In Search Of . . . links to the story

As an aspiring writer, I've sought out any opportunity to work at my craft and find an audience for what my fiction. One of the first places I found for this was the burst culture site, 50 Years From Now, which has sadly become - as the creator of the site said - a virtual graveyard.

It was a place where writers could offer up stories positing what the world might be like 50 years from now (hence the title). It was a collective, which meant that one couldn't contradict what had come before in any of the stories but if one were creative enough it would be easy to carve out a little niche. The catch was, no lasers or crazy sci-fi stuff, and nothing more than 1000 words. With that, I dropped in a short story that stood on its own, then I began a serialized novella, entitled "In Search Of . . ."

I'll save the inspiration for this tale for a later post. But for now, if anyone is coming to this site and wants to play catch-up (the latest chapter is right below this post, but there are ten more prior to that one), the links to the "story so far" can be found below. And I will add to this as later installments are published here. But for now, click below with part 1 and enjoy:

part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5
part 6
part 7
part 8
part 9
part 10
part 11

thanks,
chris

In Search Of . . . pt. XI

The sky was heavy, a steel gray curtain draped across the sky. Mid-November and snow was in the air. Winter was coming early.

Over the past weeks, Keenan Archer had come to think of this front stoop up from the Mount Mariah church as his own. The clutter of trash, the crumbling plaster, the deep cracks along the sidewalk – they were all familiar to him now, comfortable the way an old pair of shoes feel when you slip them on in the morning. He’d been waiting, creating a persona through which he could infiltrate Karen Kaczmerak’s world, observing her habits, talking to people in the neighborhood, bribing when necessity dictated it.

Karen didn’t come out often. And when she did, she always had a big guy with her, Jamal. He was the local guardian angel, looking out for people, helping when he could. He seemed legit, not playing any angles, just embedded into the community. Keenan wasn’t looking for trouble, especially not from this guy. So he sat, and he waited.

It was shortly after ten when Karen emerged from the old church. She had a long, black cloak draped over her, only her lower legs and face visible beneath the heavy fabric. She didn’t look in his direction as Keenan stood up to follow.

Archer hung back, watching from a safe distance. Karen led him through Marcus Garvey Park, over to Malcolm X, and then two blocks down to a hundred-eighteenth. She stopped in front of a brownstone and paused. She seemed to be looking for something, but Archer couldn’t see what that might be. Then, at some unseen signal, she walked up the front steps, taking care to avoid the decay of the aging concrete. Once Karen disappeared, Archer followed.

Inside, the first floor was almost completely dark, bits of gray light peering in from the room on Keenan’s left. He could hear voices upstairs. Letting his eyes adjust, he scanned the stairwell for any rotted steps before making his way into the upper reaches of the building.

On the third floor, Archer found the crowd. The upper hallway was better illuminated – a combination of large gaps in the wall and, he assumed, well placed mirrors within each of the front rooms. Weaving through the knots of people, Archer came to the realization this was a bazaar. In each room a variety of people with tables, or cloths spread over the floor, had any number of items for sale – homemade remedies, old transistors and other electronics Keenan had only seen in vids, maps to foodstores that he knew to be fake, and a myriad of unnecessary baubles.

In one of the back rooms, Archer spotted Karen picking through some jewelry. From where he stood they appeared authentic, but Archer imagined they were only re-appropriated metals or weathered glass. He walked over to the corner where an elderly woman sat across from Karen, her trinkets spread out on a faded red cloth. Karen was kneeling, examining one of the pieces – a necklace with a deep green triangle hanging at its end. Keenan leaned over, scanning the pieces as if he were also shopping. When Karen stood up she bumped into him.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” said Keenan, and then he let his jaw slack just a little. “You’re the girl looking for her brother, aren’t you?”

Karen looked at him, puzzled. “Who are you?”

“Sorry,” said Keenan. “My name’s David Janson.” He held out his hand, but Karen refused to take it, taking a step back instead.

“I know Jamal,” Keenan said.

“Jamal never mentioned you,” she said, looking around the room to see who was listening.

“I don’t know him that well. He’s friends with my boy, Jackson.”

Karen glared at Keenan, working her way closer to the hallway.

Keenan spread his arms wide. “Listen,” he said. “Jamal was telling us about your situation one day. He showed us your pic, told us to keep a look out for your brother. Jax knew I used to do investigative work up on the border, asked me specifically to see if I could find anything.”

“Does Jamal know you’re looking?” asked Karen.

“No. I didn’t want to have him getting your hopes up until I had something concrete.”

“Why should I believe you?” Karen took another step toward the hall.

“Why not?” said Keenan. “Jamal hangs with Jackson, doesn’t he?”

Karen gave no indication whether this was true or not.

Keenan continued. “I’ve got no reason to hurt you. If I did, would I try it in a crowded place like this?” Keenan swiveled, looking around at the people milling about.

“Why don’t we start over.” Keenan held out his hand again. “Hello. My name is David Janson. I understand you’re looking for your brother. I would like to help, but it would be beneficial if I could learn a little more about him. Maybe we could get an iced coffee, talk things over? I know this Vietnamese woman, sells it out of her place. It’s fantastic.”

Karen’s brow wrinkled, considering.

“I promise, I won’t bite. Won’t even sit on the same side of the table,” said Keenan, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “And I’ll keep my hands where you can see them. No card tricks.” He held up his hands, turned them as if he were a stage magician convincing the crowd of his sincerity.

“Okay,” said Karen. “But, just talk.”

“Just talk,” said Keenan.

to be continued . . .

Steve Bissette on labeling, censorship and the DC ratings controversy from 1986-87

If you're unaware, Steve Bissette - acclaimed artist for Alan Moore's run on Swamp Thing - along with John Totleben, Rick Veitch, and other talented creators - as well as the creator of Tyrant, Bissette's aborted comic about the life of a Tyrannosaurus Rex - has a blog he regularly updates. And recently, he has compiled a 12-part essay on the ratings war of 1986-87.

