Hey all,
Still on trend here to complete my goal of one post a day for 30 days. Admittedly I do not have the backlog I had hoped to have built up but hey, what's the fun of a challenge if not to test yourself.
Anyway this poem came really easy, I think it took maybe an hour. I didn't really trouble shoot a lot with it, I liked the ease at which it flowed and that after a few months of not writing poetry that it felt really free to get back into the process. Anyway enjoy the poem, I thought it to be a nice bridge to some of the darker work that I think I have a better line at, with a bit of hopefulness at the end. I do detect a similar entry hood in the first 2 stanza's of this poem and the last poem I wrote, but I felt that they diverged enough to merit not changing them. I have always felt that each poem should be read on its own merit, as each poem is a moment in that authors life. An echo of feeling as it were. So in that regard I am OK with the opening lines having some resonance, as long as they each tell a story unto itself. At any rate, I'd love some feedback.
The Tempest
Under the fallen snow,
Cold, alone, no place to go,
The wind is howling in the vale,
As snowflakes yield to slurry hail.
The Heavens fade into the dark,
As the starry twinkles blacken stark.
Clouds of umber and stormy hues,
Alight the sky as lightning cues.
The tempest strums, the winding gale,
As the forcing wind surges the rail.
Thick, wet rain in stinging sheets,
Strike at the earth in binding feats.
They howl and bark, in rumbled voice,
As Mother Earth purges all choice.
The ground is beat, water rung and blowed,
As the storm unfurls its terror bestowed.
And I hold my arms up to the sky,
Knowing true the weather's but a lie.
Frigid, wet, and soaked deep to bone,
Yet unwashed are these sins untoned.
The rain and hale and stormy sleet,
Just remind me that I'm incomplete.
For no weather, cold nor warm,
Could ever help to quell the storm,
Of feelings bright or darkest blue,
The things I feel when I'm with you.
So all this storm can ever be,
Is a blustery reminder of you and me.
End of Line.
Gerrad
Monday, September 06, 2010
Sunday, September 05, 2010
Flash Fiction: Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins
Chapter 22
Eva had composed herself in the time it had taken to move Rex into the kitchen, grimly wiping away the tears and trying to ignore the breakdown she had experienced. Emily had started boiling water while Bartley was unrolling field dressings. Her Father sat in his chair, the lines of worry etched on his face. Eva walked over to Rex, who was laying across the hastily cleared dining room table. His face was contorted in pain as he clutched his right hand. Two fingers had been cleanly severed off and a portion of a third was missing. The skin around the wound was already hot and swollen, the blood turning from red to a dull black. She didn't want to say what she was feeling, she wasn't sure anyone did. Rex had been bitten by Evan. Evan had been bitten before whatever the fuck had happened to him had happened. She sincerely hoped the two weren't related. Rex had been like a second father to her growing up.
She looked over at Thomas, whose face was still ashen, as he jerkily reloaded his revolver. His brow was sweaty and his nerves showed, though to be honest, after her collapse in the foyer, she shouldn't really judge. She watched as Bartley and Emily cleaned the Rex's wound, running the injury through warm water and dousing it with alcohol as Rex let out a cry of pain. After several minutes Emily began wrapping his hand in the lineaments, as Bartley walked over to Caleb, wringing his hands clean on a towel. Eva moved closer to her father, feeling the looming presence of Thomas over her shoulder, and listened as they spoke in hushed tones.
"Caleb, his hand is bad. I've bandaged it up, but there's something not right about it. Evan, or whatever the fuck Evan turned into, bit his fingers clean off. It's already starting to show signs of infection. With the kind of stuff oozing out of that wound I'm afraid to even try to cauterize it closed. We need to get the Doc up here right quick."
Caleb ran his gnarled hand over his face, pulling at the edges of his mustache, his mind working at the best possible solution. The smart thing to do would be send off a rider to fetch the Doc, that a single rider could get there and back with the Doc in about half a day if they pushed the horses. Still something tugged at his sense, even he knew that things weren't right today. With little Evan turning into some kind of monster and Rex getting bit, and that damned black sun overhead, today was not a day to do things the normal way.
"Bartley, go hitch up my wagon. We'll take Rex ourselves to the Doc in Sedition. It may not be as fast as sending a rider to fetch the Doc but I don't like the idea of people running around alone right now. There's something wrong, we can all feel it even if we don't want to talk about it. I think it's safer to stay in a group, to keep together until we know more. We'll take Rex together."
Eva went upstairs and got ready herself. She poured some water from her pitcher into a bowl and scrubbed her face and hands clean and slipped into a fresh pair of pants and shirt. She slipped her vest back on and affixed her chaps as well, securing her gunbelt on he hip. As she grabbed her hat, she made her way downstairs to the gun cabinet they kept in the sitting room. She took her Winchester and ammo belt out and flung them over her shoulder, checking to make sure that the rifle was loaded. Eva cut back through the kitchen, noticing that Rex had already been moved out to the barn. She went out the kitchen door and followed the path around.
After her father's injury had rendered him unable to ride, he had purchased an old stagecoach that he refurbished to meet his needs. It was easier for him to travel when he needed to and far more comfortable. It could easily fit 6 people in the cab, which was plush and cushioned for long travel. There was a luggage rack which had been converted to hold her father's chair as well. Bartley and one of the ranch hands had hitched six horses to the front of the stage. They had already helped her father into teh cab, and were now loading Rex into the cab. Emily looked on, her face still streaked with tears, slightly shaking. Eva told her and they ranch hand to fetch her horse and they took off running. Thomas and Bartley had just finished securing Rex into the cab when her father craned his head out of the cab's window.
"Eva, you don't need to come. You've just gotten back. You should rest. Bartley and Thomas will accompany us. We should be fine."
Eva just fixed her father with a hard stare and nestled her gloves on as Emily came back with her horse. She checked the straps and harness on her saddle and slipped her rifle into its holster. She stuck one foot in the stirrup and smoothly mounted the horse.
"Dad, if you think you can stop me from coming along to help Rex, you're plain crazy. He's been like an uncle to me and I'm comin.'"
Caleb just smiled and nodded to Bartley. She watched as Bartley deftly maneuvered his ample frame into the driver's seat and spurred the horses on. Thomas Moore stayed close to the stage, face still sully and ashen and trying not to show it. She told Emily to stay over in the bunkhouse with the rest of the help until they returned and to not wander off. She gave one more look at the farm and spurred her horse after the stage, not realizing, that this was the last time she would ever see her home.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Eva had composed herself in the time it had taken to move Rex into the kitchen, grimly wiping away the tears and trying to ignore the breakdown she had experienced. Emily had started boiling water while Bartley was unrolling field dressings. Her Father sat in his chair, the lines of worry etched on his face. Eva walked over to Rex, who was laying across the hastily cleared dining room table. His face was contorted in pain as he clutched his right hand. Two fingers had been cleanly severed off and a portion of a third was missing. The skin around the wound was already hot and swollen, the blood turning from red to a dull black. She didn't want to say what she was feeling, she wasn't sure anyone did. Rex had been bitten by Evan. Evan had been bitten before whatever the fuck had happened to him had happened. She sincerely hoped the two weren't related. Rex had been like a second father to her growing up.
She looked over at Thomas, whose face was still ashen, as he jerkily reloaded his revolver. His brow was sweaty and his nerves showed, though to be honest, after her collapse in the foyer, she shouldn't really judge. She watched as Bartley and Emily cleaned the Rex's wound, running the injury through warm water and dousing it with alcohol as Rex let out a cry of pain. After several minutes Emily began wrapping his hand in the lineaments, as Bartley walked over to Caleb, wringing his hands clean on a towel. Eva moved closer to her father, feeling the looming presence of Thomas over her shoulder, and listened as they spoke in hushed tones.
"Caleb, his hand is bad. I've bandaged it up, but there's something not right about it. Evan, or whatever the fuck Evan turned into, bit his fingers clean off. It's already starting to show signs of infection. With the kind of stuff oozing out of that wound I'm afraid to even try to cauterize it closed. We need to get the Doc up here right quick."
Caleb ran his gnarled hand over his face, pulling at the edges of his mustache, his mind working at the best possible solution. The smart thing to do would be send off a rider to fetch the Doc, that a single rider could get there and back with the Doc in about half a day if they pushed the horses. Still something tugged at his sense, even he knew that things weren't right today. With little Evan turning into some kind of monster and Rex getting bit, and that damned black sun overhead, today was not a day to do things the normal way.
"Bartley, go hitch up my wagon. We'll take Rex ourselves to the Doc in Sedition. It may not be as fast as sending a rider to fetch the Doc but I don't like the idea of people running around alone right now. There's something wrong, we can all feel it even if we don't want to talk about it. I think it's safer to stay in a group, to keep together until we know more. We'll take Rex together."
Eva went upstairs and got ready herself. She poured some water from her pitcher into a bowl and scrubbed her face and hands clean and slipped into a fresh pair of pants and shirt. She slipped her vest back on and affixed her chaps as well, securing her gunbelt on he hip. As she grabbed her hat, she made her way downstairs to the gun cabinet they kept in the sitting room. She took her Winchester and ammo belt out and flung them over her shoulder, checking to make sure that the rifle was loaded. Eva cut back through the kitchen, noticing that Rex had already been moved out to the barn. She went out the kitchen door and followed the path around.
After her father's injury had rendered him unable to ride, he had purchased an old stagecoach that he refurbished to meet his needs. It was easier for him to travel when he needed to and far more comfortable. It could easily fit 6 people in the cab, which was plush and cushioned for long travel. There was a luggage rack which had been converted to hold her father's chair as well. Bartley and one of the ranch hands had hitched six horses to the front of the stage. They had already helped her father into teh cab, and were now loading Rex into the cab. Emily looked on, her face still streaked with tears, slightly shaking. Eva told her and they ranch hand to fetch her horse and they took off running. Thomas and Bartley had just finished securing Rex into the cab when her father craned his head out of the cab's window.
"Eva, you don't need to come. You've just gotten back. You should rest. Bartley and Thomas will accompany us. We should be fine."
Eva just fixed her father with a hard stare and nestled her gloves on as Emily came back with her horse. She checked the straps and harness on her saddle and slipped her rifle into its holster. She stuck one foot in the stirrup and smoothly mounted the horse.
"Dad, if you think you can stop me from coming along to help Rex, you're plain crazy. He's been like an uncle to me and I'm comin.'"
Caleb just smiled and nodded to Bartley. She watched as Bartley deftly maneuvered his ample frame into the driver's seat and spurred the horses on. Thomas Moore stayed close to the stage, face still sully and ashen and trying not to show it. She told Emily to stay over in the bunkhouse with the rest of the help until they returned and to not wander off. She gave one more look at the farm and spurred her horse after the stage, not realizing, that this was the last time she would ever see her home.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Saturday, September 04, 2010
Word Balloon: Ex Machina
Hey all,
In getting back into the flow of writing columns for the blog, I knew without a shadow of a doubt, what my comic book pick of the month was going to be, Ex Machina by writer Brian K. Vaughn and artist Tony Harris. The 50 issue maxi series is published by DC Comics Wildstorm imprint and the series just came to a close as the 50th issue was released last month. Ex Machina is a look at the term super hero in very much a modern sense of the word, it's a look at what would happen if a so called super hero decided to really make a change.
The name Brian K. Vaughn maybe known already to some of my readers, as both a writer on the famed TV series Lost and as the writer of one of the very first books I covered in this column (and one of my favorite series of all times) Y the Last Man. Vaughn has consistently moved away from main stream super heroics in recent years, choosing more to focus on Lost and Ex Machina, though rumors abound that he is at work on a new series. Vaughn has stated that Ex Machina was created to be a voice for his frustrations with our current government (when he launched the series in 2004).
Tony Harris has been the series artist from the beginning. An industry veteran, Harris is most famously known for his epic run on Starman with writer James Robinson, one of DC's most influential books of the 1990's though he has worked on several properties over the years. His stylized art gives a real depth to his characters, showing wide ranges of emotion and feelings. His style makes each character not just a stylized figure, but adds a real depth of passion to each.
The book itself is about Mitchell Hundred, a civil engineer who is exposed to an alien device in an explosion. It scars him permanently (the scars look like circuits) and Mitchell finds out in the hospital that he has the ability to communicate with machines. A lifelong fan of comics, he along with his friends Bradbury(a former marine who witnessed the explosion with Hundred) and Kremlin (a former communist defector who believed that Mitchell's power was a cosmic sign) create a super hero persona for him. Calling himself the Great Machine, Hundred uses his ability to communicate with machinery to create a jet pack and fight crime.
