Joshua Jones's Blog, page 5
May 10, 2012
Exclusive First Look at Horsemen!
I know you have all been waiting patiently for completed pages of Horsemen. Jessica Moormann has done a great job adding her letters to Rich's colors and Chris' pencils/inks and Josh and I think it is high time to show them off. Without further ado, here are the first three pages of Horsemen. Enjoy!
-Mark
-Mark
May 9, 2012
The dog who saved my life.
This is Logan. The dog who saved my life. A golden prince of pooch if there ever was one. Without him coming along in a time of unrelenting misery, there would be no novels, no screenplays, no poetry and no me or at least in this current condition. He was a dog with infinite eyes who looked through me when the rage flickered across my existence. As I reached the verge of detonation, a tilted head and an upward glance defused the bomb before it had a change to destroy all that was nearby, including myself. So I decided to post this picture in memory of what he did all his life. He looked out for me.
I owe him everything that I am but now he is gone.
I miss my puppy dearly.
May 8, 2012
Trajectory - Short Fiction
Quick note:
Trajectory
was originally published by Midnight Times in the Summer 2009 issue. It is still archived here: http://towerweb.net/mt/archive.shtml if you prefer to read it in the original form. Enjoy!
-Mark
Trajectory
By Mark C. Frankel
It begins with a bullet.
Lying peacefully, nestled amongst cold steel. Unflinching and unremorseful for its task to come. Its abeyance is ending.
A simple click, the primer ignites the propellant and the propellant pukes out the projectile. As if a train through a tunnel, the round rockets from the barrel spiraling in perfect symmetry and cutting through the air. One pop and a thud.
The hole on one side is small, almost unnoticeable but for the appearance of a third eye. A second crater gapes, a match for the completing contents spewing across the brick wall.
A waste? Maybe, but only of the bullet.
The detective looks at the scene. An execution, point blank. The victim must have stared the killer in the eyes when he pulled the trigger. It takes a cold son of a bitch to do that. Or a lot of hate.
One casing on the ground, one round through the victim’s head. As he looks over the scene, the detective figures his killer is cold. Hate would produce more ammo.
“Name?” he asks one of the cops on the scene. The only answer is a shrug and a mumble, something about no ID. He’s not surprised; the crumpled corpse was probably homeless and lived in the alley. Might have been days before anyone even noticed.
He asks a few more questions and gets expected results. Tough neighborhoods don’t give easy answers. No one had heard or saw anything. Probably a druggie or a drifter. He’ll know more when they do. With a grunt and a flip of the notebook, he retreats to the car, finally turning off the siren and leaving.
It continues with a blade.
Just as quiet, snuggling instead in red velvet. Classy, but dangerous. Meant for close quarters where one can bathe in the sanguine river’s flow by the moonlight.
A pop of the button, the knife is free. Two steps to close quarters, hot breath awash over the face like a summer breeze. The fleshy prison collapses as the key is inserted into the organic cage.
A swipe to each side and back into the sheath. Waste not, want not.
Dawn and already a call. Coffee scalds the inside of the detective’s mouth, but he refuses to let it show. Different MO, but it just feels the same. Much messier this time, yet the results are the same.
No ID, no name, different alley, tougher neighborhood. This one definitely has gone unnoticed for days. A “concerned citizen” called in a strange smell. Summer makes bodies rot quicker causing the pungent odor to creep into everything.
Strays chewed some of the entrails. That will make the job tougher, but it’s still clear what happened. He figures it was done with one motion, no extra stabs. Probably dead instantly. Cold, certainly cold – almost surgical.
The next stage is silence.
A rope, simple and frayed, indistinguishable. A tool to bind, now a weapon with intent for ill.
Quiet is essential, searchlights beaming down every alleyway. One dirty form shuffling along hardly gives pause. The cord slithers down the arm, falling slack and dragging along the ground. It whips up wrapping the neck quickly trapping the remaining breath. Effortlessly, the other hand grasps the tattered end.
No sound is heard but a slump of the carcass to the ground.
It is a small break, but still a break. He is tired and was almost finished with his shift as the call came. A neighbor had looked outside to see a large man fleeing the scene and so the detective rushes there, hoping to find a hot trail.
