The vessel of me...

The Terror Calender & 2011

2011-01-01T13:50:00.010+01:00

Happy New Year to you all!

Twenty-11 will be a very interesting year! Pretty soon, if all goes as planned, The Vessel of Terror will start to see the light of day. All of you who has followed the calender on the Facebook page know that the work put down by the artists is flabbergastingly cool.

For those of you who haven't seen the teasers, here is the rest of the calender.
Day 13

Day 14

Day 15

Day 16

Day 17

Day 18

Day 19

Day 20

Day 21

Day 22

Day 23

Day 24

I will also have two stories in two pretty huge anthologies in 2011. More on that when the time is right.

Stay sharp!

The Calender of Terror / Dødsengel

2010-12-12T14:56:00.015+01:00

If you haven't followed The Vessel of Terror Xmas calender on the Facebook page, here are the first 12 days:

December 1st

December 2nd

December 3rd

December 4th

December 5th

December 6th

December 7th

December 8th

December 9th

December 10th

December 11th

December 12th

Join the Facebook fanpage to follow the countdown to the 24th!

Dødsengel (which I am sporadically involved in) have just released two new offerings.
A 7" EP named Ecstatic Horror, which includes the two spells "Axis Mundi" and "Unchained and Reborn", and Alongside Choronzon, a 10" EP including the four tracks "Contra Mundi", "Vi, Templa Diaboli" (written by me), "Of Kali, of Seth, of Satan!" and "The City of Pyramids".

Both releases can be bought from Terratur Possesions.
Interview with Dødsengel.
Review of Alongside Choronzon.

TVOT Calender Dec. 1st

2010-12-01T19:54:00.006+01:00

Greetings all!

No excuse for absence, no excuse. I'll cut right to it!

It's the first of December and The Vessel of Terror will reveal new and never-before-seen panels each day up to the 24th. Here's the first panel:

And before you leave, help my friend Seber out by voting him to the top!
Go to Talenthouse and press VOTE!

Stay sane!

A fly on the wall...

2010-10-31T23:20:00.004+01:00

The final four pages in this brutal and buzzing insect noir will be posted shortly. Stay wired!

Meet Mike!

2010-10-03T22:50:00.007+02:00

"Leave the job behind, they said. Don't take it home with you." - Lieutenant Mike, Bug City Police Department.

Now, it's been a while. A long, stretched out while. Life offline always gets in the way, doesn't it?

But things have kept rolling behind the curtains. As always.
A large new project is underway. And I've teamed up with fellow writer Michael DeShane to wake this beast from its slumber in the idea world. More on this massive project when the stars are aligned and the time is right.

The Vessel of Terror is soon ready to take aboard passengers. A few more repairs and pit stops and we're there. A short little peek at some of the lines in issue three:

And here's a whole page from the a thrilling insect noir me and Laszlo Seber is putting together, starring Lt. Mike. The buzz will soon be on!

(Click for larger version!)

Until next time, which won't take so long (and that's a promise), take control!

Pulp fiction & the deep ocean

2010-08-13T22:30:00.005+02:00

And the hour has come...

My space comedy is featured in the second issue of Pulp Empire (Metahuman Press/Nicholas Ahlhelm). If you like a raunchy race in space, go check it out here:

Hypernovas
the space adventures of Dick Dare and Lulu Laser
#1 BETWEEN BLACK HOLES AND A SMOKING PISTOL

Support the Empire by buying the book over at Lulu! Also availiable as a digital download for just under $5!

- COMICS -
At the moment I'm in collaboration with several artist on several short stories for different anthologies. Stories about the book of love, a fly cop, a little girl destroying the universe and such. I'll keep you posted once things are on a roll.

Nidaros 2042 is also back on its feet. More to come, soon!

To round off, here's a few teasers from The Vessel of Terror. We've just begun on issue three and things are looking as sinister as ever. In a good way!

Fight on!

Production - The Vessel of Terror

2010-07-14T12:31:00.006+02:00

Some news from the madness aboard the vessel. We've finished the first issue, called The Catch. Just a few tweaks left and we're ready. We've also concluded the second issue, called The Arrival on the pencil and ink side. Only colour and lettering remaining.

We've had some changes in the crew, as well. Fabulous Jeremy Robert, who coloured the first issue had to be let loose. Not enough hours a day to commit fully to join us on the vessel any further. Therefore we had to find another explorer of colours, so joining us now for the second issue and furthermore is Goran Kostadinoski. Check out more of his work here:
http://comic-coloring.deviantart.com/

Here follows a few teasers from the second issue, The Arrival:

For more news and teasers about The Vessel of Terror, go check out the TVOT-page on Facebook.

Until next time, si monvmentvm reqvires, circvmspice!

Pulp Empire & a few recommendations

2010-06-28T13:34:00.002+02:00

I've been a bit slow on the updates lately. Been a bit to organize regarding some comics and everyday life. Now, I was going to post my latest story, but the story will be featured in Pulp Empire soon, so I'll leave the surprise till then.

Now, untill next time you all should check out the animation movie 9 by Shane Acker. The story's decent, the character's alright. But the sheer creative fun and hilarious gadgets in the movie are a blast to watch. Watch it!

Take control!

Choronzon

2010-06-13T23:34:00.002+02:00

CHORONZON: INTO THE VAST

HERE WE GO, BUDDY

- fragment six –

With immense speed I rush through sights I’d never imagined in my deepest dreams. This spacescape of violent colours, sparkling fireworks, lush shapes and magnificent formations. A mist of mists. The Roma Nebula.

I sit in my seat, which I ripped off its station socket a long time ago and placed right in front of the huge tinted glass, and look out into the different hues and shapes. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting there. One hour, eight hours. It doesn’t matter anyway out here. Spread out on the floor around me are plenty of empty wrappings, cans, half eaten nutrition bars, bowls with vitamin cereals, snacks and water bottles. Since I’m alone, there’s more than enough food for this last of journeys. I guess I’m content here I sit, drifting towards the black wall. I never figured out what kept me going, and lately I haven’t bothered trying.

