploring immolation drilling deeper into numb sad sickness. Alone together we emptied the void, filling it with our ferocious insanity. There was no limit in this oppressive expanse of ourselves.
"I don't want to be a bad guy." I tried to look her in the eyes but saw only a reflection of isolation.
We mirrored our ugliness in a pairing of saint and sinner, the roles alternating in a chaotic pattern. I saved her, she damned me. She held me close, I hurt her deeply. Massochist and sadist scenerios switching like currents and circuits. A negative feedback loop careening into the yawning abyss.
I saw my hands around her throat, holding her down. I surged with pleasure, my cock growing rock hard as I increased the pressure arund her windpipe. She thanked me with her eyes. She was feeling something, even if it was only fear of me.
I found myself unable to stop as I pressed further. The princess, locked away from everything, isolated from sensation, she saw something in me. She had drawn me in, expecting maybe not me in particular, but someone with a hot darkness inside them.
I wanted to save her. Wanted her to give up the anguish that seared her, to stop her manipulative flaggellation of her flesh. I didn't want to know that I wanted to do this to her. To anyone. Ever.
But I do and I can't stop. I'm hurting her. Hurting all the hers who came before and made me feel small, made me feel stupid. I was using my power for revenge on the daughters of Eve. I was just an dirty atom infected with the serpent's curse.
"What is this madness that makes me love hate and hate love?!"
My grip slipped in the final moments and air sucked deep into her lungs over a raw throat. A raspy wind chime, an erotic sigh, a languishing breath of joy. She was alive.
I, too, was alive and wracked with horrific guilt. Was it her fault? My fault? Fate? Why did we have to go this far?
Out past the edge of fantasy, we danced out our unadulterated tactile and psychic torture; punishment, guilt, shame, humiliation. A shadow has swallowed us whole. I surrender to the blackest pit of my heart. I do whatever I feel without remorse. I hate that I want to do these things.
I hate myself. I am vile. I am filled with impulses that I can apparently administer without conscience or care. I was too polite and cowardly to admit that there never was a light inside me. There is only a cursed soul, doomed to enjoy the damnation and subjegation of the innocent.
"Shhh baby. It's okay. We both wanted this."
She cradles my head as I rock and weep for my entire life. A tear for every moment of regret, every shred of guilt, and all the buried deep desires burning me alive in the hellfire of my own design.
She removes the collar from around her neck and I will her free of me with all my might. I focus my rage on this tower she has trapped us in. Every damn corner of this infernal prison. She deserves more and I am too bogged down with self-pity to be of much use to her except to bring her down.
And so we hit bottom and the entire foundation of us rumbles and shakes. We hold each other, skin on skin, as the universe ended and we are born anew in a land of starlight.
"I'm..."
I go to say 'sorry', yet stop. I'm not sorry. And from the look on her face, neither is she. She wanted all this. The pain, the frustration, the play of it all. This is what life is and where it goes. The path it leads is sometimes amazingly intense and full of unforgiveable acts.
But we don't need to forgive. I don't need to explain. I tried to save her. I failed. As I always would. With her, with anyone. But I tried. Sure, I fell sway to the influence of sexual violence, a web she cast, just in order to ensnare me and show her how to save herself.
I hugged her tight, stood up and left. I didn't look back to see if she was crying.
But I knew she was and would be. As would I be, when I was able to cry once more.
TwentySix: 7 - the Ballad of Joy Random - Act 2: Ignition
"I love you.", she said.
I hated her. She was my jailer and it seemed as if I was the villain. Perhaps it was my fate after all. I wasn't quite the hero I imagined myself to be.
Confined to her room, out of sync with reality, bound to her bed, I was imprisoned within an inverted tower of darkness with the sparkling princess of the Void. I paced and fumed as she looked adoringly up at me.
"I love you.", she said.
When first I found myself here, I thought it to be paradise; A slice of emptiness in which to be and act as I wished. I romanced the princess for weeks, then ravished her as it turned to months, and finally I found myself hovering above her, malice on my mind.
It reflected back at me from the darkness of her obsidian eyes. I saw the snarl upon my face, the anger surging from my body, the spite seeping from my pores. My hand was around her neck with her innocence beaming back at me.
I spun from her, launching myself from the bed. I hit the floor and dragged myself across the floor. Leaning up against the far wall, I calmed my breathing until I could regain my cool.
As I lifted my head, I stared in horror at my reflection. In the mirror before me I looked upon my shoulders and neck sparking blue fire. It erupted from the top of my head and bursted into a brilliant blaze.
From over my shoulder I saw shadows rise up from the bed. Dark, horrible shapes drifted upwards like a fog of nothingness. A sultry form lifted itself up and onto the floor, sliding its way towards me. A chill crept up from my tailbone, raced up my spine, and dampened my now fiery face.
Shadows as hard as cold stone grabbed me, whipped me around, and slammed me into the mirror. The glass clattered to the ground, my fire shining bits of light up to the ceiling as the room grew dark. The princess' twisted grimace materialized out of the shadows; her eyes appearing from formlessness. A pretty face coming from the void.
"You will love me!", she commanded.
I felt the flames around me snuff out as I crashed into the other wall and hit the bed. The pillows and sheets came alive at her command and began to wrap themselves around my body, strapping me down. Panic was rising in my body as I strained against the supernatural snare.
The darkness spun around the room, flickering wildly. She was drawing closer. Pausing for a moment, I held my breath. My heart pounded, but my muscles relaxed. Blood pumped, adrenaline built up, and my body froze stiff just for a few seconds before the sparking of my mind.
Like flint and metal striking and scraping across each other, a strange power lit my spine up like a fuse. It hit my third vertebrae and my eyes shot open as a screaming fury of white hot flame flared about me. It exploded from my chest, and ran down the length of my arms. The bed ignited and the darkness retreated a bit as I leapt towards it.
"You will love only me! Forever!", she screeched.
