In Search Of . . . pt. VIII

Karen landed on the branch below, air lurching from her chest as her head cracked against its surface, stars cascading before her eyes. Her palmcard dropped onto her chest, held tight with one hand as the other searched for purchase, anything that might halt her descent.

Hitting another branch, she slipped around its circumference as bark grated skin, ripping away the outer layers. Shivers ran up her arm as her fingers clenched onto the rough bark. Nerve endings screamed as the nails of her left hand bent back, torn from the skin. Pain seared through her fingers, and for a moment the knot growing at the base of her skull was forgotten. The skid slowed as Karen’s body fell open to the world, dangling from her tree house.

Karen’s ankle felt like it was being held in a vise. A gnarled grunt fell through the leaves and her anxiety escalated.

She kicked and shook, trying to dislodge her attacker, unmindful of the consequences. The grunt turned to a laugh, and the grip on her leg was released. Karen toppled over the edge of the branch, pinwheeling around its fulcrum. Her eyes opened wide as she fell through the lower branches, the ground rising to meet her.

Lungs collapsed once more as pressure wrapped around Karen’s skull shooting fireworks across her vision.

She struggled to push off the ground, arms pulsing with pain as they gave out dropping her back into the earth, soil and grass caking her teeth. Lifting her head, Karen spit hard and scanned the ground. She eyed the small computer, which had fallen to one side, and dragged herself forward, her knees digging ruts in the soft earth.

Karen’s attacker dropped from the tree onto her leg, snapping the bone just above the ankle. She writhed, screaming in pain. Curled into a ball, she reached for her ankle, trying to hold it together as bolts of agony rippled across her body. Nausea washed over Karen as she struggled not to pass out, dropping her head back to the ground.

“Din’t no one tell you, ya gotta pay a tax to sleep here?” The voice was deep and harsh.

“So where’s payment?” Tears came to Karen’s eyes, slid down her cheek. She looked to her palmcard. It had a taser app in its skin, but the short distance seemed like miles. Karen couldn’t speak, had no money even if she could bargain. Her body went limp, and she gave up.

“Hey, fucker!” Another voice, almost as deep, just above her.

The first voice countered as words jumbled together, an aural crossword that made no sense to Karen. She tried to decipher words, but her body pulled away, hearing muddied as if she were being submerged in water.

And then Karen remembered nothing.

•••

“hey. wake up.” Karen’s mind rose from consciousness. For a minute she was unsure where she was, but the pain throbbing across her leg brought everything back into sharp focus. She moaned reflexively and tried to talk but nothing came out.

“Hold still. I got friends comin’. You can crash with us. It ain’t much, but you’ll be able to rest.” Karen recognized the second voice from earlier, but it was softer now. Its baritone reverberated through her fingers, soothing her just a bit.

“Why,” Karen whispered.

His voice became animated. “Someone got ta take care of our city. Ain’t no one else steppin’ up.

“Now be quiet, rest.” He sounded almost ministerial and Karen smiled despite the pain. She opened her eyes to look at him, but they were beneath the oak’s wide canopy and his face was painted with shadow.

“What about – ah!” Karen sat up quickly and pain railed across the left side of her body. Her head swam as she clutched her ankle, panting with the exertion.

“It’s here. I din’t unlock it.” His voice was stern, frustration creeping around the edges. “Now lie down or we can’t help you.”

Karen did as she was told. She fell back into his hands and gave in to the pain, allowing her eyes roll up into her head.

“There ya go. Just rest easy.” Karen felt he must have given her something for the pain. Images swam before her eyes – some familiar, others lacking context.

And she latched on to one, forcing a final gasp. “Do you know Cedric Kaczmerak? Can you help me find him?”

But her voice trailed off and she slept before a response was forthcoming.

To be continued . . .

In Search Of . . . pt. VII

For anyone playing catch up, links for parts one through six are below:

part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5
part 6

Otherwise, continue, and enjoy.



It was later than Karen would have preferred. Three weeks in the city and she had yet to acclimate fully; she couldn’t remember landmarks, seemed unable to focus. Anxiety followed her like a stray dog. Karen would catch herself looking over her shoulder, hoping not to get caught staring. It was more than she had expected and Karen wondered if coming here was a bad decision.

Retracing her day, Karen tried to find the time that had gone missing. As she’d wandered a derelict building near Highbridge Park a heavy veil had fallen across the city. Even with the constellation of lights burning from shops and bodegas and above the odd street corner, there was something in the night that clutched at Karen’s stomach. For years she had refused to give in to her father’s bullying, but this feeling in the pit of her stomach wouldn’t go away.

Karen’s feet beat out a rapid staccato on the pavement as she weaved through small crowds of people, head down, holding tight what items she’d found, her mind continuing to roll back over the day.

She had been scavenging, and there was so much to go through up at Highbridge. Unlike her struggle with New York’s maze of concrete and broken tar, Karen had adapted quickly to the barter system on the street, though it was still difficult at times for her to differentiate items of value from ones of little import. Indecision had kept her occupied, meandering through the refuse of others’ lives, the taint of this peculiar voyeurism clinging to her long after she left.

Fatigue weighed heavy on her eyelids as Karen turned east on to MLK Boulevard. Rubbing at the sleep setting in, Karen glanced around at the fires now dotting the alleys. Gathering places for scores of pilgrims in search of the American dream, they – like Karen – had encountered little more than a nightmare. She could not stand it for long and had to look away, raising her head to the dim moon above, its ghost image piercing the gray clouds skimming by.

What was she doing here?

Money stolen during passage to the city had long since evaporated. Karen had expected to find work easily; anything would have been acceptable. She only needed enough to keep afloat while she searched for Cedric, but there seemed even less opportunity here for Karen than if she had stayed in Maine. She tried turning tricks but was lacking an exotic look with no body modifications, which most of those she’d encountered were looking for. So she got by, rummaging through garbage piles and rusted dumpsters for something to trade – or worse, something to eat. It had sustained her so far, but each day was tougher than the last.

Things weren’t going as planned.

One Hundred-Twelfth Street loomed ahead (where had the other streets gone?) and her steps became lighter. Closing the last two blocks, she turned onto Central Park North. She wanted to run but her legs resisted; the Thai noodles from earlier had long since burned out.

A tall man was approaching from the opposite end of the park. He wore a ball cap, his face lost in shadow. Karen’s pace slowed as he passed her, his smile making the hair on her neck stand up. She turned to follow his progress, the glow of the street light falling on a tattoo at the nape of his neck, coruscating in a swirl of Asian symbols. Karen had no idea what it said, but was happy to see him continue on without giving her a second glance.