The first months after the killing I drowned in self-deterioration; blaming Evelyn, myself, questioning everything, looking for answers I never found. I reckon they wouldn’t have satisfied me, anyway. Filthy, sick and tired I wandered the Choronzon like a ghost, seeing things belonging to dreams. Weak and scared I would spend days never leaving my bunk, the lights on. Sometimes I woke someplace else on the ship and, with the feeling someone was behind me, hurried back to my quarters. Suddenly one day, or night - is there any difference? - I was at the control panel in the Pit for no apparent reason, and discovered that the ship had been picking up great speed the last couple of days. I didn’t think the gravitational forces of the singularity would pick at the vessel this early, and scanning the sector revealed a huge sun not far off, also heading for the black wall. The star’s gravity probably pulled at the ship, since I could find no other plausible explanation. Later I named the star Sol, to remind me of home. Finding some kind of answer for once, pulled me out of my zombie-like ways, and as I peered out through the huge glass in the Pit, and saw this great sun, with the same destination as myself and Choronzon I smiled for the first time since Mira left my quarters that day, and I cried, not trying to stop the tears. In all my self-deterioration I was never really awake, and hadn’t noticed this star, so close I now could see its surface textures, so close it lit the Pit through the tinted glass and panels with a warm green glow. Only then did I realise that I was on the outskirts of the nebula, and all around me there were colours from another world.

I yawn, rubbing my newly shaven jaw, not really feeling tired at all. My buddy Sol is dying. Half of its mass has already passed the event horizon, the rim on the visible side blazing fierce. All around us the nebula, its suns, gasses and particles crash into the immense wall, stretching further than I can imagine. I am the only one to see this, I realise, somewhat saddened, yet pleased by the thought. If my calculations are correct I have about two hours till impact. I get up and start cleaning the floor. I place the food back in the kitchen, dispose of the litter and head for the cargo hold to do some workout.

Four months have passed since my minor epiphany, where I suddenly started taking care of the Choronzon and myself, leaping out of the slow decay of everything around me and in me. Right after the killing I had placed and bagged every body next to the Pytheacon crew. During my months of carelessness every Sleeper had died, except the young woman. Of the sixteen bodies in the cargo hold, only one chest was moving in slow rhythm. Somehow she had some life left in her. She looked skeletal and inhuman as I began feeding her again, but after some weeks she had rejuvenated nicely, though still her torpid state persisted. The first week after she had regained her weight and vitality I tried numerous things to wake her, wanting someone to talk to, to share the amazing sights with, but nothing had worked. I even carried her up to the Pit, so that we could watch all the activity outside together. After some days and tedious one-way conversations I felt stupid, and took her back to the cargo hold. I gave up trying to wake her, making myself realise that I was on my own now. At least I had my buddy Sol close by.

A couple of months passed, or maybe three, and I kept the vessel clean, worked out, read everything I could find in the databases, tried every recipe in the kitchen terminal, snapped photos of the spectacular nebula and Sol, fed the sleeping woman and made modifications wherever I could on the ship. Sometime during these days I disposed of all the other crew members, both mine and the Pytheacon’s. I had placed them in the air lock exit and released them, one by one. Giving them up to space. I had hesitated with both Mira and Evelyn, but eventually they drifted out among the others. The young woman, still alive and breathing, I carried out into the air lock last. I sat there for almost an hour, caressing her face, speaking words I’ve forgotten now. Whatever meaning they carried, they really didn’t matter. Nothing did. I wasn’t crying as I pulled the release lever, seeing her body rise behind the panel, freeze and drift slowly away from the Choronzon. Her eyes were still halfway open as space took her life. I had taken two lives, but like me, they were already dead in a sense. I stood there for a while, watching all of them. People I’ve known well and people who were complete strangers, floating away into a backdrop of a thousand colours.

I sit down in my seat, placing a bottle of water next to me. My hair is still wet from the shower I had, and I smell fresh with cologne. I correct my uniform and tighten my shoelaces, while glancing at the Mv9 pistol lying next to me on the steel-grated floor, wanting to check it again. I resist, knowing it is loaded.

“Just in case. Just in case,” I whisper, breathing out with excitement.

I’ve shut down almost every system on the ship, except the air and gravity controls, the panel tint controls and the lighting. The Pit is silent, except for a few instruments beeping vaguely. I peer out, trying to perceive where the wall actually is. Where I will be swallowed by the event horizon. It’s hard to tell. Should be some minutes left, I guess, taking a sip of the water bottle. I sit there for a long time, looking around, gazing out in every direction. The nebula and all its colours, all around, are soothing. I wonder if it will be an instantaneous death, or slow and wretched. With our speed I reckon it’ll be fast. I remember the worm and the excitement back then. I had never imagined the journey to end like this.

“Should have stayed behind,” I smile.

My star seems to be struggling against the powers of the singularity, sucking at the massive orb. Burning gas tongues lash out, and if the Choronzon had been any closer my friend had probably been my doom. I take another sip from the bottle, feeling restless. Taking deep breaths I try to calm myself. All these forces, so beyond me, are thrilling, and I feel sweat coming.

I’m about to get up and walk around to release some tension when suddenly I notice something odd. A shape is drifting into view in front of Sol, black as space itself. I freeze, leaned back, just staring at it. The shape seems to turn slowly. I mumble something as I get up and slowly approach the huge glass. With its bird-like shape I’m certain it’s another vessel. I touch the cool glass, mouth open, staring perplexed. I rub my eyes, not trusting them. They haven’t deceived me.

“Here…” I wave slowly, not sure what to do.

A rapid flash of lights, like a pattern, and the shape is gone. I peer out intently, searching. Nothing. I lean my head on the glass, the cool surface easing the feeling of helplessness now growing. What for a brief moment felt like hope, now feels like the end. I look out at my sun, its glow warming my face.

“Here we go, buddy…”

The Choronzon starts shivering, more and more violently. It is time and I smile bitterly. We sure found frontiers. My head aches with countless questions before there’s a fierce jolt hitting my body and everything snaps blank.

And thus the journey of the Choronzon ends. For now.

Choronzon pt. V

2010-05-31T23:00:00.002+02:00

CHORONZON: INTO THE VAST
INTO UNKNOWN SPACE
- fragment five –

I am dead. A sun is burning behind me through the tinted massive glass. I stand up straight, bewildered, numb.

The words come at me in cascades like snow, but before my brain interprets them, they melt. Her voice melts together with the low humming of the fuel cells and the radio static. My senses subside. I can only see memories. Memories of home, of sun piercing through curtains to reach my bed, of the I.C. meeting, of friends waving goodbye. Clear memories of the first day onboard the Choronzon. Sunshine and introductions, laughter and anticipations. The ship shudders, piercing through my memories. My senses emerge again. The radio static increases and Evelyn’s sobbing words become screams. She’s still aiming the Mv9 pistol at me, shaking.

“... was me,” her voice turns into muttering. I close my eyes and open them slowly, looking at the blood red floor. Mira’s body is lying in front of me. Shot dead. My silhouette is hovering over her, like some alien hero. Who came too late.

