Joshua Jones's Blog, page 4
June 13, 2012
Diary of Joshua AKA @JLAJones Part 2
Hi, Hello, Hey and Howdy,
If you could spare a moment and look at Mark and my Kickstarter campaign for our project titled Horsemen, that'd be great. Instant rewards. Just look in the project description. Here's the link-> http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1130379423/horsemen
And so, here's part 2 to my limited journal from when I was but a nutter of a boy clouded by mystery, darkness, hormones and booze. Cheers!
Journal 2
Vacillations and vicissitudes going to places in my thoughts and
dismal daydreams of layered fabric into tapestries of time and a place
with no space, a perfect plenum. Seeing seas and storms flowing, sitting
at tops of trees with the fragile mist chilling the organs and the blood.
Surrounded by myths and obstructions and monoliths are signs of
realness at every edge of the realm on the crooked brick stairs in the back
of an ancient sullen house made of uneven stone cold as the mist,
but without greetings and sensation. Droplets of reminders course down
my back, a tingle as recollections of the coarse experience in the depths
of a moonless night where proclamations of the one question and
supplications for help relayed the sonorous fright. Voices that are never
heard drown and fade away automatically and proceed backwards.
Sometimes I hate pathetic fallacy.
In the beginning we are alone but individuality is a test; the separateness
searching for a station in life or at least a place to sleep without
interruption. No, there are no divine exams.
Mostly these illuminations are never found in daydreams, no
radiance before the dawn. It is the search that drives primal suggestion
to the pointed faculties of mind in the climax that there is
struggle, strain, strenuous suffrage, and to wear this is too much to bare.
Bombarded by blocking thoughts or meditations unnerved by anxious
hooks in the stomach reel us into physicality. Uncertainty looms as a
weaver in the back of the mind stringing the high strung, dangling
a statement, “It is a waste of time”. Go on like the dreaming ocean of
ensuing devotion and to do all that others say is impossibility, in
the eventual outcome it is will or the lack of that will kill.
Or are we all lying?
Are we creations and creators? Maybe just some infernal joke or
an excuse of some other? Artists, we all
are! Damnable polysyndetonic syntax.
We must take a step out of life as the snake out of its skin, oh no, sexual
symbolism, so to shed the opaque covering of the eyes, and see
the hive hunting its impervious prey in the forest of the twilight
as we are tinted a King Cobra gray. Sorry William! No tiger.
When you are on the safari yourself you never see anything but
the targeted, and everything is a target as you are and will be.
To be an artist might be to document behavior, culture, social problems,
perceptions, deviations, and the vile as well as pitiful conditions.
These are targets and artists are fundamental targets. Maybe artists are
simply sociopaths with outlets besides human destruction medicated
with a
placebo?
Naughty, naughty, don’t worry it is all bullshit made up as we go along
with the influence of the past astonishment and creation. In all media
they trying not to overtly plagiarize. Artists are just thieves stealing
from others’ lives as well as their own and other artist’s work, just
recombinant conditions. Everything is communication through
symbolism and that is what people do so we let you do it and then modify
and regurgitate it back to you in a nice mix of acid and beauty. Sometimes
we pretend that we know what we are doing.
Maybe it is about deliverance from insignificance and the token
realization that the metaphysical connotation of living may not be
anything but us fish swimming from danger and a flight into the open
sea’s light or no? The insatiable calamity has no relief
as stars, designated constellations, or personal
suns.
It is just the universe mumbling and
self-esteem draws death, as said before life is a theft but death
is something life lives in. I don’t want to be this mumble or this simple
horrible
mortality.
Fraud is the most genuine thing we have. Love, emotions, plastic
moldings of the face. Truth, beauty continually erased but seldom ugly.
Trite, banality never fugacious these things are to determined to exist
through comfort. Once we are engaged, we are too blinded to redeem
identity. Even the silly plastic moldings on my face find their ways to
violate the daydreams and rip the layered fabric.
Targets are acquired but life never concludes while you are watching
as absolutes never existed anyway. An artist’s creation?
Or a bullshit excuse? A plagiarized science experiment forgotten to
its own devices?
***
Creators and creations are developed myths of martyrs and
meeker manifestations. And by the way,
Beauty is not all we need to know ugliness is just as relevant.
Everything once was and will be symbolism and if GOD exists and knows
all pain I am sorry it had to feel mine, but I didn’t want to be this way
it is too convoluted without prenatal talent displaying itself
so not to decide.
The act of deciding is probably the point but how trite is that because
everyone must do it except……..
***
GENIUSES and trust fund babies.
***
Nope, I wanted to be something else.
I wanted to be Nietzsche, Jimi Hendrix and Bruce Lee.
I wanted my ideas to manifest and spread for all to see.
I want my will to be fulfilled and be an earthly guru.
I want to be an evangelistic with philosophy and music
and to be feared so nobody will try to fight me.
I want others to add to my images and progress in a radiant form
of talent of soul, mind and body. My shadow would cast darkness
and doubt on deluded ambition and would create a resolute condition of
creativity. Meeting the godhead and conversing having power
without corruption.
Thoughts could be mutable flesh.
***
Once in a time before thoughts escaped and became.
They fell to freedom on their own.
We went on in different stratified existence and
they went on in an innocuous form independent from us. As once they
were just ideas as we were just ideas and it could happen again.
We might encounter a thought from GOD and the infinite choir as GOD
Maybe? or even something beyond comprehension. But on a side note
I don’t want to die of syphilis or any remiss vomiting events.
