J.J. Ace Web Space

Clementure's Strange Encounter

2006-02-02T17:01:00.000-08:00

Clementure
Level 46 Gnome Warlock
Terenas Server
World of Warcraft

What an absurd figure I must have cast as I waited. Me, Clementure, a student of dark and forbidden arts, standing in the dark outside a peasant's hovel. What I'd spend for a day's folly could buy and sell this place three times over. Yet there I stood, a grim if not foolish sentinel.

"Sleep tight," the old man said to his granddaughter, from inside the hut.

I summoned a spell stone to hold in my hand, the shining crystal the only light as the peasant put out his lamp. Dark clouds overhead blotted out the stars. A warm breeze stirred through my bristly brown hair.

It was a night perfect for evildoing.

"The Reaper is waiting in the wind," the old man said, joining me to stand at my side and stare into the darkness.

Humans can be such a hysterical race, more slaves to their emotions than any other thinking people. Like this foolish old man, offering his soul to me for one night's guard duty. At my side, my summoned demon, Jahzam the Felhunter, stalked restlessly about. Perhaps he desired to be elsewhere, engaged in more rewarding pursuits.

"This Reaper," I said, patting my backpack to reassure myself that I was indeed armed with a healthstone and a soulstone, "why would he come here? Surely you have little of interest to any such mystical creature."

"You would find it hard to understand, gnome," he said, running his fingers through his iron-gray hair. "Your people think in terms of objects. What does this do, where does that go; you see the world as an engineering puzzle."

"Now hold on," I started to say.

"Even such as you, a master of foul energies, even you fail to perceive the larger picture. You think that x combined with y will always equal z. This logic is flawed. We are subject to greater laws than we know. Forces that we have yet to perceive control the very universe."

Even though the human towered three feet higher than me, I managed to look down my nose at him. "What religious humbuggery you spout, human. There is no limit to what gnomish ingenuity, and I will confess it; human resources, can accomplish. Besides, what does your twaddle have to do with the creature you so fear?"

"It is hard to explain. I will put it in deceptively simple terms: on this night every 100 years, the creature attempts to absorb the essence of an innocent. It must always be from my bloodline, and it must always be a female of purity. In this ritual, the Reaper gains eternal life."

"Even in Azeroth such nonsense is hard to believe. You are a fool to give me your soul for a myth."

The human smiled. "Think not that I give away my soul lightly. I am near to certain that neither you nor I will survive this night. For not once in five centuries has my family been able to repulse the Reaper. And now, my granddaughter is the last of my line."

The hairs along my extremely handsome ears twitched. This was a familiar sensation, it usually presaged a powerful use of arcane magics. "You had best get back to your hovel. Something is coming, what I cannot say."

Something was looming out of the dark night, something darker than dark. The old man put his hand on the rusty sword he wore on his waist. "Nay, Warlock, for I'll not live to watch what this creature intends to do to my granddaughter. I will die, or I will defeat it."

I turned to the old human. "This violates our agreement. If you die in battle, I will not be able to claim your soul; you must die at my hand."

He pulled his sword. "Tch! Surely we can wait to debate such technicalities. The Reaper is upon us!"

I cast my Soulstone. The old man looked at me in surprise.

"Go!" I shouted to Jahzam, and the doglike demon surged to the attack.

The old human, brandishing his blade, rushed in Jahzam's wake. The shape of the Reaper became more solid, forming from the very darkness. I had never seen such a thing; a demon, but a demon without the taint of the Burning Legion to it.

A hideous monstrosity stomped a misshapen, twisted leg onto the ground, sending tremors beneath my feet. My Curse of Corruption had no effect on it as the thing smashed Jahzam with a blow from a massive arm, sending my pet flying.

The barely discernable head of the Reaper turned eagerly towards the old human. The Reaper could smell the blood in the human, the bloodline that had feed it for five centuries.

With my Corruption having no effect, I cast a Curse of Agony.

"Ahhhhhhh!" the old man screamed, coming in sword first.

I looked on in surprise as the old human ducked under a swing of the Reaper's arm, and landed a square blow, driving the sword into the Reaper's leg.

Not that it did the human any good. The old man desperately dove and rolled to avoid the next powerful attack from the Reaper. In the meantime, Jahzam had returned to the battle, coming up and chomping on the Reaper's leg.

As the Reaper turned on Jahzam, I began the three-second process of casting a Shadow Bolt. This powerful attack never fails.

So, of course, it failed. The Reaper was noticeably untouched by the black and purple ball of arcane magic. Jahzam was again knocked away. The old human was coming up at the Reaper with a kitchen knife for his next attack.

It was only a matter of time before the Reaper finished off Jahzam and the old human. I was next. It was time to pull out my hold card. As Jahzam went flying one way, and the old human another, I started the process of casting my Fear spell.

The monstrosity was nearly on me when I got the spell off. Finally, something worked on the creature. The Reaper was sent crashing into night, fleeing blindly from terrors only he could see. I went rushing after him, and Jahzam joined me.

I got in range and cast a quick Curse of Shadows. As soon as I could, I cast Corruption, and this time the spell took. The Reaper, still flailing about helplessly in the grip of terror, managed to come back towards me.

"Go!" I sent Jahzam to the attack.

Something gray flashed by me. The old man wasn't dead yet. The Reaper shook off the fear spell as Jahzam took a chomp out of his calf. The old man screamed then leaped for the Reaper's back. I concentrated briefly and got off a fiery Immolate spell.

It hit, rocking the Reaper. He turned angrily to me, but the old human was on his back, slashing the Reaper again and again with the kitchen knife. The Reaper slammed his back against a tree. The old man, in between the tree and the Reaper, was squished flatter than a Stormwind Gambler's last gold coin. The human slid limply to the ground.

The Reaper charged me, enraged by all the pain I had caused him. I hit him with a Conflag, and that spell hurt him, hurt him bad. But he wasn't dead yet. One blow from his twisted, powerful arm sent this Gnome rolling over the forest floor.

I was all but dead. The Reaper had nearly finished me with one blow. I pulled out my last and greatest hold card; Death Coil. This evil spell would give me a portion of the Reaper's health, and again terrify him for a few seconds. The Death Coil took; the Reaper ran off, again terrified.

