Hollow Eve

There is a point in your life where you will think to yourself, "Self, Things have gotten out of control. Let's take some time to get it all under control."

One year later, you look back and wonder if you actually accomplished anything.

Is anything different? Is anything really under control?

What have you done with yourself?

This time last year, I expected to be hard at work fighting through the publishing obstacles.This year, I find myself no closer than I was the previous.

Since my last post, I have broken up with my girlfriend due to an aspect of her life that I new about in advance but attempted to deal with and accept/tolerate.I found that I could not. And, frankly, should not have needed to. The creative stimulation was very favorable. The moral torture was not. I put myself 'out there' to be judged and put up for evaluation. I found that I passed the test but the cost to my own moral fiber left me spiritually devastated.

I moved away from the place I had become very comfortable with. I benefited by having more personal freedom and having to take more personal responsibility for my own well  being. I gained the ability to be able to connect more with my children who are closest to me. And,as any parent will tell you, found less time for myself. The plights of a single father removed from his offspring is a whole other rant and I will save you from it (for now).

My 'real job' has been stagnant. The day-to-day grind of helping other people fix their phones gets to me. I find it difficult to empathize with elitists who have entitlement issues. Case in point: A woman is not able to call one number on her contact list and it is returning an error message that all circuits are busy. She feels that our company should reimburse her for the 'good money' she pays the company for service. She is calling in on her cell phone and does not have another number to be reached at. She refuses to perform the most rudimentary troubleshooting and demands that we fix it. 30 minutes into the call is when we realize that the number she is trying to reach is clear across the country in New York. Hurricane stricken - disaster relief efforts in effect - emergency services working around the clock- New York. Eat your humble pie and reevaluate your life.

The company has taken to ranking our success purely based upon the customer's opinion. This has increased the stress levels all around especially for someone who places a lot of value in other people's perceptions. Who cares if I spent an hour reprogramming your service and blatantly going against company policies - do you FEEL that I did good? Do you want to friend me on Facebook now?

This has caused an onset of severe rectal glaucoma. Periods where I wake up and can't see my ass coming into work. There are some days, we can all admit to it, where you don't want to deal with other people's issues. Friends? Sure you will. But faceless American greed? Nah, not today.

And this missing of scheduled work time has lowered me in the rankings despite the fact that upper management wants to promote me. I am tired of the job itself but cannot promote until I buckle down and just do it.

Immediate stress clouds future successes.

This, all combined, has lead to a heavier reliance on immediate gratification. Overspending on hobbies and hours lost with online gaming. I am sorry, Kara... Venge... Friends...

Maybe this will make it up a bit:

I have been playing around with the idea of having the Reaper Blades manifest from the palms of his hands. It has been problematic, but I am happy with the concept.

And I need losts of work with perspective angles. Here is a sketchy bit with some of the concepts integrated.

Maybe I will find myself engaged in this more strictly in the future.

Maybe the zombies will get us first...

Inspiracy

Another month gone by the wayside.

Nothing additional to show for it but the love and affection of another.

It is not that I do not appreciate that sort of attention (quite the contrary), it is just that I do not feel completed yet.

No, not incomplete, just not completed.

My dreams are still only captured images from REM sleep.

My story, the story of Venge, is a haunting, creative tease.

Free time begets play time. Playtime is not productive. Free time is fleeting.

It is fulfilling to claim that I am some sort of aspiring graphic novelist.

I will go on at length about the story to be told.

But this, is delusional.

The church used to sponsor artists to create great works of art.

Today, quantity is more rewarding than quality.

I lack either.

I currently work a job to work towards my goal.

When, in actuality, I work towards maintaining my health (mental and physical).

While my spiritual health is failing.

What I want and what I get are rarely the same.

And what I need is only minimal.

I maintain that I may not be the right guy to create this...

but I'm the only guy who can.

Inspiring Against Me

It's been over a month since I last posted.

Things to note that have prevented me from posting:

Computer caught a nasty virus and locked me out of administrator permissions.

Spending most of my free time with my new girlfriend.

Gaining more responsibilities at work.

Stretching myself across to many hobbies.

But these are the excuses. I know that I control my involvement in each of these.