I howled in retaliation as I pounced in the heart of the void that was now the princess. She had been a trap, to contain this fire, this power I had inside me. And now, here I was illuminating her darkness only to find more dark than I could concieve.
It was endless, formless, and eternal. I blazed in the nothing for days, weeks, months. There was no escape, no salvation, no ending. All there was here in the void was me, my fire and her emptiness filling in everything else. I fought, I raged, and I cried, yet she would show no mercy.
One day I came across the shards of the mirror she had smashed with my body. I looked down at them and saw my flame was weak, barely covering my face. Soon, I would be snuffed out forever, slumbering in this infinite alone.
The dying light of my facial fire reflected off the splintered mirror shooting straight up into the swirling night. I followed the rays as they drove their way to the far end of everything. I suddenly had an idea.
I whirled around the light, the wind whipping up my flame. I concentrated on a sliver of glass as I began stoking the embers of my mind. I dipped my head in as I spiralled around and around the light letting it elevate my conciousness. I lifted my legs from the ground and surrendered to the beam.
The flame consumed my flesh and my spirit floated inverted, held aloft by the base of my blazing brain. Instantly I rode the spiral of light right up into eternity; A fraction of a second spent over the course of infinite lifetimes.
The towering darkness boomed in a young girl's voice, "You will not escape me!"
I hit the end and knew what I had to do. My knees flexed as they found soft ground upon which to land. It held strong but yet gave way just enough to build tension. Tension enough to propel me backwards towards the exit of this inescapable entrapment.
I sprinted into the center of the fire. The light blinding my corneas, I lifted the lid of my third eye and let it guide me home. Running at the ground, the chunk of mirror directly below me, I was ready to become transformed.
The beam of light was swallowed up behind me, although I dared not to look back. I felt the princess consume the flickering light, my trail of flame. In a last attempt to prevent my escape, she became a whirlpool sucking the very existence from me.
Her shadow reached deep into the light, mere inches from my soul. But it was too late, my hand pressed against the glass and became non-existant. My entire being dove into the mirror becoming nothing more than mortal flesh once more.
I was on the floor coughing and gasping for air. I felt dehydrated and dry heaved uncontrollably, although I had nothing to regurgitate. I was looking down at my blood running across tiles and a broken reflection of myself. A shattered mirror stared up at me and told me everything.
I got to my feet, crimson evidence dripping from my knuckles. She was cowering beneath her blanket, peering from her safe place under the covers out at me; at my heaving naked chest and rippling arms. My breaths were hard and rough. This girl was afraid of me.
Realization steamed off my body in waves. It choked me like the blackest smoke. Now that I had escaped the Void, it all made sense. I looked into the princess' eyes and it reflected the truth.
I would never escape.
I hated her. She was my jailer and it seemed as if I was the villain. Perhaps it was my fate after all. I wasn't quite the hero I imagined myself to be.
Confined to her room, out of sync with reality, bound to her bed, I was imprisoned within an inverted tower of darkness with the sparkling princess of the Void. I paced and fumed as she looked adoringly up at me.
"I love you.", she said.
When first I found myself here, I thought it to be paradise; A slice of emptiness in which to be and act as I wished. I romanced the princess for weeks, then ravished her as it turned to months, and finally I found myself hovering above her, malice on my mind.
It reflected back at me from the darkness of her obsidian eyes. I saw the snarl upon my face, the anger surging from my body, the spite seeping from my pores. My hand was around her neck with her innocence beaming back at me.
I spun from her, launching myself from the bed. I hit the floor and dragged myself across the floor. Leaning up against the far wall, I calmed my breathing until I could regain my cool.
As I lifted my head, I stared in horror at my reflection. In the mirror before me I looked upon my shoulders and neck sparking blue fire. It erupted from the top of my head and bursted into a brilliant blaze.
From over my shoulder I saw shadows rise up from the bed. Dark, horrible shapes drifted upwards like a fog of nothingness. A sultry form lifted itself up and onto the floor, sliding its way towards me. A chill crept up from my tailbone, raced up my spine, and dampened my now fiery face.
Shadows as hard as cold stone grabbed me, whipped me around, and slammed me into the mirror. The glass clattered to the ground, my fire shining bits of light up to the ceiling as the room grew dark. The princess' twisted grimace materialized out of the shadows; her eyes appearing from formlessness. A pretty face coming from the void.
"You will love me!", she commanded.
I felt the flames around me snuff out as I crashed into the other wall and hit the bed. The pillows and sheets came alive at her command and began to wrap themselves around my body, strapping me down. Panic was rising in my body as I strained against the supernatural snare.
The darkness spun around the room, flickering wildly. She was drawing closer. Pausing for a moment, I held my breath. My heart pounded, but my muscles relaxed. Blood pumped, adrenaline built up, and my body froze stiff just for a few seconds before the sparking of my mind.
Like flint and metal striking and scraping across each other, a strange power lit my spine up like a fuse. It hit my third vertebrae and my eyes shot open as a screaming fury of white hot flame flared about me. It exploded from my chest, and ran down the length of my arms. The bed ignited and the darkness retreated a bit as I leapt towards it.
"You will love only me! Forever!", she screeched.
I howled in retaliation as I pounced in the heart of the void that was now the princess. She had been a trap, to contain this fire, this power I had inside me. And now, here I was illuminating her darkness only to find more dark than I could concieve.
It was endless, formless, and eternal. I blazed in the nothing for days, weeks, months. There was no escape, no salvation, no ending. All there was here in the void was me, my fire and her emptiness filling in everything else. I fought, I raged, and I cried, yet she would show no mercy.
One day I came across the shards of the mirror she had smashed with my body. I looked down at them and saw my flame was weak, barely covering my face. Soon, I would be snuffed out forever, slumbering in this infinite alone.
The dying light of my facial fire reflected off the splintered mirror shooting straight up into the swirling night. I followed the rays as they drove their way to the far end of everything. I suddenly had an idea.