I cast a Shadow Burn. The powerful spell hit the monster, and he fell. Jahzam limped over to the Reaper, sniffed him, then joined me.

I stood over the Reaper's corpse. That thing truly was ugly. I was glad it wasn't moving.

Then it laughed.

As I backed away, nearly tripping over my own robes, the Reaper seemed to melt in on itself. In the briefest of moments the ugly monstrosity of the Reaper was gone. In it's place stood a human, a strange, dark human. I'd never seen the likes of this creature in the Eastern Kingdoms, or Kalimador for that matter.

"Very good, Warlock," he said, brushing the dirt off his pants. "I haven't had such good exercise in centuries."

"What kind of demon are you?" I asked him, still backing away.

"Oh, just a pedestrian, average, uninteresting sort," he said with a grin.

"Stay back, creature. I will defeat you again."

"Now now, relax," he said assuringly. "Just let me have the girl, and this whole ugly business will be over."

"I've contracted to prevent that. So, to save both of us the inconvenience of further battle, why don't you just return to where you came from?"

"Oh, I'm afraid that isn't possible. I let you win that round, you should know. You will lose this time.'

I shrugged. "We shall see. But there's nothing you could say or do to make me violate the contract with the old man."

"What is this?" The old man asked, pushing his way to my adversary. He had invoked the Soulstone I cast on him, allowing him to return to life. It was a simple measure to protect my payment.

But those thoughts fled my mind. The old human, and the strange dark human were nearly identical in face and stature. The dark human smiled in amusement as the human and I gaped in astonishment.

"We are coming, Clementure," the dark human said. "Your Alliance and my people shall be allies."

"But, why are you the mirror image of this man?" I asked, looking back and forth between them, still dumbfounded at the remarkable similarities.

"He's one of us," the dark human said. "Hundreds of years ago we sent his forefathers here to learn of you and your ways. Once every hundred years we bring one of them back, to learn of you, and to add the new strains of blood to us. I am also of that bloodline."

"You say you are coming. What does that mean?"

He shook his head. "You'll know soon enough. That time is coming. It will be a good time, and an evil one. We will share an enemy, and even the legends of your Burning Legion cannot prepare you for what is coming."

The dark human turned to the old man. "Are you ready, brother?"

"Wait," I called out. "Why did you take that monstrous form and attack?"

He laughed. "We felt it a good idea to maintain the legend of the Reaper. We are learning of you, not the other way around. So a fantastic and unbelievable story of the Reaper is all you have ever known of us."

The old man knelt in front of me, to be eye level. I hate that, normally. "Please release me from our bargain. I had no idea of the truth. But now I have this chance to… go home. You understand?"

"Oh, go on," I said. "I had no plans to claim my price anyway." I told the little lie to make him feel better about breaking the deal. "Wait! What about your granddaughter?"

The two of them, standing together, began to fade away.

"I'm no babysitter!" I cried out.

The old man smiled, and was gone.

I stared in unbelief at the empty space where they used to be. What in the name of all the lands of Azeroth was I going to do with a human child? With heavy heart, I turned back towards the hovel.

"Well, hello," a voice said.

I stopped short as a beautiful blond human woman stepped from behind a tree.

"You, I am guessing here, would be the granddaughter."

She reached down and took my hand. "You are a brave gnome, who did his best to save my grandfather." She led me towards the hovel. "And bravery should be rewarded."

"Let me guess," I said, my steps suddenly much lighter, "you are not exactly a paragon of feminine purity."

Her light laughter was indeed pleasurable. "If you believe a monster is going to kill you because you are female and pure, what would you do?"

I grinned. The question was in the process of being answered.

"Now I have heard," she said as we crossed the doorstep, "that Gnomes have certain largish endowments to make up for their smallish stature."

"You shall see," I said, closing the door, with a big smile.

The Strange Fate of Conti the Master Swordsman

2006-02-01T13:51:00.000-08:00

The Strange Fate of Conti the Master Swordsman

Conti, dressed in the simple white cotton of those who harvested the cane in the plowed fields, stood in the doorway of the simple hut. Made of woods foreign to his far-off home, the grain and the scent of the wood only served to reinforce his feelings of loneliness.

A reptilian screech sounded from forest that lay off to his left. The beasts roaming the day, as fearsome as they were, were as nothing when compared to the creatures of the night.

Heavily treed hills formed a bench to the smoking mountain that seemed to tower over the entire island. A five mile walk through the dense and humid jungle would bring Conti to the beach. But since he did not want to be found, Conti never went where a passing ship might catch sight of him.

Dark clouds bunch together as a storm gathered. His beloved Ninevah saw many storms. Conti could not bear the memories of Ninevah the Fallen. As he turned to drop the bead curtain over the doorway, he caught movement in his peripheral vision.

A shaped moved in the rain; rain that approached like a curtain being pulled across the gently rolling land. No, the shape did not move in the rain, it lead the rain. Like a bridal train, the rain followed in its wake.

Having seen the doings of the gods, and having been a pawn in their games, Conti was aware that something not of the earth approached. The shape took form as the rain came closer.

The smell of the rain filled his nostrils. The woman filled his eyes. Brown skinned and black of hair, like the island women. Her body was full and well defined, well curved. She was nude, and Conti sensed that the nudity was her choice to demonstrate that since she was not a mortal, she had no need of mortal conventions. Her black hair flowed over her shoulders like the waterfalls under the mountain that Conti waded in when he explored the island. Her eyes caught his, and he could not look away.

She stood in front of him, as though granting him great favor with her very presence. Her hand stroked his cheek. Conti shuddered at her touch; her fingers were real, her flesh warm.

"You bear the mark of another," she spoke. Her voice was a powerful as the summer typhoons, yet as gentle as a caress from a falling leaf.

He reached for her hand. "I am nothing."

"Destiny weights on you, Conti Ovamber," she allowed him to pull her hand away. "This is no cause for sorrow."

"You must know my destiny, for it was my god that first revealed it to me. I'll not raise to it or accept it, not the merest step will I take."

The goddess laughed, a sweet sound that rippled like honey flowing. "You think you can hide here? There is no hiding, sweet Conti. You of all people know this."

Conti released her hand, instantly aware of the loss of contact with her. "Why have you come?"

She took his hand and led him into the simple hut. She pulled him down onto the straw mat that lay on the floor. "Life, Conti, I bring you the gift of life."