Hundred quickly realizes that fighting crime isn't as easy as it seems and wants to quit, alienating Kremlin n the process. When he uses his powers one last time during the terrorist attacks of 9/11, he realizes that he may be able to truly make a difference somewhere else, and runs for Mayor of New York. Kremlin believes this to be a terrible decision based on his own dis-illusion with Communist Russia and opposes the electoral bid but Bradbury sticks with him. The 50 issue series unfolds as Mitchell Hundred deals with many of the thematic issues that rival today's government officials; health care, censorship, gay marriage, abortion, civil rights, riots, public service strikes; all the while flashing back and forth to Hundred's time as The Great Machine.
Ex Machina is a book that delves into the real world of politics and political relationships, it's material that is very much outside the normal realm of capes and cowls. Using these pretense of super heroes, Vaughn and Harris manage to tell a story that highlights many political views. Its certainly material that most fans of the medium turn to comics to get away from, yet here they are presented in a timely and well thought out manner, under the guise of a super hero comic. Vaughn really embraced the same concepts that Obama would look towards nearly 4 years earlier, how to embrace change. How to make a difference in a set political system. The first trade paper back of the series, titled Ex Machina: The First Hundred Days, dives right into Mitchell's first days in office, facing things like media censorship, and sets a tone for the series that no issue is taboo.
As the series progresses, Mitchell is forced to re-examine the relationships in his own life, from his deputy mayor's support of gay marriage, to his public liaison's death, each tragedy resounds in Mitchell's life in its own way. Vaughn and Harris even dig into the personal demons of Mitchell, showing his relationship with his mother, and the consequences his actions as The Great Machine had on people, not just the people he helped (or hurt) as a super hero, but what it has meant to his best friends, and the sometimes dangerous paths it set them on. The series even shows how the appearance of a "hero" must inexplicably lead to the formation of a "villain" where Hundred is shown facing off against other characters, both in his past as a hero, and in the present as the mayor. Not only must he face these threats, but he must also face the threat of the decisions he has made. Sometimes teh greater good comes at a very personal cost.
In closing, this book is about a set period in one man's life. From the birth of his powers through his 4 years as Mayor of New York, to his ultimate future in the final issue, the book is about one man's insistence that a single person can make a change. He realizes that being a super hero isn't so much about foiling robberies or stopping criminals, but how he can use his abilities to help the world. How his choices weigh upon him, and the sacrifices he must make personally and professionally to enact that difference. Ex Machina, literally meaning an ex machine (playing on his former life of a hero) is a comic book that made you think. It doesn't forget it's four color roots, but it expands beyond the medium to tackle real issues. It's another reminder of why this medium is so great, how comic books are not just bits of escapism, but are tools that really can tell an important story.
I encourage you to check out Ex Machina: The First Hundred Days from DC/Wildstorm. Brian K. Vaughn and Tony Harris weave a tale of serious importance that is also fun and entertaining. Vaughn cements himself as perhaps the king of the independent comic book scene of the decade with this book and Y the Last Man. As the man said, its time for a change, and this book certainly fits that criteria.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Friday, September 03, 2010
Poetry: Sounds of a Friend
Hey all,
First post in a long while with some poetry in it. I wrote this after feeling some of the things I was discussing in my reboot column a few days ago. It's been strange these past few months and I don't know how to figure it out. It's like I'm experiencing this weird sort of loneliness and apathy. I've always been OK by myself, I enjoy it sometimes, but more and more so I feel like I don't have anyone to talk to, or react with, and sometimes it's kind of crushing, spiritually at least. This poem is certainly an echo of that feeling. Anyway, I hope you like some measure of it, it flowed pretty easy in comparison to some other poems, it took maybe 30 minutes tops to write? It came very fast, very rapid, so that's another reason I think I was dialed into the topic, as it was something I am very much feeling in the moment. Thanks for reading.
Sounds of a Friend
Cold and dark and all alone,
Sitting by a silent telephone.
Straining hard to to curb the tears,
Lost among my soulful fears.
The quiet calm throughout the house,
Belays the tumult of my heart's carouse.
The lights are off like I'm not home,
As the darkness staves off a sunny loam.
My voice can speak yet I say no phrase,
Not caring if these feeling are but a phase.
Instead I wrap the blanket tight,
Huddled with a feeling I can't fight.
Emptiness seems to fill my bones,
Listening while silent loneliness rings it's tones.
I don't want to be this way,
These feelings drag on day by day.
So trapped against a failing life,
My failures piercing like a knife.
And each new cuts bleeds some more,
As my resolves washes out from shore.
So still I wait here in the dark,
My apathy and hate so stark.
Like a stranger living in my own skin,
Who doesn't know where to begin.
Waiting to hear the sounds of a friend,
But knowing only silence in the end.
End of Line.
Gerrad
First post in a long while with some poetry in it. I wrote this after feeling some of the things I was discussing in my reboot column a few days ago. It's been strange these past few months and I don't know how to figure it out. It's like I'm experiencing this weird sort of loneliness and apathy. I've always been OK by myself, I enjoy it sometimes, but more and more so I feel like I don't have anyone to talk to, or react with, and sometimes it's kind of crushing, spiritually at least. This poem is certainly an echo of that feeling. Anyway, I hope you like some measure of it, it flowed pretty easy in comparison to some other poems, it took maybe 30 minutes tops to write? It came very fast, very rapid, so that's another reason I think I was dialed into the topic, as it was something I am very much feeling in the moment. Thanks for reading.
Sounds of a Friend
Cold and dark and all alone,
Sitting by a silent telephone.
Straining hard to to curb the tears,
Lost among my soulful fears.
The quiet calm throughout the house,
Belays the tumult of my heart's carouse.
The lights are off like I'm not home,
As the darkness staves off a sunny loam.
My voice can speak yet I say no phrase,
Not caring if these feeling are but a phase.
Instead I wrap the blanket tight,
Huddled with a feeling I can't fight.
Emptiness seems to fill my bones,
Listening while silent loneliness rings it's tones.
I don't want to be this way,
These feelings drag on day by day.
So trapped against a failing life,
My failures piercing like a knife.
And each new cuts bleeds some more,
As my resolves washes out from shore.
So still I wait here in the dark,
My apathy and hate so stark.
Like a stranger living in my own skin,
Who doesn't know where to begin.
Waiting to hear the sounds of a friend,
But knowing only silence in the end.
End of Line.
Gerrad
Thursday, September 02, 2010
Flash Fiction: Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins
Chapter 21
Morgan Randall stood at the edge of his wife's grave. His body was caked in sweat and dirt. His back still glistened with a dusty sheen as he patted the earth down in front of the grave's simple marker. He ran his wrist over his brow, wiping away the sweat, and slowly slid to his knees, still holding the shovel. He let the tool go and began to replant the upturned bluebells around the memorial. Slowly, Morgan picked up each each flower and gently placed each back into the fresh earth. His throat was thick with emotion, but he forced himself to bury it down deep. He couldn't let himself think about the fact that this was the second time he had buried his wife and child. That this was the second time that he had killed them.
Morgan had replanted all but one last bluebell, the stem of the flower too ruined to be re-planted. That flower he he took in his hands as he stood up, casting the shovel to the side. He stood, fondling his wife's flower, staring at the replanted marker, and said goodbye for the last time. This place had to many memories, to many bad thoughts to try to stay here any more. He looked up at the black sun, which was nearly to mid-day by now, and knew that whatever had brought his wife back, wasn't over. He cast a look at the farm he had built for his wife, the place he had made to leave his old life behind and knew that there were some sins you just don't get to escape from. Some things cannot be taken back, no matter how hard you might try. No matter how hard you might love someone, you can't escape what you are in the end. It was time to leave this place.
Morgan said one final goodbye to his wife and turned away. He walked over to the water pump, filling the bucket with cold water and rinsed the sweat and blood and dirt from his body. He peeled the torn pants off, wadding them up into a ball, and tried to wash out the past several hours. Every time he closed his eyes though, his wife's hand plunging through the earth came crash in, or his still born child mewling up at him from her grave.
Once clean, he walked to the house. The living room was a bit messier than his wife would have let it get, but he walked through to their bedroom. He hadn't opened this door in all the months since his wifes death, preferring to sleep on a pallet in the living area, the memories of this room had been just to painful. He had only been in here once, to clean the blood and the after effects of the birth away, to return this room to the way his wife would have kept it. It still smelled like her and he tried to block the scent, and the memories, from his mind as he strode to the wardrobe in the corner. The wardrobe had been in his wife's family for decades and had been part of her dowery upon their marriage.
Her father had been overjoyed at the prospect of his daughter marrying a military man, despite Morgan's insistence that when his service was up he was going to start a farm. Still, he had been happy, and the wardrobe had been one of his wife's most prized possessions. He opened it up and saw her dresses still hanging inside. He brushed his fingers across her dress, remembering the feel and the way his wife had looked in them. She hadn't dresses, but each one had been cared for meticulously. Morgan sank to his knees, sliding the dresses to the side and found what he was looking for, a simple brown box kept at the bottom of the wardrobe, and pulled it out.
Placing the box on the bed, he opened it and looked down upon its contents. The uniform was just as he had left it, cavalry blue with still a hint of a shine on the buttons. He removed the clothes and began putting on a uniform he had thought he had left behind. His wife had met him in this uniform, and she had thought him handsome. When he had left the cavalry, she had him keep it, to remind her of the man she fell in love with. All it reminded Morgan of was death and betrayal. Maybe that was all he was good for though, death and betrayal.
He finished dressing and slid on his boots, high riding boots that had been a part of his uniform, and returned to the wardrobe. The bottom of the closet had a drawer which he slid open and he removed the final elements of his uniform. His cavalry revolver and another item. A small hatchet. His father's hatchet. He hefted the hatchet and tried to block out the images it contained. His wife had never known how much pain the weapon brought him, how many regrets had been spilled in blood with its blade. She had only known it was his fathers. He attached the weapons to his belt and left the bedroom for the last time. As he left the house he grabbed his rifle of the mantle and settled the cavalry hat on his head. He headed for the barn and saddled his horse, leaving the home he had made for the last time. He never looked back.
End of Line.
Gerrad
Morgan Randall stood at the edge of his wife's grave. His body was caked in sweat and dirt. His back still glistened with a dusty sheen as he patted the earth down in front of the grave's simple marker. He ran his wrist over his brow, wiping away the sweat, and slowly slid to his knees, still holding the shovel. He let the tool go and began to replant the upturned bluebells around the memorial. Slowly, Morgan picked up each each flower and gently placed each back into the fresh earth. His throat was thick with emotion, but he forced himself to bury it down deep. He couldn't let himself think about the fact that this was the second time he had buried his wife and child. That this was the second time that he had killed them.
Morgan had replanted all but one last bluebell, the stem of the flower too ruined to be re-planted. That flower he he took in his hands as he stood up, casting the shovel to the side. He stood, fondling his wife's flower, staring at the replanted marker, and said goodbye for the last time. This place had to many memories, to many bad thoughts to try to stay here any more. He looked up at the black sun, which was nearly to mid-day by now, and knew that whatever had brought his wife back, wasn't over. He cast a look at the farm he had built for his wife, the place he had made to leave his old life behind and knew that there were some sins you just don't get to escape from. Some things cannot be taken back, no matter how hard you might try. No matter how hard you might love someone, you can't escape what you are in the end. It was time to leave this place.
Morgan said one final goodbye to his wife and turned away. He walked over to the water pump, filling the bucket with cold water and rinsed the sweat and blood and dirt from his body. He peeled the torn pants off, wadding them up into a ball, and tried to wash out the past several hours. Every time he closed his eyes though, his wife's hand plunging through the earth came crash in, or his still born child mewling up at him from her grave.
Once clean, he walked to the house. The living room was a bit messier than his wife would have let it get, but he walked through to their bedroom. He hadn't opened this door in all the months since his wifes death, preferring to sleep on a pallet in the living area, the memories of this room had been just to painful. He had only been in here once, to clean the blood and the after effects of the birth away, to return this room to the way his wife would have kept it. It still smelled like her and he tried to block the scent, and the memories, from his mind as he strode to the wardrobe in the corner. The wardrobe had been in his wife's family for decades and had been part of her dowery upon their marriage.
Her father had been overjoyed at the prospect of his daughter marrying a military man, despite Morgan's insistence that when his service was up he was going to start a farm. Still, he had been happy, and the wardrobe had been one of his wife's most prized possessions. He opened it up and saw her dresses still hanging inside. He brushed his fingers across her dress, remembering the feel and the way his wife had looked in them. She hadn't dresses, but each one had been cared for meticulously. Morgan sank to his knees, sliding the dresses to the side and found what he was looking for, a simple brown box kept at the bottom of the wardrobe, and pulled it out.
