A 24 hour comic. Writing and drawing a 24-page comic book in 24 hours. It even sounds like a bad idea, but here we are, doing it. Who even came up with this? Oh, Scott McCloud? Well, fuck Scott McCloud and his bright fucking ideas. I would've been fine just sleeping right now, but no. I had to be creative while sleep-deprived.
"But Neil Gaiman did one!" my buddy had said, very obviously trying to convince me.
"Wikipedia says HE didn't finish either. And he's written a million books! I've written, let me check... NONE. And you expect me to beat a world-famous author?"
"Look, it's not that hard, you just do a page an hour. And it's not like Neil Gaiman is a world-famous comic artist."
"Just. A page an hour. Like it's the easiest thing in the world! Are you even listening to yourself?"
I've been renting this house for a couple of months now, and it's been mostly pleasant. I'm not done fixing the place up and there's some hygiene issues to deal with, but other than that I'm starting to really settle in. Just yesterday I got the direction I needed to turn the keys in without getting it wrong first. It's a nice place, but there's just this one little issue I feel I need to point out.
John took a few steps and touched the old flag, spinning it around.
"Guess it was real after all," he said, turning to Olivia. "You know what the problem with this mission is, though?"
"No, but you're going to tell me, aren't you," Olivia said while opening a big hatch on the lander.
"Of course. You know how special effects in movies are so realistic nowadays that it's hard to tell if it's real or not? Any argument they could come up with to believe it was faked back then are even more valid nowadays. We could, I don't know, take a selfie video of ourselves while they cause a huge explosion or other kind of light show back on earth, one visible from here, and it would convince nobody who's already convinced it's all fake. We can't win."
Jeremy is a pretty regular, boring guy. Nothing of importance happens in his life, and I'm pretty sure he's fine with that. Look, he's sitting on the couch right now, just watching episode after episode of some stupid show on Netflix. I'd love to tell you some great story about how he's somehow found a way to live his life differently, maybe through a life lesson or by really digging deep or something. But he's not doing much of anything, really. Oh, wait.
No, he was just going to the fridge to grab another beer.
Will got home from work late and it was obvious something was bothering him. He slammed his front door shut and threw his coat at the coat rack. It wasn't a good throw and it slid to the floor. Will did not care. He walked into the living room and threw his laptop bag at the couch with a grunt. Only after letting go he remembered his laptop was in there. He shut his eyes and waited for a bang. It was more of a flopping sound, as the bag landed on the couch rather smoothly.
"Whew," he exhaled. He went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. He grabbed a beer, opened it and in seconds drank half of it.
The atmosphere in the apartment wasn't in any way different than other days, but Will still felt constricted. Like he was caught in something. He walked to the window and got onto the fire escape through it. He climbed up to the roof.
They say the world was destroyed when starships descended from the sky and landed on earth. Not like our starships used to land -- horizontally -- but vertically, standing up like thick, mile-high trees. And at first, nothing had happened. They simply stood there, being enormous. Some countries had patience and tried to contact the aliens, or they tried to analyze the starship materials and figure out how to open them. Other countries had little patience and tried shooting their tanks at them. One crazy country in Asia tried to nuke one.
None of it had any effect. There was no contact, no usable information about what the ships were made of and how to either get into them or break them. In the most modern age humanity will ever have known, they couldn't stop what was about to happen.
Mr. Harcourt was having a regular day. He was an English teacher and looked the part. A brown jacket with patches on the elbows, glasses that nobody would consider trendy, ruffled gray hair and a scratchy-looking gray beard. He had finished his classes for the day and was in the teacher's lounge, grading his students' homework assignments.
The last class he had to grade had been given the assignment to write creative fiction. Not every English teacher considered this important, but he did. To analyze literature, knowing how to build a narrative was very important. He had found, in many parts of life, that it's easy to criticize something you've never done yourself. Once you actually get down and do it, you find that certain shortcuts actually make sense, that certain clichés are simply too useful not to use, and more insights similar to these. He had a simple rule for himself - don't pretend to know better until you've tried it.
"I'm telling you, he's forgotten about us," Berk said to Bob.
"Nah man, he'll be back. He always comes back. You'll see," Bob responded between sips of the water bottle. "Have a bite to eat or something. Relax."
"I'm worried. That's all I'm saying."
Berk went over to the food bowl and saw that it was nearly empty. This didn't give him much hope either, but he grabbed a piece of food anyway. He munched on it a little but he wasn't hungry. He dropped it on the floor and looked out over the room around them. There'd been more stuff before. It was empty now. He'd seen him, the guy who gives them food and water and scratches them behind the ears, but he'd been moving stuff out of the room, and they'd never seen that stuff again. It had been ages since he'd been here. There had been other humans too, people they either hardly or didn't know, and some of them had picked them up and scratched them behind the ears too.
There's always one of those kids in high school class. The one nobody really notices. On one side you've got the 'cool kids' and the bullies, on the other side the 'losers' and the bullied. And there's always one who isn't cool enough or weird enough to really get any attention from anyone.
It's weird, but I never thought I'd be that kid. But in this class, it's the role I've been given and so far, I haven't found a way to break through that. I don't like the same things either side likes, haven't found a single thing to connect through.
With everything packed away, we set off. We are what you would probably call nomadic. We travel around with our tents and herds, and we settle for short amounts of time in a location that fulfills our need at that time. It's an interesting way of living. Your roots aren't in a specific location but with the people you live with.
Now, we might be a little different than other nomads. We have a village elder, and he goes into a trance once every few days. He says it's to detect evil spirits, to ward off bad luck, and more like that. But to be honest, we've got television and satellite internet, so I don't put much faith in that sort of mumbo-jumbo.