Technical Difficulties

I shot this a couple of months ago but had been so swamped I hadn't had time to actually cut it together.  I had an idea I had pitched to my friend Sean Hellensmith for a short B&W silent film that would be set to electronic music featuring an android having a glitch.  We never got a chance to make said film and when I was doing some further experimenting I ended up doing a solo variation on the theme.  It tends to happen.  Actually, in my first short "Sleep & Death" the idea started off as a suicide pact being carried out between two friends, which would have starred myself and Chasity Reeder.  Often times plans don't work out due to everyone's schedules and then I end up doing projects on my own.  It gets a bit lonely doing everything yourself and of course the thought of it not being as good as it could've been lingers in the back of your mind but all in all, most of these projects are educational, experimental, learning experiences.

Dr. Ernesto misc. gallery

New Update!

This busy year continues!

While Gun Control For Polar Bears continues to not be bought, I've been hard at work on everything else.  Experimental poetry isn't for everyone.

I've been tweaking some screenplays and sending them to a screenwriter friend of mine to see what we can do with them.

I've finished the edit on the horror anthology I've co-written with my wife.  It's called The Last Request of Grover Cleofus Black and we're looking to self-publish it by the end of the year if not the beginning of next year.  It's CRAZY and I hope you guys check it out.

With the Dr. Ernesto series finished for now, I hope you all are checking out my art series Coma's End.  The pieces in the series are posted on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter (you can find me at @CMC5384).

Amidst all of this going on, Dennis and myself are still hard at work on Tourniquet which you should be seeing soon.  We have several different things going on with it.

My publisher and I have been looking over the cover art for my first sci-fi novel Last Rites of the Capacitance and it's looking fantastic!  Still unsure of the release date of the book but it should be soon.  Probably by the end of the year I'll be starting on my second sci-fi novel, not a continuation of the first but its own thing.

I have shot another short film entitled Technical Difficulties which will be edited soon.

You can find stories such as Coma's End and Mr. Monroe's Nurse on www.52weeksofhorror.com.  It's the only place to find Mr. Monroe's Nurse, one of my favorite stories I've written and I feel it's one of my best so you should check it out.

All this week I've been working on a secret project for my friends at 52 Weeks of Horror and I'm hoping by this time next week they'll have it and you all will be able to see it.

Life continues to stay busy.  I hope you all are doing well and staying creative!

Dr. Ernesto

As you might've seen on my Facebook, Twitter, and/or Instagram accounts I'd been posting photos of a crazy old man doing silly things.  Welllllll let me take the time to explain.  My dad and I were always fans of schlocky late night horror hosts.  Me being an art nerd, I was always coming up with different projects.  Years ago, probably 5-6 years back, I thought of one he and I could do together.  His name is Ernest Lee Carter, though her goes by Ernie, and a common nickname I'd heard him called growing up was Ernesto.  Thinking about people like Dr. Demento I called it Dr. Ernesto.  We had him dress up in overalls, a dress jacket, and a hat, along with any extras.  Dad's like Jonathan Winters in which you could give him anything for a prop and he could do something with it.  We had him dressed up as our character, gave him props, and just let him go to town while I took the photos.  It was summer and incredibly hot so we were both sweating a TON; so much so that I had to clean off my camera in between shots.  In the lengthy time in between the shots being taken and being seen I was in a marriage that fell apart as well as other projects that fell apart in the process.  Though I'd lost some of what we shot I managed to keep an envelope full of photos.  In a new, healthier marriage and embarking on new projects, I finally scanned and posted the pictures.  Throughout that time my dad was constantly asking me what happened to them so he was happy when they finally surfaced.

Sometime soon we'll be doing some different kind of stuff with Dr. Ernesto.  We both look forward to revisiting and having some fun with the character.

The Suicide Man - short story

The Suicide Man

By Christopher Michael Carter

He cried tonight, like he has every night this week.  A week of crying himself to sleep; the first time in a long time as his disease has just about neurologically stripped his ability to do so like an average person of thought & emotion.  He's quietly fought depression for years but even then he's always been less than honest about having suicidal thoughts.  They've changed and the manor they've done so has been beginning to frighten him.  It's no longer simply a matter of wishing he were dead, but actual methodical blueprints of his end.  He lies in bed planning it down to the letter as one would a grand heist, meanwhile his wife sleeps beside him without a clue that anything's awry.

He believes "it", the push to end his life, used to scare him but these days it all feels different.  When it hits, he feels like crying, but it's actually comforting.  He'll wait for her to fall asleep and then looks at his medicine cabinet loaded with the dailies and thinks about taking everything he can and just quietly go to sleep as if it were a normal night.  He's not sure if he's fighting the urge or working up the courage to actually do it.  The thought that it can all be over whenever he wants is kind of reassuring, freeing.  He thinks about how he wouldn't have to be bitched at about the most inane things.  He thinks about how he wouldn't have to feel so worthless, powerless, alone, and in the way.  He thinks about no longer being sad.  No longer being angry.  No longer feeling unworthy.  He thinks about no longer having to live or deal with his illness.  He pictures his wife happier without him as well as his child no longer having to put up with a piss poor father figure such as himself.  Perhaps his wife and child wouldn't be so irritated or complain as much if he weren't around.  He's anxious to feel relaxed and not overstretched in any way.  Yes, all he'd have to do is take too much of something that's already long in his system.

Every night like clockwork he thinks about the freedom it would bring him.  His eyes water, his smile stretches, and the lump in his throat swells.  In the midst of the euphoria that the visions of suicide brings him, another image is sharp: his dog, the little black pup.  If this man thrives on the feeling of dying then one could easily say this pup thrives on being lively.  His youthful bounce and boundless energy are only matched by the way he stares up at him with those big doe eyes.  This man loves his dog and, more than any other living being in his life, he wonders if that love is understood or even reciprocated.  Alas, he is constantly reminded by others that he's just an animal, a beast beneath him.  'If he's so beneath me,' the man ponders, 'Why is it that I'm the one wondering if he sees me as I see him?'  