Placing the box on the bed, he opened it and looked down upon its contents. The uniform was just as he had left it, cavalry blue with still a hint of a shine on the buttons. He removed the clothes and began putting on a uniform he had thought he had left behind. His wife had met him in this uniform, and she had thought him handsome. When he had left the cavalry, she had him keep it, to remind her of the man she fell in love with. All it reminded Morgan of was death and betrayal. Maybe that was all he was good for though, death and betrayal.
He finished dressing and slid on his boots, high riding boots that had been a part of his uniform, and returned to the wardrobe. The bottom of the closet had a drawer which he slid open and he removed the final elements of his uniform. His cavalry revolver and another item. A small hatchet. His father's hatchet. He hefted the hatchet and tried to block out the images it contained. His wife had never known how much pain the weapon brought him, how many regrets had been spilled in blood with its blade. She had only known it was his fathers. He attached the weapons to his belt and left the bedroom for the last time. As he left the house he grabbed his rifle of the mantle and settled the cavalry hat on his head. He headed for the barn and saddled his horse, leaving the home he had made for the last time. He never looked back.
End of Line.
Gerrad
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
Assorted Nuts! REBOOT!
Hey Everyone.
Talk about a loss of focus, or lack of motivation, or whatever. I kind of gave up on writing for a little while. I still love writing and the act of creating,but I just lost the drive, the push, to do it. Even now as I type I feel a concentrated lack of excitement that I use to have. I'm hoping that by writing again and making myself get back into a routine, that I can re-kindle these old feelings. That I can somehow find my bliss, find that thing that use to make writing seem so important now that the feeling has faded.
I know a lot of it has to do with my living situation. I kind of realize I really hate living by myself. It's lonely, I find myself feeling really shut in and trapped, isolated. By not having that other person there I feel like I have lost a lot of the things that at one point defined me. I had the wonderful opportunity to live with my best friend for almost 5 years and I place zero blame at him moving on with his life and moving in with his absolutely awesome girlfriend, but when he left I found that a lot of my motivation did to. Not just my motivation to write, which I feel was always inspired by my friends great artistic talents and via his incredible will and work ethic on his own, but to do almost anything at the house. He came by the house last week and compared me to a squatter in my own home, and I really realize that I kind of am. I am there, yet I am not. I feel like I am squatting in my own life right now. It's kind of depressing to be honest.
At any rate the first step towards trying to restructure my own feelings is getting back to work on this blog. I want to create a really aggressive goal for this month and seeing how close I can get to it. 30 posts in 30 days. Starting today. Some days may have long posts, some short, but in the end, everyday I am going to endeavor to have some post on this blog. I'll start off with some simple stuff, getting back to Word Balloon columns and Rewind posts, but mostly I want to get back to doing some short fiction, both via returning to the World of Dead Sun, and by diving into some other stories, getting personal. Poetry is something else I have missed, despite my lackadaisical writing efforts over the past two months. I even want to look back at some of my Comic Con experience, which I can honestly credit as being one of the most fun trips I have had since I started attending them back in 1992.
Tune in tomorrow, where the one thing I can absolutely promise, is that there will be a new blog post.
1 down, 29 more to go.
End of Line.
Gerrad
Talk about a loss of focus, or lack of motivation, or whatever. I kind of gave up on writing for a little while. I still love writing and the act of creating,but I just lost the drive, the push, to do it. Even now as I type I feel a concentrated lack of excitement that I use to have. I'm hoping that by writing again and making myself get back into a routine, that I can re-kindle these old feelings. That I can somehow find my bliss, find that thing that use to make writing seem so important now that the feeling has faded.
I know a lot of it has to do with my living situation. I kind of realize I really hate living by myself. It's lonely, I find myself feeling really shut in and trapped, isolated. By not having that other person there I feel like I have lost a lot of the things that at one point defined me. I had the wonderful opportunity to live with my best friend for almost 5 years and I place zero blame at him moving on with his life and moving in with his absolutely awesome girlfriend, but when he left I found that a lot of my motivation did to. Not just my motivation to write, which I feel was always inspired by my friends great artistic talents and via his incredible will and work ethic on his own, but to do almost anything at the house. He came by the house last week and compared me to a squatter in my own home, and I really realize that I kind of am. I am there, yet I am not. I feel like I am squatting in my own life right now. It's kind of depressing to be honest.
At any rate the first step towards trying to restructure my own feelings is getting back to work on this blog. I want to create a really aggressive goal for this month and seeing how close I can get to it. 30 posts in 30 days. Starting today. Some days may have long posts, some short, but in the end, everyday I am going to endeavor to have some post on this blog. I'll start off with some simple stuff, getting back to Word Balloon columns and Rewind posts, but mostly I want to get back to doing some short fiction, both via returning to the World of Dead Sun, and by diving into some other stories, getting personal. Poetry is something else I have missed, despite my lackadaisical writing efforts over the past two months. I even want to look back at some of my Comic Con experience, which I can honestly credit as being one of the most fun trips I have had since I started attending them back in 1992.
Tune in tomorrow, where the one thing I can absolutely promise, is that there will be a new blog post.
1 down, 29 more to go.
End of Line.
Gerrad
Thursday, July 01, 2010
Assorted Nuts!
Happy July everyone!
Hard to believe that we are nearly halfway through the year already. Before I start off with my monthly recap, I thought I should take a few moments to point some things out. In recent weeks I've started to pick up some followers (yay!) for which I am very grateful. I always say that I don't really do this blog for anyone but myself, but to be honest I enjoy it when other people offer feedback, good and the bad, as they are helpful tools in helping me to improve. So firstly, welcome new readers. Secondly the point of my blog is pretty simple, I write about the things I enjoy. Short stories (actually micro fiction or flash fiction) which are even shorter tales, poetry, movie reviews, comic books, and whatever other random bits of nonsense I feel like writing about.
There is a small measure of structure though. Under the Anatomy of a Blog section on the right, you can see tags which can let you navigate through some of the 600 plus posts on the website. It's dissected by general topics, like poetry, movie reviews, travel blogs, ect. Or you can pick on some of the individual flash fiction stories I wrote. Currently I am writing a flash fiction serial, I get about a chapter a week up) Called Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins. It's a sequel to my first attempt at writing serialized short fiction, though I am using a far greater structure with this one than I did the last. I tend to write about different kinds of things, some of my short stories are more science fiction or horror, but I also have some stuff that I would consider more emotionally charged and dramatic, though those tend to be shorter in chapter form, 1 to 3 installments. Feel free to navigate the tabs and leave comments on anything you like.
Anyway, July is usually a pretty big month for me on the blog and this month will certainly be no exception. In addition to my regular features, San Diego is hosting the Comic Con International again in a few short weeks and I plan on updating my blog daily with the goings on. Also look for the current chapter of Dead Sun to really start to come together as characters should be in the process of meeting up and arcing towards bigger and more bloody confrontations for them. I have also been feeling the need to post some more dramatic stuff in terms of the fiction I've been writing.
Anyway stay tuned, this will be another huge month for me and I'm more excited than ever to keep working on the blog.
End of Line
Gerrad!
Hard to believe that we are nearly halfway through the year already. Before I start off with my monthly recap, I thought I should take a few moments to point some things out. In recent weeks I've started to pick up some followers (yay!) for which I am very grateful. I always say that I don't really do this blog for anyone but myself, but to be honest I enjoy it when other people offer feedback, good and the bad, as they are helpful tools in helping me to improve. So firstly, welcome new readers. Secondly the point of my blog is pretty simple, I write about the things I enjoy. Short stories (actually micro fiction or flash fiction) which are even shorter tales, poetry, movie reviews, comic books, and whatever other random bits of nonsense I feel like writing about.
There is a small measure of structure though. Under the Anatomy of a Blog section on the right, you can see tags which can let you navigate through some of the 600 plus posts on the website. It's dissected by general topics, like poetry, movie reviews, travel blogs, ect. Or you can pick on some of the individual flash fiction stories I wrote. Currently I am writing a flash fiction serial, I get about a chapter a week up) Called Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins. It's a sequel to my first attempt at writing serialized short fiction, though I am using a far greater structure with this one than I did the last. I tend to write about different kinds of things, some of my short stories are more science fiction or horror, but I also have some stuff that I would consider more emotionally charged and dramatic, though those tend to be shorter in chapter form, 1 to 3 installments. Feel free to navigate the tabs and leave comments on anything you like.
Anyway, July is usually a pretty big month for me on the blog and this month will certainly be no exception. In addition to my regular features, San Diego is hosting the Comic Con International again in a few short weeks and I plan on updating my blog daily with the goings on. Also look for the current chapter of Dead Sun to really start to come together as characters should be in the process of meeting up and arcing towards bigger and more bloody confrontations for them. I have also been feeling the need to post some more dramatic stuff in terms of the fiction I've been writing.
Anyway stay tuned, this will be another huge month for me and I'm more excited than ever to keep working on the blog.
End of Line
Gerrad!
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Movie Time: Rewind: Charade
Hey all,
As promised here is this month's installment of the Rewind, where we look at great films of yesteryear, particularly ones made before the year of my birth, 1976. The last two months I have spotlighted two of my very favorite actresses, Eleanor Powell and Ginger Rogers. For this month I'm continuing the trend and adding another of Hollywood's greatest leading ladies (and another personal favorite), Audrey Hepburn. I highlighted Audrey in a film some time back and honestly I am a bit surprised I haven't picked more of her films to look at. Audrey was for my money, the last of the great actresses from the studio system.
By the 1950's, Hollywood's Golden Age was in its twilight, though the early and mid 1950's still held some measure of the Hollywood muscle of old. While most of the studio's major stars were aging, Gary Cooper, Clark Gable, James Stewart, there was an entirely new crop of leading ladies, like Marilyn Monroe, Grace Kelley, and the indemmable Audrey Hepburn. She burst on the scene in the early 1950's with her Oscar winning turn in Roman Holiday, and was a bona fide box office smash with pictures like Breakfast at Tiffanys when she teamed up with another of Hollywood's greatest stars, Cary Grant, to make Charade, this month's feature.
the film starts of as Regina (Audrey Hepburn) meets a charming stranger while on a skiing vacation. The stranger, Peter Joshua (played by Cary Grant) is dashing and handsome and re-firms Regina's belief to ask her husband for a divorce. When she returns home to Paris to ask him for one, she finds her apartment empty and the police inform her that her husband had been murdered. At his funeral she noticed several peculiar people inspecting her husbands corpse for signs of life. She quickly learns why though, as a CIA official (played by Walter Matthau) informs her that her husband was part of a secret mission in World War 2 to deliver $250,000 to the French Resistance, but he and his team hid the money instead. His team was made up by the same people who were inspecting her husbands corpse. The CIA believes that Regina has the money, even if she doesn't know where it is.
Regina runs into Peter Joshua again though in Paris and he agrees to help her, unabashedly admitting that he too is looking for the money, but wants to keep Regina safe as her husbands former team is also tracking her. Unbeknown to Regina though, Joshua is also working for them under an assumed name though none of the men trust each other. The plot really begins to twist as Grant's character changed identities again and members of her husbands former team end up dead. Regina is attracted to Grant's character, even though she doesn't know what side he is playing, though her role as damsel in distress is twisted as she becomes the one perusing Peter romantically. In the end it's a race to find the truth, of the characters identity, of the characters intentions, and for the money before it's to late.
Charade was directed by Stanley Donen in 1963 and marked a passing for both Donen and Cary Grant in a lot of ways. Donen was considered a bit of a Wonderkind in the 1950's teaming up with Gene Kelley and later on his own, to direct some of the biggest musicals of the decade. Films like An American in Paris and Singin' in the Rain with Kelly, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and Funny Face with Fred Astaire and Audrey Hepburn. As the musical faded in popularity at the dawn of the 1960's, Donen turned to light hearted drama and suspense and nothing epitomized that better than Charade. Cary Grant meanwhile was nearing 60 and was beginning to doubt his ability to be convincing as a romantic leading men in films. He had first turned down this film as he didn't want to be the romantic aggressor to a woman nearly 25 years his junior. He only came on board after screenwriter Peter Stone (who along with Donen was desperate to get Grant for the part) re-wrote sections of the film overnight to turn Audrey to the sexual aggressor.
Both Donen and Grant would go onto to make additional films finding moderate success. Donen would team with Audrey again in Two for the Road and find success with Gregory Peck and Sofia Loren in Arabesque, a film designed as an un-official sequel to Charade originally. Grant would make just two more films before retiring from film completely, the film Father Goose, a light comedy, and Walk, Don't Run. truth be told, Charade was Grant's last great film and despite the moderate success Donen had, it was his last true classic. It was also in a sense, one of the last really great studio films, as by the mid to late 1960's, the studio system was all but dismantled and given way to freelance work. (I know that Grant and Hepburn were freelance during this film too, but the whole style and scope of the film is still very much in that method).