With DC comics finally surpassing Marvel in market share, for a time, thanks to groundbreaking works from Alan Moore and Frank Miller (Watchmen & Batman: the Dark Knight Returns, respectively), a furor built up around these and other comics over the adult nature of the narratives. With one faction calling for ratings on books (and an extreme branch calling for books with adult material not even to be produced), Moore and Miller, along with a number of prominent creators such as Howard Chaykin and Marv Wolfman, pushed back against this edict for a number of reasons - actions that saw Wolfman fired from DC for speaking out and Alan Moore walking away from mainstream comics.

Using primary sources such as The Comics Journal, Comics Buyer's Guide, personal letters from Moore, et al., along with his personal dealings in the comic industry at the time, Bissette lays out what happened and what it meant for those creators who followed. It's a well thought out, even-handed series of essays that enlightens a time that, for me, the heyday of my comic collecting. Important, not just as an historical document, but also as a warning against ratings (as ubiquitous as they have become). Ratings don't work, and if you think differently, you should read this series from Bissette. Hit the links below:

part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5
part 6
part 7
part 8
part 9
part 10
part 11
part 12

FYC Replay: Scott Morse's THE BAREFOOT SERPENT

For Your Consideration: Scott Morse’s The Barefoot Serpent

By Chris Beckett

FRONT PAGE: Scott Morse is one of the most talented artists working in comics today and many of his creations are contemporary classics. One of his most experimental and ambitious graphic novels is The Barefoot Serpent published by Top Shelf. An amazing piece of art that rewards its audience with each subsequent reading, this is an important book that belongs on everyone’s shelf.

The 411:

The Barefoot Serpent

Written & Drawn by Scott Morse

128 pages, $14.95

Full color & black and white with grey tones

Top Shelf Productions

What It Is (with apologies to Dave the Thune):

Scott Morse is an amazingly talented artist, and in over a decade of creating comics, he has amassed an impressive body of work. One of his most ambitious projects came in 2003 when Top Shelf published The Barefoot Serpent. A unique graphic novel that combines a biography of Akira Kurosawa with a tale of a young girl’s family vacation on Hawaii, this creation is an important step in the evolution of comic storytelling. Rather than presenting these two stories separately as a typical collection, Morse combines them into a single piece. The tale of the haole girl (a term for white children in Hawaiian) rests in the middle of this book while the Kurosawa biography bookends it. To better differentiate these two narratives, Morse paints the biography with lush, vibrant colors formatting it as a children’s picture book while telling the Hawaiian tale as a black and white comic, albeit with Morse’s very individualistic comic book stylings. On the surface, these two stories seem to have little in common other than their settings falling within the greater Pacific Ocean, but a closer reading of The Barefoot Serpent shows that the fusion of these two tales actually proves the cliché of “the whole being greater than the sum of its parts.”

Akira Kurosawa is a legendary filmmaker, having garnered tremendous critical praise and won multiple awards for films like Rashomon, Yojimbo, and The Seven Samurai. Despite his achievements, Kurosawa’s life was not easy, and even his success within the film industry was never assured. Kurosawa experienced terrible grief as a young man when his brother Heigo committed suicide. This weighed heavily on Akira, and he felt it imperative that he be successful and make his parents proud. He did not wish to suck them dry as they supported him in his creative aspirations.

Kurosawa eventually realized his dream of directing films and earned a reputation as a very precise filmmaker, and in 1951 his movie Rashomon received the Golden Lion for best film at the Venice Film Festival. But fame is fleeting, and when Kurosawa joined with three other filmmakers – naming themselves The Four Knights – Akira made their first film. It was a disaster, and like his brother Heigo, he too attempted suicide. Luckily, his son found him and, along with Akira’s wife and daughter, nursed him back to health. Eventually, Kurosawa returned to moviemaking. Epitomizing the hope that was often found in his characters, Kurosawa went on to a long, prosperous life that was filled with great triumphs of artistic merit. Even today, Akira Kurosawa is considered by many film scholars to be one of the top two or three movie directors ever. His movies are instilled with a vibrancy and humanity that is almost unmatched by any other filmmaker’s, and the legacy he has left will live on for many years.

Settled between either end of this biography is the story of the young haole girl. As her Dad sits on the beach drinking Mai Tais and her mother goes off on her own, the girl must fend for herself and embarks upon her own excursion. Coming across a young boy carving a wooden mask, she latches onto him and discovers a reluctant guide. The boy complains loudly, and is chastised by his mother and uncle for his rude behavior, but the two kids eventually warm to one another as a friendship blossoms – one that the little girl needed.

The girl and her family ventured to this tropical paradise in order to escape the dark cloud hanging over them. Unwilling to speak about the tragedy they experienced, they choose to ignore their feelings hoping they might dissolve in the Hawaiian surf. But instead of distractions, the family finds themselves surrounded by their grief. In one part of the island, the mother encounters a dog that ignored one puppy as it walked in front of a moving car and her other pup as it starved to death. On the beach, the girl’s father awakes to an artist asking where his son – which he was painting as he stood beside the sleeping man – ran off to. And the young girl receives a visit from the Night Marchers, ancient spirits that walk the island. The second time the girl encounters the marchers she recognizes one of them as her dead brother. He took his own life, leaving the rest of his family with nothing but questions and a necessity to continue with their lives.