The man plans to end his suffering with precision planning but the wind has vacated his deathly sails by the innocent eyes of the little black pup.  He thinks of his wife, 'She'll be fine.  I don't think she'd even notice my being gone.'  He thinks the same of his daughter currently away at college, 'Eh, they'll get over it quicker than they'd portray.'  But the dog; this Hound of Joy if you will...  'This damn dog keeps ruining the death of a lifetime.'  This man wants to be free.  Doesn't want to be a failure.  The mere thought of the dog, this man's best friend, breaks up his beautiful suicidal cloud.  He knows how the pup is when he's not around and can't bear the thought of what he might endure if he were to actually go through with it.

Still he lies in bed, not counting sheep, but the options to which he can leave this world and find peace.  No, he's not scared or sad anymore; the tears are those of joy.  The thought, nay, the knowing that he could exit his misery at any given time empowers him, the Suicide Man.  He's stronger with that knowledge; the fear of death and the furthering of his illness subsides.  He doesn’t have to live in this world and do the things he does while in it but he chooses to.  Yes, this man has found enlightenment in suicide.  Strong, happy with tears in his eyes, he can't sleep.  He's going to wake up his dog for a late night walk.

2017, The Year That Almost Was - A Film

I made this little film about a week ago. It's simple and I do not own any of these images. I've gotten to a point in my life where I feel like if I have an idea I want to act on it. My friend Haley and I were talking about our art and living without a net. This little movie may not seem like anything special to anybody but it was simple to me: I had the idea and, regardless, I wanted to make it. I'm not going to make a habit of doing these slideshow films with images I don't own or haven't created but I wanted to do this ONE. Originally, I had used a track from a haunted house sounds collection but have since replaced it with music I played and recorded years and years ago.

Historical Journey 1

This was just a little bit I had recently written but I think I may do more for different things of today. 

It was midday as Lady Marybeth stood on the balcony of the castle with her handmaidens whilst awaiting to hear from Lord Jonathan. Alas, a sparrow was spotted. It flew close to the ladies and upon stopping it, they noticed a note tied to its foot and removed it. "It's from Jonathan!" Marybeth and her friends giggled with excitement. Lady Marybeth, surrounded by her squad, unfolded the letter brought by the messenger sparrow. Her expression changed from glee to shock to confusion to flattered and embarrassed as the young women got an eyeful of a detailed charcoal drawing of Lord Jonathan's erect phallus. Lady Marybeth blushed and her friends fanned her as they laughed all the while.

This has been a historical account of the first dick-pic. Thank you for taking this trip back in time with me.

Happy Birthday, Joy! - A Short Story

Happy Birthday, Joy!

By Christopher Michael Carter

Moving the flower-print sheet, she unveiled the surprise; her daughter’s new doll collection.

“Wow, mommy, are those all for me?”  The wide eyed child asked.

“Of course, silly, it’s your birthday.”  Agatha, the mother of seven year old Joy, laughed.

“There’s so many of them.”  Little Joy stood in her little pink dress trying hard not to run over and pick them all up at once.

“I found an old woman downtown selling them.  They look homemade.  They came together in a set….”
She noticed her daughter’s eagerness, “You can come over here, don’t be afraid.  They’re yours.”

She moved over to the set slowly and picked a couple of them up.  Some are bigger than others but most of the dolls range from six to ten inches high and as her mother stated, they looked to be homemade and not shelled out from a toy factory.  Joy still just stared at them with no response.  

“Aw, thank you, mommy.  I love them.  They’re my favorite!”  Joy yelled out hugging her mother’s leg.

“Now…  Do you want some cake?”

“YEAH!”

Agatha had been a single parent since Joy was a little over a year old.  Her husband had left her for a co-worker; one of HER co-workers.  Seeing Joy so full of such brought Agatha so much happiness that things like the past didn’t stand a chance in her mind.  So she continued cutting the little white, blue, and yellow iced cake she bought at the supermarket and enjoyed the sugar feast with her favorite person.

“Sorry none of your friends could come over for your birthday, sweetie.”

“It’s okay, mommy, I got new friends now.”  Joy said pleased looking at the doll she brought to the table.

“Well guess what?”  The single mother asked.

“What?”

“When we get done with cake we’re gonna go to GRAMMA’S!”

“Alright, Gramma’s house!”

And so they got done with their mini-cake and got all cleaned up and ready to go when Agatha saw Joy with her arms full of dolls.  “Whoa, kiddo, why don’t you put those back?”

“Aw, mom…”

“We’re gonna be way too busy today.  You can play with them when we get back.”

The phone rang, “Hold on.”  Agatha said moving towards the phone.

“Hello?  Oh, hey, mom.  We were just about to leave.  You forgot napkins?  That’s alright; we’ll pick some up on the way.  Okay, we’ll see you shortly.  Love you; bye.”  Agatha hung up the phone.  “Well, Joy, you about ready to go?”

“Yep!”  The newly seven year old was excited.

Agatha was already out by the car with Joy right behind her when the daughter stopped, “Wait, I forgot something!”

“Well hurry up, okay?  We gotta hit the store on the way to grandma’s.”

“I will.”  The child said heading back into the house.

Agatha waited in the car when Joy returned from their home with an arm full of dolls.  The mom shook her head upon seeing this, “Whoa.  No, no, no.  Just take one.  You don’t need all of those to go to grandma’s house.”  Agatha chuckled while talking through the open window.