Let's also not forget Audrey. At this point in the film, Audrey is the number one female box office draw in the country as many of her contemporaries had retired or moved on. Grace Kelly had become Princess of Monaco, Marilyn Monroe had died. Audrey was at her peak. She had just finished filing Breakfast at Tiffanys the year before and was just a year away from her biggest hit in My Fair Lady. I think one of the things that was so great about Audrey is that she played so well with so many of Hollywood's greatest actors. William Holden, Humphrey Bogart, Fred Astaire, Gary Cooper and here with Cary Grant, she made the age differences between her and these actors a non factor. She could play innocent, dark and mysterious, comedic, whatever the role and her leading man needed. Her biggest assets I think was her ability to bridge the gap between the generations in film. The 1950's and 1960's were two vastly different decades in terms of movie-making and audience expectations. So much of the 50's were about that "Leave it to Beaver" attitude, about women wanting a family and marriage and being proper. Audrey could walk that line and help bring woman's roles to a forefront, playing characters of looser moral backgrounds but still maintain her feminine edge. It's especially evident as she progresses films in the 60's, with her afternoon dalliances with Gary Cooper in Love in the Afternoon, or her party girl mentality in Breakfast at Tiffanys, or as the sexual predator right here in Charade. She manages to play these roles very dignified, doing what many would call un-dignified actions for the time and place.
Back to the film itself. the film is very Hitchcockian in nature, built around suspense with a plot full of twists and turns. Duplicity is the nature of every character and you never know who you can quite trust. The film even uses the Hitchcock staple MaGuffin, a word used to describe one small point about witch the whole plot is hinged, a device that Hitch used in almost all of his films, in this case, the missing $250,000. It's been called the greatest Hitchcock film Hitchcock never made. A large part of that is due to director Donen, whose camera work and shooting style were taken to new heights in this film. Even Hitch's panache for scenic locations is used, with the filming of this picture occurring in Paris. Audrey was also filming (nearly back to back) Paris, When it Sizzles with William Holden at the time. Donen really captures Paris beautifully. Also writer Peter Stone's fantastic script keeps the film turning at every angle, right up until the incredible twist ending, of which even Hitch could be proud.
I should also point out the quality of the supporting cast involved. Walter Matthau as a CIA agent, James Coburn and George Kennedy (most notably of the Naked Gun films) as members of Audrey's husbands WW2 team. Coburn is great in his role as the films heavy, and Kennedy shows a range as well that is often not associated with the films he makes in later years. All the actors have a really fun rapport with each other, from the flirtatious banter between Grant and Hepburn, to the trickery between the group of thieves, each actor really finds some substance in his role.
Charade is a film that captures so much of what made Hollywood great for so long. It's fun, light, and exciting, and bridges the generational gap for Hollywood. It features two of Hollywood's biggest stars of all time in a terrific performance. I've certainly shown Cary Grant films my fair share of love over the course of these posts, with North by Northwest and His Girl Friday, and Charade is certainly a welcome addition to those films. Audrey is a star in her own right and while Charade may not be her most famous role, it's easily the role that made me realize just how powerful her on screen presence could be. In a world today where stars are teamed together in films based on name alone, its so refreshing to see a film made with the biggest stars of their day that doesn't sell you on anything but the quality of the film. Another bit of trivia about this film is that it is actually in the public domain thanks to an error in copy writing, so it should be even easier to watch. be sure to check out Universal Pictures classic Charade, a fun mystery starring two of the most charismatic actors of all time. It's classic cinema at it's finest.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Flash Fiction: Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins
Chapter 20
Ally Marshall was sore all over. The blackened sun had risen high in the sky, nearing mid-day and she still laid slumped against the boathouse. The fire had consumed the stable, but the muddy earth so near the river's shore line had confined it there. The embers of the building still smoldered slightly as Ally slowly regained consciousness. She must have blacked out after stumbling from the stable, but it seemed as if a few hours had passed since then.
Shakily, she used the boathouse wall to pull herself to her feet, fighting off another vicious wave of vertigo and she woozily regained her footing. Her head still throbbed from the lump the outlaw had given her, and she stumbled down to the rivers edge to look at herself. Her reflection in the water was a fright. Her face was bruised on one side from the slap and her split lip had swollen. Dried blood ran down her chin and across her puffy jaw. Her dress was tattered, burnt and torn from the scuffle and caked in mud. She lifted it slightly, seeing her ribs and stomach having turned a deep bruising purple. She winced as she gingerly touched them. Even her knees, elbows, and backside were scraped and cut from crawling acorss the packed earth in teh stable. Worse yet was the throbbing in her fingers, a few of her nails had been pulled off in the scuffle and they were thick with blood.
She slowly sank to the muddy river bank and splashed the cold water on her face, allowing the bracing water to soothe her aching fingers. She thought she wanted to cry, but her whole body just felt numb. Ally washed her face softly, tracing her swollen cheek and split lip gently with one of her fingers. Her hair was smokey and frazzled and she tried to pull it back into a semblance of a pony tale again. She looked at her ruined dress and didn't even try to clean it, she just sunk back down along the shore line, pulling her knees up to her chest and felt that lump in her throat grow, but no tears came.
Ally rocked like that slowly, feeling the cold sink into her skin as she rested on the muddy banks. Her mind whirling at the devastation of the last few hours. Her brother, father, and fiancee dead. Then to have them rise to life and try to attack her. The dead sun overhead. Her whole life, dead, just like that. She was scared and lost, and worst of all, alone. She looked bleakly on, her eyes heavy and red.
The sun started to slowly drift higher in the sky, approaching noon when she first heard noise. Slow shuffling footsteps along the dusty trail far from the river bank. She saw them first, a small mob of the creatures, the same things her father had turned into. She wanted to move, to scream, to run away, but her body wouldn't move. The monsters continued down the trail, and as the rounded the wall of the boathouse, they saw her. They moved quicker then, an urgent kind of shuffling, grossly distended jaws working in anticipation. As they grew closer instinct finally kicked in, and Ally did the only thing she could do, thrusting herself off of the muddy embankment and into the cold rushing waters of the river. The last thing she remembered seeing was the cold black eyes of the creature as it lashed out at her.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Ally Marshall was sore all over. The blackened sun had risen high in the sky, nearing mid-day and she still laid slumped against the boathouse. The fire had consumed the stable, but the muddy earth so near the river's shore line had confined it there. The embers of the building still smoldered slightly as Ally slowly regained consciousness. She must have blacked out after stumbling from the stable, but it seemed as if a few hours had passed since then.
Shakily, she used the boathouse wall to pull herself to her feet, fighting off another vicious wave of vertigo and she woozily regained her footing. Her head still throbbed from the lump the outlaw had given her, and she stumbled down to the rivers edge to look at herself. Her reflection in the water was a fright. Her face was bruised on one side from the slap and her split lip had swollen. Dried blood ran down her chin and across her puffy jaw. Her dress was tattered, burnt and torn from the scuffle and caked in mud. She lifted it slightly, seeing her ribs and stomach having turned a deep bruising purple. She winced as she gingerly touched them. Even her knees, elbows, and backside were scraped and cut from crawling acorss the packed earth in teh stable. Worse yet was the throbbing in her fingers, a few of her nails had been pulled off in the scuffle and they were thick with blood.
She slowly sank to the muddy river bank and splashed the cold water on her face, allowing the bracing water to soothe her aching fingers. She thought she wanted to cry, but her whole body just felt numb. Ally washed her face softly, tracing her swollen cheek and split lip gently with one of her fingers. Her hair was smokey and frazzled and she tried to pull it back into a semblance of a pony tale again. She looked at her ruined dress and didn't even try to clean it, she just sunk back down along the shore line, pulling her knees up to her chest and felt that lump in her throat grow, but no tears came.
Ally rocked like that slowly, feeling the cold sink into her skin as she rested on the muddy banks. Her mind whirling at the devastation of the last few hours. Her brother, father, and fiancee dead. Then to have them rise to life and try to attack her. The dead sun overhead. Her whole life, dead, just like that. She was scared and lost, and worst of all, alone. She looked bleakly on, her eyes heavy and red.
The sun started to slowly drift higher in the sky, approaching noon when she first heard noise. Slow shuffling footsteps along the dusty trail far from the river bank. She saw them first, a small mob of the creatures, the same things her father had turned into. She wanted to move, to scream, to run away, but her body wouldn't move. The monsters continued down the trail, and as the rounded the wall of the boathouse, they saw her. They moved quicker then, an urgent kind of shuffling, grossly distended jaws working in anticipation. As they grew closer instinct finally kicked in, and Ally did the only thing she could do, thrusting herself off of the muddy embankment and into the cold rushing waters of the river. The last thing she remembered seeing was the cold black eyes of the creature as it lashed out at her.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Monday, June 28, 2010
Word Balloon: Stray Bullets
Hey all!
I ALMOST forgot about this month's edition of the Word Balloon. I thought we would take a look at one of my favorite writer/artist's David Lapham. I previewed his Vertigo book Young Liars last year as being one of my favorite books at the time. Sadly that book was canceled at the end of last year and he has been moving onto numerous other freelance projects for several publishers, including Avatar, Marvel, DC/Wildstorm and Marvel. For this edition though I thought we would look back to the book he is most known for, Stray Bullets, his self published comic series that he first launched in the 1995.
Lapham broke out as a penciler working for the now defunct Valiant Comics in 1990. He worked on several of their books and helped make the publisher a real threat in the industry in comics hey day during the speculator boom in the early 90's. At the time people believed that buying comics and saving them for years would equal a huge windfall in years to come as the books grew in value. This led to gross over publishing of books and piles of low quality work being produced. It also led to numerous smaller publishers and independent creators having more opportunities to make comics. As the market fell out of comics in 1995 and 1996, Lapham decided to publish his own comics to tell the kinds of stories that he wanted to tell. Heavily influenced by crime and pulp novels, he forsook super heroes of all kinds and drove into a crime noir series call Stray Bullets under his own publishing label, El Capitan.
Stray Bullets was a huge sprawling story, set over the course of a 20 year period telling the story of a group of people, interconnected in ways they were unaware of. Each issue would spotlight a different character in a different time period, not always chronologically. Where Lapham excels though is in his ability to make characters so different. His people are flawed and not heroic, often victims of circumstance and bad choices. He may be one of the best writers of characterization working in the business right now.
The first volume of his series is called The Innocence of Nihilism. the first trade collects the first seven issues and while there is not a readily apparent pattern in the wide range of stories told, Lapham is introducing you to the cast of characters you will get to know more about as the series unfolds. The series is set from a period of time ranging from the mid to late 70's to the mid 90's, very much echoing the formative years of the creator. It sets up the series regulars, Virginia Applejack, a young girl who is brutally shown the horrors of real life. Orson, a young introvert who learns just how far to far is when he falls in love with a needy older woman. Frank and Joey, two small time hoods who realize the value of life just as the shouldn't. Beth and Maria, two young girls entering into a world far over their heads. Oh, and Amy Racecar, the worlds biggest and greatest gangster, and possibly the purveyor of the end of the world.
It also sets up other characters who will have bigger roles as the series unfolds, the brutal mobster Monster, the enigmatic Spanish Scott, the gangster boss Harry, among others. It's a hugely sprawling story that can't be neatly summed up in a few blurbs. It's a comic one part Pulp Fiction, one part film noir, with a dash of inter connectivity like Lost. Each issue is a stand alone tale, you don't need to read one to enjoy the next because read apart from each other, they act as a stand alone tale. When read together though they weave a pattern that sheds even bigger moments of characterization, highlighting what are perceived to be ancillary characters in the tale you're reading, and showing deeper moments of characterization from tales you have already read.
There are several beats in the series that I thought were just brilliantly tragic. Issue 2, Victomology, unfolds the story of young Virginia (Ginny) Applejack. The ending of that issues is like a punch to the gut, where a series of events beyond her control shapes her life tragically and brutally. The ending of issue two is the moment the series bought me hook, line, and sinker. This one event even leads to the series most popular character's creation, Amy Racecar. The epitome of childhood fantasy gone unchecked, the story is ultimately one of illusion and mis-direction when you realize just why and how Amy is the way she is, and how, and even more importantly why, she connects to young Ginny.
The regular series itself lasted 39 issues before Lapham put the series on hold to take on more freelance work. It was easier on his to produce work on the freelance level and more financially lucrative, though not as personally rewarding. This became a more increasing concern as he grew his family and took on bigger responsibilities as a provider. On the one hand I enjoy that he is writing more work regularly, but on the other I miss his hand behind the pencil. Especially after the cancellation of Young Liars, which was a far more fantastical take on the elements and themes he touched on in Stray Bullets, though grounded less in crime and more in conspiracy.