She gave the man a few more steps before turning back toward her goal, stepping from the hard black onto soft green and walked west to a close clump of trees. In the middle, a massive oak rose above them all, its trunk unlike anything she’d seen in Maine. Karen was home.

Ignoring the tension still resting on her shoulders, Karen mounted the lower branches and climbed a third of the way up. Two large branches crossed at this point, forming a cradle for Karen’s tired body. Pulling what she’d found from inside her jacket, she slid the items into the small opening just above her head.

Pulling down her backpack, she slid her laptop out as leaves below her rustled. Karen’s breath caught in her throat as a lower limb creaked and someone grabbed her ankle, dragging Karen from her perch.

To be continued . . .

In Search Of . . . pt. VI

“Don’t you fuckin’ toss off an email when you’ve got information, Archer!” Elijah Kaczmerak spit the words out, his breath catching in his throat with the effort. “You get on the damn phone –” (breathe) “– and you talk to me like a man.” (breathe) “Do you understand me?”

Kaczmerak’s chest rose and fell with each labored gasp. The old man closed his eyes, listening to the private detective on the other end. He worked to remain calm, regulating his breathing as withered muscles uncoiled.

“I don’t’ care what you think–” (breathe) “– You consult with me, and do the job for which I am paying you –” (breathe) “– Find my daughter–” (b-r-e-a-t-h-e) “– Bring her back.”

(breathe)

“Now, have you anything worthwhile to share?” His voice little more than a whisper, Kaczmerak slumped back, his body collapsing in on itself.

The old man was unsure how long the phone had been silent. He opened his eyes and rasped into the still room, the chair’s receiver funneling his voice back to Keenan Archer. “So you don’t really know a fucking thing, do you? –” (breathe) “– Please remind me why I am paying you such an exorbitant sum.”

The old man held a rag up to his mouth coughing into it, the searing pain given voice by the grating sound in his throat.

“WHERE ARE MY RESULTS!”

A long silence enveloped the room as Kaczmerak listened to the detective’s excuses.

“I deal in certainties, Mr. Archer–” (breathe) “– Not fucking hypotheses.” Kaczmerak could barely free this final word, his body rebelling against the strain.

Wheezing loudly, the old man’s eyebrows arched as a response came from the detective. “Do not fucking patronize me, Mr. Archer.”

(breathe)

Kaczmerak paused, dropped back into his chair once more, listening with more interest. A smile curled at the edges of his mouth as his fingers began to tap on the arm of the chair – slowly at first, the pace quickening as the detective’s monologue continued. Finally, the old man slapped his hand down on the chair arm, the sharp impact skittering across the room.

“She’s gone to New York?”

(breathe)

“Would it not be prudent to ascertain the veracity of your hunch?”

“I expect a report tomorrow evening–” (b-r-e-a-t-h-e) “– And do not make me call you this time.” Kaczmerak tapped the console on the chair’s left arm cutting off any more discussion from the detective. The old man closed his eyes and heaved a long sigh.

•••

“Mr. Kaczmerak.

“Sir.

“Are you awake, sir?” Gregory was standing above Elijah as the room came into focus. Kaczmerak couldn’t remember falling asleep and had no idea how much time he’d lost. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he looked up at his butler.

“What is it?”

“The doctor is here, sir. She’s been waiting in the vestibule.”

“Set her up in the –”

“Already done, sir. The doctor unpacked and organized her belongings before having me call on you. I told her that might be best.”

“Well send her in for Christ’s sake.” Kaczmerak ran fingers through his thinning hair as he worked to sit up in his chair.

A minute later, Dr. Sylindra Ziantara strode into the library, concern crossing her features. Kaczmerak didn’t like that. “What the hell is wrong, doctor?”

Dr. Z, as she was commonly addressed, always found Elijah Kaczmerak’s hostile demeanor off-putting. “The tests came back negative.”

“What the fuck do you mean negative?” Kaczmerak turned away and rolled over to the window. Outside slate clouds crowded out the sun’s warmth, dropping a monochrome haze over everything.

The doctor reached Kaczmerak’s side, setting her hand on the back of his chair. “We can’t produce any more stem cells. Your body’s too full of cancer. They metastasize rather than grow healthy cells.

“We tried difference cocktails, but the results are always the same.”

“Why don’t you go back and try again, doctor!” The final word dripped off Kaczmerak’s tongue like a virus as he turned and stared up into her eyes. He held her gaze for a moment but had to turn away when he was overcome with a hacking cough once more, the heavy phlegm burning deep within his throat, refusing to move.

“Elijah.” The name landed solidly between patient and physician. “You know you don’t get to push me around. Try it again, and I’m out that door.”

Elijah Kaczmerak looked out at the heavy clouds sitting on the horizon, his final sputtering coughs subsiding. It was nearly two minutes before he replied, the doctor waiting him out as she wandered the room admiring his book collection.

Finally, his voice barely audible – “So what do I do now?”

Dr. Z walked over and knelt beside him. Taking his hand, she lifted Kaczmerak’s head so that she could look him in the eye. “We keep fighting. Maybe another cocktail will work, but I’m not holding out hope.”

“Best case scenario,” she continued, “is that you find a donor that shares your DNA.

“Otherwise, there’s not much else except bio-modification.”

“Fuck that,” he spat as he pulled his hand away.

To Be Continued . . .

In Search Of . . . pt. V

Weeks to get a proper tracking code for the outdated chip Kaczmerak gave me. Nothing like starting down a trail already colder than your dead mother’s tit. You’d think someone like Kaczmerak would be able to keep up with this stuff. Old fuck thinks he has it all figured out.

With the way things fractured after the Arab-American war, life’s an even bigger pain in the ass than it ever was. Government’s in the shitter, different factions pop up every hour on the net; it’s a minor miracle we haven’t been wiped clean by some raghead army yet. ‘Course, the more difficult the job, the more I can charge. And at least the old fart pays on time.

Crossing a narrow bridge, I enter the small town as the sun drops behind a row of bare hills off on my right. A tinge of salt carries on the moist air as bells ring methodically somewhere in the harbor. Footfalls slop through the mud behind me; men in overalls, stained and torn, discuss their day on the ocean. They pause a moment to give me a challenging glance, passing without a greeting. I raise my hand and nod sarcastically as I continue to scan the feeble surroundings.

If she wanted to get away from Daddy, she might have gone a bit farther.

