This is not a review of DC: The New Frontier, not really; it’s a Thank You letter to Darwyn Cooke. Since I want to expand on this and say just how much Cooke’s New Frontier has meant to me, itself a perfect love letter to the medium of comics, I need to go back to the beginning.
When I was growing up my mother kept an evolving journal about my school days, updating it every year with highlights or accomplishments from each new grade. Stuff like “Started Playing Hockey” in Kindergarten, or “Went on First Skiing Trip” in Grade 6 would pop up alongside more menial notes like my new height or weight.
Spoiler alert! Batman needs a chiropractor.
When I was in Grade 1, aged six, one of the new entries read: “Started Collecting Marvel Comics”. My heroes were Peter Parker, the Amazing Spider-Man and Charles Xavier’s Uncanny X-Men. Continue reading
I’m always reluctant to say things like the following because in a matter of time it is entirely possible that my views will change as I continue to read more and more throughout my life, cherishing any number of novels I come across, but, for the time being: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay is tied with Les Misérables as the greatest novel I have ever read.
Michael Chabon’s Pulitzer Prize Winning novel is, since no other word is as wonderfully fitting, a masterpiece. When I first heard of this book a couple years ago, it was after Continue reading
This is a tale I began in 2009, writing half of it then and leaving it until February of 2013 to finish the other half. I started out wanting to write a horror story and ended up writing a ghost story.
In the dank, cobble-stoned basement of the Richmond’s summer cottage there sat many stacks of boxes filled with all sorts of old, discolored papers. Across some were printed faded headlines, being newspapers from decades ago; there were old tax forms; report cards; stories and love letters; simple letters, birthday letters, letters of greeting or Christmas letters. Avery wondered why his parents kept all that junk down there.
“Well,” his Father sighed, “You never know when it might come in good use.”
“Dirty old newspapers?”
“Some of those are historic,” his father retorted. “Like the day you were born!”
Avery looked uninterested.
“Besides, there’s much more than that down there.”
Mrs. Harriet Turtlebridge did not particularly enjoy killing. In fact, she would avoid it altogether if at all possible. Even still, her dislike of the act didn’t prevent her from doing it once a week, usually on a Tuesday morning, just after finishing her daily biscuit. The roses felt no pain when she killed them, she liked to think as much, as she snipped two from the vine in her glasshouse. Always two, one for her and the other for her husband. She tucked the first into a fold at the front of her tea-gown and the other she held in her hand as she exited to the yard.
Her floral haven was immense. The glasshouse was twice, perhaps thrice the size of her tiny cottage, standing in the very back of the yard just on Continue reading
It looks like sand has filled that balloon;
tried to preserve the ancient castle
but moats laid siege so it was lifted away.
Rouge, rounded it flew distant, a once and future joy.
The court jester has little to laugh at
in presence of such a sight.
Bells once sounding bright are broken; Continue reading
Spring does not wish to come.
The snow won’t melt into puddled
islands of joy
and raincoats may not be needed.
The children act as warm as flame, but
cry as hard as diamond.
On the borders of the snow mounds
lie the auburn blight of old gardens;
it is a dry moat to the Continue reading