Found

PANEL:
AN ALIEN CHILD sits on the floor cross-legged.  He's hominid, just slightly off from familiar.  He holds what appears to be a small radio, or something like it.  The antenna sticks up proudly.  An unknown language comes from the speaker.  THE CHILD looks to HIS FATHER from off the panel curiously.

CHILD

Dad?  What's this one?

RADIO

(If you're out there, we're listening.)

PANEL:
THE CHILD looks back to his radio.  THE CHILD'S FATHER sits at his desk, drafting something on paper, focused on his work.  One hand props his head.

FATHER

Oh.  That's an old radio station from decades ago.

CHILD

Well what is it?  It sounds weird.

RADIO

(Please reach out to us.  We come in peace.)

PANEL:
THE FATHER focuses more on his child.  Doing what any father does when he's eager to teach his son.  The radio continues to blare.

FATHER

They're space sounds I think.  Frequencies from somewhere unknown.  They only come on this radio wave.  No one really knows why.

RADIO

(Drake equation)

PANEL:
THE FATHER slouches from his chair, reaching one arm down to the floor.  THE CHILD continues his focus on the radio, transfixed.

CHILD

What's making that noise?

FATHER

Some say it's just an underground station, making weird music.

CHILD

Music?

RADIO

(Where are you?)

PANEL:
THE CHILD looks down to the radio.

FATHER

[OFF-PANEL]

Well it's kind of rhythmic, isn't it?

CHILD

Huh.  Yeah I guess so.

RADIO

(We want to talk with you.)

PANEL:
THE CHILD does his schoolwork at a desk of his own.  The radio sits on a shelf nearby.

RADIO

(Non tibi sunt?)

PANEL:
THE CHILD plays with friends, running around on something close to a playground structure.  They frolic in the background, while the radio plays from a step it's settled on.

RADIO

(Ich suche Gott.)

PANEL:
THE CHILD rests in bed, headphones plugged into the radio, which sits on his bedside table.  The soft glow from the radio face lights up the shadows in the room.

RADIO

(Things are going wrong all over.)

PANEL:
THE CHILD looks up at HIS FATHER, mid-chew, while sitting at the dinner table.  HIS FATHER leans over to him, tired, with the radio on the other side of THE CHILD.

RADIO

(Daremoga shini-sodesu.)

FATHER

Turn that off while we're eating, will ya?

PANEL:
An upclose shot of the radio face, lit.  It turns off with a *CLICK*.

PANEL:
the same shot, the radio is silent.

PANEL:
Again from the same perspective, the radio turns on again with a *CLICK*, lighting up the face once more.

PANEL:
THE CHILD does homework at his desk, focused on his paper.  The radio is on, though the panel is silent.

PANEL:
THE CHILD notices the absence, and looks sideways at the radio.

PANEL:
THE CHILD picks up the radio for a closer inspection, his brows furrowed.

CHILD

The heck?

PANEL:
The radio rests in a set of hands, it's face glaring brilliantly.

FATHER

[OFF-PANEL]

Looks like it's still working, kid.

RADIO

♪♫♪

PANEL:
THE FATHER is crouched in a doorway holding the radio while THE CHILD stands over his shoulder.  They are framed by the opening.

CHILD

Well what's wrong with the other station?

RADIO

♪♪♪♫

PANEL:
The same shot of THE CHILD and THE FATHER together, both looking at the radio.  The panel seems a bit further down the darkened hallway, the frame still bordering the scene.

FATHER

I dunno.  Sounds like the music just kind of...

RADIO

♪♫♫♪♪

PANEL:
The last panel is completely black.

FATHER

Stopped.

♪.

THE END

Yeller' Illustrated

Welcome, welcome, welcome.  To a world of dirt and death.  The West was something.  The dead, the diseased, all come to survive under the boiled sun.  So won't you join us in the potter's field?

Nicole Cuvin has once again graced us with exceptional talent.  Here she gives vision to "Yeller'", and once again we are thankful.

You can see the rest of her work riiiight aboooout...

Here.

Driven

    Grip the wheel so tight your knuckles split the skin.  The whole damn thing shakes when you slam the pedal.  Exhaust erupts into clouds of embers and your eyes do the same.  And listen to that sound.  The rubber peals away mile by mile and grates the bare bones of the rims.  It creates a white noise muffled by the sound of the shivering engine.  The pistons slam so hard you could swear they're caged and trying to escape.  So let them throw their fit.  The gears shift and there's a momentary stall in the punishment.  When the grinding explodes into a screaming brass band again the coolant boils and you take the flames as a sign of luck.  You don't move over the pavement.  You pave the road.  Tire tracks cut stone.  For the small amounts of time your chariot touches the ground, it obliterates the world around you.  The car streams steam and screams for attention and glory.  All color moves past in a blender of light.  It begins to get difficult to steer all 600 horses when the hood combusts.  The freed fire  grows wings.  After a while the chariot lifts.  You have risen to the clouds.  Your foot drifts from the pedal.  The car sizzles in the cold wind.  And you are lifted.  You, who are Icarus, who stole the sun.