The art of Stray Bullets is fabulous as well. Lapham is great at expressions and his use of the 8 panel grid system really lets the story unfold as you are reading it. Breaking down each moment really sells the opening and closing pages where he expounds on the action in bigger panels. It's story telling structure at a very rigid level but it forces the story to move and unfold in such a way as to increase the tension each panel. Lapham is also a master of expression, from fury to sadness to joy, each character tells so much story through their body language and expression. I think he may be the best artist working today in conveying the grief on a persons face. You can seen the dynamic growth and maturation he develops over the course of the series, becoming a better storyteller as the book unfolds. Remember this was his first real writing gig. Still, even in these early issues you see the natural talent he has in breaking a story down elementally.
Stray Bullets isn't a comic that can be summed up with a neat little bow. It's complex and deeply wrought. It's the essence of independent comics. It's even more impressive knowing that when this book came out, storytelling wasn't what sold books, the art did. Most books from he late 1990's don't hold up well. This is one of the series I found during that time that helped me rediscover my joy in collecting comics. Books like Stray Bullets, Bone, Preacher, and Kabuki showed me how great and varied the medium could be. For a long time I didn't read too much mainstream Marvel or DC because they were not telling the stories that these creators were. Stray Bullets is one of my favorite comics series of all times and I hope that David Lapham gets around to returning to his creator owned roots at some point. Until then, I will always have the great run he left behind. Stray Bullets: The Innocence of Nihilism, Volume 1 by David Lapham. Just a really great graphic novel that challenges the role that comics can play. Read it.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Poetry: I Killed the World
Hey all,
I know, three poems in one month, rivaling my Flash Fiction output for once. At an rate my goal over the next 2 days before the end of the month is at least two more posts, the next chapter on Flash Fiction and my Movie Time Rewind segment for the month. I haven't been really consistent the past few months and I am hoping that after Comic Con next month I can post a bit more regularly.
Anyway onto the poem. Certainly returning to familiar territory this time. I was feeling a little down on myself this weekend and I plucked this out over the course of a few hours, tweaking it until I liked it better. I can certainly see the darker influence of the types of music I have been listening too lately in the poem. I tend to not listen to music as I write, I find it distracting, but I will listen to music before and between writing to stir the juices creatively. I don't like to listen to a lot of music though, just a few songs to set the mood. More than that and I feel it takes me out of the moment. I'm very much a believer in capturing the particular moment in a poem. If something takes to long or you have to try to hard, then you really aren't capturing what you are feeling at the time.
There are occasions where I will write something and work at it and realize it's not coming along. I may hang onto the general concept of the poem to re-attack it later, but rarely will I use, or re-use anything that I wrote during my first attempt. I know some writers do this during brainstorming sessions, where an idea may be good, just the timing for it isn't. I approach my poetry very much the same way. Oh well, enjoy the poem and feel free to leave any feedback, positive or negative. Thanks for reading!
I Killed the World
I never went back home,
Lost on the trails of life I roam.
So many years I spent alone,
Walked a million miles unknown,
Forlorn these many years,
I left a trail of tears.
And though you were not there,
It's like I felt your stare,
Gazing down upon my broken heart,
As I tore the damned piece apart.
God you died so long ago,
I just didn't know where to go.
Even when I close my eyes,
I remember all your cries.
If I could wipe the tears away,
Or even have just one more day,
To hold deep within my arms,
And buffet you from all that harms.
But in the end I lost control,
And there's nothing left to console.
Your smile was my only friend,
But here near the end,
The joy it brought has died,
No matter how hard I tried,
I can't pretend to care,
Just cast a gazeless stare.
And all I see is an endless night,
Forgotten and lost my will to fight.
For what we had has spoiled and curled,
Without your love I killed the world.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
I know, three poems in one month, rivaling my Flash Fiction output for once. At an rate my goal over the next 2 days before the end of the month is at least two more posts, the next chapter on Flash Fiction and my Movie Time Rewind segment for the month. I haven't been really consistent the past few months and I am hoping that after Comic Con next month I can post a bit more regularly.
Anyway onto the poem. Certainly returning to familiar territory this time. I was feeling a little down on myself this weekend and I plucked this out over the course of a few hours, tweaking it until I liked it better. I can certainly see the darker influence of the types of music I have been listening too lately in the poem. I tend to not listen to music as I write, I find it distracting, but I will listen to music before and between writing to stir the juices creatively. I don't like to listen to a lot of music though, just a few songs to set the mood. More than that and I feel it takes me out of the moment. I'm very much a believer in capturing the particular moment in a poem. If something takes to long or you have to try to hard, then you really aren't capturing what you are feeling at the time.
There are occasions where I will write something and work at it and realize it's not coming along. I may hang onto the general concept of the poem to re-attack it later, but rarely will I use, or re-use anything that I wrote during my first attempt. I know some writers do this during brainstorming sessions, where an idea may be good, just the timing for it isn't. I approach my poetry very much the same way. Oh well, enjoy the poem and feel free to leave any feedback, positive or negative. Thanks for reading!
I Killed the World
I never went back home,
Lost on the trails of life I roam.
So many years I spent alone,
Walked a million miles unknown,
Forlorn these many years,
I left a trail of tears.
And though you were not there,
It's like I felt your stare,
Gazing down upon my broken heart,
As I tore the damned piece apart.
God you died so long ago,
I just didn't know where to go.
Even when I close my eyes,
I remember all your cries.
If I could wipe the tears away,
Or even have just one more day,
To hold deep within my arms,
And buffet you from all that harms.
But in the end I lost control,
And there's nothing left to console.
Your smile was my only friend,
But here near the end,
The joy it brought has died,
No matter how hard I tried,
I can't pretend to care,
Just cast a gazeless stare.
And all I see is an endless night,
Forgotten and lost my will to fight.
For what we had has spoiled and curled,
Without your love I killed the world.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Flash Fiction: Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins
Chapter 19
Cody Jarrett woke silently, his hand coiling to the nearby Colt revolver. It was dark, almost overcast, but not as cold as it should have been if it was still pre-dawn. Still, the hairs on the back of Cody's neck were standing on end and he had a feeling, a feeling that something wasn't quite right. Cody slowly rolled to his feet, holding the Colt in front of him, finger dancing over the triggers. the starlight had all but faded as last nights fire crackled with its last, lonely dying embers.
Cody knew someone was out there. He heard the subtle movements, the small stirrings of motion. Even along a well known trail, you never could tell who may be out, especially in the early parts of pre-dawn. Plus with as much money as Jarrett was holding, he certainly didn't want to take any chances. Cody walked gingerly to the edge of his small campsite. The horses were nickering nervously, putting Jarrett even more alert. He walked the perimeter of the camp, his eyes detecting nothing in the fading twilight. Jarrett eased his way back towards the campsite, slowly bringing the barrel of his Colt up and easing the trigger down.
Cody came up to the horses first, approaching at the backside of his camp, and ran a hand over the animals, trying to soothe each of the mounts. The horses were pulling at their tethers and getting more and more agitated by the moment. Cody could read the growing fear in their eyes as they danced about skittishly, his calming motions bringing no comfort to the frightened animals. Finally one of the horses reared back, whinnying loudly and pulled loose its tethered stake from the ground. The other two horses bucked and did the same, pulling at the branches and other bits of shrubbery by which they had been tethered.
Cody made a desperate grab for his horse, diving at the animal, trying to snake his free hand into his man. the horse was to fast though, as it bolted through the broken hillside, away from the trail. Cody's dive landed him in a small clearing by his camp and he tucked himself into a roll as he hit the Earth. Cody followed through on the roll and came up quickly, smoothly drawing his second pistol from his belt and cocking the hammers on both. He brought them up, loaded for bear, fingers hovering over each rigger, and finally saw his attackers.
Beau and Buford Johnson were moving towards him. Though the Johnson Brothers he had known just hours ago, were far unlike what he had seen before. Their skin was yellow and sour, and their fingers ended in sharp blackened points. Their mouths were distended parodies, wider and lined with razored yellow and black teeth. The front of Beau's chest was still riddled with the four bullets that Cody himself had filled him with before, the red blood that stained the front of his shirt was now etched in blackened pus and ichor. His brother was worse, the two bullets that Cody had fired had similar effects but the belly wound had festered, the spoiled skin cracking. He shambled towards Cody, a stream of his own entrails spilling from the oozing sore and dragging behind him, leaving a trail of dark blood and bile through the dusty trail.
"Mother fucker...."
Cody half whispered the curse, the guns still poised in each of his hands. How do you kill something you already shot dead? He looked at each brother, slowly backing up. It was then that he noticed the breaking dawn behind the two monsters. The cresting sun turned dark and black. Long Stygian tendrils stretched from the inky orb, casting a pale overcast on the sky. Cody Jarrett looked at the dead sun, then back to the two creatures bearing down on him, and realized how truly fucked he was.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Cody Jarrett woke silently, his hand coiling to the nearby Colt revolver. It was dark, almost overcast, but not as cold as it should have been if it was still pre-dawn. Still, the hairs on the back of Cody's neck were standing on end and he had a feeling, a feeling that something wasn't quite right. Cody slowly rolled to his feet, holding the Colt in front of him, finger dancing over the triggers. the starlight had all but faded as last nights fire crackled with its last, lonely dying embers.
Cody knew someone was out there. He heard the subtle movements, the small stirrings of motion. Even along a well known trail, you never could tell who may be out, especially in the early parts of pre-dawn. Plus with as much money as Jarrett was holding, he certainly didn't want to take any chances. Cody walked gingerly to the edge of his small campsite. The horses were nickering nervously, putting Jarrett even more alert. He walked the perimeter of the camp, his eyes detecting nothing in the fading twilight. Jarrett eased his way back towards the campsite, slowly bringing the barrel of his Colt up and easing the trigger down.
Cody came up to the horses first, approaching at the backside of his camp, and ran a hand over the animals, trying to soothe each of the mounts. The horses were pulling at their tethers and getting more and more agitated by the moment. Cody could read the growing fear in their eyes as they danced about skittishly, his calming motions bringing no comfort to the frightened animals. Finally one of the horses reared back, whinnying loudly and pulled loose its tethered stake from the ground. The other two horses bucked and did the same, pulling at the branches and other bits of shrubbery by which they had been tethered.
Cody made a desperate grab for his horse, diving at the animal, trying to snake his free hand into his man. the horse was to fast though, as it bolted through the broken hillside, away from the trail. Cody's dive landed him in a small clearing by his camp and he tucked himself into a roll as he hit the Earth. Cody followed through on the roll and came up quickly, smoothly drawing his second pistol from his belt and cocking the hammers on both. He brought them up, loaded for bear, fingers hovering over each rigger, and finally saw his attackers.
Beau and Buford Johnson were moving towards him. Though the Johnson Brothers he had known just hours ago, were far unlike what he had seen before. Their skin was yellow and sour, and their fingers ended in sharp blackened points. Their mouths were distended parodies, wider and lined with razored yellow and black teeth. The front of Beau's chest was still riddled with the four bullets that Cody himself had filled him with before, the red blood that stained the front of his shirt was now etched in blackened pus and ichor. His brother was worse, the two bullets that Cody had fired had similar effects but the belly wound had festered, the spoiled skin cracking. He shambled towards Cody, a stream of his own entrails spilling from the oozing sore and dragging behind him, leaving a trail of dark blood and bile through the dusty trail.
"Mother fucker...."
Cody half whispered the curse, the guns still poised in each of his hands. How do you kill something you already shot dead? He looked at each brother, slowly backing up. It was then that he noticed the breaking dawn behind the two monsters. The cresting sun turned dark and black. Long Stygian tendrils stretched from the inky orb, casting a pale overcast on the sky. Cody Jarrett looked at the dead sun, then back to the two creatures bearing down on him, and realized how truly fucked he was.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Monday, June 21, 2010
Poetry: Seasons of Age
Hey all,
Look at this. Three posts, three days! I actually got inspired to write some poetry this weekend after watching Toy Story 3. There very "coming of age" aspects of that film really resonated with me and I thought would make a good topic for a poem. I haven't written a large amount of poetry this year, mostly because I'm trying to do some different kinds of material and not the same forlorn love stuff over and over. I mean I'm fine doing that if I have a fresh take on it, but I don't want to write it simply for the sake of writing it.
This poem is a pretty straight forward affair. Each stanza acts as one of the four stages of life. A child, a young adult, middle age, and growing old. Each age has its own perceptions and take on things, and this is my version. i hope you like the poem, and I will try to be back soon with more updates. Thanks again fro reading.