Conti closed his mouth as the goddess laid back. As his suddenly nude form lay along hers, the warmth of her skin shot fire through his body.

As her lips pressed against his, Conti possessed the goddess. As she rose to meet his thrusts, he smelled the rain. He could hear it spattering on the wooden floor near the doorway. Then her brown eyes became the world.

# # #

Conti opened his eyes, and sat up. He felt that familiar weight, indeed, the very presence of his sword at his waist. The sword he had flung into the sea years ago.

His heart fell. Gone was the hut. There was no sign of the goddess. The tumbled walls of Ninevah lay all around him. Great granite buildings lay in ruins, faint shadows of scorch marks marring them yet. Weeds grew through cracks in the paved road. Ivy covered what walls still stood. Conti hear a bird call out, and felt the weight of a crow as it landed on his shoulder.

"Come," he heard the goddess say from behind him.

He turned to face her, the crow squawking but staying put.

"Why!" Anger near to rage spilled out through his voice. "Why bring me here, to see my greatest atrocity yet again?"

The goddess was white and fair, dressed as a high lady of Ninevah. The ladies that his army had raped and slaughtered when Ninevah fell.

She held out her hand. "Come."

He finally took the offered hand, and her touch again thrilled him. He allowed himself to be led to the fallen gate, and out to what remained of the great western dock.

"Look," she said.

A ship was in the bay, a ship with three masts, a ship that danced on the shining waters.

"Your heirs come. It is only fitting that you go out and welcome them to their new home."

Conti fell to his knees. The crow complained, then launched itself into the air and was gone.

"Choose life," the goddess said.

Before Conti's eyes, she disappeared. Conti smelled rain for a moment, and then that too faded.

# # #

A group of uniformed men climbed out of the longboat they tied to a crumbling piling. A woman, bearing stripes of ranks on her shoulder, led them along the shore to where Conti awaited. Her eyes flicked up and down Conti's tall, strongly built form.

"Welcome to your new home," Conti said, a tear leaking from his right eye. "May you be wiser than we were in this inheritance."

A Graphic Novel Find: Bone by Jeff Smith

2005-11-10T08:58:00.000-08:00

A Graphic Novel Find: Bone by Jeff Smith

We've come across a real Graphic Novel find. Many of you have probably already read the Bone series by Jeff Smith. When we picked up the first issue, "Out of Boneville" at Walmart, we nearly put it back down. A story about three little "Casper the Friendly Ghost" looking characters does not have immediate appeal. However, we were in the unfortunate position of trailing around after the wife and daughter as they were shopping, and anything was appealing to break that monotony. So we read Out of Boneville as a remedy to the hard floors and mindless overabundance of cheap consumer goods that is Walmart.

We're glad we stuck with it!

Bone is hard to describe in a pithy manner, but we'll try. Fone Bone, Phony Bone, and Smiley Bone, a trio of cousins, are these curious creatures known as Bones. Stark white, rounded, and nearly featureless, the story opens with them in the desert outside of Boneville. Phony Bone's latest get rich quick scheme had predictably backfired, and the three cousins had been forced to leave their hometown in a hurry.

Now, don't let Phony's larcenous nature taint the other cousins. Smiley Bone is part moron, part wise man, and all entertaining. Fone Bone, the hero of the piece is a decent, courageous and sympathetic little guy. As you read through the graphic novels, you come to love every one of these characters.

The trio becomes separated, and Fone finds himself at Thorn and Grandma's house in a valley he finds after crossing the desert. Ah, Thorn; she's drawn to make any male wish he was Fone Bone. She's young, engaging, and very fetching. She's also the sleeper heroine of the piece. The simple farm girl is soon thrust into her destiny, and as the reader tagging along on her journey, you'll hang on every panel in the graphic novel. Fone falls deeply in love with her, and so did this reviewer.

Jeff Smith feeds out the story at just the right pace. As the Bone cousins are embroiled in the lives and destinies of the valley residents, secret after secret is revealed; each secret only opening another mystery. The story is funny, its engaging, its breathtaking, its dramatic, and you'll be picking up the next novel as you finish the previous. It is that good. Do yourself a favor, get all the Bone novels at once, you'll be sorry if you have to wait to see what happens.

The characters are engaging, you discover that even the larcenous Phony Bone has his noble qualities. (Once you get to know Phony you pity the people he's among and wish you could warn them that he's there!) The villains are numerous and well done. You'll love and hate the rat creatures. You'll discover that much of the trouble brought on the valley is self-inflicted. Most of all, you'll get to experience a great story.

The Bone saga is family friendly, and it's well done. Indeed, we consider it to be in the very royalty of graphic novels, it's among the best. Bone demonstrates a mastery of the storytelling art. Finally, Bone alone is enough to justify the existence of the 'oversized comic book' format that is the graphic novel!

Fun Stuff

2005-11-08T13:30:00.000-08:00

Fun Stuff

Here's some fun stuff to pass along. Anyone remember Lowell, the goofy maintenance guy on the old TV series "Wings"? Lowell, Thomas Haden Church, was the goofy, skinny, maintenance engineer and janitor of the tiny commuter airport.

My favorite scene of his was when he was searching for a cool nickname. His likewise goofy friends all had cool nicknames; he wanted one as well. While he was pondering his nickname options, the owner of one of the airlines came along and said "get to work, slackass".

This hit Lowell like a ton of bricks. Poising his hands just above his waist, he tried out his new nickname; "Slackass!".

Well, Slackass, er, Thomas Haden Church, has apparently snagged the role of the Sandman in the upcoming Spiderman movie.

http://spiderman.sonypictures.com/

He's bulked up quite a bit, as you can see if you ever watched Wings. Way to go, Slackass!

Something else fun, the trailer for the next Underworld movie:

http://www.countingdown.com/movies/3214197/news?item_id=3794531

This is fun and exciting popcorn movie-making at its best. If we ever get Judgment Day made into a movie, we want it to be right in this vein.

Ok, that's the fun stuff for today. Soon we'll have more to pass along on the Queen of Thieves and IF graphic novels.

Clementure Level 34 Gnome Warlock

2005-11-04T10:15:00.000-08:00

Clementure
Level 34 Gnome Warlock
World of Warcraft
Terenas Server

Today I, Clementure, Gnome Warlock Novelist, was babysat. Ah, beloved and fallen Gnomeregan, what pain I have to see you in such straits. For as I contemplated the entrance to my racial home, the addled and poisoned leper gnomes attacked me upon sight.