I don’t want to die from some death touch or allergic reactions.
***
Hell’s fury can come from women but it is not the only scorn, I don’t want
to die at all and maybe in the future of
genetics
and bio-engineering I won’t. Probably not in my lifetime I want
to be delivered into my daydreams without plastic moldings
and cold stones. It is just another stupid opinion on another earthly
rotation in this mortal condition. I never thought I'd hate being human
and I don't feel like one.
If you could spare a moment and look at Mark and my Kickstarter campaign for our project titled Horsemen, that'd be great. Instant rewards. Just look in the project description. Here's the link-> http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1130379423/horsemen
And so, here's part 2 to my limited journal from when I was but a nutter of a boy clouded by mystery, darkness, hormones and booze. Cheers!
Journal 2
Vacillations and vicissitudes going to places in my thoughts and
dismal daydreams of layered fabric into tapestries of time and a place
with no space, a perfect plenum. Seeing seas and storms flowing, sitting
at tops of trees with the fragile mist chilling the organs and the blood.
Surrounded by myths and obstructions and monoliths are signs of
realness at every edge of the realm on the crooked brick stairs in the back
of an ancient sullen house made of uneven stone cold as the mist,
but without greetings and sensation. Droplets of reminders course down
my back, a tingle as recollections of the coarse experience in the depths
of a moonless night where proclamations of the one question and
supplications for help relayed the sonorous fright. Voices that are never
heard drown and fade away automatically and proceed backwards.
Sometimes I hate pathetic fallacy.
In the beginning we are alone but individuality is a test; the separateness
searching for a station in life or at least a place to sleep without
interruption. No, there are no divine exams.
Mostly these illuminations are never found in daydreams, no
radiance before the dawn. It is the search that drives primal suggestion
to the pointed faculties of mind in the climax that there is
struggle, strain, strenuous suffrage, and to wear this is too much to bare.
Bombarded by blocking thoughts or meditations unnerved by anxious
hooks in the stomach reel us into physicality. Uncertainty looms as a
weaver in the back of the mind stringing the high strung, dangling
a statement, “It is a waste of time”. Go on like the dreaming ocean of
ensuing devotion and to do all that others say is impossibility, in
the eventual outcome it is will or the lack of that will kill.
Or are we all lying?
Are we creations and creators? Maybe just some infernal joke or
an excuse of some other? Artists, we all
are! Damnable polysyndetonic syntax.
We must take a step out of life as the snake out of its skin, oh no, sexual
symbolism, so to shed the opaque covering of the eyes, and see
the hive hunting its impervious prey in the forest of the twilight
as we are tinted a King Cobra gray. Sorry William! No tiger.
When you are on the safari yourself you never see anything but
the targeted, and everything is a target as you are and will be.
To be an artist might be to document behavior, culture, social problems,
perceptions, deviations, and the vile as well as pitiful conditions.
These are targets and artists are fundamental targets. Maybe artists are
simply sociopaths with outlets besides human destruction medicated
with a
placebo?
Naughty, naughty, don’t worry it is all bullshit made up as we go along
with the influence of the past astonishment and creation. In all media
they trying not to overtly plagiarize. Artists are just thieves stealing
from others’ lives as well as their own and other artist’s work, just
recombinant conditions. Everything is communication through
symbolism and that is what people do so we let you do it and then modify
and regurgitate it back to you in a nice mix of acid and beauty. Sometimes
we pretend that we know what we are doing.
Maybe it is about deliverance from insignificance and the token
realization that the metaphysical connotation of living may not be
anything but us fish swimming from danger and a flight into the open
sea’s light or no? The insatiable calamity has no relief
as stars, designated constellations, or personal
suns.
It is just the universe mumbling and
self-esteem draws death, as said before life is a theft but death
is something life lives in. I don’t want to be this mumble or this simple
horrible
mortality.
Fraud is the most genuine thing we have. Love, emotions, plastic
moldings of the face. Truth, beauty continually erased but seldom ugly.
Trite, banality never fugacious these things are to determined to exist
through comfort. Once we are engaged, we are too blinded to redeem
identity. Even the silly plastic moldings on my face find their ways to
violate the daydreams and rip the layered fabric.
Targets are acquired but life never concludes while you are watching
as absolutes never existed anyway. An artist’s creation?
Or a bullshit excuse? A plagiarized science experiment forgotten to
its own devices?
***
Creators and creations are developed myths of martyrs and
meeker manifestations. And by the way,
Beauty is not all we need to know ugliness is just as relevant.
Everything once was and will be symbolism and if GOD exists and knows
all pain I am sorry it had to feel mine, but I didn’t want to be this way
it is too convoluted without prenatal talent displaying itself
so not to decide.
The act of deciding is probably the point but how trite is that because
everyone must do it except……..
***
GENIUSES and trust fund babies.
***
Nope, I wanted to be something else.
I wanted to be Nietzsche, Jimi Hendrix and Bruce Lee.
I wanted my ideas to manifest and spread for all to see.
I want my will to be fulfilled and be an earthly guru.
I want to be an evangelistic with philosophy and music
and to be feared so nobody will try to fight me.
I want others to add to my images and progress in a radiant form
of talent of soul, mind and body. My shadow would cast darkness
and doubt on deluded ambition and would create a resolute condition of
creativity. Meeting the godhead and conversing having power
without corruption.