Seasons of Age
In the first it seems so slow.
Moments come and moments go.
All your days break in the morning sun.
As you play and shout and have such fun.
Worries, cares, are burdens not,
As seething troubles have yet to rot.
Colors flair and flowers bloom,
But Spring and Summer will fall to soon.
In the middle it feels just right.
When days and years are not yet slight.
Romance and love have come to crest,
As life and times are but an easy test.
You feel as if you cant be hurt,
The dangers of life are but flirts.
And as the boy becomes the man,
Only then can he see the plan.
Near the end it gets more fast,
As time grows short and doesn’t last.
Carefree ways have now found burden,
As responsibilities are far more certain.
Wistfully you recall past days.,
Of times when you weren't set in ways.
A wife, a child may come to bear,
Sooner yet, strike graying hairs.
But at the end it's over then.
Past by so quick you can't pretend.
Children have grown and left behind,
And the life you live is no longer defined.
The seasons of age have grown so cold,
As Winter's grip has turned more bold.
And as your last breath leaves your lung,
It's only then you end what you begun.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Look at this. Three posts, three days! I actually got inspired to write some poetry this weekend after watching Toy Story 3. There very "coming of age" aspects of that film really resonated with me and I thought would make a good topic for a poem. I haven't written a large amount of poetry this year, mostly because I'm trying to do some different kinds of material and not the same forlorn love stuff over and over. I mean I'm fine doing that if I have a fresh take on it, but I don't want to write it simply for the sake of writing it.
This poem is a pretty straight forward affair. Each stanza acts as one of the four stages of life. A child, a young adult, middle age, and growing old. Each age has its own perceptions and take on things, and this is my version. i hope you like the poem, and I will try to be back soon with more updates. Thanks again fro reading.
Seasons of Age
In the first it seems so slow.
Moments come and moments go.
All your days break in the morning sun.
As you play and shout and have such fun.
Worries, cares, are burdens not,
As seething troubles have yet to rot.
Colors flair and flowers bloom,
But Spring and Summer will fall to soon.
In the middle it feels just right.
When days and years are not yet slight.
Romance and love have come to crest,
As life and times are but an easy test.
You feel as if you cant be hurt,
The dangers of life are but flirts.
And as the boy becomes the man,
Only then can he see the plan.
Near the end it gets more fast,
As time grows short and doesn’t last.
Carefree ways have now found burden,
As responsibilities are far more certain.
Wistfully you recall past days.,
Of times when you weren't set in ways.
A wife, a child may come to bear,
Sooner yet, strike graying hairs.
But at the end it's over then.
Past by so quick you can't pretend.
Children have grown and left behind,
And the life you live is no longer defined.
The seasons of age have grown so cold,
As Winter's grip has turned more bold.
And as your last breath leaves your lung,
It's only then you end what you begun.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Movie Review: Toy Story 3
Hey all,
I had a great opportunity opening day to catch an early matinee of Pixar’s Toy Story 3 with my newest movie going companion, my niece Lexy. At 5 years old she is quickly becoming a movie buff and she really enjoys going to see movies on the “big screen” as she says. Needless to say this is a boon for me because it gives me a valid excuse to catch many of these animated films that I would normally not go to. Well, I’ll be honest, I would see the Pixar ones, but all the rest are iffy. Still Toy Story 3 may have been her favorite film yet that we have seen together and I will be the first one to admit, Pixar Films may be the best movie production company making films today.
Toy Story 3 is a sequel 11 years in the making, focusing on the continuing adventures of a group of toys led by Woody the Cowboy, voiced by Tom Hanks, and Buzz Lightyear, a Space Ranger voiced by Tim Allen. They are accompanied by a series of other toys like Jesse the Cowgirl (Joan Cusack) Rex the Dinosaur (Wallace Shaw) Hamm the Piggy bank (voiced by Pixar perennial John Ratzeberger) Mr. Potato Head 9Don Rickles) and several others. Just like in real life, 11 years have passed for the toys as well, and their owner Andy has grown up and is on the verge of entering college. The toys have not been played with for a long time and are now worried that they will be either relegated to the attic or thrown out when Andy moved out.
Woody stays true to Andy, believing that they will be sent to the attic and one day played with again but the rest belive that they will be thrown out. When Andy finally gets ready to leave, he bags them all except Woody (who he intends to take to college, presumably nostalgically) with the intention of storing them in the attic. They accidentally get mixed into the trash though and conspire to escape by sneaking into a donation box headed for the local daycare. Woody follows them, trying to convince them that Andy didn’t want to throw them away, but they believe that greener pastures lie at the day care.
When they get there they are greeted by a phalanx of new toys, led by Lotsa, a strawberry scented plush bear voiced by Ned Beatty and Ken (of Barbie fame) voiced by Michael Keaton. Lotsa has a southern twang and seems very approachable at first. Ken is vain and narcissistic, living in his own dream house with a huge wardrobe. The toys believe they have found paradise, a Mecca where they will never get old or thrown out as new kids always come to play. Woody tries to convince them otherwise, but when they decide to stay, he leaves, intending to return to Andy. He is waylaid during his escape however and rescued by Bonnie, a young girl who’s mother works at the Daycare. While with Bonnie, he learns from her toys what the rest of his friends come to find out. Sunnyside Daycare is no Mecca for toys, its more of a prison, where certain toys get preferential treatment and others are abused. Woody returns to help his friends escape and get back to Andy before he leaves for college, but they quickly learn that Lotsa has no intention of letting that happen.
Once again, Pixar has created a great movie and is already my choice for film of the year. The film is a wonderful blend of humor, action, and pathos. Honestly, the action sequences in this Toy Story are the greatest to date, with the film climaxing at a huge waste management plant. The action is frantic and wide screen. Even the beginning Wild West play scene is bigger than any Toy Story action sequence we’ve seen. It ingeniously blends all the toys in multiple settings in such a way that it becomes both thrilling and immediately charming. It also has the taunt thrills of a classic escape movie, fueling elements of great noir prison films the likes of James Cagney use to be involved with.
Toy Story 3 also continues the culmination of Pixar films really finding a deeply soulful resonance in its movie going audience. While I didn’t get quite as choked up as I did during Up (I cried twice) or Wall-E (I teared up once) I definitely got choked up in the last 20 minutes of the film. The film morphs so seamlessly from genre to genre, that by the time you get to this very pivotal coming of age moment for these toys, it really hits you with a deep impact. As each toy faces an unknown future, as Andy himself faces his past, you really feel empathy for these characters. It’s a story that has grown with its audience, and while younger viewers may not pick up on the significance of the moment, you sure do later.
Honestly, I have nothing negative whatsoever to say about this film. Even in Up, which I think is a more emotionally impactful film, I found slight flaws that didn’t work for me. In Toy Story 3 I can’t find any. Visually the film is flawless. Pixar is the gold standard for computer animation and this film is certainly no exceptions. The 2 actions scenes that I mentioned are shot with such scope and detail, that its hard to imagine them looking any better. Even down to the wear and tear on some of the toys, no detail escapes the animators vision. I was especially impressed with small details like Lotsa’s white fur spots being slightly soiled from years of use and the wear and tear on Tag Along Telephone (whose voice work alone made me realize how much I’d love this film, voiced as a quick talking 1930’s prison thug)
The story elements are perfect as well. For a film that straddles so many different genres,. it does so flawlessly. Each character is perfectly rendered and unique, from Woody’s faithful yet slightly acerbic cowboy to Buzz’s machismo laden heroics. Wallace Shaw’s voice work as Rex is always welcome, giving the dinosaur a “mouse that roars” quality. Even the new characters blend in flawlessly. You can actually here Michael Keaton having a blast with the role as the hilariously out-dated and vain Ken. Tom Hanks voice characterization as Woody really grounds the film in believability and gives the audience a great anchoring point in the film. I also thought the sequence where Buzz is reset to Spanish was highly amusing as well. From cocksure tough guy, he turns into a sort of Spanish lothario that adds some much needed humor during a particularly tense action section of the film. I also want to give Ned Beatty props, voicing Lotsa as a gentlemanly southerner, but with the twist of a few words and inflections, gives his huggable bear persona a level of intimidation.
All in all, Toy Story 3 is a triumph of a film. Fun, funny, and poignant it continues to show why Pixar Studios is maybe the best group of film makers in motion pictures today. The film has something for all ages and will be just as good a film at age 6 or 60. In a season of slumping cinema and lackluster films, Toy Story 3 is the first film to live up to its much lauded hype. I personally think that the deal Walt Disney Studios made to incorporate Pixar was both bold and smart. Pixar President John Lassiter knows quality films and I can’t wait to see what they have got coming up next. In the meantime, check out Toy Story 3. It’s a powerful film that delivers on every level. I simply loved it.
End of Line.
Gerrad
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Flash Fiction: Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins
Chapter 18
The screams of the living had fallen silent hours ago, now it was merely the occasional shriek of the undead or the sound of tearing flesh that permeated the mission walls. Father Santiago sat in one of the pews closest to the pulpit, one hand caressing his rosary beads, the other absently patting the gun hidden deep within his robes. He watched the few remaining people under his care either pace the floor uncontrollably or lose themselves in an endless retinue of prayer. Father Santiago himself prayed for some sort of answer, but he knew deep down inside that one wasn't coming. Hell on Earth had come, and there was no salvation for a sinner like him.
They were all in the main chamber of the church, the front doors locked tight. Enrico had over seen the barricading of the door and windows, having pushed rows of empty pews in the way to block the door. Still he looked at the few remaining people with him. Maria and Pedro, the washerwoman and the stable boy. They both had worked for the parish for many years, helping out the church. Maria did their laundry and often helped make meals in exchange for room and board in a small shack on the parish property. Pedro was her son and tended to the small flock of animals on the church grounds. His father had been killed running with a band of outlaws and had led to the duo's adoption by the church.
Lastly were the two junior members of the church staff. Father Ruiz was the elder of the two, though still nearly 15 years Enrico's junior. Earnest and heartfelt, Enrico could see the guilt of leaving the others out to die was weighing heavily on his shoulders. Brother Romero was the youngest of their order, fresh to the parish and on his first mission. He was the most rattled, huddled in front of the effigy of Christ, offering the Lord's prayer over and over.
At first Enrico had tried to bolster their spirits with words and prayers, but after a while, the screams were just to loud and they all fell silent. Enrico finally got up and went upstairs, determined to look out the window and gauge how bad the epidemic outside had gotten. When they first had barricaded the doors, Enrico had watched from the seond floor window. After the first few minutes, he had turned away and kept others from looking, the sights he had seen were even worse than what he had envisioned during the war. Now that the screams had long been silent, he had decided on another look. He told his small clan his intention, and went upstairs, nervously patting the only sign of reassurance he had, the pistol.
He slowly pushed open the window, peeking out. Blood and eviscerated remains lay strewn about the courtyard area. Enrico choked the taste of bile back down his throat. Still, he didn't see any of the creatures on this side of building. Enrico used the few moments he had alone and pulled the gun out from beneath his robes. He held it in his hands, trying to subdue the images of the last time he had held a gun. The images of men's faces staring blankly back at him, their eyes glossy and devoid of life, with him holding the smoking barrel. Still, knowing what lay outside, the even fresher memories of the horrors he had seen just hours earlier over wrought those old images. Pictures of men and women, changed and mutated into some sort of creature, eating the flesh and entrails of the living. Even now, he felt a cold shiver run down his spine.
"FATHER ENRICO! Where did you get that gun!"
Enrico turned around, his head flush with sweat, and saw Father Ruiz looking at him. He still held the gun in his hand, unable to answer. He looked at the gun and to Ruiz, whose dark complexion was a mask of worry and astonishment. Unfortunately for both Father Ruiz and Enrico, there was no time to answer, as the sounds of splintering wood downstairs were accentuated by the screams of Maria. The creatures were breaking through the barricade. Hell would wait no longer.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
The screams of the living had fallen silent hours ago, now it was merely the occasional shriek of the undead or the sound of tearing flesh that permeated the mission walls. Father Santiago sat in one of the pews closest to the pulpit, one hand caressing his rosary beads, the other absently patting the gun hidden deep within his robes. He watched the few remaining people under his care either pace the floor uncontrollably or lose themselves in an endless retinue of prayer. Father Santiago himself prayed for some sort of answer, but he knew deep down inside that one wasn't coming. Hell on Earth had come, and there was no salvation for a sinner like him.
They were all in the main chamber of the church, the front doors locked tight. Enrico had over seen the barricading of the door and windows, having pushed rows of empty pews in the way to block the door. Still he looked at the few remaining people with him. Maria and Pedro, the washerwoman and the stable boy. They both had worked for the parish for many years, helping out the church. Maria did their laundry and often helped make meals in exchange for room and board in a small shack on the parish property. Pedro was her son and tended to the small flock of animals on the church grounds. His father had been killed running with a band of outlaws and had led to the duo's adoption by the church.