Ten minutes ago. Mira kissed me tenderly on the lips and left my quarters. The last thing I saw was her smile before the door slid back. A smile that kept me going. I put on my suit and checked the mirror. Same as usual, but I hadn’t had a shave in two days, and my facial hair added a certain darkness to my face.

In the cargo hold I was checking up on the Pytheacon crew, their features had slowly turned skeletal with the lack of proper intravenous nutrition. Suddenly I heard gunshots, echoing through the steel-grated corridors. I tried contacting the Pit. No answer. The radio cut off into constant static. I hurried up the corridors to the Pit. More gunshots echoed down towards me. I stormed into the room. Mira was on the floor. I checked her pulse, trying to constrain my erupting pain. Nothing. I looked up into a smoking Mv9 muzzle and Evelyn. I gazed around at the five other bodies scattered in the sunlit room.

“What the fuck are you doing... what the h...!?” my voice trembling.

Now. The terminal attention lamps are whirling, red and alarming.

“Do not push that button!” I threaten.

My voice overwhelms the room, silences her muttering and conquers the engine hum and the radio static.

I repeat. “Do NOT push that button!”

Evelyn is in tears, looking at me with sad, yet angry eyes. She tries to speak, but chokes on her words. She pushes the button. The fuel cell indicator bars drop rapidly on the screen together with the dying hum of the engine. My gaze falls back down on Mira as my fists clench. I can no longer control my rage.

I hurl towards Evelyn and the gun, but she pulls the trigger in reflex before I reach her. A spray of blood hangs in the air behind me as the bullet pierces through my left neck muscle. I end up crashing into the terminal, just missing her right arm. She dashes towards the corridor, sending two more bullets at me, shattering into the terminal right next to my head. I can barely feel the pain pulsating from the wound in my shoulder as I get on my feet and dash after her. I don’t know what I’m screaming as I chase after her down the corridor. She reaches Section 2 and hammers the door button, but I’m fast enough and bolt through the doorway before it closes. Now I’m too close for her to turn around and use the gun and she knows it, running down corridor B, screaming desperately. She takes a left to the parallel corridor A, but doesn’t realise I’m actually not behind her. She hits corridor A and takes a right and is about to pass the next intersection, but I slam into her from the left, deliberately. We both fly and crash hard on the steel grates and she loses the grip on the Mv9. In my rage I feel no pain and quickly fumble after the gun. Before she manages to get up I drag her by the hair, slamming her into the corridor wall, sticking the gun in her face and gripping her throat with my other hand.

“Please... please. I think I did...” her voice is almost breaking in the choking sobs. “...it, I’m so sorry.”

My rage lets go, like something in her voice is the trigger. Everything dawns on me in a rush and my head aches and pain comes like heartbeats from the neck wound. No more fuel. The rest of the crew dead. Mira gone. Tears are running down Evelyn’s face. I close my eyes and let go of her throat. We’ve all been dead long ago. I try to catch my breath, looking for answers in her eyes.

“Should have stayed behind,” she tries to smile, and I reach out to wipe away her tears. We lean close and kiss. As the kiss ends I lower the gun and fire two shots into her chest. The echoes fade out. Evelyn looks at me in silent content as her life wanders off into unknown space. The smoking gun clatters on the steel grate. Her body sinks and I fall to my knees next to her. I stay with her till she dies.

Silence. No engine hum. Just Choronzon and me.

So ends the fifth part of the tumult in space. The sixth, and final, will be up in a short week. Thanks for reading!

Choronzon pt. 4

2010-05-21T12:01:00.002+02:00

CHORONZON: INTO THE VAST
DRIFTING OUT OF VIEW
- fragment four -

I wake suddenly, next to my bunk. My head is pounding and my body is cold, apparently from lying on the metal floor for a while. I groan, and start trying to figure out why I’m not in bed. Another bad dream, surely, but I’m all dressed. I’ve never sleep walked before. Like a broken android I stagger to my feet and hunch over the sink to wash my face in the hopes that it’ll clear my mind. I flick on the light and notice in the mirror that my pupils aren’t shrinking. Pale, shark-eyed, without make-up. I look like a mess. There’s commotion somewhere outside and I hit the door release. The door glides open with its distinct hydraulic sound followed by someone cursing down the corridor. Quick metal clanks. Shell runs by, calling behind her:

“Ev, you better see this shit!”

She’s far down the corridor before I manage to groan a reply. I blink hard to see if my pupils retract themselves like they should. They don’t and I head out into the passageway towards the Pit. Through the tinted panels in the corner of my vision I see the Escorter. Debris is floating around a crater on the side of the massive wheel. I stop for half a second to process the information.

“Fuck…”

I start running.

The Pytheacon crew members are still healthy, and in deep sleep in our cargo hold. The price to pay for making sure they’ll survive was aborting our mission to the Roma Nebula. After sending the damaged Pytheacon into the vortex, we found it best to hang tight for ten hours before attempting to rush through the worm. Making sure the Pytheacon will drift far enough away, not to pose a threat of crashing and for us to get some sleep after the long and hard hours of easing the other vessel into position and finally into the vortex.

The whole scene comes to view behind the huge tinted glass as I storm into the Pit. I almost freeze, taking slow steps over to a station seat to steady myself. The curses, questions and talk from the others are muted in my trancelike state. The Escorter has a huge crater on its right side, parts and debris floating about. Our passage home. Damaged. Done.

“Come on you old piece of fucking shit,” Shell is typing away at the terminal on her station. Harvest is hunched over her, impatient as well.

“Here it is. Records – Weapons – Op. log,” she scrolls down with her finger. “Most recent: Operated 13:49:13 to 13:49:33. That’s nine and a half minute ago.”

“What the hell?!” Harvest replies sharply, puzzled and angry.

I hurry over, asking what’s happened.

“Some fuck has shot at the Escorter, from this ship,” he looks around at the others and they’re just as astonished.

“Please tell me you’re kidding!” I can feel despair coming.

Harvest is cursing, his anger already way ahead of him. Shell holds up her hand to get our attention and points at the numbers again.

“This is insane. I mean, twenty seconds. Twenty seconds to get the weapon rack ready, aim, lock, fire and log out again,” she looks up at Harvest’s red face. “It’s incredibly fast. I’d never thought it possible and I’ve practiced heaps with this Russian shit. This is old school. Slow and heavy, not like the new shit. Twenty seconds…”

She shakes her head.

“Well, what the fuck now? What…” Draco cuts in as Mira and Dusk comes storming into the Pit as well.