Thoughts could be mutable flesh.
***
Once in a time before thoughts escaped and became.
They fell to freedom on their own.
We went on in different stratified existence and
they went on in an innocuous form independent from us. As once they
were just ideas as we were just ideas and it could happen again.
We might encounter a thought from GOD and the infinite choir as GOD
Maybe? or even something beyond comprehension. But on a side note
I don’t want to die of syphilis or any remiss vomiting events.
I don’t want to die from some death touch or allergic reactions.
***
Hell’s fury can come from women but it is not the only scorn, I don’t want
to die at all and maybe in the future of
genetics
and bio-engineering I won’t. Probably not in my lifetime I want
to be delivered into my daydreams without plastic moldings
and cold stones. It is just another stupid opinion on another earthly
rotation in this mortal condition. I never thought I'd hate being human
and I don't feel like one.
June 9, 2012
Diary of Joshua from college
If you haven't already looked at Mark and my Kickstarter campaign, we humbly beseech that you do. Help support indy artists and writers. http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1130379423/horsemen
And now for the diary entry I did when I was 21 and in college. I see the mania and remember the events that began to spiral out of control, which lead to this exercise. This is the first of three entries and the only time I wrote a journal in my life. Have fun.
Journal (plus or minus a day)
I want to crush happiness today and the hallucinations continue along
with the overwhelming over-developed sleep and circadian rhythms.
I am never slightly rested and refreshed and reality seems to be slightly
out-of-phase-and-pace with the natural world. I wish and supplicate
for forgiveness and ascendancy to another avatar or incarnation or
whatever the letters of the day say.
I am profound and profoundly sad with absconding bits of trivia
called happy thoughts and it needs to be a cognitive transcendence.
I in physical means, I mean nothing and must move to another state
and it is not California.
***
I mean, maybe, a sensual suicide to the instinct drive can take us
beyond Nirvana.
Happiness is relative and not a right as the
foolish, antiquated Constitution contends as it edges are foxed and brown.
Emotions seem to have
evolved to be the causation of behavioral changes and controls to
create cohesion in the family and individual ties.
Emotions are
too dangerous for this simplistic species or maybe that is why?
They will destroy themselves with their own hands masturbating away
until the universe turns off the porn and sends them into a stammer with
a quick slap to the groin. Auto-erotic chokers swing themselves
because they believe it will get just a little more. A sensual suicide, I wish
not to indulge but they do it because they feel it might be their last so
they must get more, and more and eventual it will kill them but save
them from further fears. Without elevated consciousness, species wide,
then this world is doomed, as a term for destiny, for homo-sapiens and
hopefully.
I am not so hopeful for myself, but my own fears keep me from doing
what I should have done years ago.
I am afraid. I am afraid of what I need to do to grow and become.
I know what they are and I am being an irrational fucking hypocrite.
***
I need to hyper-hydrate and cleanse my frayed mind as the body has a
liver.
My temple is in shambles, the marble ruins melt in the acidic storm
of the cerebral, cerebellum, pons, corpus callosum, and whatever
lobes frontal or occipital but they all get inebriated, drunkard brain
Bullshit intoxication hypocrisy but I keep doing it again and over
along with another time.
I do it again and do it to forget that I did it before and will do it again.
Guilt is oppressive but also can be impetus for great change. There are
better reasons for that though. If it wasn’t me I would probably think
myself a cock sure, arrogant plebe in the sense that I believe I can be more
than, even with the bibulous behavior.
***
Romantic LOVE is impossible for me now as one must trust their guts and
Betrayal is my tapeworm.
I don’t feel much of anything until I get sedated and intellectually abated.
Maybe that is why I get so wasted to not feel so wasted.
No EMOTION without coercion. Numbness, Hate, Anger, Sorrow, Rage.
I can do that sometimes without it. Hope, love, happiness, optimism,
compassion, empathy I need something for these things either to bring it
on or destroy because it may be better without them.
Live or die, I know what to do and it is up to me now.
It is all right to be afraid. It better be, but all things come to a divergence
or convergence. It is up to me now.
I will or maybe I won’t?
And now for the diary entry I did when I was 21 and in college. I see the mania and remember the events that began to spiral out of control, which lead to this exercise. This is the first of three entries and the only time I wrote a journal in my life. Have fun.
Journal (plus or minus a day)
I want to crush happiness today and the hallucinations continue along
with the overwhelming over-developed sleep and circadian rhythms.
I am never slightly rested and refreshed and reality seems to be slightly
out-of-phase-and-pace with the natural world. I wish and supplicate
for forgiveness and ascendancy to another avatar or incarnation or
whatever the letters of the day say.
I am profound and profoundly sad with absconding bits of trivia
called happy thoughts and it needs to be a cognitive transcendence.
I in physical means, I mean nothing and must move to another state
and it is not California.
***
I mean, maybe, a sensual suicide to the instinct drive can take us
beyond Nirvana.
Happiness is relative and not a right as the
foolish, antiquated Constitution contends as it edges are foxed and brown.
Emotions seem to have
evolved to be the causation of behavioral changes and controls to
create cohesion in the family and individual ties.
Emotions are
too dangerous for this simplistic species or maybe that is why?
They will destroy themselves with their own hands masturbating away
until the universe turns off the porn and sends them into a stammer with
a quick slap to the groin. Auto-erotic chokers swing themselves
because they believe it will get just a little more. A sensual suicide, I wish
not to indulge but they do it because they feel it might be their last so
they must get more, and more and eventual it will kill them but save
them from further fears. Without elevated consciousness, species wide,
then this world is doomed, as a term for destiny, for homo-sapiens and
hopefully.