The fallen creatures are no match for one as I, who has studied and mastered much of the dark arts of the Warlock. But it gave me great pain to end the days of my fellow gnomes. I can only take solace in the fact that the poor creatures were suffering, and I eased their passage.

My entrance to Gnomeregan thus accomplished, I slid down the two levels of steel aisle ways that are a testament to the skill and art of my people, and to the great elevator that allows entrance to Gnomeregan proper.

As the elevator began its descent, a human hunter and a gnome mage joined me. With a quick conversation, we agreed to tackle the dangers of overthrown Gnomeregan together.

Upon study, I discovered that the human hunter was of the highest order of accomplishment for his kind, indeed, he was an elite. As great as the dangers of Gnomeregan are, they would be nothing to him.

I took some comfort in this, yet a note of discord sounded itself. Fallen and overrun by our enemies it may be, Gnomeregan was still a place of the gnomes. It seemed somewhat wrong to have this near demi-god put his will over this place. But I quickly banished such feelings, there was a job to do and absurd sentimentality would surely lead to my death.

There was a traitor in this city, the most hated enemy of gnomekind, and I meant to bring the traitor to account. Yes, this is a lot for a journeyman Warlock to take upon himself. And yes, fate sent that hunter and his mage companion to me. I wasn't going to waste this opportunity. Even if it was better left to those with more power than myself.

"Venture to Gnomeregan and kill Mekgineer Thermaplugg. Return to me, High Tinker Mekkatorque, when the task is complete." A simple and straightforward statement from the High Tinker. But who am I to refuse the call of our most exalted gnomish leader? So thus I set out to assassinate the traitor, the enemy of all gnomes, the gnome who opened the shieldgates and allowed the troggs, and dark iron dwarves, and other enemies into the very heart of my city.

As the elevator finally came to a stop, I summoned my succubus, Agethea, to my side. Her beauty and overly charged sex appeal hide the deadly and gleeful killer that she is. Sometimes she even frightens me. But with a powerful hunter already in our party, the lumbering but underpowered presence of the voidwalker is made superfluous.

We had to cut our way through the first wave of leper gnomes just to make out way up the ramp into the tram station. I hardened my heart to the slaughter. These fallen ones would be avenged.

My fellow gnome in the party was mostly silent. Perhaps her thoughts were as profound as mine. Or perhaps she admired my many fine gnomish qualities, and was considering approaching me for mating. Still, my mind was focused on the mission at hand, and I believe hers was as well.

Many terrified gnomes ran past us as we made our way up the ramp. Long abandoned, there are still pockets of sane gnomery to be found in the great city. I felt honored to assist in their escape. Most such made their way to the great dwarven city of Ironforge, where the Gnomeregan Exile League would make arrangements for them.

I felt nearly useless as we cut down several troggs in the tram depot. The great technological wonders of my city always take my breath away. The hunter was so good at what he did, that I was of little help to him. So I had time to enjoy the scenery.

As the trogs fell, my fellow gnome and I looted them of the loot they had taken from my city. The hunter spurned all loot, possessing such great gear as to only find inferior offerings in the loot. Perhaps it was just me, but I also took it as a token of respect on his part. He would help slay our enemies, but the great treasures of Gnomeregan he would not claim.

We cut down the glass-lined hallway where once happy gnome families watched the trams rush by. Now evil, foul trogs danced on the remains of a ruined rail system. We put many such out of their misery.

The hunter would throw out his traps, then use his multishot to summon several enemies. This gave me the chance to use Rain of Fire; and as the hunter sliced and diced the trogs, I rained fiery destruction down on them from above. It gladdened my heart to see trog after trog fall. Had it been up to me, every trog on the planet would die a swift, unseen death.

We finally came to a small respite. A tribe of gnomes holds a level of the city, and they welcomed us as we arrived through their doors. They even allowed us to use their machines to decrust and clean up the odd geegaws we had looted on the way. A short rest was freely accepted here.

We said farewell and good luck to the gnome holdouts. Someday, when the city was cleansed of the presence of the befoulers, these gnomes would be the genesis of a new gnomish race in this place.

Down hallways we went, past the remains of our awesome mechanical creations. In many places the radiation unleashed by Thermaplugg had perverted the mechnostrider-riding guards, and we were attacked on sight. We cut them down as mercilessly as if they had been trogs.

The dark irons dwarves were the next foe we faced. Allies with the trogs, these evil cousins of the Ironforge dwarves had conspired with the trogs in the overthrow of Gnomeregan, and received no mercy from us.

If you are thinking, perhaps, that all this is too easy, then you are correct. Many before us had attempted to assassinate Thermaplugg and had failed. I can only account our swift success to the efforts of the hunter, whose prowess was irresistible.

At last, the confrontation that I long for: Thermaplugg himself. The traitor had not wasted his time since making himself ruler of fallen Gnomeregan. His evil devices were numerous, and he had other defenses as well. He had taken every measure to ensure his safety. Even with our stalwart hunter, the chances were slim that we'd survive this encounter.

The battle was joined. The hunter rushed to confront Thermaplugg. I and my fellow Gnome confronted and defeated the defenses and the smaller minions of Thermaplugg. All too soon, it was over.

Thermaplugg lay dead at my feet, slain by the hunter. The gnome so responsible for the death and misery of an entire race was dead himself. This vengeance left me curiously empty. I knew the High Tinker would greet news of my success with great rejoicing. But I was less than joyful at my victory.

As I stared at the dead villain, I wished I was a necromancer, so I could raise him, and they slay him again. And again.

The hunter left quickly after that, no doubt other matters had to be attended by him. My fellow gnome and I held hands, and said a prayer for the fallen in this place. Then I touched my hearthstone and was away. I had to report to the High Tinker.

It was with a full but heavy heart that I made my way through Ironforge to the High Tinker's throne-in-exile.

After you achieve your heart's greatest desire, what is left?

Another Judgment Day Review

2005-10-31T07:37:00.000-08:00

Speaking of reviews, Michael Parker has reviewed Judgment Day on his blog: http://blogs.salon.com/0002090/. Mike is very kind to the book, and we think he's brilliant!