I whirled around the light, the wind whipping up my flame. I concentrated on a sliver of glass as I began stoking the embers of my mind. I dipped my head in as I spiralled around and around the light letting it elevate my conciousness. I lifted my legs from the ground and surrendered to the beam.
The flame consumed my flesh and my spirit floated inverted, held aloft by the base of my blazing brain. Instantly I rode the spiral of light right up into eternity; A fraction of a second spent over the course of infinite lifetimes.
The towering darkness boomed in a young girl's voice, "You will not escape me!"
I hit the end and knew what I had to do. My knees flexed as they found soft ground upon which to land. It held strong but yet gave way just enough to build tension. Tension enough to propel me backwards towards the exit of this inescapable entrapment.
I sprinted into the center of the fire. The light blinding my corneas, I lifted the lid of my third eye and let it guide me home. Running at the ground, the chunk of mirror directly below me, I was ready to become transformed.
The beam of light was swallowed up behind me, although I dared not to look back. I felt the princess consume the flickering light, my trail of flame. In a last attempt to prevent my escape, she became a whirlpool sucking the very existence from me.
Her shadow reached deep into the light, mere inches from my soul. But it was too late, my hand pressed against the glass and became non-existant. My entire being dove into the mirror becoming nothing more than mortal flesh once more.
I was on the floor coughing and gasping for air. I felt dehydrated and dry heaved uncontrollably, although I had nothing to regurgitate. I was looking down at my blood running across tiles and a broken reflection of myself. A shattered mirror stared up at me and told me everything.
I got to my feet, crimson evidence dripping from my knuckles. She was cowering beneath her blanket, peering from her safe place under the covers out at me; at my heaving naked chest and rippling arms. My breaths were hard and rough. This girl was afraid of me.
Realization steamed off my body in waves. It choked me like the blackest smoke. Now that I had escaped the Void, it all made sense. I looked into the princess' eyes and it reflected the truth.
I would never escape.
TwentySix: 7 - the Ballad of Joy Random - Act 1
My sneakers were splitting at the sides. Bounding from ledge to ledge through the Financial District, desolate nights of urban canyons below me, I attempted to clear my head. I needed to practice my powers and regain my foothold in this city. Remember the subtleties of it's concrete skin, it's curves and angles. It's power and passion.
I spent more than a few nights looking up at the moon, alone atop the elephant graveyard that is Wall St. Swinging and leaping through the metropolitan jungle, suit covered savages picking clean the massive glass bones of Mammon below me, I found a tower, complete with princess.
I was the lost boy, long hair and shipwrecked beard, red t-shirt flapping in the winds. I hid behind a spire and watched her on the balcony. Dark, full hair draped over the edge as she let the midnight breeze sway her into a sense of freedom, of flight. She had an earthly sense about her and being so far in the sky made her seem small, like a seedling, draped on a branch of a dead tree, ready to fall.
When she tumbled over the railing backwards, she hadn't uttered a noise. No scream, no cry. Just a sense of calm that she must had stolen from me as I slipped into instinct to keep the panic at bay. My reflexes shot me forward, slung through the air, snapping into position below her.
I slowed my fall and she floated down into my arms. Kicking off the side of the building, I propelled us back up. She hung from my neck, eyes closed, dreaming heavy. A sleeping princess full of promise, awaiting a kiss, aching to awake.
With her back in bed, I looked back as I leapt from the ledge, sailing into the open night sky. As she got smaller, her beauty grew, magnifying her brilliance. A shimmering gem, a treasure of great beauty, inspiring action.
Battles were fought invisibly among the masses during the day, and daring rescues thanklessly executed each night. I laid low and played it cool 9 to 5, lone wolf in sheep's clothing looking out for enemies, taking them down before they saw through this secret identity. Charles Crown walked among you, and Thrust fought beside you, but it was the kid that visited her every night.
It was a sleepwalking drama that played out each night the same. She, in a slumber, tumbles to her doom. He, pulsed with power, flies to her rescue. He leaves her alone, untouched, in her bed. Not wishing to smudge her sheen, the kid keeps her pristine.
Until the one night, where, with a kiss, she drew him in. Inside and through, and back into, himself, reversed, flipped into a parallel dementia where darkness was light, and day was night. A spell was cast, a rogue now lost, although lightning fast, he had paid the cost. Lost in the gloom of this otherworldly tomb, he'd be forever searching, adrift in this eternal womb.
Life felt the same. Perhaps there was no curse, no judgment for his fool's kiss to lips that weren't meant for his. Charles was still accepted by his peers, and Thrust still fought the good fight. As for the kid, well, seemed like he stayed behind in the dark heart of the city. The princess, the jewel, was all but a fuzzy memory.
I spent more than a few nights looking up at the moon, alone atop the elephant graveyard that is Wall St. Swinging and leaping through the metropolitan jungle, suit covered savages picking clean the massive glass bones of Mammon below me, I found a tower, complete with princess.
I was the lost boy, long hair and shipwrecked beard, red t-shirt flapping in the winds. I hid behind a spire and watched her on the balcony. Dark, full hair draped over the edge as she let the midnight breeze sway her into a sense of freedom, of flight. She had an earthly sense about her and being so far in the sky made her seem small, like a seedling, draped on a branch of a dead tree, ready to fall.
When she tumbled over the railing backwards, she hadn't uttered a noise. No scream, no cry. Just a sense of calm that she must had stolen from me as I slipped into instinct to keep the panic at bay. My reflexes shot me forward, slung through the air, snapping into position below her.
I slowed my fall and she floated down into my arms. Kicking off the side of the building, I propelled us back up. She hung from my neck, eyes closed, dreaming heavy. A sleeping princess full of promise, awaiting a kiss, aching to awake.
With her back in bed, I looked back as I leapt from the ledge, sailing into the open night sky. As she got smaller, her beauty grew, magnifying her brilliance. A shimmering gem, a treasure of great beauty, inspiring action.