“Can you describe him?” he asks tapping on the notepad.
It was dark. He was tall, only saw his back. Thought he got into a two door, no, four door car. American, um…maybe Japanese model.
The detective sighs, frustration etches its way onto his stony face. He flips the pad closed and thanks the woman for her time anyway. She says something trite, like how she wishes she could help more, but he has already turned away from her and pretends not to hear.
It’s still the same guy, he thinks, and he’s getting bolder. The moon is bright and the neighborhood is better. The target seems to be someone who was just unlucky enough to have been there at the wrong time. Despite the strong smell of alcohol, this victim was not homeless. He had a wallet and ID on him.
The other cops want to investigate the victim, but not the detective. He thinks its random, just bad luck to have crossed paths with the killer. Let them track down those leads. They argue with him, but he knows. This was cold; it was simple strangulation. No attempt to snap the neck or bash the victim’s head in and therefore not an act of rage.
Might as well go tell the family, then maybe a beer and bed. Tomorrow will be a late night.
Intermission.
Tonight will be a night off. The city can sleep. One night only, sleep one, sleep all.
His feet are sore. The detective’s walk through alley after alleyway produces nothing but a few strange glances and several offers for “dates.” A Friday night should be a prime night for the killer to strike, but other than a scuffle at a local dive, no violence.
He evaluates the red glow in the East. His night is ending. A grumble accompanies a kick to the air. He chastises himself for his disappointment at the lack of action. At least no one died. He balls his hand into a fist before correcting himself again – there is one person he’d like to expire. Then slowly, he hobbles home to get ready for his next shift.
The climax. It builds to the point where hero confronts villain. Sometimes those lines blur, criminal in every champion, altruism in every evil. Not him. Not tonight. He won’t blur those lines.
The cop has left for his night walks. He is point on the case. Time to bring it home. The bludgeon will do nicely.
One downward stroke, the hammer descends. It ought to crack louder, but it catches a soft spot and squishes. Another slump and a surprised look in the compressed eyes. The door remains slightly ajar, enough to arouse interest. The hammer keeps it open.
He is tired again. A second night of no results weighs heavily on the detective with each step up the stairs to his apartment. He barely makes it to his floor as the sun peaks into the window at the end of the hall.
With the dawn comes a realization that something is wrong. A light from his door intrudes upon the hallway. It is too early for anyone…
Several quick strides reveal an open door. A gory hammer pries it apart from the latch. His observations numb, focus to a narrow thread. There is only the body in front of him. A detached voice tells him this was cold, probably only one blow.
The detective can’t bring himself any closer. He wants to. The man wants to step all over procedure and contaminate the scene, run to her. The cop can’t make himself break protocol. He steps back, trips on the hammer.
Written on masking tape along the mallet’s side is a name. He knows it. Rising with renewed energy he heads back out before all goes red.
Resolution. Waiting near impossible, eagerness to try a new weapon. The oldest kind - organic pistons that grip, rip and pound. Darkness surrounds all, lingering, about ready to pounce on the intended.
His pistol is loaded and sits hot in his hand. He can feel the worn grip. It hasn’t been fired in some time, but remains ready always. A foot on the door, the frame cracks inward. He bursts in, two hands cradling the revolver.
The target appears as expected if not on cue. Another moment’s pause, but no matter. As soon as the shadow passes…
The detective senses the attack before he feels it. A blow to the ribs, he almost drops his sidearm. Instead he whirls about, only to get another punch to the midsection. This time the gun drops and he grapples with his assailant. They slam into the wall, knocking plaster to the floor.
His attacker wears a black ski mask, but it doesn’t matter, he knows who lies beneath. The detective smashes his forehead upon the opponent, making a gratifying crunching noise and knocking him back…
Repelled. Not something expected. It should have ended easily, one, two blows at the most. Instead they face each other gasping. Arms rise, ready to strike as they circle like carrion birds over an injured animal.
The officer feels the weight of sleepless nights. It wears heavy on his limbs, making it hard to keep them up. He realizes that he can’t match the killer’s pace and he might become the next victim to be investigated. Desperate times call for…
He turns into the circling attacker and their hips almost collide. A kick to the knee sends the opponent sprawling on his back. The cop dives for his gun and continues to roll. As he grasps it, he barely evades another strike from the killer’s sweeping leg.
