Each breath caused the light to change. Paces above the men, a cut-glass chandelier trembled with their speaking. A team of artisans had crafted the light piece by cleaving glass with diamond chisels. Photons flickered like electrons through a circuit board. Standing on the silk carpet, Braeden reached for salvation.
“It doesn’t seem fragile,” he said to Chisolm while accepting the box.
To Braeden, they seemed exactly opposite. Chisolm was pale and soft with an active voice and expression. The box was dense, black, and inert.
Created by James Rubino in 1986, Followers of the All was conceived as a seven-issue mini-series that was first published as an “underground” comic in 1988. In the early 1990s, Rubino suspended publication and decided to rewrite and redraw the entire series. The first of these stories was published last year in a new series titled Archives of the Alien.
“I intended Followers of the All to portray my perception of the direction our world and our society was heading in,” says Rubino. “At the time it was originally released it seemed fantastic to some. Not anymore.”
I’ve seen a lot of horrible things. Since I was a child, I witnessed things as well as experienced them. I like to forget, but I can’t. Those memories will always be there, waiting for me to find them again, and these days, I just don’t want to be bothered. But I seem to be fighting now every single day. Take yesterday for example. I left work a bit early, and maybe I stopped too soon at that STOP sign. I nearly collided with the other car that also stopped briefly at their STOP sign, but then she backed off. I got onto the Palisades Parkway only to race against a light green car that seemed eager in merging in the spot that I was in. Finally, they moved up ahead and then got into the right lane, and I thought that was that until I reached the infamous traffic circle between the Palisades and Route 6. Then, I went toe to toe with a black SUV, who nearly went into the opposite traffic lane, just to cut me off. READ MORE.
I see no popcorn in the audience, but they’re eating something. They’re always eating this and drinking that. They always bring their crying babies, even though things can turn dangerous. Secure in their manhood, the thespian-loving daddies are confident they can protect their brood from turns in the plot.
Instead of chatting among themselves, the audience members applaud a bit and actually look to the stage as I pull a .45 auto from my tunic and shoot B (Boy) in the chest seven times.
Even to me, the sound is incredible, and I was prepared for it. The audience goes numb, and now everyone looks at the stage, except the babies, who are looking into the deep blue sky, little arms twitching.
It took Rome, the mightiest of empires, 525 years to decline: from Julius Caesar’s coup d’etat in 49 B.C. until the deposition, in the year 476, by Odoacer, a German chieftain, of Romulus Augustulus, the last Roman emperor. Rome’s history spans some 1230 years if 753 B.C. is taken to be the date of Rome’s founding. Rome’s rise accounted for 58% of its existence. Rome’s fall accounted for 42% of its existence, a length of rise before the fall that may be unparalled by any subsequent Western empire. If 1896 is the current mid-point of America’s post-colonial existence and if the final five years of the nineteenth century will have turned out, in history’s reckoning, to have been the transition from American rise to American fall, we’ll have reached the apex precisely at the halfway mark.
A long, long time ago
I can still remember how television shows used to make me smile
And, I knew I would have my chance to make my own characters live and dance, and…
Maybe, they’d be heroes for awhile
But, series come and series go that truly did deliver
“Hi, Uncle Will.”
“Hi, birthday boy,” I responded teasingly. “Are you having a good day?”
“Yeah, I really am. Thanks.”
Jake is not actually my nephew. He’s the son of my cousin, Tom. Since Tom and I were close as kids and remained so into adulthood, Jake always thought of me as an uncle and he addressed me accordingly. That was fine with me. He seemed to be more of a nephew to me than a second cousin. We had seen a lot of each other through the years.
The desert sands burned with the sun. Footprints melted into gold. Day spun and then died. Night came, but the ghost refused to fade. Instead, he turned and looked at a forgotten world, a world that he once reigned.
The moonlight kissed his bald skin. His eyes held to the darkness, knowing the shadows were his. Every movement was a faint whisper. He should’ve died. Instead, he was here, and he wanted to go home, a stone against his heart.
“Did you ever see the end of The NeverEnding Story, where Atreyu awakes on Falkor and finds themselves lost, drifting around debris with no sight of home or the Ivory Tower?”
“A long time ago.” He barely looked up from his book. “Why do you ask?”
“That’s what it looks like out there. Nothing but debris.”
“Maybe, the nothing really won.” He went back to his reading.
Rebecca Beauchamp is a fan of Rilke, cats in cowboy outfits, and top-40 radio hits. Influences include Dickinson, Baudelaire, and Bidart, but mostly her Australian shepherd, Hurley. She’s an undergraduate studying Creative Writing at the University of Virginia but neophyte, she is not: she won a statewide poetry contest in the second grade for (what she believes to be) her magnum opus, ‘The Cat’ (a memorable line being ‘The cat, the cat, quiet as can go/ I know he knows something that you don’t know.’) and ever since then she’s been writing nonstop.