I am not so hopeful for myself, but my own fears keep me from doing
what I should have done years ago.
I am afraid. I am afraid of what I need to do to grow and become.
I know what they are and I am being an irrational fucking hypocrite.
***
I need to hyper-hydrate and cleanse my frayed mind as the body has a
liver.
My temple is in shambles, the marble ruins melt in the acidic storm
of the cerebral, cerebellum, pons, corpus callosum, and whatever
lobes frontal or occipital but they all get inebriated, drunkard brain
Bullshit intoxication hypocrisy but I keep doing it again and over
along with another time.
I do it again and do it to forget that I did it before and will do it again.
Guilt is oppressive but also can be impetus for great change. There are
better reasons for that though. If it wasn’t me I would probably think
myself a cock sure, arrogant plebe in the sense that I believe I can be more
than, even with the bibulous behavior.
***
Romantic LOVE is impossible for me now as one must trust their guts and
Betrayal is my tapeworm.
I don’t feel much of anything until I get sedated and intellectually abated.
Maybe that is why I get so wasted to not feel so wasted.
No EMOTION without coercion. Numbness, Hate, Anger, Sorrow, Rage.
I can do that sometimes without it. Hope, love, happiness, optimism,
compassion, empathy I need something for these things either to bring it
on or destroy because it may be better without them.
Live or die, I know what to do and it is up to me now.
It is all right to be afraid. It better be, but all things come to a divergence
or convergence. It is up to me now.
I will or maybe I won’t?
May 29, 2012
Kickstarter for Horsemen. Help them ride.
And so it begins with a cry out in the desert that longs to be replenished with life. Please help us give life to Horsemen. Below is a link to the Kickstarter page where you can most generously assist the arts directly with contributions. And by arts, I mean us, but feel free to help as many independent creators as you like. And you can get exclusive merchandise.
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1130379423/horsemen
Horsemen is an SciFi adventure and a limited series comic book of 5 issues. This Kickstarter campaign only deals with the first issue. The money goes to pay the artists (penciler, inker, colorist, and letterer) and to pay for the print run so we can send out cool rewards. No money goes in our pocket (though I could use some) and any monies that go over our goal will be invested into the next issue.
About: The Horsemen are champions of freedom. They ride across time and space on cybernetic steeds to battle those who would oppose choice. The villain is a dualistic being named Fate and Destiny. But you ask... destiny is a good thing? Oh no. It is not. Destiny mean that life is predetermined. Your decisions are inconsequential. And this is what the villains want. They want to rule creation. They want to remake existence into a place where everyone does as they are told.
There's a video on the Kickstarter site so please click it and there's more info on the story there too. And as you might notice, we put our money where our mouth is as we've funded projects too. So give what you can and help us let the Horsemen ride across the collective imagination.
BTW, it's easy to donate. You just need an Amazon account. So simple.
Thank you.
Joshua and Mark
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1130379423/horsemen
Horsemen is an SciFi adventure and a limited series comic book of 5 issues. This Kickstarter campaign only deals with the first issue. The money goes to pay the artists (penciler, inker, colorist, and letterer) and to pay for the print run so we can send out cool rewards. No money goes in our pocket (though I could use some) and any monies that go over our goal will be invested into the next issue.
About: The Horsemen are champions of freedom. They ride across time and space on cybernetic steeds to battle those who would oppose choice. The villain is a dualistic being named Fate and Destiny. But you ask... destiny is a good thing? Oh no. It is not. Destiny mean that life is predetermined. Your decisions are inconsequential. And this is what the villains want. They want to rule creation. They want to remake existence into a place where everyone does as they are told.
There's a video on the Kickstarter site so please click it and there's more info on the story there too. And as you might notice, we put our money where our mouth is as we've funded projects too. So give what you can and help us let the Horsemen ride across the collective imagination.
BTW, it's easy to donate. You just need an Amazon account. So simple.
Thank you.
Joshua and Mark
May 25, 2012
Video: Fighting the Forces of Tyranny!!!
I spent some time today learning how to make a movie out of the completed pages for Horsemen with Movie Maker. My arm is actually sore from patting myself on the back so much and my perma-grin shows no signs of fading anytime soon (why so serious?). I'm not quite ready to take on Lucas Films, but I have to admit I largely surpassed my expectations. So without further ado, I give you Horsemen. Enjoy!
High Def Link:
https://vimeo.com/42868184
Low Def Link:
http://youtu.be/17BYpT0f1PY
-Mark
High Def Link:
https://vimeo.com/42868184
Low Def Link:
http://youtu.be/17BYpT0f1PY
-Mark
May 24, 2012
Burned brightly, a poem. Homage to Murphy (my cat) and Blake.
Burned brightly
The tiger can no longer burn bright
the proud predator yearns to slumber
as the breath is labored and reluctant
catabolic cancer consumes all
evenly
alike
the cat that once dreamt of fire
now waits while the embers are fated to be
as the frost
on the glass
of the smudged
window
that beckons the smoke to stain
the view-bright, so bright to be dull-
The asymmetry of the palsied face
invokes memories
as the tiger pounces
on to a silk pillow’s sheen and
Purrs, and Primps, and Watches
the prey mocking birds
parade on the dying
lawn of autumn.