Battles were fought invisibly among the masses during the day, and daring rescues thanklessly executed each night. I laid low and played it cool 9 to 5, lone wolf in sheep's clothing looking out for enemies, taking them down before they saw through this secret identity. Charles Crown walked among you, and Thrust fought beside you, but it was the kid that visited her every night.
It was a sleepwalking drama that played out each night the same. She, in a slumber, tumbles to her doom. He, pulsed with power, flies to her rescue. He leaves her alone, untouched, in her bed. Not wishing to smudge her sheen, the kid keeps her pristine.
Until the one night, where, with a kiss, she drew him in. Inside and through, and back into, himself, reversed, flipped into a parallel dementia where darkness was light, and day was night. A spell was cast, a rogue now lost, although lightning fast, he had paid the cost. Lost in the gloom of this otherworldly tomb, he'd be forever searching, adrift in this eternal womb.
Life felt the same. Perhaps there was no curse, no judgment for his fool's kiss to lips that weren't meant for his. Charles was still accepted by his peers, and Thrust still fought the good fight. As for the kid, well, seemed like he stayed behind in the dark heart of the city. The princess, the jewel, was all but a fuzzy memory.
Twentysix. 6. 'Thirdeye x 3rd-I' (pt. b)
My mind was racing as I tried to remember what it was that I had to do exactly. Where was it I was trying to get to? While in Megan Strange's embrace everything slid away and I found myself lost in her darkness.
My hands caressed her skin, fingers massaging her back, lips kissing her neck. With each shudder she let loose I fell further into her narcotic elegance. I ran my fingers through her hair and looked up into her eyes, locked in her magnificent, stellar stare.
I was growing weaker as my will melted and time flew past. Nothing meant anything, submerged in her oblivion. I had a glimmer of hope that someone would come and save me from this pleasure prison that she called home.
I thought of all the girls that were about to pummel me when Megan Strange had delivered me from them and brought me here. Where was I? Brooklyn, I think. I opened my eyes and glanced around the apartment. It was ordinary, so I thought, except upon further examination I noticed several objects of power, totems of containment.
A bound lower half of a mannequin was on one side of the room and a phallic flower in a vase on the other. I began to sense the pollen of this flower as it wafted over and crept up into my nostrils. The deeper the breath, the less I cared, the more I slept.
When I awoke next, Megan was gone. I could hear her making something in the kitchen. All sorts of arcane smells trickled into the room and sparked my conciousness. The breeze from the windows swept through the room, twirlling the aromas into a furious ballet, causing hallucinations and delirum.
Pitting my body against my heartsick soul, I rose from the bed, closed my eyes and felt the spinning unknown into etheric umbilical chords. The music spun me to sleep. For so long. I've slept. Soundlessly. Kept asleep.
No! Wake up! Something shoots my eyes open and the hypnotic particles of Megan Strange's botanical spell crash into my senses. I see them all, sweeping about the room, universes of splendid narcoleptic addiction. I grew sleepier with every second.
I snatched my sunglasses from the bedstand. An infinite barrage of particles smashed against the lenses, and I imagined myself as a starship about to carve its way through the galaxy. I dressed and slipped on my sneakers without making a sound.
The purposeful clattering from the kitchen meant she was still working on something, possibly even more potent than this pollen storm. The door was a ways off and the window was already open, so out I slipped and up on to the roof. I jumped the rooftops, pausing once to look back as I cleared Lorimer St.
Megan came riding the fierce night winds, tearing apart the tops of trees, a scowl across her cutie pie face. A brief flutter causes a stutter and I'm nearly flattened as she hurls debris at me. She concentrates and tornadoes a wave of pure force smashing into my torso.
I wake up, again, looking up from the sidewalk.
"Is this Bedford? Shit, I think I dreamt this..."
Megan Strange walked into view, looming above him. His vision was blurring, my personality slipping. Skipping...
"Deja vu. Our first date. The blizzard. I remember."
Megan Strange began to change shape, and spin around, or maybe that was me swirlling down and away. The girls stepped into view one at a time like a roll call of valkyries. Raptor, goddess of the birds. Luna, pixie of imagination. Eve, mistress of deception.
I swiped away my shades and watched as they all became Megan, and Megan became ordinary. No elemental witch, seducing me into slumber. A girl.
A girl who held her hand out to me. Deception...?
I swatted her hand away.
"What are you doing to me?! Who are you?"
I didn't listen as she said something, yelling over traffic as I tossed myself among the speeding automobiles ranting and crying like a mad lunatic, schizophrenic dreamer awakened to hell.
Subway. To Manhattan. Odd looks. Just one more stop. I stumble off the train, senses rippling back as I step onto the platform. The scene warbles and sheen slides into everything. I'm gripping my forehead as if holding in my psychic guts, my third eye jutting outwards like a giant knife wound. My mind is bleeding.
As I walk down the platform, each step dries the dripping ether from the spike stabbing into the air before me. It lives in the moments, the worlds before and I use that to be more. To heal. And I feel the rush of living coming back to me.
Suddenly, I have the sense of deja vu as I glance over at the people on the other side. They're still playing the game, their minds plugged into the iWorld, device diabolique. McAllister, mad inventor, menace to mankind's mental state. Emergency!
Scent of strawberry lingered about me as I picked up where I began. About to battle, again and forever more, against evil and injustice.
I found myself back.
Buried inside.
My hands caressed her skin, fingers massaging her back, lips kissing her neck. With each shudder she let loose I fell further into her narcotic elegance. I ran my fingers through her hair and looked up into her eyes, locked in her magnificent, stellar stare.
I was growing weaker as my will melted and time flew past. Nothing meant anything, submerged in her oblivion. I had a glimmer of hope that someone would come and save me from this pleasure prison that she called home.
I thought of all the girls that were about to pummel me when Megan Strange had delivered me from them and brought me here. Where was I? Brooklyn, I think. I opened my eyes and glanced around the apartment. It was ordinary, so I thought, except upon further examination I noticed several objects of power, totems of containment.