“Aw, mom.”

“Just one!”

“Okay…”  The little girl’s excitement deflated as she headed back into the house with the doll collection in her arms.

Joy entered her room and set the dolls down on the bed eyeing each one.  The dolls laid back on the bed staring up blankly, each one looking different than the next.  With so many options the little girl had a tough time making a decision, “Mommy said I can only take one of you...  Who wants to go to grandma’s house with me?”

Outside in the car Agatha continued to wait and wait.  “C’mon, Joy…”  The mother grew impatient.  She honked the horn and waited a few minutes longer before unbuckling and getting out.  Entering the house she called out to her daughter, “Joy, we gotta go, honey!”  She didn’t hear a reply and went to her room to find it as it was last; clean yet with the doll collection lying on the bed.  “Joy?”  She checked the bathroom, empty.  “Sweetie…?”  She continued through the house and the birthday girl was nowhere to be found.  Agatha went outside to check the backyard, calling out her name “Joooooy!?”  The yard was empty and contained no reply back from her daughter.  She checked the shed out back and it contained the lawn mower, weed eater, and storage, but no young girl. 

Back in the house she checked every nook and cranny growing more aggravated and scared simultaneously, “Joy, if you’re playing around with me, stop it!  You’re scaring me!”  Once her investigation of the house was clear she went back out the front door, frantically looking around.  It was still the same calm peaceful neighborhood it was when they were about to leave.  Scared, as any mother would be, she ran to the phone to call the police.  She tried to keep composure while the line rang.

“Yes, my name’s Agatha Layne and I live at 414 W. Altar Street and my daughter has just gone missing.  She was just here.  She went back in the house to get a doll and now she’s not here.  …I’ve checked the entire house and yard and can’t find her anywhere.  Okay, okay, please hurry.”  She hung up the phone and wiped her growing tears before heading out the door. 

She checked each neighbor on either side, knocking at their doors. 

A young man answered, “Hi.” 

Agatha tried not to seem in a panic, “Hi, I’m sorry, have you seen Joy?” 

“No; not since yesterday.  Is everything okay?”  The neighbor man could see there was something upsetting her.

“I can’t find her.  She was just here but I can’t find her anywhere in the house.  I was just seeing if you happened to see her.”

She continued her search at the house on the other side of her to have the same results; both asking if she’d called the police.  The neighbors got out and started walking around the street to look for the little girl who was well known and liked around the neighborhood.  The police arrived and went over the girl and her mother’s home with a fine toothed comb while Agatha sat in the kitchen crying. 

“What do you got?”  One officer asked another in Joy’s room. 

The other officer looked at the window, “No sign of forced entry from the window.” 

“Not from the back door either.”  Another officer said entering the room.  “…Doesn’t look like there was a break in at all.”

“We checked the mother’s room too; under both beds and in both closets, nothing.”

Agatha sat crying on the phone to her mother, “I don’t know where she is, mom; she just vanished.  The police are checking the house and the neighbors are out looking for her.  Okay, well I’ll be here…”  Agatha hung up the phone and tried to regulate her breathing before a couple of officers approached her.  “Ma’am there’s no sign of forced entry or struggle.  Is there any chance she could have gone to a friend’s house?”

“No, we were seriously just leaving to go to my mom’s.  It’s her birthday.”  Agatha told the cops through the lump in her throat.

“I know this is hard but is there any reason she might’ve had to run away?”  They had to ask these questions regardless of the pain.

Agatha was struck by the question, “She’s seven years old!  We just had cake!  She got a new doll collection!  She hasn’t any reason to run away; she’s a happy child!”  Her anger and annoyance was felt.

There was a knock at the door to which Agatha got up and stormed over to answer it.  It was her neighbors, “We’re sorry, we couldn’t find her anywhere and nobody’s seen her.” 

Agatha’s body was becoming more lifeless by the moment, crying she said, “I don’t know what I’m going to do…”

She filled out a report with the police who put an alert out for the missing child.  She continued to call around asking if anybody had seen her and the neighbors did another search, all coming back with the same answers.  Agatha’s mother came and spent hours trying to comfort her daughter, to which there was no comfort in such a situation.  Hours and hours passed and the day turned to night with all the hectic events of the day becoming a blur.  She sat at the kitchen table drinking straight vodka and stared into nothingness, mulling it all over in her mind at what could’ve happened.

“That bastard…”  She said picking up the phone to call her ex, the girl’s father.  He didn’t even get a greeting out before she ripped into him, “Do you have Joy?”

“What?”  He replied.

“Did you come over here and take my child?  Did you take Joy!?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Our child; the one you walked out on!”

“Why would I take her!?  You know I haven’t seen her!”

“She’s missing, Kyle!”

“Missing!?  How could you’ve let that happen!?”

With those words she didn’t even continue the conversation and hurled the phone across the room in anger. 

“Damn it!”  She screamed and grunted in disgust with the man she’d previously married; a mistake she tried not to think about too often.

Agatha continued to drink and became more depressed.  Her heart sank and in the pit of her stomach was a heavy feeling.  “My Joy…”  She whimpered.  “Where are you, baby…?”  Her face sunk down into her hands with her hair a mess and that’s when she heard the call. 

“Mommy…!”  The child’s voice was light and faint but was without a doubt Joy’s.  Agatha’s face shot up from her palms.  “Mommy…!”  She heard it again, “…Joy!?”  She jolted up from her seat and ran down the hall to her bedroom.  She opened the little girl’s bedroom door in a fury to find it just as it was earlier; clean and empty with her birthday presents lying on the bed.

“Joy?”  Her breaking voice asked softly with the continuing tears rolling down her already weathered face.  A silent response left Agatha colder and she left the room with her head hung low.