The tiger is fed
claws retract.
The breath is labored
The slumber is not.
The tiger can no longer burn bright
the proud predator yearns to slumber
as the breath is labored and reluctant
catabolic cancer consumes all
evenly
alike
the cat that once dreamt of fire
now waits while the embers are fated to be
as the frost
on the glass
of the smudged
window
that beckons the smoke to stain
the view-bright, so bright to be dull-
The asymmetry of the palsied face
invokes memories
as the tiger pounces
on to a silk pillow’s sheen and
Purrs, and Primps, and Watches
the prey mocking birds
parade on the dying
lawn of autumn.
The tiger is fed
claws retract.
The breath is labored
The slumber is not.
May 21, 2012
Staring down the length of a blade. Exclusive Horsemen cover and pages 1-6!
I don't think I've posted all of this in one place yet, so it seemed like high time to do it. Here's a peek at Horsemen's cover and first six pages. Pencils/inks done by Christopher Hanchey, colors by Rich Cardoso, letters by Jessica Moorman and logo by Cary Kelley. Enjoy!
-Mark
-Mark
May 20, 2012
A Quiet Sunday Morn... A Time for Terror.
An adolescent boy playing in an abandoned prison, what could possibly go wrong? I wrote this awhile ago, it was originally published by Inscribed.org, a publication that I believe no longer exists. I Googled it and got a Christian dating site. Once you read the story maybe you'll spew the same ironic laugh I did. Anyway, here is the story in its entirety. Enjoy!
-Mark
Unrepentant Nascence
by Mark C. Frankel
It began with a cell. Most times that’s where it ends, not so in this case. It was an unused, dim confinement that had been vacant for several decades. Dwayne visited often, dreaming of its past dwellers.
The mattresses were gone, allowed to rot until not even the rats could make a nest with their flesh, but the bones remained. Undoubtedly in a few more decades they too will become dust. Sometimes he sat on them. That day he did not, unconsciously fearing the inevitable flaw that would cause collapse. In the chamber he enjoyed most, the sink and toilet still stood, entirely intact, although without working water. Nonetheless, he pretended that he washed the blood off his soaked hands. Why else would he be here?
Chernobog Prison was silent. That was his favorite part; Dwayne had silence. It was a peaceful palace for plotting, no yelling or cantankerous elders to order him about. Even older sisters don’t follow boys into broken buildings. If they didn’t follow, they couldn’t call him names, he reasoned, nor laugh and tease him about his now emerging acne. And in this horrific haven, they could not watch him pull on his organ, something he knew was wrong but could not resist.
One of them caught him once. Not here, but at home in the dark where he thought he was safe, burrowed beneath the blankets. She told everyone. She told everyone it was small, too. They all laughed. It’s not, he tried to say, it was only startled. He still wanted to choke her when he thought about it. One day, one day…
None of that mattered today. He was blissfully alone and began to strut through the halls. Today he imagined being the guard rather than the prisoner. Dwayne had a stick that he rattled on the bars as he passed each cell. Da-ding, da-ding, da-ding…
“Lights out, five minutes!” Dwayne bawled, the echo of his voice reverberating along the empty corridor. In his mind, the prisoners muttered, some daring to stick their hands out of the bars. He struck sharply at them with his baton and paused before those cells, glaring as if to intimidate the felon. He smiled a toothy grin as if to say, I’m out here and you’re in there, whatcha gonna do?
Dwayne paused before his cell, the place where he dreamt most often, and then with some hesitation, entered. He rattled the bars as he did. Kicking the frames, Dwayne used his stick to poke at the nonexistent mattresses.
“Bed check,” he said “you all better be tucked in tight. Don’t want no bed bugs biting ya. Dirty, filthy bastards, here because you do dirty things.”
It was hard to ignore one bed; without the mattress, a large black stain could be seen. It had seeped into the floor, becoming an indelible piece of this penitentiary. Dwayne was drawn to it, gazing at the grisly blemish in wonder. Today he leaned over to touch it, as he had done many times in the past. He kept waiting for the day when he would reach out and feel not cold stone, but hot, wet ichor, the lifeblood of some sleeping inmate. As he extended his arm, the hairs on it and the back of his neck pricked up sharply. Quickly he jerked back, not quite reaching his goal. It looked wet today.
His head swung around and Dwayne’s eyes scanned the whole room. He turned his body about, but nothing, or more correctly no one, was seen. He looked up. It must be a leak, he thought, yet there was no hole in the ceiling. It was just a cement bulwark, the construct so solid that not even a chip appeared in it. Don’t build ‘em like they used to, he could hear his grandfather say.
The dim light from his little flashlight shone on the puddle. Steam seemed to rise off of it like a recently erupted geyser. Dwayne shook with both apprehension and anticipation. He reached out again, actually getting down on his knees next to the pool and carefully, but absently laying his weapon down next to him. His index finger found the sodden floor, and as he often dreamed, it was damp. Dwayne brought his hand up to his face and peered at his digit. Not only did it feel wet, it looked it too. He smelled it. The liquid had a hot, acrid smell. With little hesitation, he inserted it into his mouth. It was sharp, even bitter, but it was blood, of that he was sure.
Dwayne knew how blood tasted; he had many experiences with his own. Usually he lost his battles; frequently the sanguine fluid would ooze from his nose, a river that most often became a lake at his mouth. However, that was not the only way he knew its tang and texture. Dwayne liked to cut himself, usually with a small Swiss Army knife he kept in his pocket. He never did it where anyone could see him, often choosing his upper arms or inner thighs, and always made sure to be alone when he made his sacrifices. Usually, he was at the prison.