He rises with the gun. The killer struggles to his knees and they lock eyes.
Cold fire flickers in the gaze of opposing orbs. They calculate the distance between the outstretched barrel and a skull. A step forward, the muzzle licks the forehead. Arms go to the nape of the neck forcing elbows up. A sardonic look of surrender asks ‘what are you going to do now?’
And it ends with a bullet.
-Mark
Trajectory
By Mark C. Frankel
It begins with a bullet.
Lying peacefully, nestled amongst cold steel. Unflinching and unremorseful for its task to come. Its abeyance is ending.
A simple click, the primer ignites the propellant and the propellant pukes out the projectile. As if a train through a tunnel, the round rockets from the barrel spiraling in perfect symmetry and cutting through the air. One pop and a thud.
The hole on one side is small, almost unnoticeable but for the appearance of a third eye. A second crater gapes, a match for the completing contents spewing across the brick wall.
A waste? Maybe, but only of the bullet.
The detective looks at the scene. An execution, point blank. The victim must have stared the killer in the eyes when he pulled the trigger. It takes a cold son of a bitch to do that. Or a lot of hate.
One casing on the ground, one round through the victim’s head. As he looks over the scene, the detective figures his killer is cold. Hate would produce more ammo.
“Name?” he asks one of the cops on the scene. The only answer is a shrug and a mumble, something about no ID. He’s not surprised; the crumpled corpse was probably homeless and lived in the alley. Might have been days before anyone even noticed.
He asks a few more questions and gets expected results. Tough neighborhoods don’t give easy answers. No one had heard or saw anything. Probably a druggie or a drifter. He’ll know more when they do. With a grunt and a flip of the notebook, he retreats to the car, finally turning off the siren and leaving.
It continues with a blade.
Just as quiet, snuggling instead in red velvet. Classy, but dangerous. Meant for close quarters where one can bathe in the sanguine river’s flow by the moonlight.
A pop of the button, the knife is free. Two steps to close quarters, hot breath awash over the face like a summer breeze. The fleshy prison collapses as the key is inserted into the organic cage.
A swipe to each side and back into the sheath. Waste not, want not.
Dawn and already a call. Coffee scalds the inside of the detective’s mouth, but he refuses to let it show. Different MO, but it just feels the same. Much messier this time, yet the results are the same.
No ID, no name, different alley, tougher neighborhood. This one definitely has gone unnoticed for days. A “concerned citizen” called in a strange smell. Summer makes bodies rot quicker causing the pungent odor to creep into everything.
Strays chewed some of the entrails. That will make the job tougher, but it’s still clear what happened. He figures it was done with one motion, no extra stabs. Probably dead instantly. Cold, certainly cold – almost surgical.
The next stage is silence.
A rope, simple and frayed, indistinguishable. A tool to bind, now a weapon with intent for ill.
Quiet is essential, searchlights beaming down every alleyway. One dirty form shuffling along hardly gives pause. The cord slithers down the arm, falling slack and dragging along the ground. It whips up wrapping the neck quickly trapping the remaining breath. Effortlessly, the other hand grasps the tattered end.
No sound is heard but a slump of the carcass to the ground.
It is a small break, but still a break. He is tired and was almost finished with his shift as the call came. A neighbor had looked outside to see a large man fleeing the scene and so the detective rushes there, hoping to find a hot trail.
“Can you describe him?” he asks tapping on the notepad.
It was dark. He was tall, only saw his back. Thought he got into a two door, no, four door car. American, um…maybe Japanese model.
The detective sighs, frustration etches its way onto his stony face. He flips the pad closed and thanks the woman for her time anyway. She says something trite, like how she wishes she could help more, but he has already turned away from her and pretends not to hear.
It’s still the same guy, he thinks, and he’s getting bolder. The moon is bright and the neighborhood is better. The target seems to be someone who was just unlucky enough to have been there at the wrong time. Despite the strong smell of alcohol, this victim was not homeless. He had a wallet and ID on him.