Things to note that have  moved me closer to my goals:

Created myself a visual/graphic outline of my story. I have charted it out with major plot points per issue as well as the characters involved and for how long. This has given me the greatest amount of satisfaction since the story and it's progression have been the hardest for me to organize.

Watching a massive amount of Anime's on Netflix have given me a collection of inspired costumes.

One of the above mentioned hobbies have also given me inspired costumes as well as the opportunity to exercise my artistic side while painting model figurines.

The later two items have brought about a revamping of SanGwen's look. I have included them both below for your enjoyment. They are sketchy and neither one is something that I am willing to throw my signature (artist tag) onto, yet. The second one is closer to her new look.

Violent Lessons

This Independence Day I had a realisation most distraught.

From an early age we are taught to appreciate things of a violent nature. A child will fascinate at the spectacle of lights displayed high above as a firework is ignited. But at the sudden boom of an explosion, a child will become afraid. A child instinctual knows that this sudden burst of energy is something to be feared. Yet we, as parents, instruct them to marvel at it, in celebration. We down play the destructive nature of the event with patronising Ooh's and Ah's.

Then we wonder why a child will do something against common sense. We wonder why our children do reckless or destructive things. I know I did.

I once put a screwdriver into a light socket to create fireworks. The sparking was fascinating. I even remember plugging the lamp into a different outlet because the first one had ran out (tripped it's breaker). It wasn't until after the second breaker was tripped, and the T.V. shut off, before I was made to realize.

An inability to sit comfortably and constant adult supervision led me to understand that light bulbs are the only things that belong in light sockets and the T.V. is to remain on except in the case of serious injury or death.

*         *         *

One of the men reaches for the shadow and is greeted with a swift kick to the side of his face. His head impacts with the metal table creating a resounding gong and knocking the man unconscious.

The shadowy form grapples with the second man as he brings his assault rifle up to fire. The shade strips the rifle from the mans hands, flips it around, and points it back at him.

Just then, the third man leaps over the table brandishing a crowbar. The butt of the rifle meets the third man squarely in the face. His eyes roll into the back of his head as blood streams from his nose. The shadow assailant sidesteps the third man's awkward dive as he hits the concrete flooring like a sack of potatoes. The crowbar falls, lazily from his hands and clangs onto the floor.

Pleased, the assaulter grabs the rifle by it's barrel and lines up a golf swing. The second man attempts to raise his hand in a sign of mercy as the shade swings his arms backward. The full, brutal force of the rifle butt catches the second man under the chin and whips his head up and back. His feet pitch forward as his body is carried into the air. The back of his skull meets the concrete with a "Tok!" and his body settles into motionlessness.

The orange warning lights high in the ceiling finish their rotation to illuminate the face of the shadowy assailant. The face is not human and resembles that of a skull. Wide eyes within the skull's eye sockets gleam with satisfaction. The apparition corrects his grip on the rifle, lines up the sights with each of the unconscious body, and pantomimes shooting while yelling, "Bang! Bang! Bang! You are all dead."

He discards the gun and retrieves the crowbar. He smashes it against the metal table with a sideswing. With each swing, a loud "Pang!" drowns out the sound of desperate footsteps and hurried commands.

"Ask not for whom the bell tolls..." The spectre yells out across the warehouse before throwing the crowbar into the second tier office window overlooking the warehouse floor, "... for it tolls for thee!"

Premises Broken

An Epic Story does not work well with Comic Books/Graphic Novels. The Epics were auditory in nature. They were, quite literally, told. Comics are primarily visual. The story is seen. Because of this, or perhaps in spite of this, my story can not follow the same structure. At least not without some modification.

Through the process of putting my story into a written format I have been able to observe a pacing error. I had a thought of just having Gregor the Observate narrate over an action scene. I would have him detail some semblance of back story while the action within the panels would be of a gruesome conflict. Neither narration nor action having a direct relation to the other. And while this was exciting to visualise it conflicted with the overall story idea.

Psychological, supernatural, love Epic.

Love - I think this has, and will further be defined in the overall telling.

Supernatural - The creatures and situations in and of themselves will detail this aspect.