“JOY, WHERE ARE YOU!?”  She screamed to the empty house.  She felt empty, as empty as the house.  Her Joy, figuratively and literally, was gone; lost.  She walked back to the kitchen to grab the bottle of vodka and retreated to her bedroom with a feeling of darkness; a black void she knew would never be filled until she found her baby girl.  She entered her bedroom with an overall air of defeat and collapsed on the bed cradling her bottle of alcohol as her only friend; the only friend she saw available to help her.  She cried herself to sleep praying, hoping, and wishing her Joy would be returned to her.

She was awoken by a familiar call, “Mommy…!  Mommy, help me…!”  Agatha looked around frantically before fully coming to and rushing out of bed.  “JOY!”  She called out, running down the hall before getting to the girl’s room.  The estranged mother hurled the door open to find it the same as she’d left it earlier.  She groaned in painful sadness while holding her head.  Agatha dropped to her knees in her daughter’s bedroom.

“Mommy…!”  She heard again, as if it were coming from a distance.  She whipped up looking around feverishly for where the voice she knew all too well was coming from. 

“Mommy, help me…!”

“I’m coming, baby!”  She yelled jumping up and running out of the room.  “Where are you!?”

“I’m here!”  The faint voice exclaimed distressed.

“Where!?”  The mother looked all through the house before slinging open the front door and running outside in search of her missing child.

“Mommy…!”  Joy’s voice continued to cry.

“I’m coming, baby!”  Agatha ran everywhere she could outside looking for where the voice was coming from.

“Mommy, they won’t let me go…!”  Her voice rang out as if carried by the wind.  Agatha felt like she’d hit a dead end in her search but still continued to look around, “Who has you, baby?  Who stole my Joy?  I’ll kill you!”

She continued her drunken search trying to follow her daughter’s voice in the quiet neighborhood in the dark night. 

That night would be the first of many she would hear Joy call out to her.  She kept searching.  Despite the police letting her know time and time again that no leads were turning up, she was determined and wasn’t giving up.  Every night she was woken by the same call for her.  She’d frequently organize search parties with the neighborhood only for the investigation to lead nowhere.  Along with her mother and friends, Agatha posted “Missing” signs all over town only to get no reply, ever.  There were no sightings of the girl and the hole in Agatha’s heart continued to grow as she felt she’d lost everything.  She carried her, gave birth to her, raised her, loved her, and then they were abruptly separated.  Agatha felt lost; that she had been losing her will to live.

She continued to answer her daughter’s call night after night; a call that seemed to be coming from different distances nightly.  Every night she was determined to find her child in trouble; her child in need.  A year went by and still nothing on the case of the missing child.  Joy’s room remained untouched; a symbol of her distraught mother’s hope for her return.  Agatha’s therapist proposed that perhaps the voice was in her head; a cry manifesting itself from her grief.  She refused to believe it as her young one’s call was all too real to her.

…Had she only checked the doll collection still on her daughter’s bed, she would’ve found an uncannily familiar face; a new edition to the set that looked remarkably identical to her Joy.

“I’m scared, mommy…”  The little girl’s voice continued to whimper; faint, distant, and echoing from somewhere unseen. 

Canines - Available now!

https://supposedcrimes.com/products/canines-a-supposed-crimes-anthology

Last year after Gun Control for Polar Bears had gotten the go-ahead I went ahead and checked out more of my new publisher's website to which I found submissions for Anthologies and a Novel. I first wrote the short stories and then did the novel submission (the upcoming Last Rites of the Capacitance). There were two anthologies they were looking for stories for and I've talked about one of them, which is "Almost" - a sexual tension anthology. As I've stated before I wrote the story "Dream of Me" and it was accepted but then the book fell through. You can find Dream of Me on this blog. Now, the other was a vampire one called "Canines". I went through my story bank - if you know me then you understand then I have a plethora of stories, ideas, and unfinished work built up throughout the years - and I found just a beginning to a story called "The Diary of Anne Salt" which was already set up to be a vampire story. I rewrote the opener that I had and then the rest went from there. I'm happy with it and I'm proud of it.  "Canines" is a free e-book featuring not only The Diary of Anne Salt but several more fantastic vampire stories. Check it out!

Sleep, Death, and Experimental Film

I've often had friends who've told me that my taste in things is a little odd.  I've always had a thing for more arthouse experimental things, be it film, writing, or music.  I've watched films of David Lynch, Guy Maddin, and the early works of George Lucas and thought "Damn, I wanna do THAT."  Of course when you voice that you want to make experimental (and even silent) film, you get those people who are going to say two things: 1, Who are you making it for?  Who's the audience? and 2, I don't know why you'd want to do that; it's not going to go anywhere - it's too weird. 

Over the years I've attempted to make some of the weird little films in my head but something would always get in the way.  I had a movie I was working on during my last relationship and it was sabotaged and during the divorce process I had lost all my footage.  Interestingly enough, I saw a trailer for a small movie coming out (or IS out) with the same story and setup to some degree.  I had tried to work with a good friend of mine on some stuff but nothing came to fruition.  He, my sister and myself did shoot stuff for a short that was supposed to go to an indie anthology but nothing came of the footage shot - actually my sister and I never saw the footage afterwards.  I've been asked by family and friends "Whatever happened to *insert project here*?"  It's hard to explain to people a lot of times what gets in the way of things.  It's always different. 