The other cops want to investigate the victim, but not the detective. He thinks its random, just bad luck to have crossed paths with the killer. Let them track down those leads. They argue with him, but he knows. This was cold; it was simple strangulation. No attempt to snap the neck or bash the victim’s head in and therefore not an act of rage.
Might as well go tell the family, then maybe a beer and bed. Tomorrow will be a late night.
Intermission.
Tonight will be a night off. The city can sleep. One night only, sleep one, sleep all.
His feet are sore. The detective’s walk through alley after alleyway produces nothing but a few strange glances and several offers for “dates.” A Friday night should be a prime night for the killer to strike, but other than a scuffle at a local dive, no violence.
He evaluates the red glow in the East. His night is ending. A grumble accompanies a kick to the air. He chastises himself for his disappointment at the lack of action. At least no one died. He balls his hand into a fist before correcting himself again – there is one person he’d like to expire. Then slowly, he hobbles home to get ready for his next shift.
The climax. It builds to the point where hero confronts villain. Sometimes those lines blur, criminal in every champion, altruism in every evil. Not him. Not tonight. He won’t blur those lines.
The cop has left for his night walks. He is point on the case. Time to bring it home. The bludgeon will do nicely.
One downward stroke, the hammer descends. It ought to crack louder, but it catches a soft spot and squishes. Another slump and a surprised look in the compressed eyes. The door remains slightly ajar, enough to arouse interest. The hammer keeps it open.
He is tired again. A second night of no results weighs heavily on the detective with each step up the stairs to his apartment. He barely makes it to his floor as the sun peaks into the window at the end of the hall.
With the dawn comes a realization that something is wrong. A light from his door intrudes upon the hallway. It is too early for anyone…
Several quick strides reveal an open door. A gory hammer pries it apart from the latch. His observations numb, focus to a narrow thread. There is only the body in front of him. A detached voice tells him this was cold, probably only one blow.
The detective can’t bring himself any closer. He wants to. The man wants to step all over procedure and contaminate the scene, run to her. The cop can’t make himself break protocol. He steps back, trips on the hammer.
Written on masking tape along the mallet’s side is a name. He knows it. Rising with renewed energy he heads back out before all goes red.
Resolution. Waiting near impossible, eagerness to try a new weapon. The oldest kind - organic pistons that grip, rip and pound. Darkness surrounds all, lingering, about ready to pounce on the intended.
His pistol is loaded and sits hot in his hand. He can feel the worn grip. It hasn’t been fired in some time, but remains ready always. A foot on the door, the frame cracks inward. He bursts in, two hands cradling the revolver.
The target appears as expected if not on cue. Another moment’s pause, but no matter. As soon as the shadow passes…
The detective senses the attack before he feels it. A blow to the ribs, he almost drops his sidearm. Instead he whirls about, only to get another punch to the midsection. This time the gun drops and he grapples with his assailant. They slam into the wall, knocking plaster to the floor.
His attacker wears a black ski mask, but it doesn’t matter, he knows who lies beneath. The detective smashes his forehead upon the opponent, making a gratifying crunching noise and knocking him back…
Repelled. Not something expected. It should have ended easily, one, two blows at the most. Instead they face each other gasping. Arms rise, ready to strike as they circle like carrion birds over an injured animal.
The officer feels the weight of sleepless nights. It wears heavy on his limbs, making it hard to keep them up. He realizes that he can’t match the killer’s pace and he might become the next victim to be investigated. Desperate times call for…
He turns into the circling attacker and their hips almost collide. A kick to the knee sends the opponent sprawling on his back. The cop dives for his gun and continues to roll. As he grasps it, he barely evades another strike from the killer’s sweeping leg.
He rises with the gun. The killer struggles to his knees and they lock eyes.
Cold fire flickers in the gaze of opposing orbs. They calculate the distance between the outstretched barrel and a skull. A step forward, the muzzle licks the forehead. Arms go to the nape of the neck forcing elbows up. A sardonic look of surrender asks ‘what are you going to do now?’
And it ends with a bullet.
May 7, 2012
Written on drugs... maybe?