•••

I wait an hour in the dark for Suffolk to return. He tries his key but doesn’t seem bothered that the door slips open without it. Walking through the main room, he doesn’t switch on a light. Idiot.

Booted feet clomp down the hall for the bedroom and soon a dim light trails back up toward me. Suffolk gasps. It brings a smile to my face as I hear him curse under his breath. Apparently, he’s never had his room tossed. Good.

Running back down the hallway, he makes straight for his landline computer across from where I stand in the shadows. Springing the overhead light on, Suffolk is momentarily blinded, giving me the seconds I need to knock him on his ass.

“AAhhh, shit!”

I punch him in the nose once for good measure and then lift him onto the ratty couch nearby. He’s still gingerly cupping his nose when the tears subside. The fear in his eyes is gratifying. This should be easy.

“Mind if I sit down?”

“No. Go ahead.” His speech is halting. He’s confused.

“I’m trying to find a girl – Karen Kaczmerak. You know her.”

“I don’t recognize the name.”

“That wasn’t a question.” I slap him hard on the side of his face and continue, “I tracked her here, but the place was empty. I think you’d remember, she’s the type’d stand out in this shithole.”

I slip out my palmcard and pull up a holo of her. He responds. “Okay. She said her name was Kay.”

He makes to get up from the couch. “Uhn-uh.” I set my gun on the table between us.

Suffolk raises his hands above his head, sweat spotting his brow. “Whoah. I just want to get something for you.”

I glare at him a few seconds before nodding. “Slowly.”

Suffolk steps into the kitchen and pulls down a cookie jar from on top of the refrigerator. Returning to his seat, he hands me a small microchip. “She told me to give this to you when you arrived. She knew you’d be coming, but didn’t say much else.

“You know that father of hers touched her, did things to her?” He’s pleading, begging me to give a damn.

“Not my business. Taking her home is.

“How long ago was she here?” I look up from the tiny chip, catching his eyes before they drop to his lap.

“I don’t know,” he mutters.

“Don’t get brave now.” I pick up my pistol and set it in my lap. His eyes follow the movement.

“Four days,” he says. “She didn’t tell me where she was going, but I expect it was as far from here as possible.”

“Why’s that? She finally get tired of you?”

His fists clench, but he’s not that dumb. He keeps his mouth shut and just stares through the frayed carpet on the floor.

“Do you really expect me to believe that you have no idea how to find her? If she knew I was coming, she wanted you to contact her, let her know how much of a head start she has. Come on.”

“No, no. She didn’t give me anything. Just left without saying a word. I came home last week and she was gone. I swear.” Waving his hands frantically is supposed to add some credence to his statement. Whatever.

I stand up. “Listen. I don’t want to kill you. Despite some prevailing sentiments, that would be bad for business.”

I walk into the kitchen, searching for the biggest knife I can find. “That doesn’t mean I can’t leave you in a shitload of pain though.”

I come back into the front room with a huge fucking blade, probably used to gut fish. It’s good to have the right tools for a job.

“Now, are we going to do this hard or easy? Your choice, but don’t take too long deciding because I’m an impatient man.” The smile on my face doesn’t seem to reassure Suffolk.

•••

I pull out my palmcard and shoot off an email to Kaczmerak. Relatively speaking, Suffolk chose an easier path than most – he only lost one finger in the process. Seems little Karen wanted to see the big city. I should be able to hop a transport once I make it back to civilization, and then we’ll see what we see.

To be continued . . .

Miracleman v.2 notes pt.III

The final part of my short series of thoughts on Alan Moore's Miracleman: The Red King Syndrome. Enjoy.


- Chapter 11: Scenes from the Nativity
o I believe this was my introduction to Rick Veitch, and at the time, I wasn’t that impressed. His work isn’t as refined as other artists, but I’ve grown to appreciate his work, and am a fan of the fluidity and naturalness that is part of his art. So glad to have him after Beckum/Austen. And that said, despite my misgivings on my initial reading twenty years ago, I did love that title page with Miracleman as Christ. That was just a beautiful image.
o PAGE 1: I really like the bottom tier where Liz is waking up, calling for Mike, we get the flashback to the “Miracledog” confronting Mike bathed in red, and then the other side of Liz’s face, terror etched there. Nice transition and great use of the comic page.
o Love the use of the jeep to transport Liz. It continues to keep the story grounded while also giving readers something they’ve never seen before, and it offers Liz a moment of pure joy after her experience in Paraguay with Gargunza.
o INTERLUDE: Who the heck are these guys. And, love the use of the Jedi mind trick.
o PAGE 10: Kid Miracleman’s ability to hide from these aliens as they peer into Bates’s mind foreshadows what is coming. He’s too powerful to remain stuck inside Johnny’s mind for much longer.
o Moore’s prose and Veitch’s artwork really capture what it’s like to be at the birth of one’s child. And to have this published in 1986 was groundbreaking (as foolish as it sounds).
o I really like how the voice over puts into perspective the smallness of Gargunza and his aims compared to the miracle that is life. (May sound corny, but it was true all three times I experienced the births of my sons)
o The small touches, as with most of Moore’s work, really elevate this story – in particular, the part where Miracleman says he uses his thumb nail to snip the umbilical cord.
o And – “Ma-ma.” What a great way to end the issue. Moore has lain the groundwork for this revelation (particularly with the opening of this issue) and soon we’ll get to see what it means to be the child of a superhero in this “reality.”

- Chapter 12: Bodies
o PAGE 1: The aliens are back, and they mention – for the first time – a female “Miracle” companion, whose hand is evident in the bottom left panel, and whose foot is seen at the top of the next page.
• I like how Moore includes the cat hunting the pigeons in the background as a symbol for these aliens as they prepare to hunt Miracleman and the other “Miracle” family members.
o PAGE 2: Whoa! This is bigger than we readers first thought. How many “change-bodies” are there?
• We can see Mike Moran in the middle, Dicky Dauntless obviously in the lower left, Johnny Bates in the lower right, the “Miracledog” just off panel upper left, and Miraclewoman just off panel upper right, though it may not be completely obvious yet.
o “Let us eat.” set next to the pigeon carcass is typical Moore, except that it doesn’t really add to the narrative like the meticulous work in Watchmen.
o PAGES 6-7: Kid Miracleman is unnerving. Not only does he have no problem throwing epithets at his younger self, but he’s happy that Johnny has shown the hospital that he is conscious. Why? It can’t be good.
o PAGES 8-9: I like how this and the previous two-page spread are laid out symmetrically. Reading through this spread, we can see that Winter is doing math with the rings hanging over her crib. And it appears she understands what her mother is saying when she is telling Mike that she feels depressed now that she has given birth and no longer has her baby insider her, at which point, Winter apparently makes her mother feel better. How? We don’t know. Could she be more powerful than her father?
• Foreshadowing: note that when Mike tells Liz that “Nothing will ever come between us,” he is holding hands with Liz, but in the middle of the picture below their hands is Winter’s hand. She – or at least the “Miracle” aspects of Mike and she – will come between Mike and Liz.
o PAGE 11: “Kim who?” That would be “Kimota,” and Miraclewoman is now in the picture, though we do not see her in this book, only the destruction in her wake as she flees these aliens. Which means, they must be pretty powerful, if we consider Miraclewoman to be on par with MM.
o And if we had any thought that Winter might be a tad “normal” the fact that at a week old she is eating solid food and has teeth should be the final clues readers need.