Out came the knife. After a few phantom slashes into the air, Dwayne began to make downward stabbing motions above the puddle. It was a repetitive, ritualistic gesture; he had made it hundreds of times before. I bet this is how it was done, he always thought. I bet I could do it. Dirty bastard, probably needed a good shank. He began to chuckle. With a measured slash, Dwayne cut a crevasse across his forearm. Perfectly formed and matching several other recently healed canyons, it bled a dark red liquid. He held his arm over the pool and allowed the colors to mingle with each drip. The hot stream soothed his earlier astonishment, allowing him to almost meld into the cell’s floor from his kneeling position.
Clank! Abruptly a loud crash sounded behind him. He didn’t need to turn around to know it was the door sliding from its rusted open position into a fully closed lock. Nor did he. Dwayne understood on some level that he was being confined here, but that was perfectly acceptable. He liked it here. He didn’t care that it was improbable for metal rusted solid to become operable. He was so engrossed in his macabre mixture that didn’t even care who perpetrated the deed.
“I’ll tell you a secret, you dirty bastards.” Dwayne said in a low, hushed tone. He giggled a gruesome soft laugh as he slashed at another appendage, allowing the blood to stream down his thigh and past his knee. He crawled directly into the puddle, kneeling amidst the center and letting the tributary flow into it. He hacked his other leg so that it could do the same. “I’m a dirty bastard too.” He giggled again, this time with more force and timbre.
He thought about releasing other tensions into the growing lagoon, but instead Dwayne decided to keep his experiment unadulterated. There was enough liquid for his purpose, no need to be excessive. A cut on his other forearm should be sufficient. With a quick motion, it was complete. He let the solution saturate his surroundings, watching it gather about him. There was almost enough.
Finally, Dwayne had sufficient means. He cupped his hands and raised as much of the blood as he could to his mouth. A small sip first, followed by a splash on his face as if cleaning himself. With increasing alacrity, he brought up more and more of the liquid, finding his face, his limbs, his chest and then continuing downward until he had lathered his whole body. He covered himself, leaving no bare skin at all. He rolled in it, like a dog in grass.
The job done, he smiled a sickly crescent, the white pearls of his teeth a decisive contrast to his blemished brow. “I’m the dirtiest of all you bastards,” he said.
Standing abruptly, he turned toward the cell door and promptly walked through its bars. He had to go home and wash himself off. Dwayne didn’t want to be late for dinner.
-Mark
Unrepentant Nascence
by Mark C. Frankel
It began with a cell. Most times that’s where it ends, not so in this case. It was an unused, dim confinement that had been vacant for several decades. Dwayne visited often, dreaming of its past dwellers.
The mattresses were gone, allowed to rot until not even the rats could make a nest with their flesh, but the bones remained. Undoubtedly in a few more decades they too will become dust. Sometimes he sat on them. That day he did not, unconsciously fearing the inevitable flaw that would cause collapse. In the chamber he enjoyed most, the sink and toilet still stood, entirely intact, although without working water. Nonetheless, he pretended that he washed the blood off his soaked hands. Why else would he be here?
Chernobog Prison was silent. That was his favorite part; Dwayne had silence. It was a peaceful palace for plotting, no yelling or cantankerous elders to order him about. Even older sisters don’t follow boys into broken buildings. If they didn’t follow, they couldn’t call him names, he reasoned, nor laugh and tease him about his now emerging acne. And in this horrific haven, they could not watch him pull on his organ, something he knew was wrong but could not resist.
One of them caught him once. Not here, but at home in the dark where he thought he was safe, burrowed beneath the blankets. She told everyone. She told everyone it was small, too. They all laughed. It’s not, he tried to say, it was only startled. He still wanted to choke her when he thought about it. One day, one day…
None of that mattered today. He was blissfully alone and began to strut through the halls. Today he imagined being the guard rather than the prisoner. Dwayne had a stick that he rattled on the bars as he passed each cell. Da-ding, da-ding, da-ding…
“Lights out, five minutes!” Dwayne bawled, the echo of his voice reverberating along the empty corridor. In his mind, the prisoners muttered, some daring to stick their hands out of the bars. He struck sharply at them with his baton and paused before those cells, glaring as if to intimidate the felon. He smiled a toothy grin as if to say, I’m out here and you’re in there, whatcha gonna do?
Dwayne paused before his cell, the place where he dreamt most often, and then with some hesitation, entered. He rattled the bars as he did. Kicking the frames, Dwayne used his stick to poke at the nonexistent mattresses.
“Bed check,” he said “you all better be tucked in tight. Don’t want no bed bugs biting ya. Dirty, filthy bastards, here because you do dirty things.”
It was hard to ignore one bed; without the mattress, a large black stain could be seen. It had seeped into the floor, becoming an indelible piece of this penitentiary. Dwayne was drawn to it, gazing at the grisly blemish in wonder. Today he leaned over to touch it, as he had done many times in the past. He kept waiting for the day when he would reach out and feel not cold stone, but hot, wet ichor, the lifeblood of some sleeping inmate. As he extended his arm, the hairs on it and the back of his neck pricked up sharply. Quickly he jerked back, not quite reaching his goal. It looked wet today.