A bound lower half of a mannequin was on one side of the room and a phallic flower in a vase on the other. I began to sense the pollen of this flower as it wafted over and crept up into my nostrils. The deeper the breath, the less I cared, the more I slept.
When I awoke next, Megan was gone. I could hear her making something in the kitchen. All sorts of arcane smells trickled into the room and sparked my conciousness. The breeze from the windows swept through the room, twirlling the aromas into a furious ballet, causing hallucinations and delirum.
Pitting my body against my heartsick soul, I rose from the bed, closed my eyes and felt the spinning unknown into etheric umbilical chords. The music spun me to sleep. For so long. I've slept. Soundlessly. Kept asleep.
No! Wake up! Something shoots my eyes open and the hypnotic particles of Megan Strange's botanical spell crash into my senses. I see them all, sweeping about the room, universes of splendid narcoleptic addiction. I grew sleepier with every second.
I snatched my sunglasses from the bedstand. An infinite barrage of particles smashed against the lenses, and I imagined myself as a starship about to carve its way through the galaxy. I dressed and slipped on my sneakers without making a sound.
The purposeful clattering from the kitchen meant she was still working on something, possibly even more potent than this pollen storm. The door was a ways off and the window was already open, so out I slipped and up on to the roof. I jumped the rooftops, pausing once to look back as I cleared Lorimer St.
Megan came riding the fierce night winds, tearing apart the tops of trees, a scowl across her cutie pie face. A brief flutter causes a stutter and I'm nearly flattened as she hurls debris at me. She concentrates and tornadoes a wave of pure force smashing into my torso.
I wake up, again, looking up from the sidewalk.
"Is this Bedford? Shit, I think I dreamt this..."
Megan Strange walked into view, looming above him. His vision was blurring, my personality slipping. Skipping...
"Deja vu. Our first date. The blizzard. I remember."
Megan Strange began to change shape, and spin around, or maybe that was me swirlling down and away. The girls stepped into view one at a time like a roll call of valkyries. Raptor, goddess of the birds. Luna, pixie of imagination. Eve, mistress of deception.
I swiped away my shades and watched as they all became Megan, and Megan became ordinary. No elemental witch, seducing me into slumber. A girl.
A girl who held her hand out to me. Deception...?
I swatted her hand away.
"What are you doing to me?! Who are you?"
I didn't listen as she said something, yelling over traffic as I tossed myself among the speeding automobiles ranting and crying like a mad lunatic, schizophrenic dreamer awakened to hell.
Subway. To Manhattan. Odd looks. Just one more stop. I stumble off the train, senses rippling back as I step onto the platform. The scene warbles and sheen slides into everything. I'm gripping my forehead as if holding in my psychic guts, my third eye jutting outwards like a giant knife wound. My mind is bleeding.
As I walk down the platform, each step dries the dripping ether from the spike stabbing into the air before me. It lives in the moments, the worlds before and I use that to be more. To heal. And I feel the rush of living coming back to me.
Suddenly, I have the sense of deja vu as I glance over at the people on the other side. They're still playing the game, their minds plugged into the iWorld, device diabolique. McAllister, mad inventor, menace to mankind's mental state. Emergency!
Scent of strawberry lingered about me as I picked up where I began. About to battle, again and forever more, against evil and injustice.
I found myself back.
Buried inside.
Twentysix. 6. 'Thirdeye x 3rd-I' (pt. a)
I'm vertically expanding my third eye into the core of the Earth. A lance of unperceptible light, withdrawn from the downward center of everything, now raised upright in a horizontal challenge. Two million unicorns, all parading around daily with varying degrees of stellar self projecting from their frontal lobe. My own spike shooting forth, clearing a path, and drawing onlookers who can't see, but feel my presence.
I'm at the 8th Street subway station over by Astor. On the other side I spot several innocents milling about, on their way home from dinner, drinks, dancing. I suspiciously try to subdue my soul long enough to slip by, escape out on to the streets above where I'll have room to maneuver.
Trains speed along the four rows of tracks between me and the others, and just as the trains pass they make their move. I can't see it from the other side but I know the scene. Eyes glaze over as brainwashing triggers seep into their ears from the headphones of their iWorlds.
The young girl is first across, bounding and leaping between the pillars. She drives her knee towards my face. I slip under as she smashes the tiles, and I make a dash for the stairs. From the corner of my eye I see McAllister has commanded a dozen more civilian assassins with his gadget.
I skid to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. Behind me a slew of flying and leaping attackers. On the top step, a Thai warrior in sandals waits patiently for my first move.
Maybe leaving New Jersey before my powers returned wasn't such a good idea. I should have known it wouldn't be this easy to sneak back into New York City.
As I'm typing this, I suddenly feel my consciousness being sucked through a straw. I warble into being at a bar out in Brooklyn. I glance at my watch and will see that I've been brought through time and space. Only one girl would teleport me to Williamsburg on a Saturday Night...
Megan Strange.
She pops over my shoulder as I think her name. I should have guessed. "It's not time for you in the story yet darlin'..."
"Oh phooey." She waves her hand and schrunches her nose, her pink highlights accenting her freckles. With a snap of her fingers and a smirk she sends me back to finish my story. Her story.
Out in New Jersey I had put my fractured mind back together, my body long since healed. Mentally resurected, I found myself wandering the outskirts of New York City, afraid of what lie in store for me across the Hudson.
My powers were all but gone and I was trying to get them back but it seemed they were temporarily blocked. At least I hoped it was temporary.
I went online so I could speak with other superpowered folks to get a better idea of what was behind all this. Taia Nihilation, the explosive jailbait anarchist who carved a path of destruction through Philadelphia, mentioned something about papaya extract. It worked to a degree but I was still not nearly strong enough to sneak back into my city. A few others from the tri-state area gave me some hints. But impatience got the best of me and within a few months I was trying to sneak back in.