Lastly were the two junior members of the church staff. Father Ruiz was the elder of the two, though still nearly 15 years Enrico's junior. Earnest and heartfelt, Enrico could see the guilt of leaving the others out to die was weighing heavily on his shoulders. Brother Romero was the youngest of their order, fresh to the parish and on his first mission. He was the most rattled, huddled in front of the effigy of Christ, offering the Lord's prayer over and over.
At first Enrico had tried to bolster their spirits with words and prayers, but after a while, the screams were just to loud and they all fell silent. Enrico finally got up and went upstairs, determined to look out the window and gauge how bad the epidemic outside had gotten. When they first had barricaded the doors, Enrico had watched from the seond floor window. After the first few minutes, he had turned away and kept others from looking, the sights he had seen were even worse than what he had envisioned during the war. Now that the screams had long been silent, he had decided on another look. He told his small clan his intention, and went upstairs, nervously patting the only sign of reassurance he had, the pistol.
He slowly pushed open the window, peeking out. Blood and eviscerated remains lay strewn about the courtyard area. Enrico choked the taste of bile back down his throat. Still, he didn't see any of the creatures on this side of building. Enrico used the few moments he had alone and pulled the gun out from beneath his robes. He held it in his hands, trying to subdue the images of the last time he had held a gun. The images of men's faces staring blankly back at him, their eyes glossy and devoid of life, with him holding the smoking barrel. Still, knowing what lay outside, the even fresher memories of the horrors he had seen just hours earlier over wrought those old images. Pictures of men and women, changed and mutated into some sort of creature, eating the flesh and entrails of the living. Even now, he felt a cold shiver run down his spine.
"FATHER ENRICO! Where did you get that gun!"
Enrico turned around, his head flush with sweat, and saw Father Ruiz looking at him. He still held the gun in his hand, unable to answer. He looked at the gun and to Ruiz, whose dark complexion was a mask of worry and astonishment. Unfortunately for both Father Ruiz and Enrico, there was no time to answer, as the sounds of splintering wood downstairs were accentuated by the screams of Maria. The creatures were breaking through the barricade. Hell would wait no longer.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Movie Review: Shrek Forever After
Hey all,
It's been out a few weeks already, but I did catch Shrek Forever After a little while back with my niece, in which I got to take her to her first 3D movie. She loved the film and I found it to be a much better turn this time around than the third installment of the series. Shrek 4, for abbreviations sake, was much closer tonally with the second film, not quite managing to over top the magic of the first movie, but retaining enough humor for both adults and children to enjoy equally.
Shrek 4 sees the main cast of the film return. Mike Meyers as the vice of the ogre Shrek, Cameron Diaz as his wife, the once cursed Princess Fiona, Eddie Murphy as Shrek's best friend, the maniacally cheerful Donkey, and Antonio Banderas as Puss in Boots. They all fit in very comfortably and have a great rapport as each character. I also think one of the great bits of Shrek has been the quality of the voice acting, from the main characters to the supporting cast, like the Gingerbread Man, Pinocchio, and the Three Little Pigs, each has a very unique voice and plays really well of each other.
The film starts out with Shrek entering a serious mid life crisis. He's forgotten why his family and friends make him happy, succumbing to the endless repeating of teh same stress filled days. He longs for the days when he was fear as an ogre and just wants to have a bit of freedom, away from his crying infant children and the constant pressures of being a celebrity (for his heroic actions) Everything comes boiling to a head at his triplets first birthday party, where the stresses just get to him and he snaps at everyone. After storming out of the party, he gets into another fight with his wife Fiona and yells at her that he wishes things were the way they use to be before he met her. She leaves him, saddened, and Shrek storms away. Meanwhile, Rumpelstiltskin (voiced by writer Walter Dohrn) overhears Shrek's pleas and conspires to get revenge on Shrek> Years earlier Fiona's parents were willing to sign their kingdom over to Rumple in order to break the curse on their daughter, but seconds before they signed, news reached them of Shrek freeing the Princess. Falling on hard times, Rumple believes this to be his big break and tricks Shrek into signing a contract with him. In exchange or granting him a single day to be the ogre he use to be, Shrek agrees to give up a single day from his childhood. Little does Shrek know that the single day he gives up is the day of his birth.
At first Shrek enjoys his time, scaring villagers and living the carefree lifestyle, but when Shrek realizes the enormity of his problem, he sets about to confront Rumple and reclaim his wife and friends, who no longer know who he is. After confronting Rumple, he and Donkey escape slavery to join up with Fiona and her ogre resistance force, which is dedicated to stopping Rumple who has now taken over the kingdom thanks to Shrek's failure to save the Princess. With no Price Charming to save her, Fiona had to save herself and has become embittered about the thought of love. Shrek finds out the one loophole in Rumple's contract is that he has one day to make Fiona, his true love, fall in love with him again or he ceases to be. The question is, can he make someone believe in love who doesn't anymore.
Overall the film does find a nice balance of comedy and drama, really bridging a nice gap with the series and righting the ship a bit for the franchise as a whole. Myers brings his usual charm to the role while Murphy continues to churn out a better comedic performance in these films than in most of his live action ones. I wish we had a bit more of the supporting cast though, other than the introduction of Rumple, many of the characters that they have developed over the past 3 films kind of fall to the wayside here and they don't really bring in anyone new. I'm sure Puss in Boots, arguably the break out star of the previous installments, has a lot on tap for his own planned feature next year, but I'd have liked to seen the Gingerbread Man or one of the other characters accelerated.
One of the things you cannot question is the films look. The animation is spotless, you can really see the smoothness and the texturing in this film is on a whole new level in comparison to earlier installments. They also did a great job with the 3D. While not the best 3D film to date, I like that they used 3D to enhance the picture and didn't add a bunch of sequences to highlight the fact that it was in 3D. Nothing felt forced or wedged in like I have seen in other 3D adaptions. Dreamworks has really established itself as a potential threat in terms o animation quality with the likes of Disney, though everyone is still chasing the masters at Pixar.
it's certainly hard to match the quality of storytelling in a sequel, especially when one compares it to the source film. Very few films get better as they are sequeled and even more get worse after that. It was nice to see a film improve after having such a lackluster third installment. While Shrek Forever After may or may not be the swan song for every one's favorite ogre, it is a much more fitting chapter to end the series on if it does. Though i still believe there are more tales to tell in this world, Shrek 4 is one of the few films this year to not disappoint. I had a good time with the film, and while I wouldn't call it a masterpiece, in a struggling cinematic environment like the one at the box office today, it is a fitting use of your money and will deliver on the promise of a few laughs. If you liked Shrek 2, then you'll like Shrek 4. Thanks for reading!
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Poetry: Begin the Begain
Hey all,
Another bit of a publishing break but hopefully I can keep up a better and more productive clip. I have been working on blog posts the past few days, trying to get a few good entries on. I re-wrote that last chapter of Dead Sun about 4 times before I posed the version you read. I wasn't fully happy with how i captured the scene, but in the end I got it to a point where I though that I could live with.
As for this poem, I've written it a few times over the course of the last few months, scrapping and starting over, mostly using the poems title, a play on words from an old Fred Astaire dance routine that I liked the sound of, though I have modified it to my purpose. Begain isn't really a word, the original word I based it on was Beguine, which is a type of ballroom dance. As I modified the word, begain means to go back to the beginning of where you once were, sort of like to begin again. Begain. I liked that I invented a word to tell a story, and for that alone the poem is a positive one. Enjoy the poem and I'll be back with more work as soon as I can. Thanks for sticking it out with me.
Begin the Begain
Softest sounds on the oldest road,
Sweetest tears tell a well worn code.
Blackest hearts bleed the brightest blood,
While gentle streams grow to bursting flood.
Unknown eyes follow familiar details,
As fickle fate tempts life's new trails.
Unwashed of filth, the darkest stain,
To be clean within, and begin the begain.
Bad decisions and choices once made,
Ring the dirt, and never quite fade.
Each moment much worse, till the bristols brown.
As darker times engulf the broken ground.
While hateful words give to bitter days,
This calloused soul wanders astray.
And each moment you fall further from me,
The more subtly stings the regretful agony.
As faceless dreams besiege my sleep,
This painful harvest that I reap.
Those simple words I should have said,
Lost again, stricken by a heart left dead.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Another bit of a publishing break but hopefully I can keep up a better and more productive clip. I have been working on blog posts the past few days, trying to get a few good entries on. I re-wrote that last chapter of Dead Sun about 4 times before I posed the version you read. I wasn't fully happy with how i captured the scene, but in the end I got it to a point where I though that I could live with.
As for this poem, I've written it a few times over the course of the last few months, scrapping and starting over, mostly using the poems title, a play on words from an old Fred Astaire dance routine that I liked the sound of, though I have modified it to my purpose. Begain isn't really a word, the original word I based it on was Beguine, which is a type of ballroom dance. As I modified the word, begain means to go back to the beginning of where you once were, sort of like to begin again. Begain. I liked that I invented a word to tell a story, and for that alone the poem is a positive one. Enjoy the poem and I'll be back with more work as soon as I can. Thanks for sticking it out with me.
Begin the Begain
Softest sounds on the oldest road,
Sweetest tears tell a well worn code.
Blackest hearts bleed the brightest blood,
While gentle streams grow to bursting flood.
Unknown eyes follow familiar details,
As fickle fate tempts life's new trails.
Unwashed of filth, the darkest stain,
To be clean within, and begin the begain.
Bad decisions and choices once made,
Ring the dirt, and never quite fade.
Each moment much worse, till the bristols brown.
As darker times engulf the broken ground.
While hateful words give to bitter days,
This calloused soul wanders astray.
And each moment you fall further from me,
The more subtly stings the regretful agony.
As faceless dreams besiege my sleep,
This painful harvest that I reap.
Those simple words I should have said,
Lost again, stricken by a heart left dead.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Friday, June 11, 2010
Flash Fiction: Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins
Chapter 17
Eva shot out, jerking Emily back from the creature, which snapped its jaws wildly at her, blood and slaver spewing from its maw. The monster rolled off the couch and onto the floor, flailing inside the linens that it had been wrapped in. Eva looked up and watched Rex kick himself back from the creature. He was on the floor, clutching a bloody hand, as he worked his way from the trashing creature. Eva pushed out the hysterical maid and slapped her thigh, feeling for the comfort of her gun. Her hand came away empty though, her gunbelt still hanging from the hook in her room.
"FUCKER!"
Eva angrily turned back into the parlor, watching as the creature ripped free the last remnants of the sheets and hungrily approached Rex, who had pulled himself upright. Blood was freely flowing from his hand and he was grimacing in pain clutching at his ruined fingers. Eva looked for something she could use as a weapon, anything to slow the monster down. Finally seeing no alternative, she dove at the beasts legs, knocking it down in a pile. Rex dived sidelong and grunted in pain as he landed hard on his bad hand. The thing that had been Evan hit hard as ell, Eva laying across its knees.
Reacting quickly, she jumped up, driving a knee into the monsters back and grabbing a fist full of the creatures thin lanky hair. Rearing back, she pulled as hard as she could and drove its face into the wood paneled floor. She repeated the blow, driving the clamping jaw again so hard she hear the bone crack. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the creatures claws reaching back, thick black nails flexed towards her. One knee still in the monsters back, she kicked her free leg wide and drive the claw down. She stamped her boot repeatedly on his hand, making a thick, pussy pulp of the claw after a moment. Eva also arched away from the other claw that was reaching for her, but with her weight and position on its back, it couldn't get close.
Eva pounded the things face again, before it flexed mightily, arching its back. Eva, losing her position, kicked off, scrambling backwards. Turning halfway, she came up in a roll at the entrance to the parlor. Rex was leaning heavily against the doorway, face flushed and breathing hard. She turned her gaze back to the monster, who had rolled over itself and slowly standing up. One of its hands was uselessly hanging from its side, while the other supported itself against the couch. It's face though was a mess of broken bone and shattered black teeth. Thick congealed rivulets of black and green blood and pus streamed from it's face, as it tried to work its broken jaw open. It's eyes settled in on Rex though, black and gaze-less, and shuffled forward towards him, it's broken jaw giving him a crooked smile. Eva shot a glance at Rex, who just grimaced.
Then she heard the sounds of her fathers wheelchair, and looked at Thomas pushed her father don the hall. Her eyes fixed on the gun at his hip.She reacted quickly, bounding down the hall quickly and pushing Thomas' arm up, drawing the gun in a smooth motion. She thumbed open the barrel, ensuring that Moore at least kept the fucking thing loaded, and spun the chamber shut once she was assured. She heard Moore and her father say something, but she ignored their pleas and went back to Rex, who was creeping father back, his ruined hand leaving a trail of blood down the corridor walls.