His head swung around and Dwayne’s eyes scanned the whole room. He turned his body about, but nothing, or more correctly no one, was seen. He looked up. It must be a leak, he thought, yet there was no hole in the ceiling. It was just a cement bulwark, the construct so solid that not even a chip appeared in it. Don’t build ‘em like they used to, he could hear his grandfather say.
The dim light from his little flashlight shone on the puddle. Steam seemed to rise off of it like a recently erupted geyser. Dwayne shook with both apprehension and anticipation. He reached out again, actually getting down on his knees next to the pool and carefully, but absently laying his weapon down next to him. His index finger found the sodden floor, and as he often dreamed, it was damp. Dwayne brought his hand up to his face and peered at his digit. Not only did it feel wet, it looked it too. He smelled it. The liquid had a hot, acrid smell. With little hesitation, he inserted it into his mouth. It was sharp, even bitter, but it was blood, of that he was sure.
Dwayne knew how blood tasted; he had many experiences with his own. Usually he lost his battles; frequently the sanguine fluid would ooze from his nose, a river that most often became a lake at his mouth. However, that was not the only way he knew its tang and texture. Dwayne liked to cut himself, usually with a small Swiss Army knife he kept in his pocket. He never did it where anyone could see him, often choosing his upper arms or inner thighs, and always made sure to be alone when he made his sacrifices. Usually, he was at the prison.
Out came the knife. After a few phantom slashes into the air, Dwayne began to make downward stabbing motions above the puddle. It was a repetitive, ritualistic gesture; he had made it hundreds of times before. I bet this is how it was done, he always thought. I bet I could do it. Dirty bastard, probably needed a good shank. He began to chuckle. With a measured slash, Dwayne cut a crevasse across his forearm. Perfectly formed and matching several other recently healed canyons, it bled a dark red liquid. He held his arm over the pool and allowed the colors to mingle with each drip. The hot stream soothed his earlier astonishment, allowing him to almost meld into the cell’s floor from his kneeling position.
Clank! Abruptly a loud crash sounded behind him. He didn’t need to turn around to know it was the door sliding from its rusted open position into a fully closed lock. Nor did he. Dwayne understood on some level that he was being confined here, but that was perfectly acceptable. He liked it here. He didn’t care that it was improbable for metal rusted solid to become operable. He was so engrossed in his macabre mixture that didn’t even care who perpetrated the deed.
“I’ll tell you a secret, you dirty bastards.” Dwayne said in a low, hushed tone. He giggled a gruesome soft laugh as he slashed at another appendage, allowing the blood to stream down his thigh and past his knee. He crawled directly into the puddle, kneeling amidst the center and letting the tributary flow into it. He hacked his other leg so that it could do the same. “I’m a dirty bastard too.” He giggled again, this time with more force and timbre.
He thought about releasing other tensions into the growing lagoon, but instead Dwayne decided to keep his experiment unadulterated. There was enough liquid for his purpose, no need to be excessive. A cut on his other forearm should be sufficient. With a quick motion, it was complete. He let the solution saturate his surroundings, watching it gather about him. There was almost enough.
Finally, Dwayne had sufficient means. He cupped his hands and raised as much of the blood as he could to his mouth. A small sip first, followed by a splash on his face as if cleaning himself. With increasing alacrity, he brought up more and more of the liquid, finding his face, his limbs, his chest and then continuing downward until he had lathered his whole body. He covered himself, leaving no bare skin at all. He rolled in it, like a dog in grass.
The job done, he smiled a sickly crescent, the white pearls of his teeth a decisive contrast to his blemished brow. “I’m the dirtiest of all you bastards,” he said.
Standing abruptly, he turned toward the cell door and promptly walked through its bars. He had to go home and wash himself off. Dwayne didn’t want to be late for dinner.
May 17, 2012
A query letter that worked on editors and agents.
Greetings,
This is a query letter I wrote for my YA novel. It got solicitations for 4 partials and 3 fulls from editors and agents. It's a cross between a screenplay pitch letter and a common query for novels. It starts with a log-line and expresses the beginning, middle and end while revealing the stakes the characters must face. I didn't list any of my writing credits because it burdens the length and people, especially editors, don't have the time. A query is hook and not a full synopsis or your life story... Just figured I'd share.
...
Dear Mr./Ms.________
Lives and dreams can be cut short by death, but the biggest tragedy for those who survive is not taking advantage of second chances.
In the paranormal YA novel The Cell, seventeen year old Les Logan is an aspiring comic book artist who begins to doubt himself after Aki Kubo, his friend and creative partner, dies in an accident in which Les is involved. From beyond the grave, Aki contacts Les through a cell phone and tells him there’s a problem. Aki can’t cross over because a girl named Rachel is wasting her second chance at life after receiving his donated liver. Les must help her so Aki can move on to the afterlife.
There are a few big problems: one, if Rachel doesn’t move on with her life soon Aki’s spirit will disintegrate. Two, there’s a limited amount of time and they can only communicate via cell phone. Three, Les hasn’t driven since Aki’s accident. And finally, a devious scientist named Professor Gluck finds out about Aki and wants to capture the ghost in the cell phone so to prove his theories about the paranormal. He gives Les a job so he can keep an eye on him and set a trap for Aki.
Les enlists the aid of his two off-beat friends and sets out to discover a way to save Rachel but encounters with Professor Gluck stand in his way. When these friends believe in each other, and do what they think is right, not even a mad scientist can stop them from saving the living as well as the dead. In essence, this is a rescue tale. Les must rescue Rachel but by doing so he also rescues Aki and his own dreams for the future.