This past year and a half I've had a lot of a "Fuck it, why not?" attitude with things.  Last year I submitted a poetry book expecting to hear nothing but "No" and it got published.  From that book I saw some submission requests on the publisher's website and said "Why not?"  Did two stories for them and saw the novel submission.  I didn't think I'd ever do that or even be able to do that but said sure and wrote a novel.  Since I've been doing that, my art's gotten better.  I've animated something by hand and worked on an art series you'll see soon called Coma's End.  So with a comic book, a play, a novel, a poetry book, and an art series, I figured it was time to just jump into something else I wanted.

Digging around at my dad's while helping him throw stuff away I came across an old digital camera (a Vivitar to be exact) and I remembered using it at a time.  I noticed it had an SD card in it and took it home (he said anything I found and wanted, I could have).  I plugged the card up into the laptop to see what was on it - sure enough it was the things I had recorded.  It was just my tooling around trying to learn the camera.  I had set it in black and white because I just love B&W photography and cinematography.  The actual video setting on the camera is terrible; something I actually enjoyed.  If you're wanting to do something tattered or rough looking, there's no need for the added aged film FX.  So B&W AND rough looking?  It looked JUST like the films that I love and inspire me.  Looking through the footage there was me and my ex.  On a side/personal note: it was strange to see us on film after we're well over.  It was like I could see on the film that there was really nothing there between the two people; something I didn't see at that time as one of those people.  But I digress... 

I saw little angles of ceilings and walls that I liked and so I went through and cut everything else and kept those odd angles.  I then took the same camera and went to shoot random stuff in my house to fill it out.  All just experimenting.  The more I shot and the more I was experimenting, the less of the original footage stayed.  There were no plans, I was doing simply that - experimenting.  The finished result is very obviously a film about suicide, however, again, there were no plans - it just kind of happened.  Now that I shot this short and I'm happy with it, I'm definitely going to do more.

Let this all be a lesson - if there's something you want to do but feel you don't have the means and not even sure how to go about it, just jump in and do it.  Even if you don't like the results the first time - just do it.  I'm going to keep going with all my projects and you should too.

The Tourniquet Serials

Now that I've found some time in my busy schedule, I've finally began work on the Tourniquet serials that Dennis & I will be posting online soon before the comic's release.

As I've stated before, the book changes from script to comic, so I'll be using the original scripts for the five issues as outlines for the serials. Readers will get the Tourniquet world that Mr. Magnant and I have created before the comic book hits shelves and different experiences between the serials and the comics. It's essentially two different takes on the five issue story arc that's been toyed with and developed.

The way we work is Dennis and I will brainstorm and come up with everything that we like and want in it, I'll write the script, he'll throw in his two cents and I'll change anything that needs changing, and then he draws and inks it. The original plan for this addition to the comic was to do a book but then it had hit me that we could do it in serial form; rewriting each of the five issues into five serials or episodes.

I want to show you how I'm going about it as the writer of the original scripts and these rewrites into a different format. 
Side note: I've talked about writing comics before and how I tend to write my panels fairly simple and bare bones to give the artist a chance to do what they do and you'll see just about every panel Dennis just BRINGS it, adding fantastic detail. You'll notice a lot of other changes in the finished comic book as well.

Today I'll just be showing you the rewrite/reformat/etc of Page 1 as an example.
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Original First Page to "Tourniquet" Comic Book Script

Page 1
Panel 1: A man in a chair with a sack over his head.
          Man: Hello? What’s going on?
Panel 2: A man holding a camera, facing forward (us, the reader).
Panel 3: The bound man in the center of what looks to be a dank underground shelter and around him are gun-toting terrorists. The “leader” stands behind the chaired man wielding a machete.
          Man: Who are you? What do you want?
----------------------------------------------------
Now, you see, just as I talked about, the visual explanation is very minimalistic. I just explain the situation. It's just a skeleton and Dennis comes in and he adds flesh and detail. With the serial version I just went by the three panels. I didn't want to add a bunch in, take anything out, but just stay true to the page. 
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First Page to New "Tourniquet" Serial

Somewhere in the middle east; an undisclosed location.

The sounds of water dripping is nearing loud in its volume as outside commotion is constant. The room is dank and dim with shoplights hanging overhead; some broken with the rest covered in dust and grime blocking much of the light. Rats scurry across the damp, filthy, and broken floor. Tied to a chair in the center of this room is a battered, bruised, and bleeding man in his boxers and undershirt with a dirty burlap sack over his head. Around this man, unbeknownst to him, are men equally as dirty as the sack over their hostage’s head, strapped with machine guns and sporting wicked grins. Heroes and soldiers to themselves, but terrorists to most.

The man’s slumped head jolts as he wakes. His body tries to move in its restraints and his head turns side to side hoping to get a glimpse of where he is and what’s happened only to see the dark inside of the sack. Realizing he’s strapped to the chair, he begins to flail about frantically, the best he can anyway, before he stops. His body shivers with fear as he tries to regulate his breathing.

“H-Hello? What’s going on?” The scared man asks the darkness with a voice trembling as bad as the rest of his body.

One of the devious fiends in this bunker-like room holds up his phone to record such a demonstration of terror. The others watch the man in the chair squirm restlessly and share stifled chuckles. The leader of this bunch walks past his men, approaching their centerpiece while twirling a large machete in his hand. Shirtless, scraggly, and undoubtedly evil, the man walks behind the bound hostage.

“Who are you? What do you want?” He continues to ask through the lump in his throat in search of answers. Through the burlap over his ears is the combination of footsteps, rats, murmuring, and the incessant dripping, along with the breathing just above and behind him. The bag moves in and out with his anxious huffing breaths. His hands clench tightly and his body shakes as he awaits his fate.
-----------------------------------
So there you go, gang. I'm excited for you guys to see both the serials AND the comics. Both coming soon!

Doomsday Think Tank

I've always loved plays. In high school I went from reading them for assignment to reading them for fun and always wanted to write them, along with my other projects.