Eva rounded up, leveling the revolver between her and the creature at it turned around the corner and fired twice, working the hammer in quick succession. Both shots hit the creature square in the chest, the close range knocking the monster off its feet. Eva sighed deeply, wiping the sweat from her brow, when she sa the creature move again, slowly rolling over and pulling itself upright once more.
'Mother fucker."
Eva thumbed the hammer back again and used the heel of her boot to kick the creature hard in the mouth, knocking the shuffling thing onto its back. Then she squeezed the trigger again, point blank, between the monster eyes. There was an explosion of black liquid as the creatures brains splayed against the floorboards. Finally though, it fell silent and motionless, its dead eyes staring up at her. Eva kept the gun trained on the monster, the adrenalin coursing through her as crashing into her nerves as her brain began to comprehend hat exactly was happening. Her hand began to shake uncontrollably as she stood over the monster, the gun still pointed at the thing, until she felt the calloused hand of her father run up her arm and ease the gun down. She fell to her knees, body wracking with sobs as she cried into her father's crippled lap. Her cries were muffled and she buried her face deep into her fathers chest, and were not broken until Rex, pale and sweaty, fell to the floor. He was clutching the hand where he had been bitten by the monster. His eyes unfocused and dreamy as he grunted in pain. Yet all Eva could see through her tear strained eyes was Rex's hand. Bitten by the creature. Bitten like Evan had been.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Eva shot out, jerking Emily back from the creature, which snapped its jaws wildly at her, blood and slaver spewing from its maw. The monster rolled off the couch and onto the floor, flailing inside the linens that it had been wrapped in. Eva looked up and watched Rex kick himself back from the creature. He was on the floor, clutching a bloody hand, as he worked his way from the trashing creature. Eva pushed out the hysterical maid and slapped her thigh, feeling for the comfort of her gun. Her hand came away empty though, her gunbelt still hanging from the hook in her room.
"FUCKER!"
Eva angrily turned back into the parlor, watching as the creature ripped free the last remnants of the sheets and hungrily approached Rex, who had pulled himself upright. Blood was freely flowing from his hand and he was grimacing in pain clutching at his ruined fingers. Eva looked for something she could use as a weapon, anything to slow the monster down. Finally seeing no alternative, she dove at the beasts legs, knocking it down in a pile. Rex dived sidelong and grunted in pain as he landed hard on his bad hand. The thing that had been Evan hit hard as ell, Eva laying across its knees.
Reacting quickly, she jumped up, driving a knee into the monsters back and grabbing a fist full of the creatures thin lanky hair. Rearing back, she pulled as hard as she could and drove its face into the wood paneled floor. She repeated the blow, driving the clamping jaw again so hard she hear the bone crack. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the creatures claws reaching back, thick black nails flexed towards her. One knee still in the monsters back, she kicked her free leg wide and drive the claw down. She stamped her boot repeatedly on his hand, making a thick, pussy pulp of the claw after a moment. Eva also arched away from the other claw that was reaching for her, but with her weight and position on its back, it couldn't get close.
Eva pounded the things face again, before it flexed mightily, arching its back. Eva, losing her position, kicked off, scrambling backwards. Turning halfway, she came up in a roll at the entrance to the parlor. Rex was leaning heavily against the doorway, face flushed and breathing hard. She turned her gaze back to the monster, who had rolled over itself and slowly standing up. One of its hands was uselessly hanging from its side, while the other supported itself against the couch. It's face though was a mess of broken bone and shattered black teeth. Thick congealed rivulets of black and green blood and pus streamed from it's face, as it tried to work its broken jaw open. It's eyes settled in on Rex though, black and gaze-less, and shuffled forward towards him, it's broken jaw giving him a crooked smile. Eva shot a glance at Rex, who just grimaced.
Then she heard the sounds of her fathers wheelchair, and looked at Thomas pushed her father don the hall. Her eyes fixed on the gun at his hip.She reacted quickly, bounding down the hall quickly and pushing Thomas' arm up, drawing the gun in a smooth motion. She thumbed open the barrel, ensuring that Moore at least kept the fucking thing loaded, and spun the chamber shut once she was assured. She heard Moore and her father say something, but she ignored their pleas and went back to Rex, who was creeping father back, his ruined hand leaving a trail of blood down the corridor walls.
Eva rounded up, leveling the revolver between her and the creature at it turned around the corner and fired twice, working the hammer in quick succession. Both shots hit the creature square in the chest, the close range knocking the monster off its feet. Eva sighed deeply, wiping the sweat from her brow, when she sa the creature move again, slowly rolling over and pulling itself upright once more.
'Mother fucker."
Eva thumbed the hammer back again and used the heel of her boot to kick the creature hard in the mouth, knocking the shuffling thing onto its back. Then she squeezed the trigger again, point blank, between the monster eyes. There was an explosion of black liquid as the creatures brains splayed against the floorboards. Finally though, it fell silent and motionless, its dead eyes staring up at her. Eva kept the gun trained on the monster, the adrenalin coursing through her as crashing into her nerves as her brain began to comprehend hat exactly was happening. Her hand began to shake uncontrollably as she stood over the monster, the gun still pointed at the thing, until she felt the calloused hand of her father run up her arm and ease the gun down. She fell to her knees, body wracking with sobs as she cried into her father's crippled lap. Her cries were muffled and she buried her face deep into her fathers chest, and were not broken until Rex, pale and sweaty, fell to the floor. He was clutching the hand where he had been bitten by the monster. His eyes unfocused and dreamy as he grunted in pain. Yet all Eva could see through her tear strained eyes was Rex's hand. Bitten by the creature. Bitten like Evan had been.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Assorted Nuts!
Happy June Everyone!
Another month has passed as we reach the mid point of the year. I took a few moments to reflect on what I have been working on over the past 6 months, and while I feel that volume 2 of Under a Dead Sun might be one of the better things I have written, as well as being one of the few things that when I re-read doesn't fill me with self loathing, I can't help but feel discouraged a bit. My productivity is down. Way down. Last year I posted nearly a 190 times, the year before, nearly 230. Yet now I am merely on track to post about 140 times. I thought that last years output offered a nice range of material, better writing and more thoughtful production. While I AM happy with the quality of the things I amdoing, I guess I feel I should be more productive.
Still lets focus on some bright spots. Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins has been a real treat to write. i honestly look forward to writing these installments each week and I have been anxiously waiting to craft the last story centering around Morgan. Facing his on daughter like that was a moment I had thought up early on in the series, in my attempt to give each character a different kind of troubled past, forcing a man to kill his own beloved family was one of the first things I had thought up. Really each character has come into their own for me and I am looking forward to the coming tales, where barring a story change, should see some of the cast begin to come together in the wider tale of things.
I also hope to get back to some more poetry after really struggling with inspiration for topics this month. It took far to long to hammer that last oeice out into something resembling a decent attempt. Hopefully I can find a bit or illumination and not have so much struggle with them. Plus you can look forward to my next installment of the Movie Rewind where I will continue to highlight great actresses of Hollyood's Golden Age taking a peak at Audrey Hepburn.
Still, I'd love to hear your thoughts on Dead Sun and any feedback you have about my work. Good and bad, anything to help me get better. Thanks for reading and I'll try to do better this month.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Another month has passed as we reach the mid point of the year. I took a few moments to reflect on what I have been working on over the past 6 months, and while I feel that volume 2 of Under a Dead Sun might be one of the better things I have written, as well as being one of the few things that when I re-read doesn't fill me with self loathing, I can't help but feel discouraged a bit. My productivity is down. Way down. Last year I posted nearly a 190 times, the year before, nearly 230. Yet now I am merely on track to post about 140 times. I thought that last years output offered a nice range of material, better writing and more thoughtful production. While I AM happy with the quality of the things I amdoing, I guess I feel I should be more productive.
Still lets focus on some bright spots. Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins has been a real treat to write. i honestly look forward to writing these installments each week and I have been anxiously waiting to craft the last story centering around Morgan. Facing his on daughter like that was a moment I had thought up early on in the series, in my attempt to give each character a different kind of troubled past, forcing a man to kill his own beloved family was one of the first things I had thought up. Really each character has come into their own for me and I am looking forward to the coming tales, where barring a story change, should see some of the cast begin to come together in the wider tale of things.
I also hope to get back to some more poetry after really struggling with inspiration for topics this month. It took far to long to hammer that last oeice out into something resembling a decent attempt. Hopefully I can find a bit or illumination and not have so much struggle with them. Plus you can look forward to my next installment of the Movie Rewind where I will continue to highlight great actresses of Hollyood's Golden Age taking a peak at Audrey Hepburn.
Still, I'd love to hear your thoughts on Dead Sun and any feedback you have about my work. Good and bad, anything to help me get better. Thanks for reading and I'll try to do better this month.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Monday, May 31, 2010
Flash Fiction: Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins
Chapter 16
Morgan sat on the ground, his dead wife laying just feet from him, dirty streaks lining his face from where he had cried. His hands ached from clenching them so tightly and he tried to not make eye contact with the thing that had once been his wife. Still, there was that soft cry that echoed in the air, drifting from the upturned grave of his wife in the garden, a cry that chilled Morgan Randall's far bones deeper than even that of killing his wife for a second time. Randall wasn't sure how long he sat there, minutes, hours, time seemed to blend together. He never looked at the Black Sun above him, simply staring out into the the empty fields he had once envisioned filling with his wife. Finally Morgan rolled over and slowly pulled himself to his feet, trying to ignore the dull ache that stemmed inside him.
His battered body was caked with sweat and dirt, the cut along his arm having dried a bloody trail down to his wrist. He watched his hat on the ground as it ruffled in the slight wind, but left it there as he slowly hobbled to the barn. He ran his hands through his hair, brushing them away from his eyes and felt the salty residue of his sweat. The doors were still open to the barn from this morning and he went inside, returning seconds later with a shovel. He slowly walked towards the upturned grave, the mewling cries still echoing in the air around them, only stopping when he was a few steps shy of the grave. He looked at the churned earth around the grave, seeing his wife's precious bluebells uprooted and laying on the ground. The bluebells that had once been the sole bright spot of the farm. Taking a deep breath, Morgan steeled himself and crossed the last few steps.
He looked into the grave to find his stillborn daughter kicking her arms and legs. Her tiny fingers had morphed to black points, though not as long or as deadly as his wife's. Her tiny mouth was also distended, though she had no teeth to nash at him with. Still, her skin had sallowed and turned a mottled yellow while her eyes had become as blackened as the sun above. Eyes that looked up at him, dead and devoid of emotion. Slowly, Morgan lifted the shovel, closing his eyes and begged for forgiveness, and for the second time today, killed someone he loved again.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Morgan sat on the ground, his dead wife laying just feet from him, dirty streaks lining his face from where he had cried. His hands ached from clenching them so tightly and he tried to not make eye contact with the thing that had once been his wife. Still, there was that soft cry that echoed in the air, drifting from the upturned grave of his wife in the garden, a cry that chilled Morgan Randall's far bones deeper than even that of killing his wife for a second time. Randall wasn't sure how long he sat there, minutes, hours, time seemed to blend together. He never looked at the Black Sun above him, simply staring out into the the empty fields he had once envisioned filling with his wife. Finally Morgan rolled over and slowly pulled himself to his feet, trying to ignore the dull ache that stemmed inside him.
His battered body was caked with sweat and dirt, the cut along his arm having dried a bloody trail down to his wrist. He watched his hat on the ground as it ruffled in the slight wind, but left it there as he slowly hobbled to the barn. He ran his hands through his hair, brushing them away from his eyes and felt the salty residue of his sweat. The doors were still open to the barn from this morning and he went inside, returning seconds later with a shovel. He slowly walked towards the upturned grave, the mewling cries still echoing in the air around them, only stopping when he was a few steps shy of the grave. He looked at the churned earth around the grave, seeing his wife's precious bluebells uprooted and laying on the ground. The bluebells that had once been the sole bright spot of the farm. Taking a deep breath, Morgan steeled himself and crossed the last few steps.
He looked into the grave to find his stillborn daughter kicking her arms and legs. Her tiny fingers had morphed to black points, though not as long or as deadly as his wife's. Her tiny mouth was also distended, though she had no teeth to nash at him with. Still, her skin had sallowed and turned a mottled yellow while her eyes had become as blackened as the sun above. Eyes that looked up at him, dead and devoid of emotion. Slowly, Morgan lifted the shovel, closing his eyes and begged for forgiveness, and for the second time today, killed someone he loved again.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
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