Graphic Novel Round Up

2005-10-28T14:34:00.000-07:00

Graphic Novel Round Up

A couple of the graphic novels reviewed today take a rigid and settled mythology, and allows us a peek at possible alternatives that could exist. What's more rigid than the Marvel or the DC Universes? They typically have twenty years of publications that are supposed to fit into five year or less of real time.

And if the writers dare forget that Doc Ock once sneezed onto Aunt May's dining room tablecloth in Amazing Spiderman #236, legions of fans will write furious letters of correction.

That's just one of the reasons we enjoy these alternate history sorts of things. They can break out of continuity. Another reason we like them is that the writers can cut loose; they can do what the want with the characters. Imagine, you could turn Spiderman into a tights-wearing ballet dancer who is always in the chorus, never a headliner. Oh, wait, he's that already. Oh well, we hope you get the idea.

1602

What if the Marvel Universe existed in the year 1602? That's the intriguing premise of this lavish, if slow, graphic novel.

The novel is somewhat epic in scope, it rambles all over Europe and North America. And it is intriguing to see such well-known characters and Nick Fury, DareDevil, Peter Parker, the Fantastic Four, and a dozen others wearing lacy ruffles and complaining about the tea service.

Ok, they don't do that, and this graphic novel is a bit slow, it lacks the usual percentage of superhero slugfests, preferring to focus on character and the intrigues of plotting.

We recommend it. It's fun to read, and we liked the familiar characters in their unusual circumstances.

Kingdom Come

Instead of the past, this DC graphic novel takes Superman and what is more or less the JLA into the future, when they've pretty much retired. (Hey, who said that Kal- El was going to get old and gray?)

A nasty incident years before left the whole gang with no taste for doing their thing anymore, and a new breed of superheroes took over. The problem is, these new heroes are more into battling each other and establishing a pecking order than they are actually helping people.

The old guard has to come out of retirement and take a hand at setting things right. Opposed to this are the usual nefarious corporate and government interests, and, nice twist here, Bruce Wayne and Lex Luthor.

This one is also fun. Its worth the time and $$ to read.

Hardy Boys

We found a Hardy Boys graphic novel. This, we were thiking, is going to be good. Then, alas, we opened it. (Yes, we made THAT proverbial mistake!) The story was full of fun derring-do, esprit de corps, and a fun mystery to track down and solve.

But the art was anime style! Yuck! This most quintessential of American legends just didn't work looking like Pokemon. Pass on it.

QOT Note

Yes, Queen of Thieves is still progressing. We've just submitted a killer outline to the studio. We'll see what changes they want, and if they will finally greenlight writing the script. Stay tuned.

Hellevator

2005-10-26T11:51:00.000-07:00

Hellevator

The Lift to Hell!

The Sweet Candy Company building has a dark history. Exactly what that history is, I shall not say. But in a haunted building such as this one, the sort of horrendous evil that occurred on the premises is more than enough to shock and dismay the imagination. For an event to be so traumatic as to linger on at the location of its occurrence for over a century, it must have involved cruelty and bloodshed of the foulest sort.

Do not scoff, dear reader. For the tale I have to tell is more true than not. Those of a sensitive nature or vibrant imagination are urged to place this story aside. It is not this author's intention to provoke the sleepless nights or frightening nightmares that may arise from reading this piece.

Can you imagine yourself, late at night, working alone in your prairie dog den of a cube, when the lights go out? Yes, that may not be so bad. The Sweet Candy Company building is nearly a century old. Some structural failures are to be anticipated.

Picture yourself, dear reader, working at your computer device late when all your fellow employees have left for the day. Suddenly, you are plunged into darkness as the overhead lights go out, leaving only the glow of the computer screen to see by.

Your pulse increases ever so slightly, but the rational part of your mind supplies many a reason for the lights going out. Calmly, you collect your things and head for the door. Here is where rationality fails; as you approach the magnetically sealed glass double doors, they fly wide open. You were approaching; watching. No visible personage opened those doors. Yet they gape widely before you now, disturbingly inviting you through.

You can't stay here all night, in this dark place of strange hums and eerie creaking noises, you must go through those doors to get home. With no one about to see your childlike panic, you bolt through the doors. As you scamper for the stairs, spurning the elevator for all the adrenaline rushing through you, you hear the doors behind you slam shut.

You feel yourself to be an unwanted and expelled presence. The stairs offer no comfort to your troubled spirit, for they too are darkened and foreboding. With the echo of the slammed door ringing in your ears you dash down the stairs, caution thrown to the wind. A broken leg or a tumble down a flight of stairs is nothing compared to the fear that drives you on.

The electric night that greats you as you pass through the final exit is a welcome and blessed relief. The horseless carriages that drive by on the city street are as welcome a sight as a dear old friend. The white pavement of the sidewalk beneath your feet could be no more inviting if it were a field of wildflowers on a warm sunny day. All is normal, all is well.

The next day brings a fresh perspective and new energy. The events of the night before are dismissed as temporary hysteria. In the lighted halls and with coworkers all about on their various errands, you wonder how you could ever have given in to such fantastical notions, to have surrendered to such childlike panic.

Indeed, although it is All Hallows Eve, you have already decided that this evening would be an excellent time to stay late and finish that project. At lunch you purchase an extra sandwich, which will serve as your dinner later that evening.

You press the elevator button to take you to the Home Level, where the break room and the ice boxes are located, and where you will store your dinner. A curious thought crosses your mind; for the first time ever it seems odd to you that the Home Level button is labeled "HL". All this time working in this building, and you have never paid attention to that label, even though you have traveled many a time to the Home Level.

The day passes swiftly; hard work makes time fly. Coworkers depart, some urge you to go home for the day and partake in the rituals celebrating All Hallows Eve. You shrug them off, this project has a hard deadline, and you intend to meet that deadline. Soon, as the evening before, you are the sole occupant of the building.

Yet this time, the lights stay on. You have nearly an arrogant attitude when you consider the evening before, and the extreme reaction you had to the most mundane events. You vow that you will never again surrender reason to panic. Finally, at a stopping point in the project, you decide to answer the rumble in your stomach. It is time for dinner.

Your stroll through the well-lit office, passing the familiar cubes of co-workers and austere meeting rooms where you've had many a conference.