A partial or full manuscript can be sent upon request. Thank you for your precious time. I look forward to the reply regarding a possible submission.
Respectfully,
Joshua Lee Andrew Jones
...
BTW, I'm still waiting on replies. But, if you know of any editors who might be interested let me know.
Cheers!
@JLAJones
This is a query letter I wrote for my YA novel. It got solicitations for 4 partials and 3 fulls from editors and agents. It's a cross between a screenplay pitch letter and a common query for novels. It starts with a log-line and expresses the beginning, middle and end while revealing the stakes the characters must face. I didn't list any of my writing credits because it burdens the length and people, especially editors, don't have the time. A query is hook and not a full synopsis or your life story... Just figured I'd share.
...
Dear Mr./Ms.________
Lives and dreams can be cut short by death, but the biggest tragedy for those who survive is not taking advantage of second chances.
In the paranormal YA novel The Cell, seventeen year old Les Logan is an aspiring comic book artist who begins to doubt himself after Aki Kubo, his friend and creative partner, dies in an accident in which Les is involved. From beyond the grave, Aki contacts Les through a cell phone and tells him there’s a problem. Aki can’t cross over because a girl named Rachel is wasting her second chance at life after receiving his donated liver. Les must help her so Aki can move on to the afterlife.
There are a few big problems: one, if Rachel doesn’t move on with her life soon Aki’s spirit will disintegrate. Two, there’s a limited amount of time and they can only communicate via cell phone. Three, Les hasn’t driven since Aki’s accident. And finally, a devious scientist named Professor Gluck finds out about Aki and wants to capture the ghost in the cell phone so to prove his theories about the paranormal. He gives Les a job so he can keep an eye on him and set a trap for Aki.
Les enlists the aid of his two off-beat friends and sets out to discover a way to save Rachel but encounters with Professor Gluck stand in his way. When these friends believe in each other, and do what they think is right, not even a mad scientist can stop them from saving the living as well as the dead. In essence, this is a rescue tale. Les must rescue Rachel but by doing so he also rescues Aki and his own dreams for the future.
A partial or full manuscript can be sent upon request. Thank you for your precious time. I look forward to the reply regarding a possible submission.
Respectfully,
Joshua Lee Andrew Jones
...
BTW, I'm still waiting on replies. But, if you know of any editors who might be interested let me know.
Cheers!
@JLAJones
May 15, 2012
Dropping the Bomb - Exclusive First Look at Horsemen Pages 4-6
By now you have all seen the cover and pages 1-3. I was tempted to leave you with the cliffhanger at the end of page 5, but I figure you have all waited long enough. Here are completed pages 4, 5, and 6 of Horsemen. They were penciled/inked by Christopher Hanchey, colored by Rich Cardoso and lettered by Jessica Moorman. The team has done an awesome job on these, feel free to drop your thoughts and kind words in the comment section. Enjoy!
-Mark
-Mark
About BS I saw at a conference... a poem.
Conference
The ruffle of suede and faux fur
being hung up diminishes in
the echo of eager voices
awaiting the recital and reveal
of the salutations
The plain podium rattles with cascades
of coffee stained papers
the ruffle stops, the silence forebodes
the mechanical mouth of the ancient
orator that opens with a cough
the speech is chewed vigorously
professors count the letters as scribes
with ink saturated palms smearing images
on ledgers made of dust and slate
they talk to themselves and describe the
faulty bridges, verses and lack of philosophy
as they all go over the transom as wonderful
wisps of waxing and waning bewilderment
building tension and stress as the seated audience
feel their backs bend and crack and soon
they will seize
The orator slips on his embroider jacket made of dog hair
linen and lion’s regret, it falls and fits
A quietude resumes, the words
are counted, spoken, and placed
Under shoe and step
To be ground down into paste to fill
the wrinkles on their faces
and in a casket of ancient resolve
the feast of language is consumed
with soft sensitive dentures and
ready bent forks
The ruffle of suede and faux fur
is furious as the flight from the
benediction is swift out into the winter gates
No longer do the pundits read
from the stained pages that fell
the rattle of wooden shoes stomp off
and diminish with distance.
The ruffle of suede and faux fur
being hung up diminishes in
the echo of eager voices
awaiting the recital and reveal
of the salutations
The plain podium rattles with cascades
of coffee stained papers
the ruffle stops, the silence forebodes
the mechanical mouth of the ancient
orator that opens with a cough
the speech is chewed vigorously
professors count the letters as scribes
with ink saturated palms smearing images
on ledgers made of dust and slate
they talk to themselves and describe the
faulty bridges, verses and lack of philosophy
as they all go over the transom as wonderful
wisps of waxing and waning bewilderment
building tension and stress as the seated audience
feel their backs bend and crack and soon
they will seize
The orator slips on his embroider jacket made of dog hair
linen and lion’s regret, it falls and fits
A quietude resumes, the words
are counted, spoken, and placed
Under shoe and step
To be ground down into paste to fill
the wrinkles on their faces
and in a casket of ancient resolve
the feast of language is consumed
with soft sensitive dentures and
ready bent forks
The ruffle of suede and faux fur
is furious as the flight from the
benediction is swift out into the winter gates
No longer do the pundits read
from the stained pages that fell
the rattle of wooden shoes stomp off
and diminish with distance.
