I realize some of the text, specifically excerpts from my comic writings, are black type on a dark grey background.
I'm sorry. I have no idea what it is I'm doing.
My coworkers believe I should know computer stuff, since I'm in my 20's and full of beautiful, glorious energy that they wish they could feast upon. The truth is, I know how to get my ass on Facebook and there lies the end of my technological prowess. The fact that they believe I should know such mystical arts such as "10-key" is nothing more than libel and young-hate. Basically I'm trying to tell you that I have no idea what I'm doing, or how to change words into other colors.
But by God I'll try.
These are the records and recollections of writer Jordan Raebel. Here is where I lay my writings for your enjoyment. Please, feel free to poke, prod, and criticize.
Thursday, June 25, 2015
A Passage From "American Dreams"
Here's an excerpt from a comic I'm working on called "American Dreams". It tells the story of greaser kids in the Middle-Of-Nowhere, Oregon, back in the 50's. They have nothing left but to hit each other 'til their bones run dry in rumbles set throughout the school year. One day, an actual gang shows up and forces the kids to either work for them, or get out of town. Some of the kids like the lifestyle of playing real gangster, but the rest know it's bad business. Now they gotta try and get the gang out of town without knowing who to trust.
I've been detailing the entirety of the storyline for over a year at this point. (Fuck, that doesn't make me feel good. But progress is progress, huh?) This is a portion from the first issue, when two of the main characters, Brendan Carllyl and James Brennan, are making their way into the center of town. VO Box stands for "voice over box" and is being told through the mind of Brendan Carllyl.
* * *
PAGE
3
PANEL:
The
car is only a little ways into the city of Ellisville, one side
heavily developed and the other gets more like the wilderness the
deeper into the land you get. They are at the edge of town so the
shops are few and far between.
VO
BOX
I
don't know when the place was built, I've never cared to know, but
pieces of its history stuck to people's tongues like it was legend.
VO
BOX
It
used to be a good spot for bootleggers back in the day, y'know?
PANEL:
The
car is center of the panel, driving past the record store, the barber
shop, and a fishing supply store.
VO
BOX
Way
out here in the middle of nowhere? With small-time cops not making
shit for cash the legal way? Everyone was on the take.
PANEL:
The
boys continue down the road, the view this time overhead.
VO
BOX
It's
how our city grew. Everyone here has a grandad that used to be in
the running game.
PANEL:
JAMES
BRENNAN flicks his almost-spent cigarette out the window at a group
of three Black men in their twenties. They all turn away
defensively.
VO
BOX
Well,
almost everyone.
PAGE
4
PANEL:
A
light signal burns green on an overcast sky.
VO
BOX
Once
the Prohibition was done breathing all its smoke into people's
private lives, the town died once again.
PANEL:
The
same signal turns red.
VO
BOX
The
smoke had cleared. We saw we would have to try our best to be a
legitimate town with something to contribute towards again.
PANEL:
The
four-way stop begins to pump cars from their starting lines a little
into the intersection.
VO
BOX
We
were the same logging town we used to be, but this time with the
bitterness of knowing we used to have it good.
PANEL:
A
driver in another car slams the breaks, looking to his right, his
face tense.
VO
BOX
Our
parents had to deal with the hurt of earning nothing like our
grandparents did.
PANEL:
JAMES
BRENNAN's car races past the man who stopped short of the wreck,
dashing past all those waiting respectfully in line for their turn at
the signal.
VO
BOX
And
of course, that aggression just rubbed-off on us.
PANEL:
JAMES
BRENNAN flips the bird out his window, not even a smile to grace the
notion, as he rushes towards the viewer.
VO
BOX
We
were second-generation losers. And ain't no one in town would tell
us different.