A couple of years ago Dennis Magnant and myself were digging deep into our comic book Tourniquet. There's a scene in the first or second issue when a man our monsters save reveals he was holding a chip of information. I wrote a 3-5 page scene of the four monsters sitting around a table in headquarters trading theories of what it might contain. I loved the scene but it wasn't a good fit for our book. Tourniquet is a team of monsters killing the likes of pedophiles, terrorists, and such, not sitting around musing about conspiracies. I separated it into another tab as I liked it too much to throw it away. I would frequently return to this little trading of dialogue when something would strike me. When it had hit 8 pages I thought it was done - a nice little short: the pentagon announces the return of a disc with important information but no details have been given; four conspiracy theorists are invited to sit down and share their thoughts.

Then it grew and continued to grow. For a long time I felt it was done at 32 pages. I had printed it off and gave it to my dad, who showed it to his friends and they all loved it and freaked out about it. Ideas and thoughts kept hitting me recently so I dusted it off and worked some more on it. It grew to 72 pages. It's not long, I know, but for what it is, I suppose it can be rather lengthy. I didn't expect it to get to 32 pages let alone 72 pages. Thought I was done. Nope. It kept calling to me to say more and I did and, after several times of thinking I was finished, I stopped at 88 pages. My wonderful Aunt Wanda is going to edit it for me. I don't know if she'll like it but I at least hope she doesn't hate it haha.

I titled it early on "Doomsday Think Tank". The characters are nameless and simply color coded (Blue, Black, Green, & Red). Financially speaking, it'd be a cheap show to put on. 4 people (2 men, 2 women) sitting at a table trading theories and discussing world issues. There's actually a lot of humor in it as well, balancing out the serious issues talked about. I'm hoping once the final draft is done, I can start holding readings. This play that's been kind of therapeutic for me grew out of a deleted scene for a comic book. You never know when something will hit and where it'll come from, so always be open.

I hope you all check it out when it finds its way to you.

Finished, This Journey is Almost Complete

I woke up Monday morning at 7:30 and not long after I got to work in the hopes to finish Last Rites of the Capacitance.  I dug deep and worked hard, going over it and over it and over it until I felt it was ready.  I didn't walk away from the writing until I was finished shortly before noon.  After a large exhale was released, I sent it to my publisher.

Whenever I finish a project I get hit with 2 feelings:
1, I'm proud, delighted, and happy to complete it.
2: I'm completely at a loss as to what to do with myself for awhile afterwards.

I end up so wrapped up in something and on such a schedule that when it all comes to a halt, even if I have something up next, I'm briefly stunned.  Usually when I work, I'm multitasking between several projects.  It's always helped me; however, for whatever subconscious reason, once I hit a certain point into the book, I shut everything else out and focused on it - giving it everything I had.  I actually started writing this post Monday night but I've just been busy with life.  I've actually decided to take a week off from writing.  I say that every time I finish something and feel spent afterwards and I start working again a day or so later, but I can actually say I think I'm going to enjoy the week and recharge my batteries and then get back to work on my long to-do list.

This year's gone by quick thus far and I haven't gotten as much done or out as planned, but that's life - never enough time.  The things I have gotten done are definitely setting me up for a better tomorrow.  This being my first novel, I've learned a lot in the process and look forward to growing more with the next books.  The original draft of Last Rites of the Capacitance was started in October 2015 and by the time it's released it'll be about a year or more.  I'll get my notes back and make any additional changes needed.  Then we'll figure out the cover and release date.  As I found out with Gun Control for Polar Bears, there's a lot more that goes into this all than people think.  It's not a situation of write, publish, release; it's a lot of writing, rewriting, editing, getting the cover right, finding the release date, another look over for any additional edits, about the author, dedication and acknowledgments, etc.  The post work is a process just the like writing is a process.

My second science fiction book is aleady outlined and if I start on it this year I probably won't do so until October.  I'm toying with adapting some of my lengthy horror stories/novellas into full lengths.  In between the original manuscript and the more finished version of this book, I had completed 2 anthologies among other projects so it's been a busy year.  I still hope to get my play out as well as the Tourniquet serials.

There's a lot of interesting stuff on the way.  I hope you stay tuned.

Have a great day all.  I'm going to go back to enjoying my little vacation.

Capacitance, Tourniquet, and More

Okay, so I'm a little behind.  Life has gotten in the way of plans.  My father always told me "Life is what happens when you're planning for the future" and he couldn't be more right.  I had hoped to be finished with Last Rites of the Capacitance by July 1st and then I'd go into the Tourniquet book as Dennis and I await the comic to be lettered. 

However, I've been met with constant interruptions which have set me back on my time.  Last Rites of the Capacitance, my first novel, is done finished as now I'm just going through doing some extra fleshing out.  As I'm going through the book some more scenes are coming to me that would help it out which is, of course, extending that time.  On a plus side to the tardiness to my own timeframe I've set for myself, the book is coming out better than what I had originally thought it could be as well as my publisher is very patient.  I'm hoping this book will help me out in all the ways I need it to.  That puts a lot of pressure on it, and more on myself, I realize that, but it's a feeling I'm verbalizing. 