Psychological - This I have only alluded at and towards. And, as such, is something that needs to become more central than it has been thus far.

Is Venge just crazy? Is this world that he exists in just imagined? Up to this point it has just been stated that it is all true. In doing so I have missed opportunities to cast doubt on behalf of the reader. Possibly, near the end of the chronicle, I will cast light on the truth.

So then, how to tell a visual story that may be falsely observed? How to tell an Epic visually? I find myself coming back to Gregor but not as a stater of facts as he was previously depicted. He shall instead rejoin with his actual purpose. The storyteller.

*         *         *

Foreword

My name is, Gregor. I have for you a tale of a remarkable man and his quest to be reunited with his true love. The details of this adventure have come to me through observation and from interviews I was able to get from those involved. Wherever the details have become conflicted I have chosen to use the point of view of this man. You may have already heard of him; The man called, Venge.

*         *         *

Book 1: Avenge

Chapter 1: A Load Off My Mind

In a forgotten harbor town on the west coast of North American, gunshots and laughter can be heard emanating from the warehouse district. While gunshots and laughter are not unheard of in this part of town around payday, today is not payday. Upon closer inspection, it would appear that warehouse 43 is very active tonight. Word has gotten around that the owner would be there in person to oversee something of importance. And while mob ties have never been proven in court, the presence of the additional goons running about lend some truth to Mario Rossi's being there. Or as most know him...

"Don Rossi," sings a hauntingly sinister voice from within the stacks of crates and containers, "where are your manners? My mistress has bid you to dance and your turn her down?!"

Bullets impact the walls of crates as a shadow streaks past.

"Instead you send these unworthy suitors?"

A running clothesline topples three men who had taken up position behind an overturned, metal table.

"Trust me, Mario, they will each have a turn, but tonight is your dance with Death!"

Now Exiting Snoresville

While reading this first chapter, I have determined that it is pretty good. Kind of. I have noticed some distinct grammatical errors. I even noticed a serious change of perspective tense. I can't believe I made such a rookie move as changing from past-tense to present-tense in the middle of a chapter. These things an editor would surely notice and have me change, so it isn't all that bad.

No, the worst part is pacing. This is a much slower start than should be expected in a graphic novel. Most manga, comic books, and graphic novels fix this by starting out with a big action scene. Usually they just elude to the story, resolve the action sequence, then explain things afterward.

I have found that this gives the reader instant gratification but also lends to a false sense that these sort of sequences will be expected. This is not the way I would like to run things.

This story is planned to be sort of supernatural, psychological love story. About half the story will played out in words and the rest in actions. If someone picked up this graphical novel and read the first chapter, there is a good chance that they would be putting it down again.

The easiest cure would be to just throw an action sequence at the beginning, such as the vampire mafia Don fight that I wrote last year. But, I feel doing so would just be irresponsible and even more of a rookie maneuver.

Ah, if only a writer had dreamed this up. I could be watching the movie of it by now...

*         *         *

_Deitrich, flat on his back and arms flailed to either side, ran the name around in his mind. Venge. Venge. I know I should know this. Vengeance? Revenge? Avenge? Unbeknown to him, his hands were drawing a connection for the mask of Venge.

_Karen's thoughts broke through his own, "While this trip down memory lane is... " she feints a yawn, "engrossing, you are no closer to discovering the cause of your current condition."

_Distracted, his hands stop their dance of creation. The dark sand resettles and erases woman's face drawn there. Deitrich rolls his head to the side and looks up at Karen. He raises himself up to a sitting position and settles his elbows on his knees with his hand hanging loosely between them.

_"What would you have me do then, ferryman?" Deitrich pleaded, "I am recalling the best I can."

_Shaking her head sadly, she pulls her steering pole up from the water and cradles it in her arms. Her left arm swings to the side and grabs the lower shaft of it. Her right arm, still cradling the pole, grasps it. She raises it to shoulder level, the lantern swinging behind her, and leans her head over to peer down the length of it with her right eye.

_"Perhaps this will help you remember," she says as she points the bottom of the pole at Deitrich forehead. She jerks the bottom of the pole skyward and a gunshot is heard resounding from each of the cavern walls.