Sunday, June 21, 2015
First Christmas
Okay so I got to thinking: How shitty would it be to be Bruce Wayne when his parents were killed? I mean, sure. Dead folks. I getcha. But REALLY, put yourself in this money magnet's shoes: What's the one thing you lived for when you were 8? Christmas. Fuck birthdays. CHRISTMAS. Remember that one toy you didn't get but your buddy did? Bruce never experienced that. His parents could afford to buy anything he asked for-- and they did. There was no reason to keep their kid humble, they just wanted to see that smile get wider. Can you blame them? Alfred took care of the parents and the parents took care of Bruce. But after that night? Your parents are gone and now this guy you barely know is the only one to take care of you from now on. And to think everything was right as rain just five minutes ago. But when does it sink in that your parents are never to return? Christmas. All of a sudden you have less toys and none of them are as cool as they were last year. I mean, what does Alfred know? He never raised a kid before. (And his daughter doesn't really count, he pretty much abandoned her when she was born.) So here's my thoughts on how that musta went:
* * *
PANEL:
A
close shot of BRUCE's eyes. They sting from the cold, and he hasn't
shut them for what seems like hours. The scene is brief, but he
doesn't dare close them. Not even when the gun fires. The muzzle
flash reflects across his watering eyes and the paleness of his face.
VO
BOX
They
tell you the older you get, the less you remember of the days you
were young.
VO
BOX
Don't
believe them.
VO
BOX
Not
a word of it.
PANEL:
THOMAS
WAYNE, we see the pain in his face. The long, hoarse sound he makes
we can't hear, but the veins in his neck are strained as the air
leaves his lungs. A tear rolls down his cheek. He's mid-hunch,
gripping at his chest with both hands. He doesn't care about the
seams in his shirt he must be ripping underneath as he clenches his
breast. He just wants to keep the blood in. He stares at the
ground, possibly the shoes of his killer, as BRUCE watches in the
background, stoic.
VO
BOX
I
was ten. And I saw it all.
PANEL:
THOMAS
WAYNE's hands clutch his wound in a close shot, the blood soaking a
wider and wider area of his nicely-pressed shirt, now wrinkled from
his gripping hands. His golden band of a wedding ring glistens in
the light of a streetpost we can't see. A single drop of blood drips
from between his fingers.
VO
BOX
You
never think of them as anything more than providers, do you?
VO
BOX
They're
just people that feed you the food you don't want to eat.
VO
BOX
Send
you to the schools you don't want to go to.
PANEL:
The
drop of blood is in freefall. It falls against a white background.
All eyes are on it.
VO
BOX
But
they're never human to a kid that age, are they?
PANEL:
The
drop of blood hits the pavement, but doesn't shatter into a moisture
stain on the ground. Instead it bounces-- it's a pearl. It bounces
twice across the panel with a "TINK", "TINK"
written in expensive lettering. The kind with lots of curves and
$100 finishes you'd see on an opera poster. This pearl, it bounces
among a few others, some lying against the curb on the edge of the
road. This one we watch, it bounces towards the gutter.
VO
BOX
They
don't feel. They don't get tired.
VO
BOX
They
don't bleed.
PANEL:
From
the radiance of the unseen streetlamp, the light it provides sends
beams into the gutter, broken-up by the grating above. Through this
choppy lighting, the bloody bead makes its way into darkness.
VO
BOX
Because
that's not their job. They're there to give you what you need. What
you want,
and nothing more.
VO
BOX
They're
supposed to buy you the things you want. Tell you the stories you
want.
VO
BOX
Take
you to the... movies
you
want.
PANEL:
MARTHA
WAYNE's face has always been the subject of front page news on all
the glossy magazines. But her hair isn't permed to a model-like
standard and her face in the panel isn't flattering like the one in
the papers. Her face is tilted up, like she's tilting her head back
for comfort, but the bangs of her hair touching her right eye as they
rest half-open, they tell you she doesn't need comfort anymore. Not
where she is now. If the way her mouth lies open is any indicator,
her last moment-- her last breath-- was a gasp.
VO
BOX
Some
day yours will be gone, too.
PANEL:
MARHTA's
left hand is slightly made into a ball, her sleeve rolled up to her
elbow uncomfortably, as it lies dormant on the ground. The diamond
ring is slightly turned to an odd angle on her finger. Specks of
gravel and dirt stick to the back of her hand.
VO
BOX
And
you'll realize then, your Christmases will never feel the same.
PANEL:
The
same shot of MARTHA's arm, this time in a black long-sleeved sweater,
as it hands a carefully-wrapped present off to whoever stands outside
the panel. The red bow is large, almost as large as the present
itself, but the paper is nothing special. The background is the
inside of some room, orange with light. Wherever it is, you get the
sense we've switched from an uncharacteristically cold night in a
Gotham alley, to a warm morning on Christmas Day.