In the down town evening
The epileptic night seizes
city sounds strangle into silence
the sharp buzz snaps
lights on streaming advertisements
blink, not to be perceived
as gawkers and onlookers
planted in stone
cease mid-sentence
between the plastic realities
bubbling up only to burst
the touch screen implants
as sylvan transplants
lift their feet sidewalk weary feet
just above gravity and halt
The unctuous streets
slide away…
The wrought iron sky
ratchets down, click… click… click
The match head stars
flicker in an inchoate
fit*** * *** **
The epileptic night bites its tongue
flashes of furious motion, slash
the frozen hustle and bustle
that allows the city’s synapses
to stabilize. Balance is temporary.
The horns honk deadly dares
as heels clack on the cured cement
The pause is brief
The cityscape in repose
awakens in an instant
and just as one experiences apoplexy
it escapes, only to infiltrate
another. It never ends
There’s not enough Ativan
for everyone downtown.
The epileptic night seizes
city sounds strangle into silence
the sharp buzz snaps
lights on streaming advertisements
blink, not to be perceived
as gawkers and onlookers
planted in stone
cease mid-sentence
between the plastic realities
bubbling up only to burst
the touch screen implants
as sylvan transplants
lift their feet sidewalk weary feet
just above gravity and halt
The unctuous streets
slide away…
The wrought iron sky
ratchets down, click… click… click
The match head stars
flicker in an inchoate
fit*** * *** **
The epileptic night bites its tongue
flashes of furious motion, slash
the frozen hustle and bustle
that allows the city’s synapses
to stabilize. Balance is temporary.
The horns honk deadly dares
as heels clack on the cured cement
The pause is brief
The cityscape in repose
awakens in an instant
and just as one experiences apoplexy
it escapes, only to infiltrate
another. It never ends
There’s not enough Ativan
for everyone downtown.
May 6, 2012
Demons befoul Trevi fountain. Ascendant finished artwork.
The Ascendant, cover and pages 1-6. Enjoy!
-Mark
More to follow!!!!
-Mark
More to follow!!!!
Horsemen Cover with Logo. Check it out!!!
I know you have all seen the Horsemen cover. Cary Kelley's logo has now been attached and it really completes Chris Hancheys pencils/inks and Rich Cardoso's colors. Take a look and let us know what you think. Enjoy!
-Mark
-Mark
May 5, 2012
Hobo Erectus: Flash Fiction or is it?
Hobo Erectus
A Manhattan morning lifts over the corner of 20th and 5th. The autumn chill holds still in the soft sunlight. A man named Carl once called Mr., and sometimes Sir, is wrapped in layers of throw away clothes he swiped at Goodwill. He sits down below the pastry shop window next to Arty the Dodger from the shelter downtown.
“Deranged, bum, hobo, homeless, crazy old coot, that’s all I could get so far today. Perfect freedom for a perfectly carefree existence… only subsistence required. Once a Captain of Industry with a shallow face and now I’m just a vagrant with a fragrant presence. All we need is food and shelter and this wasteful world provides. But, stupid pride and synthetic respect rules over the kids scrapping their way up the social ladder to nowhere. But here, no taxes, no telemarketers, no nothing. Sounds nihilistic but it is what it is, just survival. Damn it! Bet I missed the guy with the Chesterfield coat again. He’s good for a sneer and a ‘get a job’.”
Carl nudges Arty and looks down to his panhandler’s paper cup, a coffee cup that never had coffee in it. Carl shrugs and inhales a deep breath of sidewalk air. He exhales a stream of steamy breath into fast walking foot traffic and urban noise. Carl coughs and begins again.
“So Arty, this is the thing. Societies are artificial. They’re socially constructed values. Superficial no matter how internalized and regurgitated. I am, we are, at the crossroad. Modern primitive scavengers or societal rejects? No we are the ones who see the world for what is… an illusion of confidence, of agreement. The city is here and must be exploited and the validity lies in the fact that if you take this all away and it can be done again. I will be left standing in my desensitized worn shoes. By the way Arty, remember to spit when you talk to them. And here comes a real snoot, maybe I can get her to swear. Listen young blood, surprise is the essence of deconstruction.”