Dennis Magnant, artist and friend, has been wonderfully patient with me as well.  As I've mentioned before, it was he and his wife who'd mentioned the possibility of the Tourniquet book.  I was the one who was kinda iffy on it before coming around to their idea, realizing how right they were.  The thought on doing so was to take the original five scripts I'd written and transferring it to book form and fleshing it out.  I had thought it would be interesting to use the original scripts as the comic is a little different.  I figured that way, the readers can get two different reads instead of just the comic and book versions of the same thing.  Something had hit me recently and I pitched it to Dennis and he liked it - we make all decisions for Tourniquet 50/50 as I'd never just write something from the world we've created without consulting him first and vice versa.  It had occurred to me that it might be more fun to do it in 5 serials as opposed to doing one full book.  Again, he agreed.  So as soon as this novel gets done I'll be writing those serials and I think we talked about releasing them for free - I'll have to check again though.  This world we've created and all the colorful characters within has been a long time coming and I'm sure some people think it's probably done for, not-so-much.  It's actually becoming richer as the time passes.  Dennis and I have hit a lot of roadblocks and they've, in turn, ended up strengthening our partnership and friendship.  We know what this can be and believe in it, I think, even more than what we did in the very beginning.  So, there are some exciting things coming up for the world of Tourniquet.  I thank everyone who has stuck by with the same patience we have awaiting it to pick up speed. 

In the past, I'd work on multiple things at once but, for some reason this novel has shut out everything else.  I understand its importance and I think that's why I've chosen to keep everything at bay until it's completed.  I have plenty of other projects that are on hold at the moment: a couple of screenplays with some friends, some art projects, animation, film, comics, a play, and more.  There are so many things to get done and the year is going by FAST.  I haven't put out nearly as much as I had hoped to by this time but I think what will be coming out will be even better, richer.  My next scifi novel (still odd for me to type as I've said before I never planned on being a novelist) is already outlined, more or less, however I'd like to get some of these other things completed before jumping into my next all encompassing book. 

I would like to note something else before I bid you adieu.  Things change in time.  When I wrote the initial draft of Last Rites of the Capacitance, it was 74 pages and, at the time, I loved it and thought it was good.  In between that first draft and this rewrite, overhaul, what have you, I'd gone through a few other projects, furthering me in my craft.  Going back to the original manuscript to do said rewrites, I saw the 74 pages totally differently other than a small section or so.  So doing the newer draft, I used the original as an outline.  BUT it made me think...  I had transcribed, transferred 5 horror screenplays into stories for a horror anthology called Sharp Items & Bad Intentions.  There wasn't much rewriting and fleshing out as they were quite simply script-to-story.  Well, now that I've gone through the process and realizing how to really expand on ideas, I'm very curious about dismantling the anthology and actually fleshing out some of the works.  I may actually have a few books in there.  I think I may be able to get at least three books out of what's in the anthology.  I'm starting to understand the nature of nurture when it comes to writing - as before I've worked very fast, however I hadn't really done any book work that required such nurturing until now.  I love learning and growing, even if it's forcing me to change how I'd worked for so long.  Every medium is different though. 

Once this book is done, among the other projects I'll be diving into, I'll take a look at those lengthy horror stories in Sharp Items and see what can be done.  Until then, keep an eye out for the Tourniquet serials and check out the science fiction novel Last Rites of the Capacitance when it comes out. 

And of course, my poetry book, Gun Control For Polar Bears, is out and available so be sure to get a copy of that.  I know a lot of people who don't necessarily care for poetry who've actually ended up liking the book.  One guy bought it for his wife as "She likes poetry, it's not my thing" but then read it, loved it, and wanted to use it for lyrics in his band.  It got a small, albeit great, review from Jeffery Potts on Amazon and the book and myself got a wonderful mention on the WTH (Well That Happened) Podcast.  It's not in rhyme and verse but a little more experimental.  It's not love poems or whatnot as it's a little bit of everything; some tell a story while others are more abstract, most are fairly dark I suppose.  So if you're interested in some weird poetry, give it a read.

Gotta get back to work.  You all have a great day and thanks for reading.

Animation

A little backstory on this:
In high school, my friend, Aaron, was on the school newspaper and he'd come to me one day telling me that they were looking to start doing a comic strip.  I lit up, "That's awesome!  Hey...I used to draw and I love comics!"  To which he replied, "Yeah, that's why I told you about it."  However, I hadn't drawn in forever and was finding it extremely hard to pick back up.  In the school's lobby after school, waiting to be picked up by my mom, I was trying to draw Anything to see if I could bring it back even a little.
Years before, my friend Shane and myself had taken some art classes - the only kids in these night classes.  In these classes they were having us draw various fruit and their shading.  So, flashforward, I was trying to draw fruit and their shading when I fell asleep.  In the short time I was asleep I had a dream of being chased by these creepy robed guys and then someone, something showed up to guide me out of the situation - it was a tall banana with legs; no arms or face.  It had the pantlegs of shorts coming From the banana, and old school sneakers on his feet. 
My friend Heather came from choir practice and woke me up, seeing if I was okay.  I drew what I had dubbed Mr. Banana Legs for the comic strip Crazy Banana Legs - unoriginal title but I was happy the character had come to me.  I did more than several comic strips for the school paper with Crazy Banana Legs.

Now, let me interject while I briefly explain my love for animation:
I love, love, love all different kinds of animation.  As much as I enjoy CG Animation, I have a thing for really old cartoons, shows and movies.  There's something about old hand drawn animated works that attracts me - the rawness, as if you can actually SEE the work put into it due to it not being as smooth as the medium became over time.  I always wanted to animate, but I always liked the idea of independent animation vs. being a part of a huge company making these things.  I've always had it in mind that if I ever attempted to animate something, I would put a little ragtag group together and create an independent animated film.  The years had flown by and I was always distracted by different things life had thrown my way.