VO
BOX
I
know I was spoiled. I knew that. None of the kids in the Narrows
got what I got. Did I care? Not once. Because I
got
what I
wanted.
Always.
PANEL:
BRUCE
begins tearing into his gift. His face intent with happiness next to
the tree, with many more gifts underneath. His hair is matted from
the long night of waiting for Santa to come. MARTHA sits in an
armchair facing the tree next to BRUCE, but she doesn't pay attention
to him. She looks over to ALFRED without a smile, who's standing
near a window as it snows outside, bringing her the cup of hot
whatever-it-may-be she ordered. Behind the chair, THOMAS stands in
front of the fireplace as it rages, a cup of coffee in hand. BRUCE
is the only one in the room that smiles. If memory serves correct,
snow at a night-like hour is usually a pinkish hue while the sky is
purple.
VO
BOX
We
had the money to make it happen.
PANEL:
BRUCE
unwraps the gift in his lap, a toy gun with an orange tip.
VO
BOX
And
all it takes is one minute. One man.
PANEL:
From
above, we observe THE WAYNES opening the doors of the side entrance
from the theater. Steam comes from a pipe on the side of the
building, rising into nothingness. From around the corner, A MAN who
hides in the shadows of the building next door walks to the spot
where the elder Waynes will die. He holds something under his coat.
VO
BOX
It
was June 26th, much too early for my parents to start buying
presents.
VO
BOX
I
was still reeling from the last one. My parents bought me an action
figure I wanted, but it was the wrong color. I threw a fit. They
didn't care, they could buy me another one. This year the next model
was coming out, and they better get the color right.
PANEL:
BRUCE
is centered, his eyes wide like they were in the first shot. His
parents, whose upper and lower bodies are out of frame, brace
themselves. MARTHA holds her right arm up, elbow tucked, clutching her hand bag to her chest. Her left arm extends as far as it can
behind her, pushing her young son back. THOMAS does much of the
same. Unlike MARTHA's stiff frame, THOMAS hunches a bit, prepared
for anything-- so he thinks-- his right arm pushing BRUCE back with a
bit more force than MARTHA.
VO
BOX
And
then in two short bursts, the sound of a heavy book being dropped on
the floor, these people you used so carelessly are gone.
PANEL:
The
barrel of a gun fires. It's close enough to see the sparks flame out
like a cannon and the smoke swell into the air.
VO
BOX
Bang.
PANEL:
BRUCE's
face is that same stare. Eyes wide, full attention. Multiple pearls
glide out of focus in front of him .
VO
BOX
Bang.
PANEL:
A
hammer comes down on a nail in the wall with a "BANG". The
same elegant type as before accompanies the sound.
PANEL:
BRUCE
sits in the same chair his mother did in the Christmas flashback
panel. Same angle. The room doesn't glow with the lights of the
tree or the heat of a fireplace or the buzz of the lights, though.
Everything is grey from the natural light of the one window. The
fireplace looks cold, the tree hasn't been plugged-in yet, and the
lights are off. Everything outside the window is stark white.
ALFRED hangs a stalking beside two others on the wall in the
background. BRUCE sits normally, with his legs dangling and his arms
propping up his body on the armrests, but he slumps.
VO
BOX
For
six months I did nothing but think about that night. How could you
ask a kid that age to think of anything else?
PANEL:
BRUCE's
eyes look to his left, his eyes a little more open now, but he still
retains the bags under his eyes.
VO
BOX
And
then it clicked-- Why Alfred put a tree in the den, why he hung
stalkings, why he baked cookies the night before... It was
Christmas.
PANEL:
We
lurk over BRUCE's shoulder as he looks at the gifts under the tree.
There are none, only the three or four all sitting next to each other
beside the tree. None are bigger than an average shoe box.
VO
BOX
But
this doesn't look like the Christmas I
knew.
There were barely any presents. I was used to having so many. This
looked like a year I had been bad. Why so few?
PANEL:
ALFRED,
with his right hand, leans over the top of the armchair to hand BRUCE
one of the gifts with his left. A small smile resides on his lips.
BRUCE looks like he's in a curious surprise, but hasn't slept for
quite a long time. He looks down at the gift being placed on his
lap.
VO
BOX
It
was then-- truly then-- I realized what it meant for your parents to
die.