Contrary to the simple animation style that is a signature of Scott Morse’s work, The Barefoot Serpent is a complex and challenging piece of graphic fiction both structurally and thematically. Weaving themes of depression, sorrow, and ultimately – hope – throughout each of the narratives, Morse creates a multi-layered book that is touching and heartfelt. Each narrative thread relates back to the main theme of the book, but Morse refuses to talk down to his audience. He is talented enough that many of the thematic reiterations are hidden upon an initial reading. But when one returns to the book, it becomes evident that those thematic elements were sitting there all along. It is a special book that allows for equal enjoyment upon returning to it, and a more rarefied piece of fiction that is able to expand upon that initial reading with subsequent ones. This is one of those books.

An Interview with Scott Morse:

Chris Beckett: When Akira Kurosawa's brother takes his own life in your book I had to go back and re-read that page a few times to make sure I was reading it correctly. The matter-of-fact writing style you used coupled with your animation-influenced artwork made that particular part of the story very jarring, and consequently it resonated with me long afterward. Is this intentional on your part or is it a happy result of your particular art style juxtaposed with the stories you wish to tell?

Scott Morse: This was completely planned through the aesthetic of the whole book. I wanted the book to feel like a children's book, an old Golden Book, through both design and writing styles, to juxtapose the impact of the issues at hand. With such a heavy issue as depression, and ultimately suicide, at play, I felt it was best to ease the reader through it visually and through the prose. So aesthetically, the reader would feel more comfortable "talking" about it on one level, and experience it through a sort of "haze" on another, much the same way some people react when they're given bad news. The overall effect has proven to affect people as a very jarring experience, unexpected, as a sort of dream that continues to linger through into the bulk of the main fictional story, where it's juxtaposed with the family.


Beckett: What precipitated the choice of using color art for Kurosawa's tale and black and white for the haole girl's tale?

Scott Morse: I mixed it up to strengthen the juxtaposition. It's two stories that interrelate, and I wanted to show where the breaking points were, primarily, but on another level, I wanted to show the lush nature of real life versus the more theoretical "lessons" of the fictional tale. It's a stretch, I know, but aesthetically, I think it helped give the book a different tone than other books offered in the current market.

Beckett: Did you originally think the way in which you told this story, bookending the little girl's story with Kurosawa's tale, would work? Why, or why not?

Scott Morse: I had no idea...I knew it worked for me, and I was trained to believe in your gut instincts. "Selling" an idea of juxtaposition is always a trick, with the built-in problem of convincing the audience that the two subjects you're juxtaposing are at all related, especially to a degree that makes them worth the energy to use as examples. It comes down to a matter of opinion, and a hope that it wasn't too big of a leap for the audience to make. Upon reading various reviews, it appears to have worked on a larger scale than not...certain readers just didn't "get it", and in those cases, I hope the individual stories at least held enough entertainment value on their own to make the book worth it. If they at least enjoyed one of the sections (either the biography or the fiction), then I was at least partially successful.

Beckett: The story of the haole girl is quite intricate, and you reiterate the main theme through what might appear to be tangential incidents when we are introduced to the little dog at the shave ice hut or when we are shown the pond that would not give up its dead. Did you know the whole story of the haole girl before you began drawing it or do you just go with a vague idea and see where that takes you?

Scott Morse: I knew most of it, but certain "acting" scenes kind of wrote themselves. The one scene I surprised myself with is at the end, when the little girl kicks sand on her Dad's feet. Having things like that just "happen" while I'm thumbnailing is the real joy for me. The scenes you pointed out, however, were calculated, and based on research done in Hawaii. Ilio Mai is a real dog living half of each year on Maui, though Ilio Mai's story is fiction. The pond is a reflection of a story my wife and I heard on the Napali Coast of Kauai while visiting an archaeological dig in an Ali'i (royal) bath area, on the beach. Apparently, some archaeologists had discovered a gravesite in this area and exhumed the bones, only to experience hauntings almost instantaneously. They brought the bones back and reburied them, bringing in someone to bless them. The hauntings stopped. This is an especially odd tale seeing as how the Hawaiians never buried their dead...so it's unknown whose bones these could have been. The dig took place in 2000, and the bones were never dated, due to the immediate hauntings and need to put them back.

Beckett: What prompted you to adopt the "animation" style you have and how did that develop?

Scott Morse: Well, I've worked in animation longer than comics, actually. I trained at CalArts, and later under Maurice Noble, who worked on the first five Disney features, was Chuck Jones's main designer and art director on his Looney Tunes films, and designed other classics like How the Grinch Stole Christmas and The Dot and the Line. Maurice's teachings shine through in most of my work. I find the style lends itself better to immediate communication of story than some other, more intricate, styles. This medium is all about communication, and I play with pacing quite a bit in my comics. Animation and film are shown at a fixed rate of speed, whereas comics allow you to linger on still images if you wish. To keep a story flowing and "trick" the reader into experiencing it at an intended rate of speed is a trick I love playing with. So, the simpler the drawing, the less likely a reader is going to linger while reading...but appeal in the drawings is still incredibly important. It's a tough line to walk...

Beckett: Who are some of the artists and storytellers that have influenced you?

Scott Morse: I try to pull influence from everything around me...my wife, my pets, my family and friends, places I visit, things I see. I was trained to base what I do on real life, to exaggerate and milk things for effect. Artistically, I'm looking everywhere...but certain artists that I always come back to include Maurice Noble, of course, as well as Mary Blair, the Provensons, Miroslav Sasek, J.P. Miller, Eyvind Eyrle, Ronald Searle...David Mazzuchelli, Baru, J Muth, Joe Kubert, and of course Jack Kirby. I'm incredibly fond of a lot of the Fort Thunder guys, as well as guys like Souther Salazar and Deth P.Sun. Anything that challenges me to think in a new way.

FYC Replay: Inanna's Tears with mpMann

For Your Consideration: Inanna’s Tears by Rob Vollmar (writer) and mpMann (artist)

By Chris Beckett

FRONT PAGE: Ancient Sumer, a civilization that has prospered for over a thousand years. But complacency can breed contempt, and things are afoot that will have tragic consequences for the Sumerians. Make with the clicky and check out what should be one of the must-have books of the coming year.