Carl springs up and puts his hand out. Dirty fingernails stab through worn knit gloves. He bows his head to the woman smothered by a gray business suit. She locks her gaze forward and speeds up her gait. He shrugs and slips back down on the wall below the window. Carl watches people walk by like he was watching a tennis match in the long gone years.
“Missus business suit there, if the world sank, would have problems but she has the cell phone so she would high tail it. The immigrant market guy over there, he would lose everything, but be fine, just start over. From the highest to lowest, the highest have problems moving in the continuum. Not enough desensitization, even if they seem insensitive. That is them thinking about ego and birth. A sweet smelling scatology so to speak.
That’s why I hang here and fish for insults, it breaks them down. Let’s them feel shame for a second so they react. I’m a street psychologist. Now take this one, a good insult coming from the prep-school boy. Wait for it. Damn just the finger! It was something. So why do you stake out this corner? Arty? Why aren’t you replying? It’s a little too early to take the night train. Yo! I’m talking to you.”
Carl taps Arty on cheek. His face is a calm blue, a cold blue. Carl shakes his head. “Now that’s insulting. You just had to tell me I was talking too much and I’d have stopped. Dying just to shut me up won’t work. Damn you were dead the whole time. Weren’t you?”
Carl looks at a woman strutting by in a red Channel wrap. He points at her as she passes.
“This is what your society did.”
“I didn’t do anything,” the woman says as she stops and yanks off her over-sized sunglasses.
“Exactly. You didn’t do anything.”
A Manhattan morning lifts over the corner of 20th and 5th. The autumn chill holds still in the soft sunlight. A man named Carl once called Mr., and sometimes Sir, is wrapped in layers of throw away clothes he swiped at Goodwill. He sits down below the pastry shop window next to Arty the Dodger from the shelter downtown.
“Deranged, bum, hobo, homeless, crazy old coot, that’s all I could get so far today. Perfect freedom for a perfectly carefree existence… only subsistence required. Once a Captain of Industry with a shallow face and now I’m just a vagrant with a fragrant presence. All we need is food and shelter and this wasteful world provides. But, stupid pride and synthetic respect rules over the kids scrapping their way up the social ladder to nowhere. But here, no taxes, no telemarketers, no nothing. Sounds nihilistic but it is what it is, just survival. Damn it! Bet I missed the guy with the Chesterfield coat again. He’s good for a sneer and a ‘get a job’.”
Carl nudges Arty and looks down to his panhandler’s paper cup, a coffee cup that never had coffee in it. Carl shrugs and inhales a deep breath of sidewalk air. He exhales a stream of steamy breath into fast walking foot traffic and urban noise. Carl coughs and begins again.
“So Arty, this is the thing. Societies are artificial. They’re socially constructed values. Superficial no matter how internalized and regurgitated. I am, we are, at the crossroad. Modern primitive scavengers or societal rejects? No we are the ones who see the world for what is… an illusion of confidence, of agreement. The city is here and must be exploited and the validity lies in the fact that if you take this all away and it can be done again. I will be left standing in my desensitized worn shoes. By the way Arty, remember to spit when you talk to them. And here comes a real snoot, maybe I can get her to swear. Listen young blood, surprise is the essence of deconstruction.”
Carl springs up and puts his hand out. Dirty fingernails stab through worn knit gloves. He bows his head to the woman smothered by a gray business suit. She locks her gaze forward and speeds up her gait. He shrugs and slips back down on the wall below the window. Carl watches people walk by like he was watching a tennis match in the long gone years.
“Missus business suit there, if the world sank, would have problems but she has the cell phone so she would high tail it. The immigrant market guy over there, he would lose everything, but be fine, just start over. From the highest to lowest, the highest have problems moving in the continuum. Not enough desensitization, even if they seem insensitive. That is them thinking about ego and birth. A sweet smelling scatology so to speak.
That’s why I hang here and fish for insults, it breaks them down. Let’s them feel shame for a second so they react. I’m a street psychologist. Now take this one, a good insult coming from the prep-school boy. Wait for it. Damn just the finger! It was something. So why do you stake out this corner? Arty? Why aren’t you replying? It’s a little too early to take the night train. Yo! I’m talking to you.”