“Alright…” Harvest raises his voice, apparently recreated his familiar calm, “…take a step back. Let’s take a step back and think.”

“What… mmhhf… what’s going on?” Art comes stumbling in, trying to get his shirt on. No one answers. Everyone is looking at Harvest, waiting for an idea to appear like a light bulb above his bald head.

I glance out at the broken Escorter and a thought strikes me.

“What if it isn’t broken?”

My voice rises. “What if we can repair it?”

They all look at me. Harvest points at me, nodding with rekindled spirit. He claps his hands and start barking out orders.

“As you’ve probably heard, this is it. No going back.” Harvest sits down as the last man, clasping his hands together, gathering his thoughts.

Mira’s eyes are red from crying. Mine would have been alike if I hadn’t cleaned myself up just before we seated ourselves around the large control table in the Pit. Dusk, Draco, Shell and Robin had all been working on the Escorter for several hours before giving up on the massive wheel. Mira had been too shaken to do anything, but Art had been documenting the repairing process, from inside as well as outside. After comforting Mira, till she stopped crying at least, I went to Harvest with questions. He too had many, and none of us had any answers. I can feel the tension in my body, my breath, the air. Every eye searching everyone else’s face. Seeking truth, but really just wanting to blame.

“The motherfucker who’s responsible can just tell us right fucking now!” Draco bursts to his feet, his voice harsh and shaking, his eyes scanning everyone. “You’re fucking dead!”

He points in no one’s direction, really.

“Sit down, Draco,” Harvest forces him down on his seat with his stare.

Mira breathes heavy, trying to stop her nose and eyes from running. I take her hand and she swallows the tears and emotions as I whisper some soothing words.

“We’re all dead, Draco, so there’s no point in killing anyone,” Harvest says softly with a humorless smile.

Draco exhales heavily and keeps staring at the rest of us. I stare back at him and he drops his gaze to the table.

“Is there no way of getting home?” Mira’s voice is frail, but everyone is listening intently, and everyone already knows the answer.

“I’m sorry, there isn’t. We are… well, lost in space. There’s no way of getting back, and there’s no way of communicating with home. We’re simply too far away, and there are too many obstacles and interferences between us and home if it weren’t for the distance,” Harvest looks at Mira as he speaks, making sure she understands.

“Okay,” she whispers while closing her eyes.

“But won’t they send someone though from the other side once they discover the Pytheacon? We can wait for them,” Art’s voice rekindles some hope before Robin answers.

“I’m afraid that’ll be a very long wait. The worm-technology is still in its birth phase and if they discover a damaged vessel, with no crew, returning, they won’t risk another one entering. And who’d wanna crew that rescue mission? It’s a shot in the dark the I.C. or Ikaros, or any other organization or firm wouldn’t dare attempt. Besides, they’re working on the new Escorter in the Fc4 section, so it might take months for them to even discover Pytheacon. If Pytheacon came through that is. It might have been destroyed rushing through that beast for all we know.”

“Can’t we just fly home?” Art asks, looking down at the table, knowing the answer.

“It’ll take over ten years. If we had the fuel. And as you all know we only have rations that’ll last about three years further, including what we recovered from our coma-friends’ vessel we have about forty-eight months before we go skeletal. If we add our own weight to the dish the last one might make it a bit longer.”

Mira winces as Robin finishes with an empty smile. Art sighs as he takes it all in. A silence stretches out as we all try to perceive what’s really happened, I assume.

“We’ll find some alien technology to take us home,” Dusk says cheerless, leaning back in his seat. “An alien taxi.”
Smiles appear on some around the table, relieving the tension for a moment.

“It better approve our credit chips, then,” Shell adds.

“Your treat then, Shelly,” Harvest chuckles.

Draco slams his fist in the table, clearly not amused at the lightened mood of some.

“I wanna know who’s done it,” he hisses through his teeth, tapping his finger hard in the table. “I wanna know what suicidal idiot blasted the wheel!”

“Harvest and I have checked every log and examined the weapon wing. Nada. So unless the one responsible wants to speak up…?” I look around, looking for the truth, I guess.

“So you’ve examined it? So it might be one of you…” Draco says bluntly, regretting it right away.

Harvest storms to his feet, slamming his knuckles in the table.

“Say one more thing! One more! No one here is going to point any fingers. Not even me. No one! I will not hear of it! Is that understood?” his finger pointed at Draco, then slowly tracing everyone at the table. They nod and agree, barely audible.

“You heard Shell. Twenty seconds. She’s the specialist, and even her hands couldn’t do it,” Harvest calms down and sits back down in his chair again.

“It might actually be a dormant virus or an error in the data system. I haven’t found anything, but it might be. This is old hardware and software, and there’s no complete track record of the Choronzon. Where it has been, or in whose hands. It might be the equipment,” Shell explains, but doesn’t seem to believe it herself.

“Might be the Sleepers…” Dusk suggests, all eyes suddenly on him. A chill runs through me.

“Not possible,” Art looks around at us for an answer. “It can’t be, can it?”

“They’re still in a coma, every one of them,” Draco has calmed down, most of the anger buried. “They can’t move a finger.”

“You’re sure of this?” Art presses on.

“Unless they’re aliens or zombies there’s nothing in the medical world that would allow them to drag their asses up to one of the weapon wings, log in with the Choronzon passphrase, which only we know, operate the missiles and fire one at the Escorter. This isn’t a horror flick, Art. This is reality. The dark kind, though, but still reality,” Draco sighs.

“So, are we just going to sit tight and starve to death?” Mira’s confidence is on its way back, and the fragile voice is almost gone.

“I don’t know. I really don’t. The gods know I’m up for suggestions,” Harvest admits. Art shakes his head slowly and Shell shrugs. The commander looks at me, waiting for something.

“We could resume our mission…” I suggest. “Go to the Roma Nebula to get a look at it, just for the beauty of it. As you know it’s already vanishing into the singularity, and in five years time it’s probably all gone. We might be the first and last to see it with our own eyes.”

They all look at me and I gesture to indicate it was a question, not an order. Mira glances at the Escorter drifting out of view, then at me and for the first time today she smiles.

Part V up next week. Have a great weekend!

Rediscovering old heroes | submissions | new script

2010-05-14T12:36:00.002+02:00

Some of you might be waiting for the next chapter of Choronzon. I'll put it up here during the weekend.