Wicked Shore

PANEL:
The reader peers over the heads of vikings, riding through the rain on their fleet of ships.  Their eyes seem absent in the twilight and rain.

VO BOX

The monsters sail toward wicked shore

With iron skin and wooden oar

PANEL:
A silhouette of a viking standing on the rail of the ship, holding onto one of the many ropes that blow in the tempest winds.  The waves cut just as hard and deep as the rain.

VO BOX

The blackened waves boil at steadfast rate

While the monsters' lungs fill with animus and hate

PANEL:
Fists of vikings throw themselves into the view of the reader, all attention on the drummer calling for a show of bloodlust at the front of the ship.  He roars to the lightening.

VO BOX

They sing dead songs in fetid tongue

Hearts beat faster, warlords drum

PANEL:
The ship beats fast against the rising waves.

VO BOX

Wood cracks hard against the brine

Bloodthrist steers them, a straightened line

PANEL:
Within the view of the storm, on the horizon, rests an island.  On the beaches, small fires to signal a demise.

VO BOX

Clouds of red, lightening white

A distant isle, blind in night

PANEL:
From behind a speaker on a pedestal, the people of the island gather to him, some still scattered about.  They all seem to smile with drink in hand.  They're in the midst of a festival.

VO BOX

People gather on the sands

To hear the tales that made their land

PANEL:
In painterly tradition that shows we speak of a story and not in real-time, a black wolf with red eyes jumps out from the ocean.

VO BOX

A tale of creation, but also of an end

Of a beast that's born to tear and rend

PANEL:
A shot of the vikings' rusted armor.

VO BOX

A coat of blood,

PANEL:
A show of the vikings' ready swords.

VO BOX

and teeth of nails

PANEL:
A viking breathes mist in the frost air, showing his jagged teeth in his smile.

VO BOX

And breath of toxin,

PANEL:
A look at a ship of vikings, their eyes hidden in the shadows of the night, but beaming white through the darkness.

VO BOX

and eyes of gales

PANEL:
The speaker of the tales raises his arms as he speaks caution to the people at the festival.  Behind him, on the horizon, a rising fleet from far away.

VO BOX

The people listen drunkenly as preachers spew the lore

PANEL:
A closer look at the fleet that rushes towards the collapse of a civilization.  The boats burrow deep in the waves, gaining speed.

VO BOX

The tale of a beast that rides from Hell and wicked shore.

THE END

3:06am

PANEL:
Window shutters quickly close.  The night through the window is dark with hues of dark blue, just like any other night.

DAD

Darla?

PANEL:
DARLA wakes from her sleep, much to her annoyance.  The look on her face shows she hears her DAD as he grabs her by one shoulder and jostles her a bit.  Her closely-shut eyes show she doesn't want to.

DAD

Darla, baby.  Wake up, honey.

DARLA

What?  Dad?

PANEL:
DARLA sits up and rubs her hand against her face.  DAD motions a finger across his lips with a hand on her shoulder.

DAD

Sssshhh.

You gotta whisper, sweetie.

DARLA

What's wrong?  What's going on?

DAD

Don't worry, baby.  We're just gonna go for a little drive, okay?

PANEL:
DAD walks away from the reader, DARLA hoisted over his shoulder.  She leans her head lazily against his neck.

DAD

Don't look out there, baby.  Come on.

PANEL:
DAD is bent down on a knee in front of the front door.  DARLA looks at him, still and slightly afraid.  She's wearing her favorite pink winter jacket.

DARLA

Where are we going?

DAD

Don't worry, honey.  Help me put on your shoes.  You can sleep in the car, okay?

PANEL:
A change in angle, DAD puts on DARLA's shoe for her and hides his face, his head lowered.

DARLA

Where's mom?

DAD

She-- Mom will meet us there.

PANEL:
DAD now has both hands on his face.  DARLA just looks at her father worringly.

DARLA

Where?

DAD

Darla, I need you to put your hands up like this, okay?  Just like we're playing "Hide and Seek".  But you can't peek, okay?

DARLA

Why?

PANEL:
DAD puts up DARLA's hood for her, looking her straight in the eye.

DAD

I'm going to put up your hood, and I'm going to carry you out to the car.  I want you to bury yourself into my chest reeeaaally tight, okay?  And when I put you in the car, you still have to cover your eyes until I say it's alright, do you understand?  No peeking.

