Cullen Bunn's Blog, page 42

Adam WarRock's Oni Press Mix Tape

Here's a little news from the world of all things awesome! Adam WarRock has released a rap album of songs inspired by Oni Press titles! Two of the tracks are based on The Sixth Gun and The Damned, so you should make haste in downloading the album… for FREE!

Weekend Update

A few updates for the weekend…

The 9th issue of The Sixth Gun came out this week. I was pretty sure readers might be angry with me because of how I abuse some of my characters, but I haven't received any hate mail… yet!  Here's a Multiversity Comics review that popped up a couple of days ago.

Speaking of comics, the first issue of my Superman/Batman run came out a couple of weeks ago. "Sorcerer Kings" is a four-issue arc dealing with time travel, magic, demons, and magicians. Here's a Newsarama review of the first issue. And here's a review on The Pull List Podcast that might interest you.

Finally, here's a one-page sneak peek at the Captain America story Jason Latour and I worked on for Captain America #616.

 

A Young Man's Game?

I remember reading in an anthology years ago that "all of the hot young horror writers are in their thirties." Way back then, I thought to myself, Well, all right! I've still got lots of time to make it! Well, my twenties slipped away and my thirties blasted past like a joyriding teenager gunning it through a blink-and-you'll-miss-it town. Now, entering my forties, I've decided to make the leap to full-time writer.

It dawns on me that this may be a younger man's game.

I mean, aside from the constant ache in my right knee and the persistent lack of hair on my head, I feel like a younger man. And, let's face it, I'm prettier now than I ever was in the bygone days of my youth. Just today, someone pointed out that I have backwoods/hillbilly/southerner genes that make me appear more youthful than I really am. All those years of drinking strychnine and handling snakes are finally paying off!

But I have moments of self-doubt during which I wonder if I'm going through some sort of mid-life crisis… if I'm barrelling into the world of full-time writing in defiance of my steadily advancing age. The inherent risks of being a writer might be more palatable to a younger guy without a family… without a mortgage… without other hefty responsibilities.

We've all heard that "you're never too old to" embark on whatever hair-brain scheme you might be cooking up.

I'm not so sure that's true. I think there are times when you are, in fact, too old to do something. But when I refer to "being too old" I'm not talking about physical age.

I'm talking about youthful passion.

Head out of the gutter, boys and girls. I'm being serious.

I know a lot of people who are doing jobs they just aren't passionate about. They might have loved it at one time, but they let their enthusiasm grow old and die. They have geriatric passion. Usually, that shows in the work they do.

So… this isn't a younger man's game. It's a game for those who have youthful passion. In my opinion, the same could be said for every profession. If you don't have a vigorous passion for what you're doing, chances are you're not very good at it.

Sorry. Them's the breaks as this crotchety old dude sees them.

Writing energizes me. I'm not saying it's always a party. It can be hard work. But it's hard work that I love, and it makes me feel young again. That's one of the reasons I know I'm on the right path.

My advice to you is to find the thing that makes you feel young again and do everything in your power to kick ass doing it!

Run Free, Corporate Monkey! Run Free!

For the last fifteen years, I've been employed with a career transition and relocation assistance firm here in St. Louis. During this time, I've held a number of positions, such as resume writer, receptionist, career consultant, manager of consulting services, technology manager, manager of support services, and (most recently) Vice President of Marketing.

Whew!

Fifteen years… and for fifteen years I've known deep down in my heart that I wanted to do something else.

Don't get me wrong. I've no need to be modest when it comes to the work I've done over the years. I've kicked much ass. But I also put my dream of writing on hold for most of that time. Sure, I wrote, carving away an hour here or there when I could. In the end, though, I was treating my dream as a hobby. A couple of years ago, I decided to change that, and I started dedicating more time (and a lot of late nights) to my writing. It was a big adjustment for me, and it took a lot of getting used to. But it wasn't until I started treating my writing as a real  job that I started achieving some real success.