The glass double doors docilely await as you open them and pass through. You summon the elevator, and then travel down to the Home Level. You are already planning your time; you will take your sandwich back to your cube, eat while you work, and then finish the project with the next hour.

All is well.

The elevator opens onto the Home Level. As your footfalls echo down the concrete walkway and brick walls, you have a nagging thought. Did you hear two sets of footfalls? You shake your head in disbelief. Surely not.

You pick up your pace, ever so slightly, as that echo continues. Your reason tells you it is just the sound of your own walking bouncing back from the walls. The break room is dark. You flip a switch, and the overhead lights come on.

Your pulse is quickening, your breath choppy, and yet you do not know why. In your peripheral vision you detect the slightest of movement. Nothing more than a shadow. You swing around, but see nothing.

You tell yourself you are repeating last night's events; you are allowing mundane events to frighten you. You tell yourself that all is well.

Your assurances ring hollow.

You step quickly across the break room to the trio of ice boxes. You yank open the door, and locate the white container that holds your sandwich.

Container in hand, you bolt for the elevator. The ghostly footfalls seem to pace you. In your peripheral vision is movement, movement that eludes all attempts to focus on it.

The elevator doors obligingly open as you run for them. In a state of panic, you push the button to take you to your floor.

You scream in horror—in your terrified state you pushed the HL button. Only now the HL button is glowing red, and is scalding hot to the touch.

Screams are torn from your throat, screams many would deem impossible to be made by human throat, so great is the terror that consumes you. The elevator drops down. It drops swiftly.

The lights overhead flicker and go out. The panel buttons fade, all save the red HL button. Alone, in the dark, you plunge endlessly downward.

# # #

Well, the above should do. According to the nameplate on the cube wall, one Edwin Jones used to sit here. Thanks, Edwin, thanks for pushing that button on All Hallows Eve, and thanks for plunging to hell, and thanks for taking my place in that most dismal of realms on this, the one night of the year that such a thing is possible.

This computer device is quite foreign to me, but the nature of the keyboard entry is simple enough. You who find these words I have written on Edwin's computer will know what became of a certain Edwin Jones. You may or may not choose to believe. It is all the same to me. I am free, and that is all that matters.

Oh, and thanks, Edwin, for the sandwich. It was quite delicious.

These Dreams

2005-10-19T09:33:00.000-07:00

We had a dream. A very real, potent, and strange dream. Perhaps it was caused by the allergy medication? Regardless of what caused it, here's an account of the dream.

I'm walking across the hard packed dirt of my Arizona cattle ranch. The house and my Chevy pickup are behind me. A barbed wire fence surrounding a few cattle lay off to my left. To my right more fencing, a dirt road leading to the entry arch, and a few sheds and a large hay barn.

I'm wearing a lined denim jacket, denim jeans, and trusty and dirty cowboy boots. In my youth I'd been to this place hundreds of times. It wasn't always the same ranch, but they were all like this. It's cold out today, the air bites at the tip of my nose.

And then the bird was just… there. Two of them. They were at least five feet tall. If they were the correct size, they would have been ravens. They pick at the fencing like robins pulling an earthworm from the ground. As the fencing gives way, the birds see me.

They change into Indians… Hopi from the look of the ceremonial dress they were suddenly wearing. Bouncing like superballs dropped from fifty feet high, they leap across the open fields, hurdling fencing and sheds with amazing ease. They rush away from me at a remarkable pace.

Even in this dream, I'm awash with astonishment. I'm a bit fearful to see such otherworldly beings, but I cannot just let this pass without further investigation. My cowboys boots and I give chase.

But I stop in my tracks. Another Hopi in full colorful costume appears in front of me, some twenty yards away. He, the warrior, just appeared out of thin air. He's not alone. There's one more, then two, then three. I'm now looking at about twenty Hopi warriors.

Right there we were lurched out of our sleep to the familiar sight of our slanted ceiling overhead. We flipped the pillow over and returned to sleep, hoping to continue the dream.

Alas, it was not to be. The dream would not return. Like a spectacular sunset or a particularly beautiful girl passed on a city street, we'll never experience it again.

Serenity

2005-10-09T08:53:00.000-07:00

Serenity

We'll start off with this recommendation: if you are seeking an enjoyable movie experience, then go see Serenity. This movie features everything a good popcorn movie ought to have; a variety of fun and interesting characters, hair-raising action sequences, an intriguing mystery (or two) for the characters to unravel, a challenging villain, adequate special effects, and a great story to be told.

Aboard the Serenity, a reconditioned space freighter that is the home of a crew of eclectic misfits, are a brother and sister pair sought by the ruling Alliance powers. The sister is an escapee of a genetic engineering program, who because of her physic powers has inadvertently learned the secrets of the ruling class. Her brother breaks her free of the lab where she is being held, and they are given shelter on the Serenity.

From there they'll have to deal with subhuman space pirates, the Alliance military forces, a wonderfully erudite villain, several not black and white situations, and inter-party conflict.

That's all we'll reveal about the plot. It wouldn't do to ruin anything for you. We will add this; if you suffered through Star Wars III this summer, then go wash your eyes out with Serenity, a far better science fiction movie.

We approach movies and books (for better or worse) from a writer's perspective. We find ourselves judging the story, the dialog, the choices the writer made. It takes something really good (like Batman Begins or any of the Lord of the Rings trilogy) to takes us out of the writer and into the viewer. Serenity shut the writer in us up and brought out the moviegoer.

We don't review movies like Ebert or others of his ilk. We wouldn't know a good performance by an actor from a ham sandwich. That said, every actor in Serenity did a great job. The three main roles, the ship's captain, the sister who escaped from the lab, and the villain, were superb. We hope every one of those actors finds work in other quality productions.

Graphic Novel Round Up

2005-10-05T10:03:00.000-07:00

Graphic Novel Round Up

In our local library last night we were delighted to discover a couple of shelves of graphic novels in the Sci-fi section. Many of them were titled Gundam Wing which was foreign to us. Jumping on a handy library computer, dogpile.com revealed this about Gundam Wing:

"Centuries in the future, in the year After Colony 195, Earth is surrounded by orbiting space colonies. The colonists are cruelly oppressed by the Earth Alliance, which uses huge humanoid fighting machines called "mobile suits" to control the populace. Behind this tyranny is the secret society called "Oz," which has infiltrated the Alliance military and steered it towards its repressive course.

