Enjoying all the nudity before yahoo comes in and moms it all up.
I finally mailed some samples of my comic to a few small publishers. I now realize there is something worse than the rejection letter. No letter at all.
Entered the MOCCA Arts Festival with a mini comic of “The Thing from New Zealand”. Gary Groth of Fantagraphics is one of the judges.
It was cold. They were cool, riding the poured concrete apron of the aquaduct. Nearby were the manmade waterfalls that connected the reservoir to the river. The falls weren’t very high. Fifteen feet, and the water that spilt over was only a few feet wide, but you would probably break something if you fell off of it. The boys skated and howled. Their voices echo off the concrete. Their breath burst from their mouths in huge clouds of vapor. It was just past dusk. The security floodlights of the nearby pumping station had just come on. That seemed to energize them even more. Banging their boards, gliding, grinding, each accompanied by a long shadow. Places where trees blocked the light created deep holes of black. It seemed like you could fall into them.
The oldest, tallest boy, who also happened to have weathly parents who spoiled him badly in exchange for not having anything else to do with him, walked to the edge of the dam, in a section that was not lit by the floods. It was gloomy enough that you could make out the moon rising up to illuminate the edges of clouds of the chilly night. He looked out over the river and trees lining the banks, and the woods beyond. He could see the first stars of the evening. He did not enjoy the beauty, though. He didn’t feel wonder, or content, or freedom. He only felt his own empty, angry soul. He stood looking out but not seeing. He was wrapped in a blanket of resent and self pity. He hid it well. When he was with his buds, he could be funny, cool, even charming, but he always simmered. The world owed him something.
What he didn’t realize was he was a sociopath. Years of emotional neglect and a specific brain chemistry had made him this way. He did not crave connections, or love, or intellectual companionship. He craved dominance. At sixteen he knew what he wanted. He was studying finance. Already he had invested and day traded enough to pay for his first year of college. Not that he would have to. He wasn’t miserly. He understood that the illusion of expansive generosity, and outfitting yourself in style were valuable traits to cultivate. It brought people closer, made them let their guard down. Then you could discover their weaknesses. He never felt as though he was financially secure. It was a given that he would find his was into an ivy league school and then to a successful career of some sort. His parents would support whatever he wished to pursue, as long as he was at arms length. Which was okay by him. He no longer craved their attention. Not since he was little.
He craved wealth. He understood instinctively, money was power. Power allowed you to dominate. He dominated his friends now, but in subtle ways. Kids were fickle, if you were too cruel, they would just avoid you, no matter how much you bribed them.
His friend walked up, holding his board. He looked out over the picturesque moonrise, and said “Awesome moon dude! Check it out!” He looked at his friend with a mixture of disgust and bemusement. He kicked out and swept his friend’s legs out from under him and the other boy tumbled down the culvert into the falls below. He didn’t even have time to scream. The shocked look on the falling boy’s face made him chuckle out loud and then he remembered to scream “NOOOO!!”
He knew instinctively that if the boy survived, he could spin it into a tragic tale of slippage on mossy rocks. The other boys ran over and peered down into the gloom where the fallen boy moaned in pain. He smiled to himself as he punched in the numbers on his cell. The voice on the line said “911, what is you emergency?”. He answered with a pained hitch in his voice “help…”.
Sent from my Kindle Fire
The origin of the Santa hat. Early Skandinavians would wear armored helmets with chains attached, that ended in spiked metal balls called flails. They would duel by swinging the chained flails around their heads. Skandinavian death metal bands swing their hair around to this day in honor of those early duels.
The provisional decooktive. Xerox pasteup posters. Giant parasitic flatworm worshiping punk chicks. Black caddy sliding an escape through dank snowy city streets. Undercover methcook detective. Top hat and leather and Jean jacket, lost and in over his head. Part of the western failed state scenario. A biker town of mud and cracked concrete. Big house Party its all over. Turn around above the sound of the band. Windows breaking laughing screaming clubbing kids down to feed the gluey slick hooked barbed spines of the phallic lamprey gods.
This is a new thing I’m experiencing. I’m used to writing verses for songs. They have a regular rhymey rythm. These new things are dreams that want to be born into the waking world as poems.