Carl taps Arty on cheek. His face is a calm blue, a cold blue. Carl shakes his head. “Now that’s insulting. You just had to tell me I was talking too much and I’d have stopped. Dying just to shut me up won’t work. Damn you were dead the whole time. Weren’t you?”
Carl looks at a woman strutting by in a red Channel wrap. He points at her as she passes.
“This is what your society did.”
“I didn’t do anything,” the woman says as she stops and yanks off her over-sized sunglasses.
“Exactly. You didn’t do anything.”
May 4, 2012
New Blog Post - The Ascendant page 2. Check it out!
Okay, so I gave you page one, a fully colored splash page of Cail and Halstein dueling inside the Trevi Fountain. Logic dictates I must give you page two next...so what the hell, here it is. ;)
Enjoy!
-Mark
Enjoy!
-Mark
Fiction in a Flash: an itchy situation.
In the shade.
A young man dressed in loose blue linen, who has never left the Boroughs, walks with stern intent along the west side of Central Park in full bloom. He appears as if he has not slept in days. His eyes are scarlet with blood vessels and weariness. The overcast day soothes his newly found light sensitivity as he rubs his neck under the collar slowly with the tips of his fingers. Irritable and unapproachable, he goes from the park through the hoards of humanity wearing designer labels and craftsmen hocking their wares. He rapidly scratches the back of his neck with exhausted desperation. All he can think is that the cantankerous cankers will not cease. He pops a pill without water.
He wonders what could have caused these blisters and why does everything itch all at once? He has had allergic reactions before but that was because of the bedbugs that traveled to his apartment with the delivery of his new mattress. He discarded it and sleeps on a pullout now. He wonders if it could be the synthetic fibers of the couch. The young man in blue stops and scratches his leg while leaning on a marble façade of an entrance to a retail building. The intensity of unnerving, incessant itching increases.
He gouges his lower back with nubs because he filed his fingernails down so not to cut his face while he slept, but sleep never comes. His temper is ignited when a tourist with a white visor bumps into him while looking up at the airplanes flying over Manhattan.
“Don’t touch me,” he screams and keeps walking.
The tourist says, “I was told to expect this.”
The young man in blue rushes into a Duane Reade and itches his shoulders as he enters. The Allergy Medications sign comes into view dangling above a cluttered aisle, a rescue ship to castaways on a desert island.
The man in loose blue linen grabs all of the ointments, creams and pills that can be purchased without a prescription. He never had use for doctors, and thought they were paid too much, but he contemplates going to the emergency room if this last ditch effort does not cure him. He thinks he really should not have passed on the job with health insurance. Brightly colored boxes holding the relief tumble onto the checkout counter. The squat male clerk with pock marks dappling his face looks at the man in blue with revulsion.
“Dude, you get stung by a bee or some shit?” the clerk asks.
The young man in blue, eyes almost closed, crashes through the exit and jogs through the crowded sidewalks. People get out of his way as he pants and cradles his white paper bag of medicine like a baby. He reaches the shade of the park.
Faster and faster he stumbles and knocks over a lithograph merchant and her plastic covered pictures. He cannot stand it any longer. Getting the medication to his blood quickly will be his only resort. A favorite sycamore tree is found.
He rips his bag open as he tears off his blue linen shirt and pants. He rifles through his pockets and finds his nail clipper and pulls a credit card out of his wallet. The creams are smeared all over his body. He struggles to get the antihistamine pills out of the generic packaging but finally chops the pills on the card.
He snorts the powder and large chunks get lodged in his stuffed up nose. Unbeknownst to him, a couple from the ‘Burbs’ with their newborn watch, get up and leave. They wave a cop down on the street. The young man, no longer in blue, sits on the top of his hands as he scratches his palms on the roots. It is not working. Panic sets in and he begins to shake. His eyes shut completely as his throat begins to close. All goes dark.
The cop sees the young man collapse and runs over to see if he is overdosing. The cop checks his pockets and then his pulse. He finds the medication. The young cop radios for a “Bus” and puts the man on his side away from the tree so he won’t choke on his vomit. The cop looks over at the tree, and having grown up in Jersey, realizes what is there. He calls another cop in so he can wait for the ambulance and wash his hands.
The EMT’s get the young man in the ambulance and the driver says, “That is the worst case of poison ivy I’ve ever seen.”