"Now, the space colonies are ready to strike back. Five young pilots, equipped with advanced mobile suits called "Gundams," are sent to Earth to wage guerilla war against Oz and its Alliance puppets. The war to decide humanity's destiny begins..."

We found the concept to be less than riveting, so we'll read Gundam Wing some other time. Big battling robots don't do that much for us. And really, five against a whole military conspiracy seems like rather long odds.

There were many other offerings in the graphic novel section. We scanned through a couple of Sandman graphic novels (by our collaborator, Neil Gaiman. By collaborator, we mean Neil is in the Fantasy Writers Wanted—Apply Within book that we have a couple of stories in). Well, the Sandman left us somewhat puzzled. It almost looked stream-of-consciousness. Events and stories seemed to be unconnected. Maybe we're too literal. And who the heck is Sandman? We browsed away from that section, our decision to move on spurred on by the excessive violence and nudity in many of the stories.

We came to the The Watchmen, still a favorite of ours. The Watchmen really shows how good a graphic novel can be. Yes, the violence is a tad too extreme in spots. But as an adult wanting to enjoy a good story, we can easily get past that. The Watchmen features a couple of really great characters amidst its ensemble cast. These characters are, for us, impossible to forget.

Although the graphic novel's ending, "destroy New York for world peace!" was naïve, we still consider this a high point of the genre. We don't know if Queen of Thieves can be that good, but we are shooting for a Watchmen-like performance in terms of story quality. Whoops, we said Queen of Thieves! We'll tell you more on that subject in another posting. Hopefully soon.

We also went through The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen II graphic novel. It was fairly good. The art could have been so much better, but the story (Victorian era heroes banding together to fend off H.G. Wells' War of the Worlds Martians) was a great use of the characters and era.

There were a couple of really disturbing bits, featuring Mr. Hyde doing rather horrific things. This seems to be de-rigueur for graphic novels. I liked LEG II overall, but I was left with the feeling that much more could have been done with this concept. And seeing aged Allen Quartermain naked was rather disconcerting. Overall, the late and unlamented LEG movie was better than this graphic novel.

Next we read a gory Batman graphic novel. This was part II of a story, we couldn't find part I. As the story opens, Batman had been turned into a vampire, and Alfred and Commissioner Gordon have staked him through the heart. Alfred and Gordon think that bats is out of his misery, but all the stake does is render bats immobile and powerless. He's still laying there, mentally aware. An icky sort of horrific state to be in, one would think.

With Batman gone, Gotham goes straight to hell. There's no one to stop Gotham's many villains from going amuck. We suppose the Gotham ACLU has filed a lawsuit forcing the police to respect a murderous supervillian's rights. So we ask ourselves the question: where is Superman? He's just a blink of an eye away in Metropolis. You'd think supes could come down for an evening or two of crimefighting. Alas, Gotham is on its own, sinking further and further into a hell of criminal violence.

At last, Gordon and Alfred are forced to a terrible decision: you guessed it, they have to bring Batman back. And that decision is going to have serious consequences…

This graphic novel, like all the others reviewed, is heavy on the horrific violence. The vampire batman character seems to be one step or two away from being fully realized. Batman fans may not like this take on the Dark Knight.

That's the review. We anticipate going to Borders Bookstore and reading a few more Graphic Novels once we're eliminated everything in the library (except, perhaps, for Gundam Wing.) Oh, and we'll soon have more on Queen of Thieves to tell. And IF as well.

Kami's Birthday Posse

2005-10-04T13:50:00.000-07:00

Kami's Birthday Posse

It is our friend Kami's birthday today. Happy xx birthday, Kami! We know Kami from way back (how 'way' is not going to be revealed!). Kami and her family were old friends when we were all in our salad days.

From Kami babysitting younger sibs so their college student brother could get out and be about the business of his social life, to Kami actually working at the same fast food restaurant (were we confess we dropped her in the garbage can a couple of times), to dating her older sister Kari, we always got a kick out of Kami. She was sweet, good-natured, and just as cute as could be.

So imagine that, years later, as we toiled away in our day job, the surprise of seeing a vaguely familiar face appear over the cube wall, exclaiming "remember me?" It was one of those coincidences. Here we were, working at the same company as an old, forgotten friend.

The distance of time melted away. Sure, everyone had more pounds, less energy, and many battle scars. But none of that really mattered. We introduced each other to spouses, children, and pets. We caught up on each other's doings. It was energizing to renew the acquaintance, it was deeply gratifying to share the stories of the battle scars, and it was amazing to learn how much we still had in common.

So here's a bit of gratitude for Kami, and for the old times, on the event of Kami's birthday. As we sat at lunch with her cronies from work, we realized that every now and then you are reminded that life can be good.

The Adventures of Tommy Dumbass

2005-10-03T12:25:00.000-07:00

Here in writer's land we had a little fracas. On one of our Yahoo writer's groups a malcontent arose and spewed his malcontentment upon the whole group. So we wrote him a story. Unfortunately, he left the group before he achieved the pleasure of reading his story. So his loss is your gain.

And, yes, our Sunday School Teacher Chris would scold us for excessive use of the word "ass". We're sorry, Chris. Really.

The Adventures of Tommy Dumbass

Tommy Dumbass walked up to the door of the strange, yet wonderful
building. Lips moving, he read the sign:

Writer's Place. All welcome! Come in and share your writing. Valuable
feedback offered. Some of our writers actually have professional
sales to their credit!

"Sounds good," Tommy said, passing through the door. "My story about
Super-Simian will fit right in."

Inside the bright, spacious building, Tommy quickly identified the
place where stories were posted. With great pride, he added his story
to the bulletin board where the stories were kept.

"Now, I'm somebody," Tommy said, stepping back and admiring how fine
his manuscript looked on the bulletin board. The crayon illustration
of Super-Simian was particularly striking.

Another writer, busy on his own projects, came to the bulletin board.
The writer read through Tommy's story with a thoughtful look on his
face. "I am busy," the writer said, "but I think I'll take a few
minutes of my valuable time and help Tommy improve his story."

A couple of hours later, the writer posted a well-crafted and
insightful critique of Tommy's story to the bulletin board. The
writer had drawn on his knowledge and experience to identify areas of
improvement to Tommy's story.