I contacted Eve Impossible, knowing that she would be my best bet for slipping in unnoticed. I had my best disguise on as I went to meet up with her on the Manhattan side of the Holland Tunnel. I hit Canal, made a right, and headed up the stairs to the club.
It was lowkey and still as I searched the room. Odds are she would find me way before I spotted her. Unsure and feeling nervous, I had a beer or two before the dance floor exploded to life. The music was infectiously upbeat and I bounced right into it. I was letting go and celebrated living through the severe beating I received a few months back, just a few stories above this exact location in fact. Ms. Mercury had made it clear I was not welcome here.
But I wasn't thinking of her as I danced. I wasn't thinking of anyone but myself. And that's when Eve appeared before me. We were suddenly moving and grooving and getting down. Our mad passion to dance was spreading to all those around us as the night swung wildly on.
A few hours later we hit the streets as she led me into the empty outside. She doesn't say much and encourages me to do the same. Eve stops in front of an all black sports car as the passenger side door pops open.
"Get in. I'll contact you when I can."
I silently and obediently followed her instructions and plopped myself into the seat. The door shut of its own accord and I watched Eve, her blonde hair whipping behind her as she walked coldly away. I turned to the driver who was just as intimidatingly quiet.
I tried to strike up conversation as I was escorted back through the tunnel, but this man in black would have none of it. He was stone so I gave up and enjoyed the ride. But I felt defeated. I would have to rely on Eve Impossible from this point on.
Knowing our history I was suprised she got back to me as soon as she did. She gave me another place to meet up. I was headed out the door when Daisy Hurricane landed before me. I had ran from her a few weeks earlier as she fought me to love her.
I expected a fight that, despite being a bit stronger than before, I would instantly lose. But instead she wanted to say goodbye.
"I just want to make sure you're safe and that you're good. Use this if there's any trouble." And with that she handed me a red sword. It looked old but felt like a true weapon.
I hugged her tight and we both knew that we'd never see each other again. Tears welled up as the sound of helicopter blades suddenly rose up all around us. Daisy tossed me to safety as the bullets from the attack helicopter started ripping everything to shreds. She had caught a slug or two but felt nothing. Instead she channelled her anxiety, frustration, and broken heart on the attackers above.
Whirling into the air she knocked the copter about, whipping the winds about her. Landing gently on its side she drove her fists through the armor. She waves me off and continues to pound the artillery into scrap. I race off down the block, blood red blade in hand. My powers were pulsating in bursts, surging me forward with each pounce. SUVs screech around the corner, each with mercenaries firing automatic weapons. I grip the sheath and draw the blade.
Leaping and soaring over the hoods of the skidding trucks, I drive the sword slicing through the steel. The cars all flip and crash as I land and roar down the street. The train is blasting its engines as it pounds down the track. I pounce off a lightpost and snag a handhold, tossing myself onto the roof. We're speeding past Main Street as I see the calvary arrive in black, driving off in the wrong direction.
Just a few miles out of NYC I feel a presence behind me. I'm about to glance behind when I smell Strawberries and misfortune. "Megan, not yet. I haven't even made it back into New York yet."
"Can't you hurry it up? I want to go dancing..." I can hear her pout.
"Give me a few paragraphs sweetness."
Back on the tracks the trains bursts into Penn Station. I leap down and wrap the sword in a garbage bag. Suspicious as heck, I make my way to Union Square. Just a few minutes til the meet with Eve. Better hustle.
I'm running all the things I learned from the others I communicated with. Mary Mega's meditational mantra, Dr. Dementia's prescription of pleasure, and Minnie Soda's delicate drunken dance. They used their own magick to enhance and empower themselves. I needed to find my trigger.
Eve was late. Or I was. I shook my watch and looked up and down the block again. Empty. I started getting nervous. The people were what made this city safe. An omnipresent third party; witness and observer.
A petite blone turned the corner. She had her head down, under a hood, but her golden locks hung unevenly from beneath. She felt magical and friendly, even on these dark, foreboding streets.
I opened my mouth to speak but before I could say anything, her fingers shot out, and pressed against my lips. Her subtle twinkling eyes rose up from under the hood, locking onto mine. The moon lit up her serious smile as it transformed into a devilish smirk.
I was sent soaring straight up into the air, hit by some unseen force. She floated up next to me and grabbed me by the collar. She whizzed me around and hurled me into the side of a building a block down. I hit it hard, but grabbed hold of a ledge and hung there gathering my senses.
She zoomed towards me beating her pixie wings furiously. Her fists extended she was intent on finishing me off. I pounce off the side of the building and glide towards a flag pole. I wind up just missing it as I get a shoulder block in the back from the toughest fairy I've ever met.
We're zooming towards the pavement as I roll with the hit, flipping myself onto her back. Clumsily, I jump off as I steer her into the sidewalk. I land and start to run. My muscles start to come alive with kinetic intensity. By the time I reach the corner I'm skipping blocks at a time.
I whipped back around and slid back through Union Square. Crouched and ready for a fight I survey the scene. Eve Impossible is standing alone outside the subway station, her trenchcoat buttoned up and tied tight. The wind is gently churning through the scene.
"What's this about Eve? A double cross? You work for McAllister now too?"
"I'm sorry Charles. But I work on my own. This was a favor for a friend."
The entire area lights up in a golden flash. I'm temporarily blinded but I feel a presence. An oh-so familiar presence.
"Helena...?" I muttered weakly.
My vision came back in waves and Ms. Mercury shimmered to life before me. She was a golden goddess. Pure sensual pulsar sheen radiating all around her body.
Ms. Mercury called out, "Luna!"
The ferocious pixie came and landed on one side of me. She was scowling at me and ready to pounce at Mercury's command.
A fluttering of pigeons signaled the arrival of Raptor who appeared behind me. The four of them had me surrounded at each point. Even though I felt the thrust within me, ready to burst, I would never be able to take on all four. I wouldn't even be able to survive one hit from Ms. Mercury.