- CAN’T WAIT FOR BOOK 3!

In Search Of . . . pt. IV

“Soup again?” Tim slouched in his chair as he tossed his stained cap onto the sideboard. He’d just come in off the fishing boat and the smell of the sea was strong on him.

“Not anymore!” Karen Kaczmerak stood up from the table, knocking her chair to the floor, and seized both her bowl and Tim’s. Walking to the back door, she kicked it open – squeaking on its old hinges – and dumped their supper into the refuse bin.

“Jesus, don’t be like that. I was hungry.”

“Could’ve surprised me. You cook tomorrow.” Karen dropped the bowls into the sink as she passed through the kitchen marching for the bedroom at the far end of the trailer. Wiping his sleeve across his face, Tim got up from the table and went after Karen, his long strides closing the gap down the narrow hall.

“Will you come back here? What the hell’s wrong?” Tim caught his girlfriend just as she stepped into the bedroom.

Karen didn’t even look back. “Fuck off.”

“No!” Tim grabbed Karen by her right shoulder.

“Ow!” Karen pulled her arm away.

Tim’s eyes widened. “What happened to your arm?”

“It hurts, dipshit.”

Tim, stuck between anger and confusion, kicked the wall. “Fucking aye! What the Hell’d I do?”

“If you don’t know, I can’t help,” said Karen as she backed into their bedroom sliding the door out from its recess in the wall.

“What can I do so you aren’t so fuckin’ mad?”

“You could start by listening, but I’m not sure that’s even possible.” Karen slammed the door shut and turned the lock. Tim paced in a tiny circle for half a minute before pounding his fist against the bedroom door. Waiting for a response, he stomped back up the hallway when none was forthcoming.

•••

Tim Suffolk first laid eyes on Karen in the local diner. She arrived in South Harbor in the early evening, slim and young; the way her blond hair fell around her shoulders sent a shudder through Tim’s midsection. The fact that she had reciprocated his furtive looks that night was a surprise. Though by no means an ugly man, Tim knew his receding hairline and weary face were not generally appealing to the fairer sex. They’d ended up getting dessert together, and when Tim discovered Karen was alone with nowhere to stay, he was more than willing to put her up for the night.

That night stretched into weeks, and for the most part, Tim had been nothing but happy. But recently Karen had changed. She didn’t smile like she had at first, and she seemed restless. Tim had tried to infiltrate her stern façade, but no explanations had been shared. So, Tim just went about his normal business hoping it would work itself out.

•••

The digital clock read 1:43 am. Outside, the chime of the buoy helped bring Tim out of his slumber. He rubbed at his neck, stiff from falling asleep in the recliner. Slivers of moonlight slit the blinds, giving form to the shadows. There were soft footsteps in the kitchen. Turning, he watched Karen go to the fridge and pull out the pitcher of water. Lifting it to her lips, she took a long swallow and then returned it to its shelf. Closing the door, she walked back down the hall without giving him a look.

Tim strained to hear the lock click in the door as Karen shut it, but the only sound that came was that of the mattress springs yielding as she lay back down. With little deliberation, Tim got up from the chair and walked down the hallway himself, trying not to make a sound as he entered the bedroom.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he could see Karen lying on her side turned away from where he stood in the doorway. She gave no indication she knew he was there. He pulled the covers back and slid in next to her.

Adjusting the sheets so that they fell over his back, Tim lay there waiting for Karen to say something.

But she remained silent.

Tim watched as two minutes passed on the clock, and then deemed it safe to move closer. Nudging up against Karen, he draped one arm over her shoulder and she jumped, biting back the pain before taking Tim’s hand and moving his arm down to her waist.

“Shit. Sorry,” whispered Tim, afraid of breaking the silence encompassing them.

“It’s okay,” said Karen. “I’m sorry for earlier.

“I’ve just been uneasy.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Tim as he propped himself up on his other arm.

“Thinking about home . . . Dad . . . what he did . . . to me . . . to Cedric.” Karen started to cry into her pillow. Tim tried to roll her over, but Karen refused, pushing his hand away.

For a long minute Tim stared down at Karen wondering what she’d gone through and what he could do to get her to stop crying. Finally, he laid his head on Karen’s pillow and whispered into her ear, “Tell me about it.

“I’ll listen.”

To be continued . . .

Miracleman v.2 notes pt.II

Here's the middle third of my notes (covering, not surprisingly, the middle third of this tale, the middle third of Moore's overall narrative). Read along at home; it will probably make more sense.


- Chapter 4: The Approaching Light –
o This chapter is all about waking or wakefulness:
• Title: “The Approaching Light” which can signify the dawn, the waking of the day, time to wake up.
• Evelyn Cream’s inability to sleep because of what he can see “coming down the track.” He’s unsure of what might happen with Moran’s wife having been taken by Gargunza. It is unsettling.
• Gargunza’s inability to sleep because of what he saw in the fiber cameras while observing the fetus in Liz’s womb.
• The “waking” to consciousness of the fetus, when it opens its eyes and stares into the camera, right into Gargunza’s eyes.
• The “waking” of the “monster,” i.e. Miracleman. Now that he knows who has Liz, he is ready to kill.
o Although not as subtle as some of his later work, I like how Moore juxtaposes the two narratives in this chapter, playing them off each other to show the parallels between what is happening with Miracleman and what is happening with Gargunza. It also highlights the father/son relationship between these two, and the new father/son relationship that Gargunza hopes to achieve through MM’s baby.
o Alan Davis’s art really shines here. He gives Liz a disturbing, yet appropriate, vacant look while creating this Adonis-like being in the ungarbed Miracleman.
o The unease that Cream is having with the situation – manifested in his sarcastic remarks about what he is doing, following this white god – feels very real. He is torn between befriending MM for his own goals, while feeling that following this “unbermensch” is nothing but a huge step back with regard to how far Africans have come at this point. It makes Cream a more real character, and one for which I have more sympathy.
o It should be obvious now that the calm Liz is feeling through this whole ordeal – a calm we hadn’t seen before – is a byproduct of the superhuman gestating in her belly. If we allow ourselves to consider the full ramifications of this, it is overwhelming.