The 411:

Inanna’s Tears

Written by Rob Vollmar

Art by mpMann

5 issues, 32 pages each

Full color, $3.95

Bi-monthly beginning in August

Archaia Studios

What It Is (with apologies to Dave the Thune):

In ancient Sumer, the city of Birith has known prosperity and good fortune for over a thousand years. A civilization rich in tradition, the people of Birith worship the goddess Inanna. Through her consort – the En, who is the voice of the Goddess and the head of her temple – a strong devotion between Inanna and her people has flourished. One would be hard pressed to find a Sumerian who does not feel as if things are as good as it gets. But if one listens closely, murmurs of unrest can be heard, for there is always a price to be paid for such bounty.

Thanks to the good fortune bestowed upon the Sumerians they have seen a surge in their population, such that the walls of the city cannot hold them any longer. A large number of citizens, mostly unskilled workers, have found themselves relocated to the tents outside the walls of Birith. Those affected do not care for the forced emigration, but there is nothing to be done. The hierarchy is understood and challenging tradition is frowned upon, and rarely even considered. As long as the Goddess sees fit to bless her people with a good harvest, who is willing to argue for change? Of course, this tacit acceptance of the status quo only works for so long before a civilization becomes stagnant, at which point it must evolve or perish.

In the lands just beyond the city, the Lugal, a warrior king of the neighboring mountain people, has his eye upon the city. Feeling only disdain for the Goddess, he sees the city’s castoffs as an untapped source of power. With these dispossessed souls added to his followers, he could more easily enter the city and bring down the temple. Why follow an insubstantial Goddess when a man such as he can provide for them just as well?

As these dark clouds coalesce on the horizon, the En, Ardru, passes on to the next life, conferring his mantle to Entika, who has been serving as Ishib, the head of the religious arm of the Temple. Traditionally a male position, symbolizing a marriage between the Goddess and her earthly consort, the passing of this important office to a woman is vexing to many. While on the dusty plains, the Lugal sees this as a sign it is time to act. The people of Birith are at a tenuous crossroads and more restless than ever. It will be an easy conquest, for who is there to stop him? Some girl playing at a higher authority? Not likely.

It is within this ancient setting that writer Rob Vollmar and artist mpMann bring their tale to life. Inanna’s Tears, a 5-issue bi-monthly series coming from Archaia Studios this August, is an amazing tour-de-force. These two creators understand the comic page and how to use the confines of that page to tell an exciting, emotional story. Originally serialized on the Modern Tales website, once I started reading it – which, sadly, is not a possibility now as Archaia prepares the book for print publication – I was hooked and found myself anxiously awaiting each weekly update.

Despite being set over four millennia in the past, Vollmar’s story is as topical today as ever. On its surface, Inanna’s Tears can be seen as a simple tale involving the conquest of one society by another, but when readers peel away that outer layer they discover so much more. Vollmar threads themes of sexual prejudice, personal growth, religious intolerance, and a resistance against change throughout the narrative. He deftly handles these multiple themes, allowing them to simmer just under the surface while adhering to the first rule of writing: tell an entertaining tale.

Marvin Mann, artist for the highly-acclaimed The Lone and Level Sands, turns in another wonderful job with this book. His storytelling is clear and fluid, and he grounds everything in a reality that lends itself well to a tale set in the dark recesses of the past. Mann’s line work reminds me a lot of Alex Toth. Using a minimal amount of lines to elicit emotion in his figures, the looseness of his inking imbues them with a feeling of movement that is difficult for many artists to achieve on the two-dimensional page. Mann inks his figures even more loosely when the timbre of the story demands it, such as a scene where those outside the city are overcome by panic as a fire spreads through the camp. The thought he puts into his artwork, utilizing any tools at his disposal, takes advantage of the unique workings of the comic story and adds depth to the tale conceived by these two artists.

Out of necessity (see the interview below), Mann also does the coloring for the book. Using a reserved palette that services the story well, he is able to “shock” readers with sudden bursts of color and layer an added emotional response onto an already moving story. Again, this is something that is almost unique to comics – some art house films have utilized color to similar effect – and it is a testament to these two creators that they examined the medium within which they work and sought best how to utilize the tools at their disposal.

Inanna’s Tears is an exciting book that I heartily recommend you seek out when it hits comic shops this August. A true collaboration between two consummate storytellers, this is one of those books all fans should have on their shelves.

An Interview with mpMann:

Chris Beckett: Why comics? What is it about the medium that attracted you as an artist?

mpMann: I grew up reading comics, and drawing superheroes. It seemed like a cool way to indulge my fantasies. I drew a comic book as an art project my senior year of high school and my instructor said the pictures showed the best, most consistent composition I had shown all year. I was just thinking, "How should this look as a comic?" and spewing out all of the images I had internalized over the years.

As a considerably more mature artist today, I am fascinated by the interaction of words and images. It’s just something that has become deeply wrapped up in my self-image. I am a person who makes comics.

Beckett: Publishing to the web prior to a print edition is a relatively new publishing model that has gained a lot of interest in recent years. From your perspective as a creator, what do you see as the benefits and drawbacks of this model?

mpMann: I'm not sure I know, yet. I'm not all that web-savvy. I'm not all that clear on all of the ways in which people are trying to monetize web-comics. We wanted to use Inanna’s Tears at Modern Tales as a promotional tool. We hoped that people would read it, and there would be some good word of mouth. As of this writing (mid-June), we've topped 30,000 page views, so somebody is making an effort!

I should add that being associated with Modern Tales has been excellent. I had previously drawn Arcana Jayne for Lisa Jonte at Girlamatic, and it was clear to me then that Joey Manley is at the forefront in developing tools for web-comic creators.