Suddenly a winter chill swept through, snowflakes raging down from every direction. The weather malfunctioned and I was sitting in the eye of the storm. A faint brimstone smell was carried away by the winds and replaced with the smell of fruit. Hmm...strawberries?
A female shape materialized beside me and I nearly threw myself off the cube in surprise. I figured she was one more of Mercury's assassins, so I prepared myself for a fight. Instead, this pink streaked, raven haired beauty stood over me armed with only a charming smile.
"Hey cutie. I just thought you could use some rescuing. Wanna come back to my place?"
I did a sweep of the snowy scene and saw that the ladies were about to make their move. I glanced up at my saving grace and nodded frantically.
My stomach lurched and I found myself suddenly sitting on a couch in a living room. The strawberry girl had her legs draped over me. Somehow we were dressed in pajamas and were watching tv.
She looked over at me and said, "Hey sweetness." Her smile was wide and as genuine as they come.
"Where am I?"
"At my apartment in Brooklyn, silly."
I'm at the 8th Street subway station over by Astor. On the other side I spot several innocents milling about, on their way home from dinner, drinks, dancing. I suspiciously try to subdue my soul long enough to slip by, escape out on to the streets above where I'll have room to maneuver.
Trains speed along the four rows of tracks between me and the others, and just as the trains pass they make their move. I can't see it from the other side but I know the scene. Eyes glaze over as brainwashing triggers seep into their ears from the headphones of their iWorlds.
The young girl is first across, bounding and leaping between the pillars. She drives her knee towards my face. I slip under as she smashes the tiles, and I make a dash for the stairs. From the corner of my eye I see McAllister has commanded a dozen more civilian assassins with his gadget.
I skid to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. Behind me a slew of flying and leaping attackers. On the top step, a Thai warrior in sandals waits patiently for my first move.
Maybe leaving New Jersey before my powers returned wasn't such a good idea. I should have known it wouldn't be this easy to sneak back into New York City.
As I'm typing this, I suddenly feel my consciousness being sucked through a straw. I warble into being at a bar out in Brooklyn. I glance at my watch and will see that I've been brought through time and space. Only one girl would teleport me to Williamsburg on a Saturday Night...
Megan Strange.
She pops over my shoulder as I think her name. I should have guessed. "It's not time for you in the story yet darlin'..."
"Oh phooey." She waves her hand and schrunches her nose, her pink highlights accenting her freckles. With a snap of her fingers and a smirk she sends me back to finish my story. Her story.
Out in New Jersey I had put my fractured mind back together, my body long since healed. Mentally resurected, I found myself wandering the outskirts of New York City, afraid of what lie in store for me across the Hudson.
My powers were all but gone and I was trying to get them back but it seemed they were temporarily blocked. At least I hoped it was temporary.
I went online so I could speak with other superpowered folks to get a better idea of what was behind all this. Taia Nihilation, the explosive jailbait anarchist who carved a path of destruction through Philadelphia, mentioned something about papaya extract. It worked to a degree but I was still not nearly strong enough to sneak back into my city. A few others from the tri-state area gave me some hints. But impatience got the best of me and within a few months I was trying to sneak back in.
I contacted Eve Impossible, knowing that she would be my best bet for slipping in unnoticed. I had my best disguise on as I went to meet up with her on the Manhattan side of the Holland Tunnel. I hit Canal, made a right, and headed up the stairs to the club.
It was lowkey and still as I searched the room. Odds are she would find me way before I spotted her. Unsure and feeling nervous, I had a beer or two before the dance floor exploded to life. The music was infectiously upbeat and I bounced right into it. I was letting go and celebrated living through the severe beating I received a few months back, just a few stories above this exact location in fact. Ms. Mercury had made it clear I was not welcome here.
But I wasn't thinking of her as I danced. I wasn't thinking of anyone but myself. And that's when Eve appeared before me. We were suddenly moving and grooving and getting down. Our mad passion to dance was spreading to all those around us as the night swung wildly on.
A few hours later we hit the streets as she led me into the empty outside. She doesn't say much and encourages me to do the same. Eve stops in front of an all black sports car as the passenger side door pops open.
"Get in. I'll contact you when I can."
I silently and obediently followed her instructions and plopped myself into the seat. The door shut of its own accord and I watched Eve, her blonde hair whipping behind her as she walked coldly away. I turned to the driver who was just as intimidatingly quiet.
I tried to strike up conversation as I was escorted back through the tunnel, but this man in black would have none of it. He was stone so I gave up and enjoyed the ride. But I felt defeated. I would have to rely on Eve Impossible from this point on.
Knowing our history I was suprised she got back to me as soon as she did. She gave me another place to meet up. I was headed out the door when Daisy Hurricane landed before me. I had ran from her a few weeks earlier as she fought me to love her.
I expected a fight that, despite being a bit stronger than before, I would instantly lose. But instead she wanted to say goodbye.
"I just want to make sure you're safe and that you're good. Use this if there's any trouble." And with that she handed me a red sword. It looked old but felt like a true weapon.
I hugged her tight and we both knew that we'd never see each other again. Tears welled up as the sound of helicopter blades suddenly rose up all around us. Daisy tossed me to safety as the bullets from the attack helicopter started ripping everything to shreds. She had caught a slug or two but felt nothing. Instead she channelled her anxiety, frustration, and broken heart on the attackers above.
Whirling into the air she knocked the copter about, whipping the winds about her. Landing gently on its side she drove her fists through the armor. She waves me off and continues to pound the artillery into scrap. I race off down the block, blood red blade in hand. My powers were pulsating in bursts, surging me forward with each pounce. SUVs screech around the corner, each with mercenaries firing automatic weapons. I grip the sheath and draw the blade.
Leaping and soaring over the hoods of the skidding trucks, I drive the sword slicing through the steel. The cars all flip and crash as I land and roar down the street. The train is blasting its engines as it pounds down the track. I pounce off a lightpost and snag a handhold, tossing myself onto the roof. We're speeding past Main Street as I see the calvary arrive in black, driving off in the wrong direction.