- Chapter 5: I Heard Woodrow Wilson’s Guns
o Alan Davis’s work, particularly the subtle emotion on the faces, is fantastic in this chapter. Of particular note – Gargunza’s face on the final panel (with the title heading) of the first page, and page 2, panel 3 of this chapter, after Liz Moran tells him she wants to hear his story.
o Moore’s use of a “talking heads” chapter works well to punctuate the climax of this part of the story. It’s a very quiet, slow narrative, and with the final page-turn we are given a big piece of the puzzle, and the full page image is used nicely in contrast to the quiet, multi-panel pages that preceded it.
o Gargunza’s description of Hitler is a very human, and more realistic characterization – especially from a person like Gargunza – than we usually see. A mature writing choice on Moore’s part.

- Chapter 6: A Little Piece of Heaven
o Moore’s writing combined with Davis’s art manage to create something that feels alien, unlike a lot of traditional science fiction, which – for whatever reasons – give us human looking aliens in unimaginative spaceships.
o This chapter is layered with multiple “fire/burning” symbols (Icarus and Prometheus are both mentioned, and we watch as a moth is lured to its death in a flame on Gargunza’s porch). Maybe a bit overdone, but combined with Gargunza’s tale of how he created the Marvel family (and you can almost hear the glee in his voice, which is accentuated again by Alan Davis’s brilliant visuals on the final page of this chapter), we can see that his creation of the Marvel family, meant to be his chance at immortality, is being foreshadowed as that which will bring his downfall.
o I like the way Moore throws in the true inspiration for the Marvelman/Miracleman comic through Gargunza’s realization of how to manipulate these beings when he sees a Captain Marvel comic.
o And, keep an eye on the pooch in Gargunza’s lap.
o Who are Rebbeck and Lear?

- Chapter 7: …And Every Dog Its Day
o Abraxas – Beautiful storytelling. The first time you read this, you don’t see that coming. But when it happens, it does not feel forced at all. And now, what the hell will Mike Moran do?
o Miracledog – Another brilliant page-turn, and the ante is upped once more
o AND CONSIDER, this is the point where Marvelman’s publication in Warrior magazine was discontinued. Anyone who was reading this in Warrior, had to wait five years to find out what the hell happened.

- Chapter 8: All Heads Turn as the Hunt Goes By
o Chuck Beckum (Austen) art. The only blemish on this entire series.
o The 3-minute headstart is another problem – one I’d forgotten about until re-reading. It’s typical supervillain fare, but for a character that has been well fleshed out by Moore – and shown to be highly intelligent – this just seems out of place. It certainly makes for a more dramatic narrative, but isn’t true to the character, I don’t think.
o Having Cream narrate this chapter is interesting, and obviously Moore is playing with comics as a visual medium (controlling what we, the reader, can see) in order to give us a surprise twist. But, having grounded so much of this story in “reality,” the final eye movement to look down and see that he is now a severed head, did not work for me.
o I like the way Cream takes charge now that Miracleman is not around, and the way he talks to Moran when he is feeling pity for his predicament rang very true.
o I also appreciated Cream’s internal monologue remarking how the pursuit of the “white miracle” he and his ancestors have sought isn’t a pursuit of whiteness, but a pursuit of death.
o And the final page: “It spits. Spits blood and sapphires.” Brilliant.

- Chapter 9: Bodies
o The resolution to the Miracledog issue is, again, simple in its execution, but unlike earlier points in this story, it almost feels too simple.
o Moran’s dispatching of the little dog once it changes back is a bit of foreshadowing – though whether intentional or not, I don’t know.
o And again, consider that this was written just around the time that Watchmen was coming out. Moran killing that dog in cold blood was something not typically encountered in comic books. Heroes were supposed to have higher ideals, not take the path of least resistance. This was another signal that this was a different kind of superhero comic, and Moore was a different type of writer.

- Chapter 10: The Wish I Wish Tonight
o Chuck Beckum’s art is so static. It adds nothing to the story, and takes away from the impact of this climax, especially considering how spoiled we, as readers, had become after having Garry Leach and Alan Davis prior.
o Moore’s prose gives us another look into the psyche of Miracleman/Marvelman. His monologue on the brittle trees and paper world really hit home his reality, while the red jewels crawling down his arms and across his face give us insight into how he is reveling in the killing spree upon which he’s embarked.
o And when Marvelman/Miracleman goes on about the scale on which he exists, it’s a nice piece of writing that accentuates his reality as a god on earth.

In Search Of . . . pt. III

Keenan Archer stared out the windows as they flew over the thick green expanse below. It was a stark contrast to the scorched earth that had greeted them as they’d come in off the Atlantic five minutes prior. Flying as low as they were made it seem as if this new verdant area went on forever. He shifted in his seat and leaned forward to the pilot.

“How much longer ‘til we’re there?” he asked.

The pilot didn’t turn, but grunted his reply, “You’ll know.”

Keenan leaned back in his seat. His hard features tightened as dark blue eyes turned to slits; he didn’t like being in the dark. Running his fingers through the short bristles atop his head, Keenan returned his gaze to the treetops skimming by below him.

•••

It was only a few minutes before a large cut in the trees became visible. A huge mansion rose from the middle of the clearing, which appeared to have no exit routes spoking off from the residence.

The sleek chopper set down easily, and Keenan pulled open the door and stepped out. A tiny lump clenched in his gut. He tried to ignore it as the chopper rose into the air, leaving him in the middle of a wide lawn.

Keenan surveyed his surroundings. There was a lot of money here. The ornate lintel above the front doorway, the delicate woodwork framing the many windows, and the meticulously trimmed hedges illustrated that. But the guards standing behind the tall shrubs at either corner, as well as the four stationed on the roof, told Keenan all he needed to know.

Satisfied, he proceeded up the small incline toward the marble steps.

•••

“You do understand. You will do this.” The old man wheezed as he steadied himself against the banister. The stilted movements of Elijah Kaczmerak were subtle, most people wouldn’t have noticed. The old man was wearing a sophisticated exo-skeleton under his finely pressed suit.

