Vaughan & Chiang's "Paper Girls" Builds a Familiar Yet Disconcerting World
Back on track. Kinda.
Looks like someone wants to make a couple of real good friends. This oughta end well.
Back next week.
The funny thing is that there isn’t that much snow on the ground where I am right now (somewhere between Genoa and Minden, NV in the Carson Valley–which is as good a place to set a western as I can think of), but there was enough snow last night to keep me from going over Donner Summit to get home to where I keep all the Strangeways pages, or have a computer that has Photoshop on it.
So no new page today, at least not by the time it’s supposed to be up. So how about a new way to look at an old page?
If I say nothing, then people won’t notice. So I’m saying nothing.
Back next week!
No comments, no bon mots. Just me frantically trying to keep up. See you on Wednesday.
Kids before cowboys and vampires…or something like that. Apologies for the delay.
Back on Monday. If I make it that long.
Looks like 113 was pretty unlucky for the Engineer.
And might not be so healthy for Joachim, either.
Big things afoot at Strangeways central, some of them even involving cowboys and vampires. Some involving a bunch of stuff that’ll get me shot if I talk about, so there’s just stuff and we’ll leave it at that.
See you back here Wednesday for more cryptic proclamations. And vampires.
And for those of you who are concerned about the ethical treatment of comic book creators, please note that the artists are the first people to get paid on any of my projects. The writer and letterer? Well…eventually.
Wish I could afford a real letterer…
Back next week with what’s likely to be a big KABOOM.
Week three of rain here at Strangeways Central. I’m beginning to tire of it. I know, folks from Portland and Seattle are mocking my weakness right now.
Anyways, here’s today’s page.
Another page going up Wednesday, assuming my house hasn’t floated away by then. Living at the bottom of a big hill in rainy season ain’t no fun.
Stay tuned for information about an upcoming STRANGEWAYS-related appearance. Or just read the page. Up to you.
Looks like someone went and rung the dinner bell, it does.
Okay, this Saturday, the 23rd, I’ll be appearing at the Grand Re-Opening of Bizarro World comics in Davis, CA. I’ll be signing books, and will have preview books for THE THIRSTY (which contain all of Chapter 1, some art pages from the upcoming “Red Hands” and MURDER MOON art as well) and trying to bedazzle anyone who’ll give me ten seconds to do so. Oh, and world famous Five Minute Stories, too. Here’s the info:
223 E St.
Davis CA 95616
Looks like things kick off at about 6:30. Plenty of time to drive in from out of town and enjoy the lovely weather we have in the Sacramento/Davis area this time of year.
That’s a joke, kids. It’s been 40 degrees and raining since Saturday, with no sign of abating. Hopefully it’ll cheer up by then.
See y’all next week.
Feels kinda out of place to be running such frivolity on MLK Day, but there you have it.
So, I guess they better get to that shed, huh? Wonder what’s in there. Maybe we get to find out on Wednesday.
Today’s post will be pithy observation-free. Seek your pith elsewhere.
If’n you forgot where we left off before the holidays, here’s the last page. Collins and company are trapped under a water tower in Drytown, sunlight fading to storm clouds and vampires up and looking for a taste.
And here’s today’s page.
A new page is up Wednesday.
Trying to figure out when my one-year anniversary over here at Robot 6 is. Bet it’s coming up pretty soon. Can ya believe it?
Matt Maxwell, writer of the comic Strangeways that we’ve been serializing here all year, provides a bit of glimpse into the past and future of the series with this teaser image from a story called “Red Hands.”
Matt explains the image:
From the final chapter of The Thirsty, which tells the tale of Raphael Guzman de Medina,also known as the terror of Drytown and Cedar Creek. “Red Hands” tells the story of how he went from being a simple merchant’s son to a monster, driven by his own thirsts and his inability to keep them in check.
Oh, and in Strangeways, vampires don’t run from the church. Instead, they burn churches down.
Look for “Red Hands” to begin after the fifth chapter of “The Thirsty” wraps up this spring.
The art is by Luis Guragna, better known as the main artist from Strangeways: Murder Moon, from Matt Maxwell’s script. Get caught up on Strangeways right here.
Last time I try to write a serial story as its being published, I swear.
Happy New Year everyone! Gosh, new years. Why does this stick in my mind? It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t name it…
Screaming not in pain or agony or fear, but in something like release, the Stag dropped to his knees from a dead run. It fell like an avalanche, a torrent in midsummer. The ground itself shook as the stag’s chest heaved and rattled. Collins blade was dug deep into the beast’s neck, but the thought of releasing it was anathema. Better that he fall with the Stag and make sure that the deed was done than to miss even an instant of it, or worse, to think that the Stag could somehow escape.
Collins fell atop it, radiant and golden for an instant before he slid to the ground and rolled. Grass rock and earth crushed him, burying and leaden.
But he would not yield the blade.
Merry post-Christmas, everybody! Busy weeks here at the Maxwell ranch. Trying to write while the kids pound on their new discombobulators and aim their transmogrifiers at the family dog in an effort to make him “even cooler”. It’s kinda distracting.
The stag was no longer merely glowing, but blazing now. Golden light poured from its hide, not reflected from the dying sun but a sun in and of itself. Collins might have marveled at the sight of it, but there was no room for marvel in his heart now. It was something that hovered between love and lust and survival, a need without a name. And all of that was focused on the stag now, keeping only two steps ahead of the ravening hounds at his heels.
Though now they were less hounds than they were swarming clouds, the stormfront whipped by winds and chill with licks of greenish lightning raking and twisting, illuminating teeth and jaws in their afterlight. Their howls were now the howls of the gale through the trees, their snapping teeth was the seething rain and driving snow, their coats sooty black as the depth of the darkest and longest night of the year.