DARLA

But--

DAD

Promise me, sweetie.

PANEL:
A bigger and smaller hand meet at the pinky.

DARLA

Okay.

DAD

Pinky swear?

DARLA

I swear.

DAD

Okay.

PANEL:
DARLA has her hands tucked under her hood, her face buried deep into DAD's shoulder.  He looks over at her as he holds her close to his chest.  He's wearing a hat low over his brows.

DAD

Can you see anything?

DARLA

No.

DAD

Good girl.

PANEL:
The front door opens, and DAD walks out with DARLA held close, a hand on top of her hooded head.  His head is turned down to see where he walks, without risk of looking anywhere near the horizon.

DAD

Just listen, Darla.  Whatever happens, and whatever you hear, don't look at the sky.

THE END

Square Ice, Round Glass: Why I Write 'Tales From The Barstool'

    The wealthy sit on their thrones and think they'll be there long after they're dead.  Their olive crowns will be talked about for generations.  Meanwhile the poor show their glamour in their second-hand clothes and smoking habits.  This city has a great divide, to be sure.  Whether you walk through the doors having partied in your penthouse off Broadway or looking for a partner to spend a short night before your third shift, we all walk in with bloodshot eyes.  We all seek the same drug.  The flavor is what sets us different.  The poor man sighs heavy and shouts an order over the second track.  He drinks a third and sits back.  He listens.  Same as you, same as me.  The rich man takes the high seat and follows suit.  You won't always know how they start talking but someone will.  And all of a sudden the barriers break.  No one talks wealth, just the absence of enough.  They speak the same point of views.  Everyone becomes level.  One word and one drink turn to several each.  The divide lives on in the streets but it's hard to stay above when everyone is seated on the same barstools.

Yeller'

PANEL:
The portrait of a COWBOY.  His hair has grown long from the uncare of the world, his chin has grown scruff from much of the same.  He has small scratches on his face that signify a scuffle at some point in his life.  Maybe it was meaningful, maybe it was simply a fall.  His hat isn't cocked, he still has pride in himself, after all.  He looks at the reader straight-on, with a look to tell them why they've wronged him.

COWBOY

You've all called me a forebearer of crime and deceit.  I say I'm the harbinger of my own will.

PANEL:
He hangs his head a little, breaking eye contact.  Less from shame and more from truth.

COWBOY

I don't expect my words to be written down.  I know the things I say will be lost to history.

PANEL:
THE COWBOY picks his head back up, chin to the crowd, looking at the reader once more, looking at them over his nose.

COWBOY

But take heed to what you hear--

PANEL:
A hand comes from off-frame, the wrist cuffed from a pinstripe suit.  THE COWBOY never breaks eye-contact with reader.  He rears his head down, as if telling a child a cautionary tale.

COWBOY

Six of us came into town and killed a man and I killed the judge that said I done him wrong, this is true.

PANEL:
THE COWBOY looks a bit angrier, coming to terms with his situation, as the suited hand plucks the hat from his head.  THE COWBOY leans his head away from the hand, filthy as he is, to not be dirtied by any man.  He continues looking at the reader.

COWBOY

No, I won't be remembered in the eyes of history.  My life is too unimportant to it but your lives depend on mine.

PANEL:
He centers his head again, continuing to speak to his audience, as another pair of suited hands move into frame from the side to lower a noose, obstructing his face.

THE COWBOY

The law says my life is forfeit by what they define as "justice".  I say justice is defined by your actions.

PANEL:
The noose is placed around THE COWBOY's neck, still loose.  He doesn't bother to fight it.

THE COWBOY

If that's the truth, then I say I had no fair trial.

PANEL:
The suited hands grab the rope tightly and snug the knot to the back of THE COWBOY's neck.  He still speaks to us as if nothing's changed.

THE COWBOY

They say six of us rode in and five rode off.  Well that ain't true.  My friends never left town.

PANEL:
THE COWBOY tilts his head up and looks down over his nose at the crowd once more, this time, he shows off the rope cutting into his neck and he smiles with furrowed brows.

THE COWBOY

I guess what I'm saying is, if I die...  Well...

PANEL:
The last panel is wide, and showcases the edge of a desolate town.  The crowd of people THE COWBOY speaks to all look to him upon his stage.  The rope hangs to his lower back, strung to the rafter on the stage.  He's somewhat far away from us, as if we're just another piece of the audience.  In the background is nothing but desert and mountains.  THE EXECUTIONER in the pinstriped suit stands by THE COWBOY to be his reaper.

THE COWBOY

...How well do you know your neighbors?

THE END