Keenan had been going back and forth with Kaczmerak for twenty minutes now, and they seemed no closer to a resolution than when he’d first entered. The only commodity worth trafficking in was information, but the old man refused to give an inch.

Kaczmerak wanted his daughter found, but had no idea where she would have gone. Keenan had prodded him for anything that could help – hobbies, friends, online avatars, strange behavior, family history – and Kaczmerak clipped off any discussion as if he were hiding some thorny secret. And that knot in the pit of Keenan’s stomach continued to throb lightly as he worked to remain focused on the withered face before him.

“Listen. Mr. Kaczmerak. If you’re unwilling to give me some shred of information, I’m not sure how I can be of service to you. It’s really as simple as that.” Keenan could hear the frustration rising in his voice and silently criticized himself for starting to lose control.

“Young man. I cannot see how trivial incidents in my daughter’s past might assist in discovering her current whereabouts. She has grown past any indiscretions of her tender years and you would do well not to probe any further.

“I do not think you realize with whom you are dealing.” Despite his obvious ill health, Elijah Kaczmerak spit out these final words with such venom that Keenan was momentarily taken aback.

“Now,” continued the old man, “I do have something of which you might be interested, if you can get past your affinity for tangential matters.” The old man’s eyes narrowed as he stared down the investigator.

“When my daughter was eleven she took ill – the details are unimportant – and she was rushed to the nearest hospital. It was necessary for her to undergo surgery, and I arranged for the doctor to implant her with a microchip, the better to keep track of her. I wasn’t sure I would ever need it, but felt it prudent to take such a precaution. I will share the frequency with you.

“But in doing so, you must understand that you will be agreeing to a contract that can only end one of two ways. I would suggest option A, which would be to return my daughter here. To me.” The menace in Kaczmerak’s voice was laced with a derision that Keenan had rarely encountered.

“And just to make sure you do not feel I am treating you wrongly . . .” Elijah Kaczmerak snapped his fingers and Gregory stepped into the atrium. The old man turned to his butler, who nodded subtly and told his employer, “It has been taken care of, sir.”

“Good,” rasped the old man. Turning back to Keenan, as Gregory softly removed himself, Elijah told the investigator to “check your account.”

Keenan reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his PalmCard. Tapping the screen, he accessed his professional account and saw the balance to be a million creds heavier than he remembered.

“Consider that a retainer,” said Kaczmerak. “I will also pay double your daily fee, plus all expenses.

“Just make sure you bring my girl home.”

Keenan’s head raced with questions – why hadn’t the old man offered the microchip information earlier being foremost – but instead he allowed himself a broad smile and told Kaczmerak, “It looks like we have a deal.”

To be continued . . .

What I'm reading right now

When the movie adaptation for Contact came out, there was no doubt I'd be there. Jodie Foster had a string of amazing roles to her credit at that point, and I was a science fiction junkie. What could be better than a movie positing the reality of extraterrestrial life from one of the preeminent scientists of the last century, Carl Sagan? and I was not disappointed.

Finally, years later, I am reading the novel upon which that movie was based. And it's great. Sagan's prose, though not on a par with wordsmiths like Chabon or Bradbury, flows wonderfully and he manages to infuse the hard science in such a way that you don't feel lost. Dr. Arroway (the Jodie Foster character) is a fittingly strong female character and the realities of such an e.t. contact are offered up by Sagan, thwarting the xenophobic nature of many that have probably read it. And Sagan includes a throwaway line about a reality TV channel/group that probably seemed confusing when first published in 1985 but resonates so much more today.

I'm not really sure if the ramblings above make any sense - I could feel my brain jumping around - but if you get nothing else from this post, Contact by Carl Sagan is an enjoyable read (at least to the point I am currently at).

chris

Miracleman v.2 notes pt.I

So,

One of my favorite podcasts is the CGS (Comic Geek Speak) one. Mainly a mainstream comic-cast, it delves into indie and classic comics and has provided interviews with a multitude of great artists and writers. Well, thanks to one of their listeners, they are finally tackling one of my all-time favorite comics, Miracleman (originally Marvelman). Their first episode, covering the first trade collection, ran in late December, and the plan was to follow with each subsequent collection roughly every two months. In preparation for this, I pulled down my second MM trade - The Red King Syndrome - and re-read it, jotting down notes for each chapter. I offered them up at the CGS forums, and now I offer them here for posterity (or until we decide to let the domain name lapse, which isn't happening any time soon).

the notes became copious, so I'll be splitting them up into three posts, roughly 1000 words apiece. Here, for your reading pleasure, is part one. Enjoy:

- Prelude: Red King Syndrome pt.1
o Did they use John Ridgway because Alan Davis needed to catch up? Whether yes or no, having a different artist for this flashback works well to separate from the story proper, while giving us some background.
o I love Gargunza’s characterization. He’s a genius – smug and unable to suffer fools, even if those fools are working with him.
o Interesting concept of having Mickey Moran heap bizarre and far-fetched ideas on top of one another to shock his brain out of the dream-sleep they have been subject to.

- Chapter 1: Catgames –
o I like how Moore uses the metaphor of the leopard to accentuate the main thrust of the narrative, which reintroduces us to all of the main characters
o Though this really is a chapter in which Moore is catching readers up to speed with the various characters, it doesn’t fall into the expositional pitfalls so many other comics seem to.
o Liz and Mike’s argument foreshadows what comes later in this book. Her remark that Mike changing to Miracleman in order to continue the conversation is “running away” helps to accentuate the reality of his character, and is an interesting – and, if not new, at least little used trope – of the “secret identity.”
o Sir Dennis’s idea of how Miracleman must think of “us,” of humans is novel, especially for this time, and will be played out in Moore’s story. A nice bit of foreshadowing – only one panel – that may not resonate on a first read, but has far more resonance upon re-reading. It also reiterates the point made by Liz two pages prior, regarding Mike’s vulnerability and the vast difference between his two alter-egos.
o Johnny Bates and Kid Miracleman within Johnny’s mind is a great bit of character play – well conceived artistically, as well – and sets up the possibility of KM returning. Again, Moore laying the groundwork for what is to come.
o The caption boxes once Mike Moran changes to Miracleman is Moore being flowery, unlike some of the prose from the first volume, this adds little and feels a bit over-wrought.
o Final page of this chapter: what the hell took out that leopard? We’ll find out soon.