Now it's time for another change. Last week, I tendered my resignation at work. As of March 11 (my last day), I'll be a full-time writer.

That sound you just heard? That was me throwing up.

I'll admit, my nerves are doing their best to play havoc with my system. I think that's a good thing, though. I'll need that nervous energy. I'll need to channel it into productivity. Leaving a steady paycheck behind means that it's all on me. I've got to hustle if I'm going to keep myself supplied with beans and cornbread.

Is the timing right for me to do this? I dunno. What I do know is that I've waited all this time for the stars to align. If I wait for "perfect timing," I'll be twiddling my thumbs forever. Good or bad, it's time to take a chance.

As I embark on this journey, I want to thank all the friends who have offered their encouragement and support. I want to thank the editors and publishers who have taken a chance on my work.  I want to thank everyone who has bought one of my books or shook my hand at a convention. Most of all, I want to thank my wife and son, who are jumping into this adventure right along with me.

In the coming weeks, I'll be writing quite a bit about making the transition from corporate dancing monkey to full-time writer. The successes… the failures… the power plays… and the big mistakes–you'll be there right along with me. I'll have some more big announcements in the next few days, so stay tuned.

In the meantime, wish me luck!

Fifteen years gone by in the blink of an eye. Don't wait forever to follow your dreams, kids.

Superman/Batman #81 Available Today!

The first issue of my "Sorcerer Kings" arc in Superman/Batman hits the shelves today. I had a lot of fun with this story, and artist ChrissCross is knocking it out of the park! This is one of the crazier stories I've written, and it's full of magic, mayhem, demons, and all sorts of beasties. It also features one of my favorite teams–Shadowpact.

CBR has posted a preview of the book here.

I'll be celebrating the issue's release at the South County Fantasy Shop tonight from 5 – 9. If you're in the St. Louis area, I hope you'll stop by!

The Tooth is Loose!

It's been a looooooooong time coming, but The Tooth–the monster epic I co-created with Shawn Lee and Matt Kindt–has finally has a release date!

Face front, horror hounds! The greatest of ghoulish gladiators gouges a gruesome gangway through your guts in the Grand Guignol tradition! CREEPY Cullen Bunn, SINISTER Shawn Lee, and MURDEROUS Matt Kindt bring you the most spectacular of horrifying heroes — The Tooth! Be the first kid on your block to follow the off-beat adventures of the Incredible Inciscor… the Monstrous Molar… the Courageous Carnassial… as he squares off against vicious demons, hell-bent sorcerers, vengeful spirits, and undead dragons! This new macabre myth cycle springs to life soon as only Oni Press can bring it to you!

The book comes out in gorgeous hardcover on May 25! Make sure to tell you local shop that you can't live without this epic of monster-on-the-loose madness!

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Cold Snap – Free Fiction for the "Snowpocalypse"

We've got a blizzard warning here in St. Louis, and the ice and snow is starting to fall. It got me thinking about a story I wrote long ago. This tale jumped into my mind, pretty much fully formed, while I was driving through a particularly nasty winter storm. Hope you enjoy it. Stay warm, wherever you are.

Cold Snap

This is the sound of Hell:

The clicking of sleet upon the roof of the car and against the windshield. Wind rushing along the deserted road, howling, moaning.  The dull thumping and hissing of the wipers, now caked with ice.  Keys rattling on the chain as the ignition is turned, turned, turned desperately.  The grind of the car's engine—metal against metal—screeching, sputtering.  And the baby—oh, God, the baby—crying as she shivers in the car seat, crying for food, for warmth, but—oh, God—not crying as loudly as she had been only a moment before.

And every sound followed by a thought I cannot shake:

I'm going to die here.  I'm going to die and so is my baby.  We're both going to die because of what I've done.

