Tuesday, March 30, 2010

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

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.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

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.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

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.



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.


Monday, March 22, 2010

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.”



“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.


“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 . . .

Friday, March 19, 2010

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 . . .

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

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 . . .

Monday, March 15, 2010

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.”


“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.


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.”


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?”


“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.


“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 . . .

Friday, March 12, 2010

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 . . .

Thursday, March 11, 2010

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.


Wednesday, March 10, 2010

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 fa├žade, 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 . . .

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

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.