OLD HEROES

I've been home lately due to a soccer injury. Internal bleeding in the leg muscle and my muscle cords (or whatever they're called) have had a bit of a stretch. But these last days I've been up doing my silly walk so its healing alright. By home I mean the place I grew up and there I've found a lot of old The Phantom comics from my childhood. Even though they're not as intriguing now as to the young mind I once was, it's great to see the classic line work and the great black & white handling by Vallvé and Lindahl. The dialogue isn't up to par, and feels straight forward dumb at times and over explains the artwork itself.

In all a very cool character with a lot of potential. Too bad no one has revamped him, bringing him into the "adult" comic sphere of the 21st century. I'm not aware of any attempts, at least. About time someone did...

BLACK HOLES, CHICKS AND STARSHIPS

After seeing an ad on Digital Webbing from Pulp Empire seeking short pulp fiction, I sat down last weekend and wrote a short space opera inspired by Douglas Adams wacko universe, women and childhood moments. The story's been submitted and I'm waiting for a GO or a NO from Pulp Empire. In the beginning I didn't really like the story much, but after putting some heart in it I started liking the douchy main character Dick Dare and the sexy space chick Lulu Laser so much I'm planning to bring the story into the comic medium as well. We'll see how things go. Crossing my fingers that you can read the story on Pulp Empire in a short while.

A SAD GHOST

I've also started working with Michael on a short ghost story which we'll submit to the new run on Digital Webbing Presents. Just got the layouts for now, but we're on a roll and hopefully we'll be close to having a few pages ready in a few weeks. Follow us and others trying for the anthology at the Digital Webbing forum or the Facebook page.

And yesterday was the day when the sun came out and I could enjoy 2010's first beer outside without a shirt on. Good times!

Stay tuned. Take control!

Choronzon

2010-05-08T23:01:00.002+02:00

CHORONZON: INTO THE VAST

THE DREAMING HUMAN SUN

- fragment three -

They seem so blissful in their sleep. Their pupils large under barely closed eyelids. Their skin pale, yet healthy looking. A sun of bodies, heads inward, carefully laid out on the huge round control table, on top of charts, maps and diagrams. Their limbs rays. Each with a pen in their left hand. A serene circle of Pytheacon’s crew.

“No video or audio record. All logs are blank,” Shell confirms.

“… coma,” Draco looks up at Harvest and the rest of us after flashing his light into the iris of the last person.

“Coma? Everyone? And no records? Some sort of mass suicide attempt maybe?” Harvest replies, perplexed.

“I’ve seen some studies about the impact of space on behavior nexuses in the brain and the psyche. They might have been… well, overwhelmed, sort of. Overwhelmed by their position and inferiority in this vast place,” Robin suggests.

Some hours ago we reached the drifting Pytheacon to check up on them, due to their lack of response, and to get some parts and tools that might repair the minor damages the Choronzon attained through the wormhole. Since they did not reply and were drifting with no fuel usage, we expected they’d damaged their communications hub. We expected some fault with their fuel cores or engines. We didn’t expect this.

“Lousy attempt for a mass suicide, I can tell you. They’re all sleeping. Each and every one, in deep sleep,” Draco flicks his tiny flashlight on and off repeatedly.

“It’s some kind of ritual,” I say what everyone is really thinking.

“You’ve seen anything like this before, Dusk?” Evelyn glances at me before looking at the table with the human sun again.

“No. Never, but it must be. I mean; the shape, the pens. Everything is carefully planned. This isn’t an after party gone wrong.”

Draco and Shell chuckle. Shell’s over by the many control panels up front in the Pit. She clears her throat, not to be disrespectful.

“I’d agree with Dusk. But there’s nothing to predict anything like this in the crew profiles. None of them were of any strong religious beliefs, nor dabbling with spiritism, occultism or other esoteric practice. No previous injuries, diseases or traumas. They were an Ikaros pioneer crew. No abnormalities, social, physical or mentally what so ever, of course. A ‘pure to the bone’-crew,” Shell looks over at us, shrugging.

“Could it be the worm?” Harvest suggests.

“I doubt it. We haven’t noticed any changes in ourselves. But I wouldn’t rule it out. Might be a good idea to look for signs anyway, for our part, you know,” Draco looks at Harvest and Robin. He raises a sleeping person’s hand and lets it fall lifeless down on the table again.

“Yeah…”

Harvest rubs his unshaven chin.

“The formation… what if they didn’t do…” Evelyn’s cut off as Art and Mira come back with their gear. Evelyn seems lost in thought, but doesn’t speak them.

“Document the scene well, okay?” Harvest steps back to give the photographers some elbow room.

“Spaced…” Mira whispers while snapping shots.

The room fills with flashes and Harvest and Evelyn consult each other and hand out orders for the rest of us.

I adjust the temperature in the section as Draco and Harvest lay the last body down on the white blanket and tuck it in, like a sleeping child. The circle of bodies on the table now a row in our cargo hold. Evelyn is searching a young woman for any signs or clues to explain the strange event. She moves the hair away from the woman’s face after the search, sighing heavily.

“It should be warm enough after a while,” I say, more to myself than the others as I glance at what looks like a tranquil aftermath of a murder scene. Evelyn caresses the woman, stroking her milky white cheek, instinctively protecting the frailness. Draco is talking about examining the patients with Harvest, but I don’t pick up on the words as I stare at Evelyn and the woman. She reaches for the woman’s hand, holds it tight and slips a ring off the woman’s finger and onto her own, not trying to hide it. I just watch, not wanting to stir the situation. Nine sleeping strangers and a woman who I can’t seem to figure out. Is it pity I’m feeling?

“Dusk?”

Hearing my name shakes me out of this frozen state. Harvest looks over his shoulder as he and Draco are heading out of the cargo hold.

“Yeah?”

“The repairs can wait. Get some rest, but make sure you’ve got every part you need from the Pytheacon. Me and Draco will tie it up to Choronzon after we get a bite of food, and haul that bulk home,” Harvest informs and heads after Draco up the corridor.

“Aight,” I give him the thumbs up before he disappears.

“Make sure it’s warm, Dusk. The metal floor is freezing,” Evelyn looks up.

“It’ll take an hour to heat up. It’ll be alright,” I approach her and sit down on my knees.

“Art and Mira seemed bummed out, ‘cus the turn of events. Us going back instead of checking out the cloud,” I just small talk, not sure what to say.

“Mhm,” Evelyn nods. She didn’t hear me.

“Do you think she is dreaming?” she asks softly.

“I don’t know. Depends on what kind of coma it is, I guess,” I answer and touch the young woman’s hand, squeezing it, waiting for a response I know isn’t coming.

Evelyn suddenly turns and embraces me tightly. I’m taken back and hesitate before closing my arms around her.