“I didn’t know we had it in Central Park.”
“Neither did he.”
A young man dressed in loose blue linen, who has never left the Boroughs, walks with stern intent along the west side of Central Park in full bloom. He appears as if he has not slept in days. His eyes are scarlet with blood vessels and weariness. The overcast day soothes his newly found light sensitivity as he rubs his neck under the collar slowly with the tips of his fingers. Irritable and unapproachable, he goes from the park through the hoards of humanity wearing designer labels and craftsmen hocking their wares. He rapidly scratches the back of his neck with exhausted desperation. All he can think is that the cantankerous cankers will not cease. He pops a pill without water.
He wonders what could have caused these blisters and why does everything itch all at once? He has had allergic reactions before but that was because of the bedbugs that traveled to his apartment with the delivery of his new mattress. He discarded it and sleeps on a pullout now. He wonders if it could be the synthetic fibers of the couch. The young man in blue stops and scratches his leg while leaning on a marble façade of an entrance to a retail building. The intensity of unnerving, incessant itching increases.
He gouges his lower back with nubs because he filed his fingernails down so not to cut his face while he slept, but sleep never comes. His temper is ignited when a tourist with a white visor bumps into him while looking up at the airplanes flying over Manhattan.
“Don’t touch me,” he screams and keeps walking.
The tourist says, “I was told to expect this.”
The young man in blue rushes into a Duane Reade and itches his shoulders as he enters. The Allergy Medications sign comes into view dangling above a cluttered aisle, a rescue ship to castaways on a desert island.
The man in loose blue linen grabs all of the ointments, creams and pills that can be purchased without a prescription. He never had use for doctors, and thought they were paid too much, but he contemplates going to the emergency room if this last ditch effort does not cure him. He thinks he really should not have passed on the job with health insurance. Brightly colored boxes holding the relief tumble onto the checkout counter. The squat male clerk with pock marks dappling his face looks at the man in blue with revulsion.
“Dude, you get stung by a bee or some shit?” the clerk asks.
The young man in blue, eyes almost closed, crashes through the exit and jogs through the crowded sidewalks. People get out of his way as he pants and cradles his white paper bag of medicine like a baby. He reaches the shade of the park.
Faster and faster he stumbles and knocks over a lithograph merchant and her plastic covered pictures. He cannot stand it any longer. Getting the medication to his blood quickly will be his only resort. A favorite sycamore tree is found.
He rips his bag open as he tears off his blue linen shirt and pants. He rifles through his pockets and finds his nail clipper and pulls a credit card out of his wallet. The creams are smeared all over his body. He struggles to get the antihistamine pills out of the generic packaging but finally chops the pills on the card.
He snorts the powder and large chunks get lodged in his stuffed up nose. Unbeknownst to him, a couple from the ‘Burbs’ with their newborn watch, get up and leave. They wave a cop down on the street. The young man, no longer in blue, sits on the top of his hands as he scratches his palms on the roots. It is not working. Panic sets in and he begins to shake. His eyes shut completely as his throat begins to close. All goes dark.
The cop sees the young man collapse and runs over to see if he is overdosing. The cop checks his pockets and then his pulse. He finds the medication. The young cop radios for a “Bus” and puts the man on his side away from the tree so he won’t choke on his vomit. The cop looks over at the tree, and having grown up in Jersey, realizes what is there. He calls another cop in so he can wait for the ambulance and wash his hands.
The EMT’s get the young man in the ambulance and the driver says, “That is the worst case of poison ivy I’ve ever seen.”
“I didn’t know we had it in Central Park.”
“Neither did he.”
May 2, 2012
New Blog Post - Page 1 of the Ascendant. Check it out!
Since I've been posting the Horsemen colors lately, I thought I'd switch it up a bit and show you page one of another project I've been working on, the Ascendant. I posted the cover earlier, so I thought it fitting to post page one next. Those of you familiar with my twitter feed (@PantherPitt) will probably recognize this page. As with Horsemen, pencils and inks done by the incredibly talented Christopher Hanchey and colors done by the extremely skilled Rich Cardoso. Enjoy!
-Mark
-Mark