- Chapter 2: One of Those Quiet Moments –
o I really enjoyed this 6-page chapter. It gives us a bit more characterization of Miracleman/Mike Moran (he revels in showing off his strength to Jason, showing that Mike is still within the mind of MM).
o The remarks about “gays” and “fairies” firmly ground it in its time – the early eighties – and feel out of place in our more educated, PC world. But they do capture the feelings of a large sector of the population at the time, and it doesn’t feel so much prejudicial as ill-advised or statements made from a lack of education/experience, which certainly does not feel out of place for a story written in 1982-83.
o I really like how Moore utilized the quiet/innocent interaction between MM and Jason to accentuate that final page. It really gives more weight to what MM finds back home than if the entire chapter had revolved around his Liz’s abduction. This way, the reader is also in MM’s shoes – we don’t know what has happened to her any more than he does. Really adds tension.
o Neil Gaiman wrote a short story that played off the event of this one (the first 5 pages), which basically was he and Mark Buckingham’s “tryout” before taking over the title after Moore was finished.

- Chapter 3: Nightmares –
o Page 2, as Liz is waking up and we get the various computer readouts of her body is impressive from an artistic standpoint, and these, with the voiceover captions, keeps the mystery alive of where she is and who has her.
o The lines (on page 2): “Wait a minute. Is that something around the womb area?” and “. . . pulse and respiration normal again. That’s very sudden isn’t it?” are important to the larger context of Moore’s story. Panel 6 gives readers more foreshadowing, if they are reading carefully/slowly, and is a nice example of the words and images juxtaposing with one another to give a different understanding of the scene.
o Gargunza. He is just creepy.

- Interlude: Red King Syndrome pt. 2 –
o Was this broken up in the original Warrior serialization? It picks up directly from the prelude and feels like it could have been one chapter initially.
o The psychological battle between Miracleman and Dr. Gargunza is nicely done. And, though simple, the “and they woke up from a dream” scenario is inspired, especially the way that Moore wrote this chapter. And everything is all right – except that MM’s costume has changed, as it did in their “dream.” This is not good for Dr. G.

In Search Of . . . pt. II

“Mr. Kaczmerak, you better come down and see this.” The crackle of the radio irritated Elijah every time it squawked. If he wasn’t already in a foul mood, it usually pushed him over that edge.

“I’ll be there when I can,” he spat into the comm. Sliding his finger forward, the old chair came to life and shuddered ahead, its nervous ticking announcing his passage.

Minutes later, the old man rolled into the large atrium at the front of the house. He could feel his ears starting to burn. Standing at the door, which was still ajar, was the captain of his guards, Seth Palmer. Slumped beside him, dark blood dried on one side of his face, was Dale, the one Elijah had sent to watch Karen.

“What the fuck happened here,” rasped the old man, his gnarled voice raising the hair on the back of Dale’s neck.

“I lost her,” was the guard’s feeble reply.

“What? I can’t fucking hear you.” Elijah lurched the wheelchair forward, stopping three feet from the two men. Lifting himself out of the seat, he leaned over, holding a hand to his ear.

The Captain shoved Dale harshly, sending the injured man to his knees. “Tell Mr. Kaczmerak what you did.” The Captain’s tone was heavy and even.

“I-I-I-I lost her,” he sputtered, hands shaking feverishly as he clasped them together to try and make them stop.

“You. Lost. Her.” Elijah’s eyes bored into the quivering guard as Seth took a spot beside his employer.

“Do I not pay you enough?” Elijah fell back into his chair as he spat the last of this question out, a coughing fit racking his upper body. Despite this, he kept his eyes squarely on the shivering excuse before him as the coughs passed.

“Yes, sir. You pay me good Mr. K.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Dale added, as if this made any difference.

“Have you ever been paid better?” Elijah acted as if he’d not heard the statement, his voice rising once more.

“No, Mr. K.”

“No!” The word landed like a hammer.

“And yet, you lost my daughter. How does that happen?”

“I don’t know, sir.” Dale was now prostrate, arms outstretched with clenched hands begging for a reprieve.

“Honest answer, but the wrong one,” said Elijah. “Now, take your gun out.”

Dale looked up, confused. His mind went over the old man’s words again, but he was unable to act.

“Take the fucking gun out, son.” Elijah’s tenor faded slightly. Dale did what he was told.

“Good. Now, eat that fucking gun or I will rend the flesh from your worthless hide.” Dale searched the old man’s eyes, but they didn’t waver.

“I SAID EAT THAT FUCKING GUN!!” Dale fell back before Elijah’s volume as another fit of coughing overtook the old man. Unable to process the absurdity of the order, Dale remained motionless.

After a long minute, Elijah finally relaxed and leveled his eyes at the cringing man one last time. “I need to keep order in my house. That is part of the reason for your substantial retainer. If you are going to fuck up royally, I cannot keep you on.

“So, eat. That fucking. Gun.” Elijah sat back, contentment finally crossing his withered features as he slid one hand up to the palm console of his chair.

Dale looked at Mr. Kaczmerak, then at Seth, and back to Mr. K once more. Neither one flinched, and Dale understood.

Instinctively, he turned the gun on the two men before him, and just as quickly, Elijah tapped a switch resting beneath his left index finger, sending a signal to microchips implanted within all the weapons in the house.

Dale’s gun did not discharge. He pulled the trigger multiple times, the frail click dissolving what hope was left.

A smile split across Elijah’s face. “I control everything in this house. You would have done well to remember that, you dumb shit.” The old man continued to stare at Dale as he reached across and pulled Seth’s own gun from its holster. Leveling the heavy weapon at the sobbing man in front of him, Elijah Kaczmerak quickly tapped the switch beneath his left hand once more and fired with his right.

Dale fell back, blood seeping from his midsection as he convulsed spastically, tears running over the dried blood on his face. He worked to say something, but the effort was too much. It was another fifteen minutes before he properly expired, but his last words had already been uttered.

“Shall I take care of him sir,” asked Elijah’s Captain.

The old man looked up with weary eyes and shook his head no. Then he raised the gun and shot Seth as well, point blank, blood and bits of skin spattering across Elijah.

“Ultimately, are you not responsible for your men?”

Dropping the gun, Elijah activated the comm-unit to speak to his butler. “Gregory. Get a cleaning detail to the atrium, please. And see if you can’t find a good investigator. I want him here by the end of the week.”

“Yes sir.”

To Be Continued . . .

In Search Of . . . pt. I

“Get off that damn web and get down here!” Elijah’s cackle trailed over the carpeted steps of the ornate staircase. His daughter tried to ignore it but knew better than to challenge his resolve. Not replying would result in his blanketing the house, blocking any signals in the area.