“Hold me tight. Maybe the nightmares won’t come,” she whispers with a weak voice. Her warm breath on my ear.

We sit there, huddled together among the sleeping crew of the Pytheacon, for several minutes, not saying anything. I am the first to shatter the silence:

“Why did you take the ring?”

Again, the format isn't right, but I hope you like the story so far. Part IV up soon. Stay tuned!

Choronzon

2010-05-04T21:27:00.002+02:00

CHORONZON: INTO THE VAST

WITHOUT NIGHTS, HOW CAN THERE BE NIGHTMARES?

- fragment two -

Earth is spinning violently above me. The grey, white, green and brown land flows together with the vastness of the blue mass of water. I reach up desperately, to calm Gaia, but my world is ferocious, and I feel it blaming me and punishing me. I turn my body to place my feet on the spinning orb, once home to me, but I am too slow. I curse, as my feet slip again and again. I am not welcome, and voices rise around me, calling my name like it was something bad. Something they despise.

EVELYN!

I cover my ears, but my hands slip through my head in a ghostly fashion.

EVELYN!

I scream back, and the voices abruptly stop. I start crying and drift slowly away from the ferocious Earth. Blackness around me. The stars in the distance are weak and ice blue. Far away I see my world, now calmed down and spinning slowly, like I’ve known her before. Suddenly I gasp for air; the darkness fills my lungs like water. As I swallow blackness, blackness swallows me, and I try to scream.

“…you okay? Evelyn?”

My eyes open and I inhale desperately, like I’ve just breached the surface after a long dive.

“Evelyn?” Dusk asks into the shadows of my quarter.

I feel my sweat had moistened my night shirt as I sit up and look at the doorway and Dusk. His shape a silhouette, his expression hidden. I breathe out to relax.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. I’m alright.”

“Heard you scream. Bad dreams again?”

I sigh and flip on the reading light next to my bunk before getting out of bed. Dusk shifts his weight, I guess uncomfortably, and is about to say something, but doesn’t. I cross my arms against the cold and look at Dusk, not sure what to say. The chill from the metal floor spreads up my bare legs and I shiver.

“I… well, you,” Dusk begins, wanting to say something reassuring maybe. “I better get back to bed. If there’s anything, just beep me, okay?”

It’s not what I want to hear, but I nod, swallowing hard as he disappears from the doorway.

I check my comlink to see if Harvest has left any notes or orders for me. Nothing. I’m definitely not returning to my nightmares. There’s nothing I need to do, but my restlessness makes me put on my trousers and shoes. The green fabric warming my skin, the shoes shielding me from the metal. My hair’s a mess, so I just tie it in a pony tail and put on the Interspatial Corporation-cap we all received. Another step for mankind, they said, to deafening applause. I splash water on my face. Why would mankind want to loose itself in this vast black sea? I’d like to see them applaud out here, gasping for knowledge, meaning, air or whatever. I rub my eyes, and check for wrinkles.

“Just a few, now cheer up girl,” I whisper at my reflection in the mirror and smile. My reflection doesn’t argue and smiles back.

I hurry passed Art’s open door, not in the mood for conversation. He seemed to be studying again, anyway. I guess Mira isn’t keen on warming him throughout the nights since the fight last week.

“Not feeling tired tonight, Ev?” Harvest looks up from the charts on the control table screen at the back of the Pit. Shelly and Robin are with him.

“No,” I admit, approaching them. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, we picked up a signal bouncing back at our beacon four hours ago. Looks like it’s the Pytheacon, but we’ve received no live feed from them. Silent as the grave. Might be some kind of disturbance between us, Leer here believes,” Harvest looks at Robin who nods at me, like he wants my approval too.

“The Pytheacon? Four hours ago? Why didn’t you beep me?”

“Uhm, Shell and Robin were already here. I figured we had it covered.” Harvest doesn’t look me in the eyes.

“Oh. And what did you decide?”

“Well, it will take an extra two weeks from the initial two assignments, but Robin says that’s alright with him and his radiation check operation at the nebula. Mira and Art agreed as well, as long as they got their picture. They’ve got months before the UniDome Awards after we land back home anyway. And as you know the minor damages we received rushing through the worm, we might be able to fix them with spares from the Pytheacon. I’d want to have my baby doll fully operational as we approach the nebula, don’t you?” Harvest doesn’t raise his eyes from the charts and diagrams, but Shell and Robin are looking at me, a bit reserved.

“Two weeks?” I’m not really asking, but they nod. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Anything else?”

“No, not at the moment. I’ll beep you, if there’s anything of course,” Harvest looks up at Shelly. “Shell, could you run a test on the docking tube in the cargo bay? Make sure everything’s working one-hundred and ten.”

“On it.”

She walks out of the Pit, leaving us three alone. Besides the beeping and electrical churning of instruments, the room is silent. Tiny stars shine at us through the massive tinted glass in the front and back of the Pit. The silence is pressing, and I look up through the glass panels in the roof. Nothingness. Robin breaks the silence.

“Should be a slow week to the Pytheacon, since there aren’t many obstacles or readings which need to be done on our way. This region is pretty empty.”

“Reminds me of my cash chip,” Harvest takes a shot at lightening the mood and chuckling dryly.

I smile, though it’s more like a sigh.

“Okay. Excuse me, commander,” I turn, ignoring any words or body language. He’ll beep me if there’s anything. Of course.

Art’s door is closed and I stop next to Dusk’s. The nightmares are probably waiting, and sleep is not tempting. Maybe Dusk isn’t sleeping, and has time to chat? Just beep him he said. I guess a rap on the door is as good as a beep. I close my fist, touching the cold metal door. He’s probably sleeping so I change my mind. I continue to my quarters, but stop at the glass panel in the corridor just outside my door. The only sounds are the gasses, water and air running through the pipes above and below me. I imagine the absolute silence outside the glass. The deadly silence outside the Choronzon. Silence I longed for back home some times. The daring exploring space woman you are, even afraid of doing runs on the hull. Afraid of drifting away from this temporal home, into the vastness. I smile, staring at the weak reflection of my features in the glass. The faint stars on my forehead, around my smile and in my eyes. My lips shake, but my smile doesn’t falter. My eyes fill with tears, and I try to blink them away, but one escapes down my cheek. I better get back to bed. Some pills will do the trick. Suddenly I see something moving outside. I blink to clear my sight, but it’s still blurry. Seems like a bird shape. Another vessel? Black as space around it. I rub my eyes and try to fix on it again. There’s nothing. No silhouette fronting the backdrop of stars. I gaze out, maybe wanting to find a shape, but give up. Less sleep, less reality, I tell myself and push the door release. I walk over and sit down on the bed. The door closes and shadow kills the light. A raven shape. It feels like an omen. I don’t know how long I sit there, before the nightmares take me.