PANEL:
From
BRUCE's perspective, the present sits in his lap, the bow quite
small. BRUCE's arms lie on his sides, like the present is completely
alien to him.
VO
BOX
Alfred
was trying. God bless him, he tried. It was never quite his job to
take care of me. He took care of my parents,
who then would deal with me.
VO
BOX
Of
course he'd take me to school sometimes and make sure I was ready for
bed, and once he helped me with my homework.
PANEL:
BRUCE
looks up from the chair over his left shoulder.
VO
BOX
But
between the two of us, over the years, we'd truly never spoken a word
that meant a thing.
PANEL:
ALFRED
smiles at the reader, his right hand still placed on the back of the
chair.
VO
BOX
And
now he was doing his best, to prove to me he would take care of me.
He would do his best to be a father.
PANEL:
BRUCE
looks back down. ALFRED walks away towards the left of the panel.
VO
BOX
But
me being the age I was, I could only realize how serious my parents'
deaths were.
PANEL:
BRUCE's
hands begin tearing at the wrapping paper surrounding the box.
VO
BOX
I
would never have the amount of presents I did before.
PANEL:
BRUCE's
face begins to curl a small smile.
VO
BOX
I
would have to live like a kid in the Narrows now.
PANEL:
BRUCE's
hands hover over the gift, whatever it may be. The wrapping paper
hides the sides of the present so you can't know what it may reveal.
Behind the chair, ALFRED begins lighting the fireplace.
VO
BOX
I'd
have to settle for... this.
PANEL:
BRUCE's
hands pick up the gift and bring it closer to him. It's some sort of
robot action figure. A blue one.
VO
BOX
It
was the wrong model. This was the one from last year.
PANEL:
BRUCE's
eyes swell with tears. A droplet already rolls off his cheek. But
he smiles. The whole thing is just so ironic.
VO
BOX
But
it was the right color this time.
PANEL:
ALFRED
has come around to the side of the armchair. BRUCE curls his legs up
to his chest and hides his face in his arms. ALFRED lays his right
hand on BRUCE's back for comfort. The toy box sits in between BRUCE
and the armrest, somewhat already forgotten.
VO
BOX
God
bless him for trying.
ALFRED
"Bruce!
Oh... Is everything okay? I--I'm sorry. Is it the right--?"
BRUCE
"Thank
you, Alfred..."
PANEL
From
the overcast sky, we take a final look at Wayne Manor. Its many
rooftops covered in snow, as well as all the property a ten-year-old
could ever inherit. One light shines through a first-floor window.
BRUCE
"I
just miss them so much."
THE
END.
Saturday, June 20, 2015
Fire Intro
Gangs have their streets, superheroes have their cities. Every hero has their territorial pissings, but not all range above "vigilante" status. Fires happen. Earthquakes happen. Sharknados on occasion (maybe?). And who can quell such things? Flash, Superman, Green Lantern... even Batman could money something up to fix the inevitable. But Nightwing? I mean, what the hell? Batman has his own problems, he ain't going to the neighboring city to help fight the fires. I made this excerpt as an intro to a possible storyline where a fire breaks free and begins to ravage a city. (INSERT SUPERHERO) would be evacuating the immediate areas, trying to stay a step ahead of the out-of-control maw behind them, and eventually piece together that this case is one of arson. Not everyone leaves a riddle to mark their handiwork, so it would take real detective elbow grease to catch the pyro behind a city-wide panic.
Anyway, here is the intro from the arsonist's point of view:
Anyway, here is the intro from the arsonist's point of view:
* * *
This is the city you once knew.
The one you lived within the thick of,
all its bricks and steel and mortar and told yourself “At least
this will never come to pass”.
The fire beats deep within your bones
and the cries you roar are drowned within the hot ash and broken
cries of a thousand others.
The bricks blacken and the streets turn
white from the overturned ash of a million stampeding feet and the
smoke never settles for the fire refuses to have its hunger sated.
Smoke curls around every street lamp
and limb of the tree to invite the city in.
People push and shove against the walls
of flesh that crowd their way from getting out of the jungle they
live in.
The flames don't get louder. They are
content with their own being and they dance and celebrate the miracle
of being free and alive.
Who are you to judge the flame?