Luck It All

I once heard about a philosophy that determined much of our life evolves around our name. The concept seems absurd to think that, beyond the act of raising, our parents could dictate our life by simply branding us with a name. But, as I review my life, I can find some semblance of truth in this.

The base definition of my name is Hebrew for beloved. I was named the shortened version and thus no exact definition exists for it. So, in essence, I am derived from beloved. But this is not the form of the philosophy that I am basing my analysis upon.

My mother wished for me to have the name Elvis Cheyenne. My father stepped in and denied the name. I got lucky and therein is where I base my claims.

A review of my life shows many instances of imposing dread and catastrophe, but I always manage to get lucky and avoid or avert the worst of circumstances.

They say that it is better to be lucky than good.

*         *         *

_Deitrich sensed Karen studying him and that was enough to break him from his memories of the creation of his blade dance technique. Yet his thoughts remained on the orphanage. Something there pulled at his psyche. Faces began to appear before his minds eye and he could put a name to each of them. Yet none were able to appease his search.

_In an effort to glean some sort of kinesthetic recollection, Deitrich began to trace the faces in the black sand. Not long after tracing one persons face would the sand settle upon itself to create a smooth surface. Only the most basic of outlines and feature could be achieved before the sand cleaned the slate and provided him yet another attempt.

_Deitrich shifted himself into a kneeling position and he started using both his hands to draw. Right hand would trace observed details and the left soul-hand would filling in the gaps with more exacting details and impressions. He began to chant their names as each image was completed and started to form connections to each other. His pace quickened, allowing him to complete an image, label it, and progress to that persons connection all before the sand settled at it's normal pace.

_Each person he could link back to himself only as an acquaintance or just someone he had seen at the orphanage. Not one had a direct connection back to himself and all of them seemed to be leaving a gap in their social web. This realisation caused Deitrich to pause and caused Karen to lean closer in observation.

_Deitrich stood up and walked towards the edge of the dark sea. He ignored Karen as would a lab rat navigating the maze for it's cheesy goal would a scientist. He looked again on his reflection and traced his features with his hand. He knelt down close to the surface and studied the details of his reflected ethnicity. He took note of the primarily Caucasian features with the touch of American cultural mixing in subtle details of bone structure.

_He spun around on his haunches to return to the sandy canvas. He frantically drew the outline of the right side of his face and filled in the details as with the others images. Then, as if possessed, his hands began to draw the left side of his face, yet the details bared no resemblance to his right. He memorised the details before the sand settled itself again and became haunted by it. He drew the image from memory and omitted the right half.

_The image he created resembled something very skeletal and bony. But subtle details were missing. There was no mouth and no nose. Just a bony forehead, cheekbones, and solid mandible plate. A dark circle was placed in the middle of the forehead and a line was traced down to were the tip of were his nose would be. A line was drawn upward from the left side of the mandible to the left eye socket. The line continued from the top of the eye socket to the top of the forehead. The left eye was created in something that would elude to the fact that it was colored lightly while the right looked normal. With the image created, Deitrich collapsed onto his back and a name escaped his mind, "Venge."

Poignant Taken

Dredging up memories is dangerous business.

It is recommended to do so with a guide. Someone who can return you to the present and provide some... well, guidance. Those with the means will take to doing so with a psychologist or psychiatrist if they prefer to medicate. The rest of us may find solace in friendships or companions.

The artist attempts to do so alone and with the childlike abandon of discovering their first insect. While the experience may provoke many confusing and conflicting emotions, the act itself is a whole of the experiment. It must be done for the sake of being done. Discovery.

In the case of memories, it becomes a second chance to experience it for the first time. Rediscovery.

Same can be said of the emotions involved in the event. And this is where the artist gains their 'material' for creating.

And, just as an art student can be found hauling their art supplies from one class to the next, so too do the rest of us. To the artist, they are supplies; to the rest of us, baggage.

*         *         *

_Deitrich dropped his gaze down to the black sand between his feet. He attempted to close his eyes to internalise his thoughts but found that he still peered out from his left 'soul eye'. The appearance of the landscape before him changed. No longer was it a cavern of deaths crossing. It became more 'real', more vivid. Deitrich could sense that he was more in tune with his other half.