Sorry again about the format. Part III up in a few days.

Choronzon

2010-05-02T14:16:00.002+02:00

CHORONZON: INTO THE VAST

EMBARKING

- fragment one -

“I should have stayed behind,” she says barely audible, looking out the huge tinted glass in the Pit. I look at the second commander, Miss Nitchovic, searching her features. She glances at me and attempts a smile, but quickly looks out into the vastness of space again to cover the lack of sincerity in it. The Choronzon is silent as it drifts into position.

“Thanks Dusk,” Evelyn sighs, yet sounds grateful.

She puts a hand on my knee to steady herself up, knowing she has to man her station soon. I notice the paler skin on her finger, a reminder of a broken vow left behind.

“E.T.A. to Escorter lock position: four minutes,” commander Seedwell announces on the speaker system. Harvest they call the old, bald bugger, experienced like a devil in hell, yet this kind of shortcut is new to him as well. No matter, he seems relaxed. Ever since we left natural gravity eleven days ago, he and his old crew’s been calm and focused, even when the 1X refill station was damaged, and we had to glide our way to 6Xb “Praetor” before refilling the boosters. Back on ‘ground floor’ they were loud, drunk and anxious. I guess the vastness out here soothes the nerves. For some at least.

As the rest of the crew enters the Pit, Harvest tells them to get to their stations and strap themselves in.

“Count, Nitchovic?” he looks over at Evelyn, already strapped in her seat next to him behind the large control panel. This vintage dashboard of the 21^st century.

“All eight, all here,” Evelyn responds with an empty voice. I fasten the belts tight across my chest in the seat behind her, feeling my heart responding to the upcoming event. I exhale in anticipation, looking at the others seating themselves, strapping themselves in, just as excited. We all know this is big.

“Vessel check,” Harvest informs, pressing buttons, adjusting levels, before continuing. “Hull and engine, I.O.”

“Weapons lock and safety, I.O., Harvest,” Shelly Kimiwazu looks up from her controls by her seat. Her short spiked hair looks as if it’s been charged with excitement. Her face a big grin.

“Airlocks and sectors, I.O.” Evelyn reports, and the gravity level nullifies. A tingling rises from my toes up my body and through my head. Like all the burdens of the world leaving my body. Weightless.

Draco Batim, the cook, breaks a protein-bar between his teeth in slow motion, “Snacks, I.O., Harvest,” he chuckles and coughs, crumbles drifting out above our heads.

“Thanks for sending your germs adrift, dickhead,” Robin grimace towards Draco.

“Lighten up. You’re a space hazard advisor, not a goddamned doctor. I’m healthy as a fly with AIDS and yellow fever, playing in dung, so shut your hole,” Draco smiles and grimaces back.

“Wash your mouths’ the two of you. We’ve got first-timers, so be gentlemen for once,” Harvest chuckles, adjusting more instruments. “Alright, make sure you’re all wrapped, tapped and strapped, or you might get capped halfway. Baby doll’s in place in one and a half minute.”

Outside the dark green glass the Escorter seems to drift in front of us, instead of the opposite, which is actually happening. This massive ring - capable of generating more energy than the largest nuclear weapons - has the words ‘Welcome to the unknown’ on its upper half. ‘I.C. Escorter ONE’ in larger letters on the lower half of the outer ring.

“Initiate pressure shutdown, seventy seconds…” Harvest looks over at Evelyn, but she seems lost in thought, gazing at the Escorter. “Evelyn…”

“Oh, sorry.”

Seedwell takes a deep breath. “… now!”

“Sir, pressure sequence shutdown I.O., seventy seconds.”

“Okay, folks. You got one minute to say goodbye,” the commander looks over his shoulder with a hidden smile. The enormous wheel outside begins to turn and its inner rings seem to spin in all directions.

“I can’t believe we’re going through this thing, the first ones…” Mira Thornhood smiles at Art in the seat next to her. Fear tearing at her voice.

“We’re second,” Harvest cuts in. “The Pytheacon went through a month ago. Pioneers on the frontiers, those bastards. We’ll show them frontiers.”

Art reaches over to touch Mira’s hand, tightly clasped around her seat buckle. Her tension doesn’t seem to vanish.

“Anything for a photo, right?” Art says.

“A photo that’ll win the UniDome Awards by leagues, Art,” Mira smiles, excited at the thought.

The two photographers and the Roma Nebula, the reason why millions was poured into this project by Igor Vorozky, the Russian billionaire. Ironically, not much was poured on the only Russian here, the bulk of a vessel, a Govob XC model. As modern as my great granny. This amuses me, and I smile, looking at the faces of these people around me.

“Ten seconds!” Harvest almost yells.

The Escorter is turning in a pace I’ve never seen before, spinning frantically. A surge of energy forms a blazing vortex inside. I’ve never seen anything like it. No sci-fi movie as a kid could have prepared me for this. My eyes are wide, my heart pounding.

Amidst this rush of senses I notice Evelyn not really watching what’s forming within the immense ring. She leans her head on her shoulder, away from the others.

“Woooooooh!” Draco exclaims. Others breathe heavily, some holding their breath, like me.

I reach out, without quite knowing why, and touch Evelyn on the shoulder. She reaches up immediately to hold my hand, just as the Choronzon lunges into the sight of a lifetime. The eight of us rushing into the wormhole. Sounds of metal bending. The Choronzon shaking.

Should have stayed behind, I manage to think before images rush through my brain and all turns black.

The format gets screwed up. Hopefully it's readable for you guys. Part II will be up soon.

How does it work?

2010-04-26T20:51:00.007+02:00

Many of you probably don't know how the creative process of creating a comic goes. Here's a quick step-by-step guide. A look behind the curtains. Behind the glamour and the glitter and the champagne, and the clicking and swirling of pens and staring at walls for minutes and minutes. From the writers' perspective.

Step UNO
You need to nail down the story. Lie restless one night. Boom. Easy. No sweats. So you have your story. Then you'll need to plot it out. In comics, one usually goes by 22 pages per issue. So, you'll need to write down a list. 1 - 22. Then fill in what'll happen on each page. Scrap it. Refill it. Rinse, repeat, untill you have something coherent.

Lie restless one more night. Start scripting. Lean back, have some coke. In a glass, or on a mirror. Whatever suits the situation.