If I have a pet peeve with web comics creators, it's missing deadlines. Newspaper cartoonists don't miss deadlines, and web-cartoonists should hold themselves to that standard. I had three months of Inanna’s Tears finished before we began uploading. Faithful readers got a steady and fairly sizeable installment each weekend.

Beckett: The coloring of Inanna’s Tears adds a lot to the atmosphere of this comic.

mpMann: Glad to hear it!

Beckett: Did you do the coloring yourself and what considerations went into the coloring of the comic?

mpMann: I did color it myself and one of the considerations was that I couldn't afford to hire a colorist! I don't fully understand the whole "professional coloring methods" flatting, etc. So I just take my Wacom pen and color it like I'm coloring a coloring book. Since I don't tend to connect my lines, there are very few places where I can just tap a space with Photoshop's paintbucket tool.

On the other hand, being a rather loose drawer/inker, I felt free to be loose with the coloring as well. I also started using the blur tool for a softer effect. Generally, I shifted color palette between scenes, trying to be consistent within the scenes. And naturally, I tried to use color for emotional effect. Towards the end, I began experimenting with some of Photoshop's lighting tools, and liked the results, so I went back and applied them to earlier scenes as well. This trick recalled my days doing 3D animation and using the lights for powerful coloristic effects. The Photoshop lights are not as versatile as those of 3ds max, but with discretion, they can achieve interesting results.

Beckett: I know you write some of your own comics. How much input, if any, did you have with Inanna’s Tears? And following up on that, what are your thoughts, in general, on the separation of duties in comics?

mpMann: Rob had Inanna’s Tears pretty well worked out in his head. We talked a little about what I liked to draw (I prefer emotional scenes between people), but my biggest impact on the writing was when I didn't draw precisely what Rob asked for. He, by the way, was very accommodating of my efforts and asked for very little in the way of changes.

Creators need to understand what the other does, and of course, courtesy should always prevail. I have been blessed to work with a bunch of very considerate writers who have not tried to interfere with my way of drawing things. I do like the idea of the writer and artist being jointly the author of the work.

Another way of viewing it that I have occasionally touted, is to think of the artist as performing the work, with the writer as composer or librettist. In this conception, a writer may later take the script and have it "performed" by another artist.

Beckett: What other comics do you have in the works, and when can readers expect to see them?

mpMann: Beginning in December of 2007 (and therefore overlapping Inanna’s Tears) A. David Lewis and I return with Some New Kind of Slaughter ~or~ Lost in the Flood (and How We Found Home Again): Diluvian Myths from Around the World.

Some New Kind of Slaughter is a collection of flood myths tied together through the narration of Ziusudra, the Sumerian predecessor of Noah, who also appears in the book in a big way. Our working arrangement was different with this book than it was on our previous effort, The Lone and Level Sands. For Some New Kind of Slaughter we have functioned as co-writers, with me actually taking the lead much of the time. Dave focused largely on the Noah story, which he knocks out of the park, showing the same concern for human frailty and complexity as he did in The Lone and Level Sands. This is Noah as you've never seen him. I did most of the rest, but in truth, we both have our fingerprints all over all parts of the book.

Both Some New Kind of Slaughter and Inanna’s Tears will be coming from Archaia Studios Press, and along with The Lone and Level Sands starts to form a kind of library of ancient myth/stories/histories.

I am just beginning to color Some New Kind of Slaughter and expect to have it finished in time to begin a comedy western written by Josh Hechinger to be called The Grave Doug Freshley. This will be a refreshing change of pace for me. Josh has described it as "Sergio Leone meets Looney Tunes.” I plan to start on Doug in September, and have it wrapped up by early 2008.

After Doug I will be returning to the ancient Near East with Ba'al which will be a solo act. There are other ideas out on the horizon, but right now I look to keep busy for the next year, and provide a steady string of books.

FYC Replay: Dean Haspiel's BILLY DOGMA

For Your Consideration: Billy Dogma in “Immortal”

By Chris Beckett

FRONT PAGE: Warren Ellis has called him the heir to Kirby. As one of the founders of the Act-i-Vate webcomics site, Dean Haspiel has been working to expand the boundaries of what is possible with the comics medium. His latest Billy Dogma adventure, “Immortal,” does just that. A fun action-adventure romance that incorporates so much more, this is a comic you should be reading. Check it out.

The 411:

Billy Dogma: “Immortal”

Story & Art by Dean Haspiel

Available as one half of the split-book

Brawl from Image comics

3 issues, $2.99, b/w & red

Also available online @

Act-I-Vate and

Dean Haspiel.com

What It Is (with apologies to Dave the Thune):

Enraged, Billy Dogma sends a man to the hospital for the capital offense of flirting with his girl, Jane Legit, an action that lands Billy in lock-up for the night. Though he could easily force his way out, Billy “indulges this ruse” and settles in for a long night alone. Being apart incites the love within his and Jane’s breasts for one another to a fever pitch.

But Jane, unwilling to accept this estrangement for a single night, breaks Billy out of the jail, crumbling the outer wall of his cell into a pile of cinderblocks and dust. Reunited, they embrace, and then something strange happens. The floor beneath their feet shudders as a crack spreads out away from them releasing a giant alien that has been hibernating beneath the city.

Though formidable singly, and even moreso as a pair, Billy and Jane have no luck against this new creature. The quick battle results in heart-shaped shards of brick and concrete scattering over the two lovers as they lay battered and beaten. Exiting the confines of the jail cell, the giant rises high above the city, staring down at Billy and Jane and a host of others wandering into the street. Jane recovers and yells for Billy to dispatch this beast as he did the fellow at the bar, but instead the alien drops Billy down its gullet, engulfing our hero in complete darkness.