I try the ignition once more, my fingers bruised I've gripped the key so hard, my hands numb from the cold—the cold, so bitter and sharp that it's almost solid, filling the car, drowning me as I breathe it in. I turn the ignition again and again—so hard that it surprises me that the key doesn't snap in two.  A feeble red light on the dash flashes SERVE ENGINE SOON.  Shivering, I hold my hands to my face, breathe on my fingers, trying to warm them, but even my breath seems frigid as a cloud of frosty air escapes my lips.

The baby cries—she sounds so weak—and I shrug out of my fleece jacket, letting the air snap at me, and cover her with it, tucking the cloth around her small form.

"It's going to be all right, Wendy," I whisper, knowing she doesn't understand.  She doesn't understand any of what's happened in the past few hours.  "Everything's going to be all right."

She coughs and struggles in the seat.

And she looks so pale, her flesh like the snow, only her tiny hands and face are stained a mottled red.

She's so cold.  So cold.

Ice coats the windshield, freezing the wipers in place.

A distant signal comes through the radio, fading in and out.    "A winter storm ad . . . the freezing . . . several more . . . later this morning . . . road crews working . . . are slick . . . advising . . . to stay . . . warmth . . ."  And then it is gone, consumed by the static.

Come on . . . Come on . . .

I urge the engine to crank as I turn the keys one last time.  Nothing.  Too late.  The car's had it.  I pushed it too hard, trying to get as far away as possible, far away from—

I look down to the floorboard, where my pistol lies, where I tossed it.  The barrel looks black in the darkness, glistening slightly, caked with blood, a few blonde hairs stuck to the metal.

The baby wails.  She is shaking.  Why won't she stop shaking?

I know that if we stay in the car, we are going to die.  Reaching over, I unstrap the baby from the car seat.  I will not let her die here.  I press her close to my body. I cover her face with the scarf and make sure she's bundled tightly.  I shove against the door and it comes open with the brittle crack of ice.

We are out in the middle of nowhere.  I kept to the back roads, trying to avoid running into anyone, especially the police, and I have no idea where the nearest gas station, rest stop, or house might be.  But I don't have a choice.  The storm was battering through the car, trying to get at us, and sooner or later it would have succeeded.  At least this way there might be a chance.

I can hear the baby's muffled crying as I start to trudge away from the car, away from the fading headlights.  Snow and ice fill my shoes.  I can't feel my toes, fingers, or nose.  Plumes of frosty, labored breath writhe around my head.  I press the baby closer to my chest. 

If only they hadn't tried to keep the baby from me—my ex-wife and her new boyfriend.

The bastard . . . the bastard could have had her for all I care . . . stepped right in and took my place . . . but not the baby . . . I wouldn't let him have the baby . . .

But I never meant to hurt anyone.

That's not true, though, is it?  Otherwise, I would have left the gun at home, left it in my sock drawer and gone unarmed.

My feet crunch through the snow and ice.  Wind blisters my face as I glance around, seeing no sign of the car, only a haze of whipping snow, and the trail of my footprints, slowly filling, vanishing, swallowed up by the snow.

The tingling at my fingertips and toes tells me that frostbite is settling in.  I clutch the baby closer to me, staggering, almost falling, but pressing on.

 Keep moving . . . keep moving . . .

Against me, the baby stirs, only slightly, and I can't be sure if it is actual movement or just my imagination, but I know one thing for sure—she's cold, so cold, and I can't shake the thought that I'm not carrying my daughter at all, but instead carrying a shank of chilled meat against me.

The wind whips the snow into phantom shapes, figures gliding around me, reaching for me, and their touch numbs my body.

I walk for what seems like a lifetime.  The road vanishes under the blanket ice and snow.  I can't feel my legs, and I hardly notice that they are no longer working until I crash down to my knees.  I can't stand, can't walk, can't crawl.  I want to scream, to cry for help, but the sound won't come, as if silenced and trapped by the ghostly cloud of freezing breath.

I fall to my side, hoping I don't crush my daughter against the frozen ground.  I'm so tired.  I can't stand the thought of walking any farther.  The cold doesn't even seem that bad anymore.