Friday, June 19, 2015
The Sermon
I'm gonna start off with a piece I wrote as writing practice. In order to get my creative thoughts all bubblin' n' junk, I would begin writing on a document I called "GUNS". Eventually, as time went on and I continued writing on the same document, I had fleshed out a beginning, middle, and end to the story. By the time I finished, I retitled it "THE SERMON". Ante up, children.
* * *
The
gun in my left speaks silent. Its whisper quick in delivery but its
words harsh enough to kill.
The
gun in my right spits fire with the kind of heat that would scorch
the sun. The barrel a mouth that won't stop talking. It lets them
know what's on her mind.
The
gun on my back is for the rest. When the boys hear the commotion and
start charging in numbers through the doors, when the two in my hands
cool down and kick up nothing more than wind and old dust, this gun
will heave and sigh and sing a song for these men, letting them know
its sorrows and the horrors it's seen. It'll take care of the second
wave, alright.
These
are the cards I was given in this game. And no matter their numbers,
I'm going to play them like a royal flush.
These
things in my hands are the only gods in the room. To every man I
have them look to, I pull the trigger and let them sing their praise.
The men always react the same: they drop to their knees in glory and
pray. I am the messiah to these gods, and these messengers of crime,
they will hear what I have to say.
After
awhile the guns start to get light. Eventually they stop popping
when I pull the trigger. I look at these hunks of steel in my hands
and see they have said all they needed to say. The speeches they
made were quick in delivery but spoke volumes. Their voices hoarse,
they've done their job.
The
men that once stood in their own reverence now lay in their own
blood. Everything that they once were flows out of them. Those that
haven't had the darkness veil their eyes soon will. I hear moaning
and crying spread across the room. Some of these thugs are still
alive, but I don't care. They know to stay out of my way. The
message sent.
I
hear the footsteps of an army behind closed doors.
When
they bust into this hallowed ground, before they have time to look
around and see the good work I've done, I sanction them into my
community in my own special way.
I
let them hear my sermon.
By
the time I've finished with them I notice the sounds of crying and
cussing has gone away. The guys from before have cooled down,
collected their thoughts, focused.
Those
that are alive have started finding their guns, ready to make me a
martyr.
But
by the time they look for me, I'm already up the stairs.
I
walk through the door without a plan or a reason to live. I know the
people up here, these murderers and thieves, they're the cowards that
would hang back at any sign of a scuffle. They back into the corner
like dogs.
But
sometimes, those that are cornered are the animals with the biggest
bite.
He's
reckless, some kid. He has a bat but it's apparent he never learned
to play.
I
teach him. I teach him the old ways, before there were rules and an
ump.
I
get him on his knees, not sure what God to pray to. But I let him
know. I'm the only thing left to hear his prayers.
I
wrap his head around the baseball bat. Another home run.
By
this time I can hear the old man behind closed doors and spendy
shades cursing at me like I'm right next door. And I am.
Before
I can turn the corner I run into one last resort. Some lurching
gunman without a vocabulary or a thought to spare. You know the
type.
Two
lead shots in my gut to drain the one made of whiskey.
I
don't let the pain set in. I let the shock be my gauze. I let the
anger be my morphine. I let the bat do my thinking.
I
let the bat give him an excuse to never think again.
I
take the gun that was too good for him and another he had hidden in
his belt. These lonely orphans will find a good home with me.
They'll learn how to play by my rules and they'll someday teach the
world that crime pays with a check that's doomed to bounce.
I
know he waits with steady hand and wild heart on the other side of
that door. They probably have a secret knock that lets them know
it's anyone but me.
But
I have a secret knock, too.
Two
shots through the door and his screams practically say "Come in,
friend! Come in!" I have no reason to splinter the wood with a
heavy kick. Not now. His hand isn't as steady now that it's missing
fingers.
He
knows begging and flattery will get him nowhere. So he doesn't try.
That flaking mouth spews a voice of rot molding teeth held to the gums with blackened tar.
He
knows what's coming and he wants his last words to be a curse on my
family name.
I
raise the guns and the choir takes a breath before they belt out another tune.
Sing
a symphony for me, girls.
Thursday, June 18, 2015
You've Reached The End Of Your Rope
There's no more content down here. Feel free to hang on with your one good hand and dangle your feet in the dark below, see if you can find some solid ground.
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