Luckily, Billy has certain skills and uses his optical rays to ignite his shirt, which is wrapped about a stalactite, and more easily make his way around the insides of the beast. There he discovers, carved upon the creature’s intestinal lining, hieroglyphics that give Billy the entire story. This immortal arrived on earth and discovered a world built upon hatred and mistrust. Compelled by its nature, it sacrificed its heart in order to try and spread love, irradiating the sky with a deep red hue. But this sacrifice caused an unforeseen circumstance, mutating the giant into an empty husk. Confused and lacking a heart, it instead spread destruction across the land, killing thousands of people. Overcome with grief, it chose to bury itself under the city in the hopes of regaining that which it had lost.

A second result of this alien’s sacrifice was that the fallout from the irradiated sky sparked the fire of Billy and Jane’s love, igniting the hot embers that burn within each of them for the other. A violent and unrelenting love affair, their “war of woo” – in a cyclical irony – is what results in the waking of this monster. And now that it is awake, how will these two heroes save the city? More than brawn will be needed in order to see this to a happy end.

Dean Haspiel has been chronicling the romantic adventures of Billy Dogma and Jane Legit for twelve years now, and his characters have survived the intervening years quite well. This latest tale of lust and violence – along with the partially completed second chapter, “Fear, My Dear,” of a proposed trilogy – is as entertaining a comic as one can find. Haspiel propels readers along a roller coaster ride, refusing to pull back on the throttle, hurtling his characters toward a dynamic conclusion that is inspired.

Originally serialized on the Act-i-Vate site, “Immortal” is broken into crisp, bite-size chunks that keep readers on the edge of their seats while meshing together seamlessly to tell a grand cosmic tale firmly rooted in Billy and Jane’s world. Despite the surface sheen of action and violence, Haspiel imbues this story with far more than the typical “Hollywood blockbuster” plot. Dealing with thematic elements as diverse as jealousy, inherent human fears, and sacrificing that for which one cares deeply, Billy Dogma’s “Immortal” is a multi-layered tale that satisfies in so many ways. But for all these layers, at its heart, “Immortal” is the continuation of the love story of Billy Dogma and Jane Legit, a love that has grown and evolved over these many years.

Upon reading “Immortal” online, Warren Ellis was prompted to name Dean Haspiel the heir to Jack Kirby, and I can definitely see what he means. Like the best of Kirby’s work, Haspiel’s “Immortal” is a very personal story brimming over with wild ideas that many creators might milk for issues on end, but which Haspiel utilizes briefly within the greater context of his story before moving on. Eschewing the self-imposed boundaries of the medium, Haspiel – like Kirby before him – is working to expand the possibilities of comics with the tools afforded him, and one can only wonder what Kirby could have accomplished within this newly burgeoning medium of webcomics. And if any doubted that Haspiel were a worthy heir to “the King,” one should look no further than his artwork on “Immortal,” which bursts off the page – and computer screen – with an energy and vitality that can be matched by very few artists.

Dean Haspiel’s “Immortal” is a brilliant example of the type of story comics can tell when editorial edicts are dropped for creative freedom. A breathtaking adventure that stands up under repeated readings, anyone that has already experienced this story knows what I am talking about. And if you haven’t read it yet, click on over to Act-i-Vate or Dean Haspiel.com and find out what you’re missing. Or, better yet, go to your local comic shop and pick up a copy of Brawl from Image comics, which includes both Haspiel’s “Immortal” and Michel Fiffe’s “Panorama” in a split-book format similar to the old Marvel titles Tales to Astonish and Strange Tales. Trust me, you will not be disappointed.

An Interview with Dean Haspiel:

Chris Beckett: Why comics? What is it about the medium that drew you into this career of yours?

Dean Haspiel: My childhood love affair with comic books was so profound I must have subconsciously surrendered my soul to the medium and let it rule my career path as I never embraced any other work more passionately than I do comic books. If memory serves me right, C.C. Beck's Shazam was my first introduction to comic books. Soon after, I read a ton of Marvel & DC superhero comics during the 1970s/80s while discovering alternative comix the likes of Chester Brown's Yummy Fur, Harvey Pekar's American Splendor, and The Hernandez Bros.' Love & Rockets. In 1985, my senior year in high school, I was afforded the opportunity to assist Bill Sienkiewicz, Howard Chaykin, and Walter Simonson, which had an eye-opening impact on my picture making process. Other cartoonists who have heavily influenced me are: Jack Kirby, Alex Toth, Will Eisner, Harvey Kurtzman, Frank Miller, Baru, Max, Katushiro Otomo, Michael Golden, and a slew of others.

Beckett: At its heart, Billy Dogma is a love story, but it is also about big ideas, giant ideas. Was this latter aspect always at the heart of what you wanted to do in comics or a happy byproduct of the stories you were telling?

Haspiel: No matter how many genre curve balls I throw into the mix, Billy Dogma will always be a bruiser romance comic. "Immortal" is the most cosmic Billy Dogma story I've told to date and its sequel, "Fear, My Dear" is a psychedelic origin of sorts that gets to the mind of Billy's heart. The improvisational nature of telling these tales online without a fully realized plot keeps my characters personal and fresh.

Beckett: In comparing “Immortal” and “Fear My Dear” to Daydream Lullabies from 1999, it is obvious your storytelling has evolved. In Lullabies, Billy and Jane Legit are quite verbose and very direct in stating what is on their mind. But with your newer work, the pictures convey the story and its emotions more than the words. Is this a conscious change on your part or a matter of story dictating style?

Haspiel: At their base, comix are a series of informed pictures and the more I "show" the less I have to tell. Thankfully, I've been granted the time and space to evolve my storytelling chops and learn my creations without getting fired by the Comix Gods. I needed to go through my punk phase before getting into disco.

Beckett: With this latest Billy Dogma foray, you have chosen to publish it on the internet. Why did you choose to go the online route first, and what would you say are the benefits and the drawbacks of producing comics, and specifically Billy Dogma, for the web?