Just a few miles out of NYC I feel a presence behind me. I'm about to glance behind when I smell Strawberries and misfortune. "Megan, not yet. I haven't even made it back into New York yet."
"Can't you hurry it up? I want to go dancing..." I can hear her pout.
"Give me a few paragraphs sweetness."
Back on the tracks the trains bursts into Penn Station. I leap down and wrap the sword in a garbage bag. Suspicious as heck, I make my way to Union Square. Just a few minutes til the meet with Eve. Better hustle.
I'm running all the things I learned from the others I communicated with. Mary Mega's meditational mantra, Dr. Dementia's prescription of pleasure, and Minnie Soda's delicate drunken dance. They used their own magick to enhance and empower themselves. I needed to find my trigger.
Eve was late. Or I was. I shook my watch and looked up and down the block again. Empty. I started getting nervous. The people were what made this city safe. An omnipresent third party; witness and observer.
A petite blone turned the corner. She had her head down, under a hood, but her golden locks hung unevenly from beneath. She felt magical and friendly, even on these dark, foreboding streets.
I opened my mouth to speak but before I could say anything, her fingers shot out, and pressed against my lips. Her subtle twinkling eyes rose up from under the hood, locking onto mine. The moon lit up her serious smile as it transformed into a devilish smirk.
I was sent soaring straight up into the air, hit by some unseen force. She floated up next to me and grabbed me by the collar. She whizzed me around and hurled me into the side of a building a block down. I hit it hard, but grabbed hold of a ledge and hung there gathering my senses.
She zoomed towards me beating her pixie wings furiously. Her fists extended she was intent on finishing me off. I pounce off the side of the building and glide towards a flag pole. I wind up just missing it as I get a shoulder block in the back from the toughest fairy I've ever met.
We're zooming towards the pavement as I roll with the hit, flipping myself onto her back. Clumsily, I jump off as I steer her into the sidewalk. I land and start to run. My muscles start to come alive with kinetic intensity. By the time I reach the corner I'm skipping blocks at a time.
I whipped back around and slid back through Union Square. Crouched and ready for a fight I survey the scene. Eve Impossible is standing alone outside the subway station, her trenchcoat buttoned up and tied tight. The wind is gently churning through the scene.
"What's this about Eve? A double cross? You work for McAllister now too?"
"I'm sorry Charles. But I work on my own. This was a favor for a friend."
The entire area lights up in a golden flash. I'm temporarily blinded but I feel a presence. An oh-so familiar presence.
"Helena...?" I muttered weakly.
My vision came back in waves and Ms. Mercury shimmered to life before me. She was a golden goddess. Pure sensual pulsar sheen radiating all around her body.
Ms. Mercury called out, "Luna!"
The ferocious pixie came and landed on one side of me. She was scowling at me and ready to pounce at Mercury's command.
A fluttering of pigeons signaled the arrival of Raptor who appeared behind me. The four of them had me surrounded at each point. Even though I felt the thrust within me, ready to burst, I would never be able to take on all four. I wouldn't even be able to survive one hit from Ms. Mercury.
Suddenly a winter chill swept through, snowflakes raging down from every direction. The weather malfunctioned and I was sitting in the eye of the storm. A faint brimstone smell was carried away by the winds and replaced with the smell of fruit. Hmm...strawberries?
A female shape materialized beside me and I nearly threw myself off the cube in surprise. I figured she was one more of Mercury's assassins, so I prepared myself for a fight. Instead, this pink streaked, raven haired beauty stood over me armed with only a charming smile.
"Hey cutie. I just thought you could use some rescuing. Wanna come back to my place?"
I did a sweep of the snowy scene and saw that the ladies were about to make their move. I glanced up at my saving grace and nodded frantically.
My stomach lurched and I found myself suddenly sitting on a couch in a living room. The strawberry girl had her legs draped over me. Somehow we were dressed in pajamas and were watching tv.
She looked over at me and said, "Hey sweetness." Her smile was wide and as genuine as they come.
"Where am I?"
"At my apartment in Brooklyn, silly."
INSTANT FICTION: fight.
I scream and you yell. It escalates and tempers rage. One of us sinks low and makes a stab, pushes that button we know will take this one step too far. And we can't stop.
We try to put on the brakes but emotions are high and now it is way beyond the point of no return. The madness in your eyes tells me this is no argument but a full blown, knock down, drag out fight to the finish.
Your arm is thrown wide and the hand on a wild orbit from your person comes careening towards my face. I grab your forearm and throw you backwards. A kick to the midsection as you stumble makes sure you don't get your footing back.
Now we feel silly and childish, but more than that you feel humiliated and that taps into every embarrassing moment, every failure, every second of your life that was wrong and degrading. And now, I am every enemy. More than that, I am the very essence of everything that makes you feel inferior and weak and dumb and sad and alone in this misbegotten universe.
So, you slip into bezerker mode and claw your way through the air between us, enraged and insane, eager to get your hands around my throat and squeeze, you're about to engage me with your muderous intent.
We try to put on the brakes but emotions are high and now it is way beyond the point of no return. The madness in your eyes tells me this is no argument but a full blown, knock down, drag out fight to the finish.
Your arm is thrown wide and the hand on a wild orbit from your person comes careening towards my face. I grab your forearm and throw you backwards. A kick to the midsection as you stumble makes sure you don't get your footing back.
Now we feel silly and childish, but more than that you feel humiliated and that taps into every embarrassing moment, every failure, every second of your life that was wrong and degrading. And now, I am every enemy. More than that, I am the very essence of everything that makes you feel inferior and weak and dumb and sad and alone in this misbegotten universe.
So, you slip into bezerker mode and claw your way through the air between us, enraged and insane, eager to get your hands around my throat and squeeze, you're about to engage me with your muderous intent.
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