Years (Many Years) Later:
I had gotten a bee in my bonnet and decided to try to animate something.  I didn't want to use a computer program and wanted to do it as barebones and as basic as possible.  So, taking it down to the fundamentals of animation, I got a couple of pads of tracing paper and some pencils.  It seemed that, after all the years, the only thing I could actually still draw was that damn Banana so that's what I used.  I sat and drew, traced, drew, traced, over and over for 120 pages.  It was long and tedious but I didn't mind - I was more excited about the fact that I could actually do it.  I took all the pages, scanned them, and put them in order on Windows Movie Maker, trying to get each image down to the smallest allotted time.  I played it back and loved what I got, this rough little clip of Mr. Banana Legs.  More than that, I loved what it showed me - that if I DID happen to put my little group together someday that we could do it.

Now, after showing it on Facebook, my friend and cousin Scott asked if he could put sound to it.  Of course, I said yes.  So, in no time at all, he sends me this and I love it.

I took a brief pic of the pages I had done.

Realism: Dialogue, Anatomy, and Money

I just wanted to speak on a few things for a moment that I find interesting.  Just some thoughts, opinions.

As a writer I've heard criticisms such as "The dialogue seems stilted" as I've heard other writers get the same critique.  It's understandable; however, I think it's interesting because often times in real life, all of our dialogue, speaking, and language in general seems stilted.  I didn't think about this until recently when I was having a conversation with someone and it hit me that "I'm sure if we wrote this real life conversation down verbatim it would be referred to as 'stilted'."  It's like when a real life event is written down and someone reads it to say "Eh, it doesn't seem realistic.  This would never happen."  The same goes for when you write dialogue that's word for word a conversation that had taken place and someone says the same thing "Not realistic.  No one would ever say that."
It's interesting what our minds perceive as realistic when it comes to reading and writing versus the actual realism of everyday life.

Another thing I wanted to hit on is art critiques I've seen.  I've spent time on these Facebook pages where comic book writers and artists meet and whatnot.  A lot of times an artist will post a drawing piece of a character and then the comments section is filled with people telling them what they need to fix.  I understand your peers giving you advise, I do; but some of them struck me as odd.  I've seen on several occasions someone post art of a character clearly NOT HUMAN, whether they're alien, mutant, or some other super-powered being and they get critiqued on the anatomy.  I've seen people say "You need to study anatomy.  They don't look realistic."  The image is met with several different variations of this criticism and I often feel I'm the only one looking at the art piece with common sense, thinking "It's not human.  It's completely made up.  Of course it doesn't look realistic; it's an alien from another world with three arms."  But because the shoulders and hips aren't set as an average person, these GOOD artists are told (and sometimes quite harshly I might add) that what they're doing is wrong and what they're imagination says is wrong.  If a character is of a race that doesn't exist in reality, who are people to say if they look wrong?
Imagination doesn't have an anatomy.

The last thing I wanted to talk about is money.  First of all, I grew up with a passion for creating; it's something I always wanted and always did, creating things.  It's in my blood.  I think about it more than anything else and I'm finally getting to do so for a living (it's a slow start but it's a START).  Second, I understand completely the want and need to be paid for your art.  Sure, I post stories and other things on here but of course I have a book out I'd love people to buy as well as more projects coming.  So, yes, I get wanting to be paid for your work.  HOWEVER...  With that being said, I've never thought about getting into writing (comics, screenplays, books, whatnot) or various art projects for money.  Most of my ideas, I've often been told, are too weird or unsellable, not franchises or merchandisable, what have you.  I love my ideas, of course.  I create things because I get an idea and, no matter how zany or even how boring it seems to other people, I want to see it done.  I've spoken before about doing it for you, the artist. 

Anyway, on the same Comic Book Writers & Artists pages on Facebook that I talked about in the paragraph above, something I'd seen quite a bit (haven't been on there in some time, but I'm assuming it's the same as it was for the while I was checking it out) was money talk.  Again, I understand wanting to be compensated for hard work.  I get it.  But something I was seeing actually all too often were artists were spending more time talking about rights and money than they were art, be it the process, the love, the thought, the passion, ideas, etc etc.  It probably doesn't bother you all like it bothers me, but when I'm trying to connect with other creators, I can't think of anything more of a killjoy than jumping into a discussion of money.  There are some out there who love to talk about these things; who live and breathe art as I do and so many others like us.  But then there are some who are great at what they do (writing, drawing, etc) who are more interested in what art can do for them instead of vice versa.  Ask not what art can do for you but what you can do for art.  Most of us get into a creative field not only because of the love of it but because they want to make a difference and leave a mark.  Others are just using a God-given talent to leave a mark (albeit temporarily) on their wallets.  When you speak more on rights and money than you do the Arts (and its variants) than you cross over from being an artist to a businessman/woman.  Imagine the difference between a financier or producer and a perfomer or artist.  It's like different dog owners:  Is it your best friend and part of the family or are you more interested in having the papers on your purebred to enter it in the next show for the chance for "Best in Show"?  When you have a baby, you wait and nurture pregnancy before you get your bundle of joy - you don't get it upon conception, so why should it always be expected of another labor of love such as art?  If you really love your art (not just USE a gift for such) than the money will come; but some people are more interested in the briefly filled pockets of the Right Now than they are in the happiness and longevity through patience. 
If you're only getting into a creative world simply and truly for the money, you're not an artist; you're just someone using your talents for a job, not a career, not passion, not need, but a job like any other.  No different from a bagboy at the grocery store, could be the best bagger ever - everything's packed tightly, nothing's smashed, even walks it out to your car, and probably gets Employee of the Month - but it's not their passion, not what they live and breathe, it's just using those talents for a paycheck.  Money in, money out.  Make a difference.  Leave a mark.  A real artist is permanent, not temporary.  It's inside you, it's YOU, not just something you CAN do.


I know some people don't agree and that's fine, we're all entitled to our opinion. 
Me, personally?  I'd rather live for something I love which is why I enjoy my struggles as a writer more than I enjoyed my steady paycheck as a factory worker.