Haspiel: Five years ago I started working on a 48-page Billy Dogma story called "The Devils Muumuu" that was supposed to be published by Top Shelf. I got as far as page 21 when I scored Muties #3, my first Marvel Comics effort, and I've been working fulltime freelance on other people's stories ever since. The time that has passed forced me to abandon that ill-fated Billy Dogma story but I'd been itching to write again and to return to my own creations. When I reread "The Devils Muumuu," I discovered that the story no longer resonated for me and my avatar had traveled a different road. Meanwhile, during my freelance career, I'd been keeping a blog and when I decided to launch Act-I-Vate in February of 2006, I realized that this was the right forum in which to revamp the Billy Dogma mythos. The digital age has served my sensibilities quite well as regular feedback from fans, friends, and peers helped me make a better comic.

Beckett: For people that do not normally read an “independent” comic, what do you feel they are missing and what would you tell them to encourage them to try something outside the superhero genre?

Haspiel: The lines between mainstream and independent comics have blurred considerably since the days when 64-color superhero comics were sold at newspaper stands and black and white underground comix were sold in head shops. With the exponential expansion of the modern graphic novel into local bookstores and the rise of webcomix, I don't see that much of a difference between Marvel Comics' World War Hulk, DC Comics' All-Star Superman, Alison Bechdel's Fun Home, Robert Kirkman's The Walking Dead, and Josh Neufeld's A.D. – New Orleans After the Deluge. Readers are limiting their enjoyment by placing comics into categories and I see no need to polarize genre from journalism and memoir. With comics you get it all. Literature, art, pathos.

Beckett: Do you have any other projects on the horizon you might want to tell readers about?

Haspiel: I'm currently illustrating The Alcoholic, an original graphic novel written by Jonathan Ames for Vertigo Comics due for release the Fall of 2008, and I hope to soon announce a kids book I drew in collaboration with legendary underground cartoonist/writer, Jay Lynch, for Francoise Mouly at Raw Jr. Other than that, I recently drew a Hulk for fun and had fellow DEEP6 studio mate, Mike Cavallaro, color it. I'm slowly chipping away at my free webcomic, Fear My Dear, and the first issue of Brawl, my new split-book mini-series with Michel Fiffe from Image Comics hits comix shops Oct. 10th.

In Search Of . . . pt. X

Screeching vocals radiated off the walls, swirling around Keenan Archer in his booth near the club’s entrance. He could feel the bass rippling up his spine, punching through his gut. Archer had been hitting up clubs across the city for weeks hunting for the Kaczmerak girl. He’d found little to help so far.

Keenan swirled the ice cubes in his glass, took another drink. The barkeep claimed it was bourbon, but Keenan found that claim dubious. At least it wasn’t as watered as other places.

It took a moment for the detective to recognize the buzzing in his pocket wasn’t coming from the stage. Reaching up, Archer tapped the earpiece once and spoke: “Take a message.”

Lifting his glass again, Keenan knocked back the last of his drink. Sliding the empty glass to the edge of his table, Archer made eye contact with the woman singing on stage. She held his gaze for a few seconds and then smiled before dancing away to the opposite side.

Archer smiled too. He wouldn’t be spending the night alone.

The waitress came over to retrieve his glass. “The same?” She thrust her hips forward as she spoke. Whether working for a tip or something more Keenan couldn’t say. He considered breaking the news that her efforts were a waste of time – skin taut over wasted bones, sunken eyes falling into shadow, devoid of the forced smile in her voice. It all said junkie, and in a better light, Keenan imagined her track marks would be visible. He didn’t look at her as he replied, “sure” and returned his gaze to the stage.

As the girl pranced off, Keenan’s pocket began to vibrate again. He reached to his ear, but this time as he tapped an angry voice shot through.

“Archer! What the fuck are you doing?”

Keenan fell back in his seat as if punched in the chest, eyes wide and unfocused. “Who are you? And how did you override my phone?”

“I’m your employer, you fuck! Now answer my question!”

The detective paused. “Mr. Kaczmerak?”

“Well. You do have some detecting skills after all.”

“I didn’t recognize your voice, sir.”

“I don’t care! Excuses aren’t worth my time, Mr. Archer,” the old man continued.

“Yes, sir,” said Archer, sitting up.

“Where is my daughter?” asked Elijah.

“I don’t know,” Archer yelled, barely audible in the club. “I have some leads I’m following right now. But it’s going to take some time.”

“A month. Which is more than you deserve. Have something by then Mr. Archer,” spat Kaczmerak.

“Yes, sir,” but as Keenan uttered “sir,” the line went dead.

“Fucker.”

•••

Sylindra walked through the foyer to the library, stopping just at the doorway. Across the room, sitting in a chair with his back to the doctor, Elijah Kaczmerak stared out the window. Beyond the deep green of the pines and firs bordering the grounds, a blank slate rose above everything daring Kaczmerak to come outside and mar its serene countenance. Winter was coming fast, and the skies were dressed accordingly.

Dr. Ziantara cleared her throat, but the old man gave no indication he’d heard anything. Sylindra knew better, but said nothing, preferring to wait him out.

A minute passed.

Then another.

Dr. Z shifted her feet, relieving the pressure settling in her heels.

Another minute passed, the steady ticking of the mantel clock – a family heirloom – calling out the seconds that Sylindra now counted silently.

Four hundred forty-two seconds. Over seven minutes. That’s when Elijah finally spoke.

“Yes, doctor.” The wheezing was gone, replaced by a soft baritone Elijah and his physician had not heard for some time.

“I just came to check on you. How are you feeling?” asked the doctor, still standing just beyond the threshold of the library.

“Unsatisfied,” he said. “I do not care much for your prognosis.”