Karen folded up her screen, dropped it on her nightstand and headed downstairs.

Reaching the bottom step, Karen could hear her father coming from the east wing before she saw him, his antiquated wheelchair ticking loudly.

“What the hell are you doin’? Sun’s up and pretty soon it’ll be too cold to wear those skimpy dresses of yours. Get out while you still can, I don’t want any of your complaining come winter.”

Karen had any number of wise retorts, but the past six years’ of constant fighting with her father had worn her down and her only reply was, “Okay.”

Turning to leave, she could feel her father’s eyes boring into her back, peeling away the layers she’d built up. She didn’t bother looking back.

The door slammed and Elijah keyed the comm on his chair arm. “Dale. She’s heading out. Keep an eye on her.”

“Yes, sir,” crackled the guard’s response.

Satisfied, Elijah slumped back into the chair and closed his eyes.

•••

Karen walked aimlessly over the expansive grounds, the tree line surrounding the mansion mocking her. With no real options, she soon found herself plodding into the tangle of branches.

The silence left her mind to wander. Karen couldn’t remember the day Cali slid off into the Pacific, but her father had told the story so many times she was able to conjure up her own memories with little thought. They had been living in New York at the time, her father doing well as an investment banker, but overnight, stock prices plummeted, sending the world into a panic from which it still had not extricated itself.

Her father fled, taking what he could with them and brought Karen and her brother up here to their vacation spot in Maine. In his mind, it was the only safe place for them. And for nearly fifteen years, he’d kept her captive on this green tract of land.

Her brother Cedric had gotten out a few years back, leaving in the middle of the night – no note, no goodbye, no way to contact him. Karen had trawled the web, searching for any indication he was still alive, but it was like he’d never existed.

•••

The first leaves of autumn crunched under Karen’s feet as she pushed further into the woods. She’d read about the clear-cutting that went on during the war, viewed images on the net, but never actually experienced it. Six year ago, soon after she’d turned thirteen, Karen had decided to investigate, see if it was really true. Getting up early one morning, she dove into the woods. What she had failed to take into consideration were the excesses of her father’s wealth and the depths of his paranoia. After two days of walking, with little in the way of supplies and no end in sight, she’d been forced to turn back.

Though Cedric’s anxiety had been etched across his face when she returned, her father made no mention of the incident, and this, more than anything, burned hot inside Karen. She was determined to find a way out the next time.

To one side, Karen caught a flicker of movement, stifling her reverie. A smile brushed her lips as she slowed her pace.

A minute later, the man her father had dispatched was easing up behind her, working hard not to raise her suspicion and doing a poor job of it. Still, she played along.

Rounding a large fir tree, Karen’s arm prickled as the guard took hold of it. She caught her breath as he pulled her back to him, raising his pistol with his free hand.

“What’s that for?” Karen asked mischievously.

“For if you get out of line.”

“Only if that’s what you want,” she purred softly, her mouth broadening into a wicked smile.

Dale bent down and pressed his lips hard against hers. Karen didn’t resist, wrapping her tongue around his as she slid her arms over his back. Breaking the kiss, Dale dropped his gun to the pine needles and the two frantically clawed at each other’s clothing, fumbling with buttons and snaps in their fervor.

Once naked, ragged breaths echoed in their ears as the cool air raised goose pimples on unprotected flesh.

“Take me,” Karen breathed as she spread out on the soft ground, staring longingly into her guardian’s eyes.

“Say my name,” he grunted.

Karen’s smile got wider as she whispered heavily, “Come over here and fuck me, Dale.”

•••

Afterward, Dale laid back on the pine needles and closed his eyes. Physically spent, he allowed himself the luxury of dozing off for a short time.

Footsteps crackling the autumn leaves jarred him awake, but Dale was content to keep his eyes closed, savoring the recent memory barely minutes old. He figured Karen was going off to find a place to reliever herself. It was amusing that she could be so vulgarly intimate with him, but refused to pee in front of him. Dale smile . . .

. . . and then everything went dark as something heavy and jagged crushed into the side of his head.

To be continued.

some serialized fiction

So,

Monk Eastman created a pretty cool burst culture site when he came up with 50 Years From Now. He wrote, and asked for contributions, that would populate our world fifty years into the future. His guidelines were that it be plausible - no lasers, rocket ships, etc. - and that each piece be 1000 words or less. My first contribution came full-fledged while I was picking blueberries with my wife. (cute story, but the tale I conceived included cannibalism, so make of that what you will).

Next, using some of the other offerings as a jumping off point, I came up with the first chapter of a serial, which I titled "In Search Of..." At the time, I wasn't sure where I was going with it. The characters came to me before the actual spine of the story. but as I slowly wrote about these people, a greater tapestry started coming into focus. And with my latest chapter, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I know how it all ends, I just don't know exactly how I'm getting there. But I know it won't be too long.

Sadly, however, Monk has let go of the site. It hasn't been updated in months, and I'm unsure what contributing factors may have brought this about. So, I will need to continue with "In Search Of..." here, for the time being. Which means I should start from the beginning.

So, with this new month, I will begin serialization of "In Search Of..." And we'll see where it takes us.

chris

Life is Funny, complete, for your reading pleasure

The shorty story I wrote for Ape's UFO anthology, "Life is Funny," with fantastic art from Jason Copland and Osmarco Valladao, and fine lettering by Josh Aitken, has come to a close. All 8 pages are now available for your viewing and reading pleasure at the Ape webcomic portal. Page 1 is here.

Go check it out. If you've got the time, scroll down past the creator bios and rate and comment on the story or a particular page (pp. 5 & 6 are really good) and look for more work at some point in the future.

thanks,
chris

Aint It Cool News says LIFE IS FUNNY is "pretty damn harrowing"

Over at the Ain't It Cool News site, they've thrown up their latest comic reviews. Scroll down about 2/3 of the way to the "dot.comics" section and you'll find Vroom Socko's quick review of three of Ape's web comics.

The first one he tackles is the UFO anthology, where the short story I did with Jason Copland, Osmarco Valladao, and Josh Aitken - "Life is Funny" - is currently being serialized. Vroom says of the story so far: "[it's] pretty damn harrowing" and that he's "especially interested in seeing more art from [Jason]," which makes complete sense. Go on over and check it out through the link below:

AICN reviews

and check back tomorrow for the next to last page in our tale at www.apecmx.com/ufo.

thanks,
chris