Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

Spiffy and AA talk TV

September 26, 2010

So, Saturday night, Spiffy started texting me incessantly about all kinds of shit, but his one noteworthy idea was he and I teaming up for a Previews Reviews-style post on the first week of season premieres from the fall TV schedule. Due to my lack of AIM on the computer I was using, we ended up on Facebook (he’s Andy, I’m Me). This was the result.

One of us was drunk, but I’m not telling who; try to guess for yourself.



Twitter puts my favorite creators in my pants

December 2, 2008

I’m hooked on Twitter.  I’ve written about it, used it and abused it.  After joining it I quickly followed all of my fellow internet dorks in Vancouver Canada, and then once I got the local tech / blogging community good and followed I turned my attention to my hobbies.  I quickly found that the comic book community had embraced Twitter in the wonderful geeky fashion that we’re known for.

With a lot of top comic professionals on the Twitter, it’s now easier than ever to reach out and touch someone.  Well reach out and @ them at least.  Plus having the latest thoughts of my favorite writers accessible on my iPhone at anytime is pretty cool.

Whose worth following on Twitter?  Here are a few of my favorites:

@BRIANMBENDIS / Brian Michael Bendis – writer New Avengers, Mighty Avengers, Secret Invasion, Ultimate Spider-Man and others: by far my favorite comic creator, Bendis rarely Tweets.  However like catching a fairy under a glass, it’s the scarcity of the event that makes it special.  He also swears, which is like… cool man.

@brubaker / Ed Brubaker – writer Captain America, Criminal, Daredevil: though he claims to have received temporally unsubstantiated information that Kurt Vonnegut invented Twitter, Brubaker is a clever tweeter just like you’d expect of a guy from Seattle in a nifty hat.

@warrenellis / Warren Ellis – writer Astonishing X-Men and a bunch of stuff I don’t read: while I don’t think I’ve ever liked a Warren Ellis book, he’s a great follow on Twitter.  More so than most everyone else his caustic personality shines through even in the 140 character format.

@BrianReed / Brian Reed – writer Ms. Marvel and others: Reed is probably the best at Twitter of any of the creators I follow.  He’s fun to read and he’s generally eager to interact with everyone else, so he’s the genesis of a lot of cross-tweets between creators.  He’s also responsible for the very funny fake Bendis account that forced Bendis to sign up for Twitter to protect his identity.

@JefferySimpson / Jeffery Simpson – writer this blog post: what?  I can’t self-promote?  Bah.  Right I’ll probably never be let near a comic book writing job with a ten foot pole, though I do have a great pitch for a Scarlet Witch mini-series, my mother tells me I’m interesting and you’re not calling my mom a liar are you?

Fiction: Something Borrowed And…

February 20, 2008

So here goes, folks: This is my first real post on this blog. This isn’t exactly what I will always do, but I thought I’d lose my blog-ginity by posting a flash fiction (in essence, an extremely short story between 500-750 words). Like Goki and I have stressed, this blog is going to strut its versatility. While a comics blog primarily, we will stretch our legs to reach all sorts of topics and art forms.

This was actually an assignment for college. I will get to describing more about me later on with successive blog posts, because I feel like that’s an essential element in trying to connect with readers, but first, I felt like sharing this recent piece I wrote. It’s not special, mind you, and is just a rough draft. Let me know what you think! Critiques welcome.


Something Borrowed And…

Where am I? He can’t speak. His lips are chapped, dirty; ripe with blood. His head throbs with pain. Then he remembers. Harold. Where is he? Where’s the bastard who killed my wife?!

            That morning, Dexter woke up with a start.

            “Honey, we’re late!” his fiancée, Claire, shouted from across the spacious bedroom, panic painting an epic picture across her beautiful face. She had overslept as well; her glorious bed hair flopped over her face like a misshapen hood. Today was the most important day in his life.

            Claire drew the blinds, and the brilliance of day washed over Dexter like a raging river. The sunny glint in his fiancé’s eyes reminded him of the gleaming pocketknife he had given her on their first anniversary. Dexter was, then, a recent college graduate, naïve enough to fall in love with this stunning girl, whom he had met at a hunting store, where she had worked with Harold. Thank God for naiveté.

Dexter rubbed his eyes furiously; stars and spots littering his vision. Claire took the opportunity like a woman possessed, draping her body around his like wrapping paper. It was this kind of affection that had submerged the pair into such a deep sleep. Today was their wedding day.

            That afternoon, they got married. The couple made it to the altar in time, their late awakening distant memory. Everyone thought they made a great couple, and they were right. Claire, with her gorgeous white dress, her hair gloriously shiny and with just the right amount of curl, possessed an aura of spontaneity that exuded sensuality. Dexter was the consummate gentlemen, wearing a tuxedo the way classic Hollywood stars used to. Which is to say that he wore it damn well and knew it. Everyone was caught up in this moment, this vision of true love.

Everyone except Harold.

            That evening, it all went horribly wrong. They were to go to the Bahamas, and consummate their marriage, amongst other things. But instead, the limo screeched to an ugly halt.  Looking back, Dexter wondered if there was a way to prevent her fate.

            “I would’ve taken her someplace better.”

            “Excuse me?” Dexter retorted, struggling to place the limo driver’s voice.

            It was Claire who recognized the deep, dark and lucid tones of the driver. Claire had wondered when they would meet again, knowing that she was on borrowed time.


Harold turned around, and revealed a sharp-toothed grin, hair sprouted every which way under his torn hat, with piercing eyes that pinned them to the backseat. He used to look normal, sane, but that was before his heart was broken. This was what remained of the man Claire had left in Montana two years ago, his hands now tightly grasped around a pistol. Husband and wife squeezed hands, and Dexter put his free hand through her glorious hair.

            “I’m sorry, but this is the only way.”

            The bullet exploded right between Claire’s eyes, killing her instantly. Her hair was untouched, but lifeless nonetheless.

Harold had stolen all meaning from Dexter’s life with one pull of a trigger.

            Dexter leapt from the backseat, his grief propelling him like a panther upon this man, but Harold was ready. Dexter’s hands grabbed for the villain’s throat, but before he could, Harold struck him across the face with the butt of his gun. Darkness clouded his vision, and Dexter succumbed to the blackness.

            Dexter can’t see him, but he knows Harold is here, somewhere. It’s night, and the beach has lost all beauty. The tide laps under his feet and as it recedes, he realizes that the tide has left something a few yards away.

            Claire. Her body, lifeless, possesses a ghost-like quality in the moonlight. The pain is too great to cry out. He seizes his wife, and hugs her fiercely. Dexter convulses with grief, tears streaming down his bloody face, his hand examining her body, when Harold emerges from the night.

            “You’ll ruin her dress.” Harold’s frame submerges the couple into darkness, blocking out the moon. Still, Dexter’s hands work feverishly, but lovingly, over Claire’s form, trying to find it.

            “She deserved better than you.”

            Dexter looks up, and grins at the murderer, as he finds it, deep within the folds of his wife’s wedding dress.

Harold shivers, sensing his fate.

            With a sudden flash of brilliant light Harold crumples to the beach, defeated. The blue hilted knife, lodged in his throat, gleams in the moonlight.

            “Something blue.”