_Everything he inspected within the cavern surfaced memories. But the details were overwhelming, chaotic, and threatened to overload his psyche. Unable to close his eye to stop the transmission of information, he attempted to shield it with his hand. And there, on the back of his left soul hand, his memories focused.

_He recalled some sort of martial training from his youth. He remembered how the kids in the orphanage were taught self defense and discipline. He recalled how his instructor taught him to think of his hands as both weapons, shields, and tools. Deitrich remembered how he would fascinate at the complexity that was achieved in the human body. He remembered many hours daydreaming into the back of this hand and imagining the possibilities. He thought back to how, after learning basic kendo skills, he would imagine his own form martial training. One that would embody that basic principle of weapon/shield/tool. He recalled creating specialise wooden weapons that he would strap to his arms; one for each. He had to hide them from the other orphans and orphanage staff for fear of them being confiscated. Deitrich pondered as to their present location. Unable to centralise the sensation, he just knew that he wished to be reconnected to them.

_Karen attempted to look uninterested and bored but Deitrich's gaze into his hand had her curious. She has seen many things pass through this cavern. Witness a strong few walk back across the distant shores. And while she has witnessed several souls appear in Deitrich's same condition, never have they lingered long enough to inspect themselves. She reestablished her connection to Deitrich's mind to gather some incite to what he was experiencing. Karma, my dear, you have chosen a very special person after all, haven't you?

Savior Self

I keep looking for someone to dig me out of this grave.

Someone who would lift me up, dust me off, and show me the wondrous park I was lying in.

I got tired of waiting and started to pull the dirt in on myself; accepting the only fate I thought I had in store.

"Water on a duck's back" they used to say about me. "Not much seems to get you down. It all just kind of rolls off"

How fitting the duck analogy is. Except I would agree more with the other one. "Duck floating on water. So calm on the surface, while underneath you find feet frantically paddling to keep afloat"

I've dug my grave.

I've laid in it.

I was buried up to my neck.

There are no more knights come to save you.

You have to save yourself.

*         *         *

_"Expecting someone else, were you, Deit?"

_"Yes... No... I... I'm not sure," Deitrick thought to her.
_Charon arches and eyebrow and looks at him, quizzically, "Who better to carry you across this sea than the Ferryman?"

_Who indeed? Just who was I expecting? As much as her words pull at my soul I have an... understanding that it is wrong. Interesting. I know what emotions are and also know that I do not have any. Deitrick's thoughts begin to trail off in various tangents; Jumping from one concept to the next.

So caught up in his own thoughts was he that he did not notice Charon snap her fingers nor her hand waving in front of his face. He paid no mind to any of Charon's attempts to get his attention.

_"Deitrick!" her words speared his soul and spun him around. He met her determined glare with one of his own.

_"Camellia" he calmly thinks to Charon who seems shocked by it, "That is who I expect here. But I don't know why. Why does every thought, every reasoning, every conclusion yield that name?"

_He turns and peers into the dark sea, blankly scanning the city below.

_"Every time my mind settles on that name, I find myself being drawn to something that isn't there," his focus shifts to the reflection cast onto the surface of the 'water', "I find it pulling at my heart."

His focus clarifies at the same instant that his fist goes to settle on his chest. Simultaneously he notices that he is only casting half of his reflection and that there is no chest over where his heart should be. Reflected in the darkness of sea is the right half of a naked man and on the left is a silhouette eclipsing some sort of brightness.

_He quickly brings his hands up before his face and notices the same. Naked right hand. Silhouette eclipsing brightness left hand.

_He turns and looks past his hands, "What is the meaning of this, Charon?"

_Charon sighs in resignation, "I can tell we are not going to get very far," She grabs her lantern-hung steering pole from the sand and begins to board her ferry, "I told you already, Mr. Devos, you are just half the man."

_Deitrick reaches for the ferryboat with his left hand, becomes disturbed by the sight of it, and collapses into the sand. He looks up towards Charon, "How did this happen?"

_Charon seats herself on one of the boat's benches, "How about you tell me? What do you remember? Think back further than this place."