“Well, I’m not sure what I can do about that, Elijah. Would you rather I lie about the time you have before we need to take more serious action?”

“What I would rather, doctor,” said Elijah as he lifted from the chair turning to face her, “is that you would do your job. I expect results Ms. Ziantara. Failure is not a concept with which I am overly familiar.” The lines were gone from his face, the stoop with which he’d walked (when he was able) a memory, and the fire in his eyes burned brighter than it had in years. The stem cell therapy had worked, stimulated by the steroids added to this new cocktail. But it was only temporary.

“If you hadn’t been so reckless with your body, we wouldn’t be in this predicament. You understood going in that this probably wouldn’t be a permanent solution, but at least it could be a stop-gap while we searched for something else.” Dr. Ziantara had her hands out, palms up, sick inside about the deficiencies of her science.

“It’s like a virus,” she continued. “Becoming stronger, mutating and evolving to counteract the old remedies so that we have to come up with new ones. Your body has become accustomed to the therapies we used before. It recognizes them and burns them out faster now.

“You did this to yourself, Elijah!” Dr. Z’s voice was even as she thrust her finger at her employer, her patient.

“Your job is to cure me, doctor, not render judgment upon my lifestyle. That will come later from someone far more qualified than yourself.”

Elijah stepped around the chair and moved toward the foyer, stopping at the doctor’s shoulder as he reached the doorway.

“You have managed to forestall your dismissal for a while longer. But do not fail to understand that your time with us is limited. So long as you are useful you have a place here. But otherwise . . .”

The old man walked off as Sylindra watched him go.

“fucker.”

In Search Of . . . pt. IX

Elijah Kaczmerak’s throat rattled, his coughs insistent as he spit blood into his handkerchief. Gregory stood close by, fearful the old man might collapse.

“Where’s that *cough* goddamn doctor?” In the weeks Dr. Ziantara had been at the house, she had yet to find a new mixture to help the old man.

“I’m not sure, sir.” Gregory winced as he spoke.

“Fuckin’ cunt.” Tears slipped from Kaczmerak’s weathered eyes as he gasped for air, pounding the console on his chair in frustration.

“Fuck!!” The word echoed off the high ceiling as the leather-bound books inhabiting the shelves absorbed the rest of his cry.

Sylindra Ziantara walked into the library, soft shoes masking the doctor’s approach. “Elijah, I’ve told you to stop acting like a child. You can’t expect to get better if you insist on being foolish.”

The old man glared at the doctor as she approached him. “What the fuck *cough* have you got for me?”

“I decided to try something different. I took one of the vials left and mixed Methandrostenolone with your DNA sample. Theoretically, it should bolster this sample enough to cultivate a new batch of stem cells.” Her voice trailed off, the final word hanging between them.

As wasted as he was, Kaczmerak still caught the hesitance in her voice. “What the hell are you not telling me? *cough* And don’t bullshit me doctor *cough* I don’t need that from you.”

“If it works – and there’s no guarantee it will – I don’t expect these cells to hold up very long. You need a donor if you want to see your next birthday, Elijah.”

“Don’t fucking cry over me *cough* I’ll most likely outlive you.

*cough* “When the fuck *cough* will it be *cough* ready?” Kaczmerak doubled over as another fit took hold of his body. Blood spattered the back of his hands as mucous trickled from his nostrils. Sylindra knelt beside the old man “it’s okay” and rubbed his back as she took one of his hands “it’ll be all right” in hers, trying to will the man’s pain away “I will find something.”

Gregory watched for a minute and then exited silently from the room.

It was nearly four minutes before Elijah was able to catch his breath, the air rattling in his throat as it passed over his scarred esophagus. “How much time?” he whispered.

“Three months. Maybe six –”

“No, you dumb bitch. How long until the batch is ready?” Elijah dropped his head, closed his eyes, wouldn’t look at her.

“Oh,” she said. “It should be ready by the end of the day.”

“Good,” said Kaczmerak. “Get me a glass of water. Then you can leave.”

“Okay.”

•••

“Hey. Wake up.”

Karen Kaczmerak opened her eyes, squinting at the harsh light that streamed through the window.

“The rain stopped. We’re headin’ down to the square, check things out. You should come.” Jamal had a big grin on his face like some little kid that just got his first ice cream of the summer.

“No. I don’t think so,” said Karen as she brushed the hair from her face.

“What is that? You been here weeks now, that airsplint’s kept your ankle in place, an’ it should be healed already.

“So why can’t you come down to the square?” Jamal’s smile had vanished.

“I just don’t feel like it.” Karen pulled away, wrapping herself in her arms as if warding off the chill of a winter morning.

“Hey.” Jamal’s features softened as he crouched beside the mattress Karen was using for a bed. “I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just worried about you bein’ cooped up here all the time.

“It ain’t healthy. And it ain’t no way to find your brother.”

“Don’t talk about him!” Karen snapped and pulled her chin into her chest.

“Ehn.

“Whatever.” Jamal stood up, throwing his hands in the air as he shook his head. “You wanna keep feelin’ sorry for yourself, go ahead, but I’m not about to help you with your pity party. You decide you wanna see the world again, come on down and let me know. Maybe we talk then.”

Jamal was pulling the door closed as Karen spoke up. “Hey,” she said from beneath a mop of blond hair, her voice pulling the tall man back around the doorframe. “Are you leaving right now, or do I have time to freshen up?”

Jamal smiled thinly, curiosity filtering through his eyes. “I can prob’ly wait a couple minutes. But don’t take too long. Had a girl once was like that. Never could get anywhere on time, and she was a bitch anyway, so I had to drop her.

“Don’t make me drop you,” Jamal said with a wink.

Karen smiled as she got up from the mattress. “Don’t worry about that.

“I’m not a bitch.”

To be continued . . .

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 . . .