If you're like me, you'll end up with a half-decent, half-correctly English script.
It'll look somewhat like this:

(click for a larger view.)

Before you do anything else. You should get an editor. He'll make sure you ain't taking a crap. Or, he'll at least wipe your ass and tell you how it should be done. He'll teach you. He'll hurt you. Hurt your pride. Your itty bitty ego. Seriously, if he hurts your pride, then you have something to work on, and I ain't meaning your script.

I got Alex. He's British.
I told him to look after me, so instead of an editor, he's my project manager. That means I can lean back and have a few drinks, tan, play some soccer with Reign In Blood on my earphones. Alex fixed my screw ups. Alex got me to the next level.

Step DOS
Now, if you haven't got the skills to draw that magnificent script yourself, you'll need to find a buddy, gal or dude to do it for you.

I got Dave. He's from the United States.

It turned out like this:

So I did it myself, instead. It turned out like this:

Okay. Dave's turned out like this:

It's a little rough. The pencils, as we comic folks call it. Now, you can clean up the pencils and go directly to colour on top of them. But we don't. We wan't crisp edges. Darkness. Blackness. Void and death.

So me and Alex take a look at the pencils and see if we want anything changed. Sometimes Dave stays completely to the script. Sometimes he does something better, but I'm way to proud to show you any examples of that, of course. On this page, page 4, I thought the fishing net was too small. And I wasn't too convinced that Fred's coat in the last panel looked like a heavy rain coat.

Dave then did the inks, as we call it. Harder, clearer lines. Detailed. Here's how page 4 turned out in inks:

Everybody happy. Everything good.

Step TRES

Then, to make things pop. You'll (most likely) need colours. I found Jeremy. He's Canadian. Now our crew is complete. Trans-atlantic. Worldwide. It's a small world.

Jeremy gets Dave's inked page and sparkles some kind of powder on it, I'm not sure. After rinsing it in water it turns out like this:

The rest of us get a peak and thumbs up. The page is finished. If it was just image book.

There's one thing missing. And here's where I'm going to bring about that champagne I was talking about. Bubbles. The talk bubbles. Which would be a correct Norwegian translation. The right term is balloons. That's the job of the letterer. Correcting the layout/format if there are errors, and making our characters talk, think and whisper. And sounds to appear. Since Dave's such a great guy, he's got the job as letterer as well. The finished page, you ask? You'll see it later on, when everything's finished.

There you have the process. The gist of the process.

What does a writer do after having written the script? He waits. If he's smart, he starts writing something else. And by that I don't mean a blog...

Use your time, take control.

Spring time...

2010-04-23T12:17:00.002+02:00

... is the time for some poetry.
This first one is about a small park in Kelvin Grove, Brisbane.

Old McCaskie’s Terzanelle

March, 2007

Old McCaskie laid there mute between the noise

A clamoring construction site on one side

On the other, decibels of traffic and its voice.

Silently and still in his everlasting pride

A patch of green between the modern scene

A clamoring construction site on one side.

Over him both clear sky and trees lean

Not far away, spread out, he had his kin

Patches of green between the modern scene.

Playful youth, running and skipping on his skin

Not alone to survive the modern age

Not far away, spread out, he had his kin.

Mended and mowed each calendar page

He and his kin present their healing craft

Not alone to survive the modern age.

Between the concrete collections, a bearing raft

Old McCaskie laid there mute between the noise

He and his kin present their healing craft

By their side, decibels of traffic and its voice.

And here's one a bit more fitting the nice weather coming from Iceland this last week.

BIG BANG

March, 2010

How fiercely we kissed

As the comets came crashing

Smashing the earth to form

Your hips moved in circles

Down in the ninth

Where Virgil left us

We were messing around as

Sodoma and Gomorra burned

By the wrath of Him above

Between the raging masses

Of Cesar and Pompeii

We flirted and arrows flew

Our image turned ash

As we made rough love

Those years ago in ‘45

I handed you our child

As I plunged down through dust

The 11^th of September.

You kissed me goodbye

As the eruption began

That early June in 2012

All work and no play...

2010-04-20T12:28:00.007+02:00

... makes me a hungry boy. Hungry for more ideas to develop and stories to bring to life. At the moment I'm having a couple of days break from writing. Here's an update on the projects under developement.

The Ugly Duckling

My futuristic adaptation of H.C. Andersen's The Ugly Duckling will appear in a massive anthology, currently called DWP: Future Fairytales. The projects was started on the Digital Webbing forums and involves over 40 artists/writers, with Chris Stevens as the chief of the bunch. The Ugly Duckling is illustrated by Meri Bosch from Spain. Check out her blog here:
http://www.entredulcesylapices.blogspot.com/

Hopefully this massive 500+ pages book will be out before Christmas 2010.

Nidaros 2042
This is a slow beast, but hopefully me and Renzo Podesta will have the first issue ready in July. For those who haven't followed this from the beginning I can say that it's a high adrenaline revenge-mission through the future streets of Trondheim.
Here's a fresh page:

Story/Creator: Magnus Aspli
Art/lettering: Renzo Podesta

More info here: www.magnus-aspli.com
Join the ride on Facebook!

The Vessel of Terror

Here's a page from the dark story of the unkown:

Art: Dave Acosta
Colours: Jeremy P. Roberts

The scripts are finished and we're working towards a digital release in the near future. The first issue is close to being finished. If everything goes as planned you can start enjoying this Lovecraftian tale in a couple of months or three.
Samples and info here:
www.magnus-aspli.com
Make sure you join the fanpage on Facebook!

Even the Dead Dream of Heaven

My first attempt at a novel is finished and I'm waiting for some feedback.
You can read a couple of chapters here:
http://www.magnus-aspli.com/projects.html

Now... I'll head over to the idea soup I've got cooking on the stove.

Take control and enjoy the ash!

In the beginning...

2010-04-17T14:22:00.000+02:00

... there was night. Night because the daylight could not break through the rolling monsterous cloud of ash that came from the ocean, came from the volcanos, seeping in over the land.

If life was a movie, this would be true. It's not that bad. It's quite boring actually. I was expecting a Dante's Peak situation with falling ash, a McCarthy experience, trekking through barren vast landscapes bereft of warmth. I'm sitting next to my laptop and there's daylight outside and a bag of candy on my desk. Not bad at all.

The intention of this blog is to keep track of time and make me write more than I usually do. I'll include some samples of my writing, keep you updated on my projects and bascially spew out whatever's on my mind. I'll do my best to update twice a week, but no promises there.

Untill next time, let's hope Katla goes ka-boom.