My vision blurs, and I wonder if its possible that my eyes are freezing.

Large flakes of snow, like the feathers from an angel's wings, float down around me.

In the distance, I hear the rasping of footsteps through the ice.  I raise my head . . . and wonder at first if the snow is not playing more tricks on me.  Several figures approach, hunched over against the cold, their shadowy forms covered in ice and rain.  They surround me, looking down on me as I try to ask for help, and they reach for me, pulling the baby from my stiffening arms, and I think for a few dreadful seconds that they might be saving only the child, leaving me out here to die.   They whisper, but I cannot make out the hissing words.  They lift me to my feet, and just beyond a rise of snow I see a darkened house.

Dry laughter escapes my throat.  Funny how I hadn't noticed the house, and it was so close.  My laughter is the last sound I hear before weariness overtakes me and the world vanishes from my sight.

I awake sometime later—how long?—on a tattered and filthy couch that smells of damp earth.  The room is furnished only by the couch.  The floors are dirty, stripped of carpeting and wet.  A stink rises from somewhere in the house.   It is warm, though, and somewhat comfortable. The memory of the cold lingers painfully on my skin.  I lay still for a few minutes, letting the warmth of the house soak into my body, before I realize that the baby is no longer with me.

I rise from the couch, stagger across the room, and look out the window.

I can see for miles.

And all I can see is snow, a vast plane of ice glittering coldly in the moonlight.

I stumble from the room, into a winding labyrinth of hallways.  Water trickles down black walls, pools along the baseboard, and a slight draft filters through the hall, the storm trying to break in.  Wet, muddy footprints leave a stained trail across the floor.  I follow the footprints, and despite the cold I feel a sweat breaking out across my forehead.   

Ahead, flickering light fills a room, and a wave of almost oppressive heat flows towards me.  I step into the room, where several dark figures gather around a glowing hearth and whisper to one another.

The smell and the heat assault my senses.  I stagger back into the wall, covering my mouth to keep from vomiting.  The figures turn to face me, and for the first time I notice their black, shark-like eyes, their overly large mouths full of chattering, needle-pointed teeth, their skin blackened, frostbitten, and flaking away.  Beyond them, I see the fire, the fire that heats the house and seeps into my bones like some kind of disease.

I fall to my knees.

The figures come at me, shuffling across the floor, but I cannot take my eyes from the fire, even as they grab me with long, spidery fingers.

I cannot take my eyes from the tiny, blistered body in the heart of the flame.

Superman/Batman #83

Superman/Batman #83, which is part 3 of the "Sorcerer Kings" storyline, comes out in April. Here's a look at Travel Foreman's cover, which pretty much tells you almost everything you need to know about the storyline. If you can't get behind the idea of Batman riding a dragon and Superman wielding a sword, I don't know if we can keep seeing each other.

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Flashback Friday – Godzilla vs. Gigan

Every Friday, I'll post a little look into my childhood. Maybe together we can figure out why I'm so messed up.

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Godzilla Vs. Gigan wasn't the first Godzilla movie I saw (it was beaten to the punch by Godzilla vs. King Kong, Godzilla vs. Megalon, and Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla) but I have fond memories of this one. My dad took me to see a Godzilla double feature (back when movie theaters used to show double features), and this was one of the flicks. I don't remember what the other movie was, but I loved that this one featured a monster amusement park and a giant Godzilla-shaped tower.

Flashback Friday – Wacky Packages

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I loved Wacky Packages when I was a kid. Loved them! I loved opening a brand new pack of these stickers and thumbing through them. I loved slapping them all over my favorite notebook. I loved the artwork. I loved the way a fresh pack smelled. I loved the stale bubblegum. I even tried my hand at creating my own knock-off series, Stable Labels, which I sold on the playground for 10 cents a pack. My series of "stickers" had a little note on the back to "just add tape."

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