Tommy, over in the corner reading a comic book, spotted the
notes. "Hey, what the hell are you doing?" Tommy shouted.

"I've made a few constructive comments on your story," the writer
said.

"You have your damned nerve!"

The writer looked at Tommy with a slightly confused smile. "But, this
bulletin board is for input on stories. That's why its here."

"I didn't ask you to write that stuff about my story!"

"Just by coming here, into this building, and by posting the story on
the bulletin board means you wanted input."

"I'm a bad-ass soldier!" Tommy shouted the words, his face turning
red. "And I'll kick your ass!"

A second writer noticed the fray. "You shouldn't have come into this
building, and posted your story, if you didn't want feedback."

"You shut up, I'll kick your ass too!" Tommy screamed.

"I actually did you a service," the first writer explained. "A good
critique can cost a lot of money."

"Everyone leave me alone!" Tommy screamed. "Do not speak to me, do
not look at me, and do not critique my story!"

"Then you should leave," the second writer said. "This isn't the
place for you. Go find another place, where you'll be more
comfortable."

"I said don't talk to me! No one may speak, period!"

Sighing, the two writers turned away, wiping Tommy's spittle from
their faces.

The building manager finally was forced to open the anti-dumbass
vault and get out the anti-dumbass monkey. The anti-dumbass monkey
hit Tommy over the head with an anti-dumbass monkey wrench. When
Tommy woke up, he found himself on the street.

"Let this be a lesson to you, Tommy," the anti-dumbass monkey said,
shaking a finger in Tommy's face. "You can write about a monkey, but
you can't monkey with writing."

1… 2… 3…

(All together now!)

GROAN!

The Pen and the Sword

2005-09-30T08:06:00.000-07:00

Here's a selection from the short story collection "Enchanted Realms II: The Vampires of Tinandrial".

We wrote this under the influence of "It's Just the Rain" by Steve Perry and Jonathan Cain of the legendary rock band Journey.

The lyrics to It's Just the Rain:

http://www.journey-tribute.com/journey/discography/trial_by_fire/its_just_the_rain.html

Once in your life you love
Once in your life you try
The one you're holdin'
Is the one that tears you... apart

Deep in her arms you lie
Deep in the night her eyes
Tell your secrets
To the one you try to deny

Touch me, touch me crazy
How your kiss betrays me
It's not the love, it's just the rain
Two broken hearts
But not in vain...
It's not the love, it's just the rain

Inside you keep on lyin'
Inside your soul is dyin'
You still can't hold back
Still you can't say good-bye
Touch me, touch me crazy
How your kiss betrays me
It's not the love, it's just the rain

Two broken hearts
But not in vain...
No reasons why, no one's to blame
It's not the love, it's just the rain
It's just the rain, It's just the rain,
It's just the rain, It's just the rain
Falling, falling, falling
It's just the rain

Now, the short story:

The Pen and the Sword

The rain in tropic Magadan is never harsh, but it can rain for weeks.

I have a secret place. A place I built with my own hands. It is little more than a bamboo frame with a grass roof and mud walls. But it is hidden; it is where I go when I don't want anyone to find me.

The sorrow is upon me, again. I see a legless patriot in the street, a warrior who fought against the Children now reduced to begging for coins. I pass a young girl, only 12, selling her body to brutal and heartless men. A man who was once my friend does not recognize me, a brutal man made brutal by circumstances beyond his control. A cleric, overwhelmed by the crushing misery, weeps and flees his responsibilities. A woman cries for the dead baby she cradles in her arms.

Like the cleric, I run. The hopelessness clings to me like a wet blanket. It can be ran from, but it always finds me. But running is at least doing something.

Once, we were an enlightened people. We were a city, set on a hill, for all the world to admire and marvel at. We turned our swords into plows, and our spears we made into pruning hooks. We were proud that no one of us lived in fear or want. We wrote operas, plays, symphonies, and poetry of great sophistication and beauty. We invented marvelous things, we dreamed dreams that soared to the heavens. Now, we are sheep, culled for our blood; cattle, harvested for our bodies.

I go to my secret place. Down a hill, through a holler, between the giant palm trees, then I scramble up a rocky hillside. I am on a cliff. It looks out from this accursed island. It looks over the green sea. Today, the sea is tranquil. It is almost loving in the way it gently laps against the rocky beach below. And my hut is here.

My poetry is in my secret place. Books by men long dead, books that I saved for, stole for, then bought on the black market. Once, we wrote books! Books that we printed, bound, and made available to those who wanted them. Now, our masters have forbidden the books. I hide in the poetry; I wear it like armor. But the armor always fails.

Once we lived fruitful and abundant lives. Then the Bloodslave Lords came, and they found our people easy prey. How odd it is, that we are lorded over by those who are themselves slaves. The Children of Vordith, foul and immortal creatures of the night, are the masters of all of us. And the Bloodslave Lords, as mortal as are we of Magadan, carry out the will of the Children of Vordith. They are traitors and betrayers of their own kind.

We are a raped people. We are bred like cattle, so that our blood may feed the Children, so that our bodies may swell their numbers. We live in squalor and despair, in the midst of our ancient glories.

It is whispered that the Children have cast their lusting and inhuman eyes at a fair land across the sea. They say the land is named Tinandrial, a land lush with vibrant life. In our taverns and in our streets, men whisper tales of this land where no vampires, no Children of Vordith, may be found. I pity the people over there, for they will soon share our fate. None will stand against the Children. None.

The rain comes. It always comes, it is as much a part of Magadan as is the giant rock this island is built on. I find a dry place on the dirt floor. And again I pick the book up.

The poet is telling me:

"That is not dead which can eternal lie,

"And with strange eons even death may die."

Then she, a stranger too me, was at the doorway of my hut. In my astonishment I drop the book; the poet's voice fades from my mind. Dressed in a slave's filmy robe, and with the one-piece steel collar around her neck, I know instantly she is a runner.

Her long blond hair is soaked through, and matted to her head. The sheer silk of her wet robe clings to her young, slim body like a second skin. Her body is revealed to me as though she was wearing nothing at all. Her white skin is perfect, it is without blemish. Her breasts are full and firm, as perfect as though they had been sculpted. I have never seen such big blue eyes. And then I feel her fear, a force more potent than despair, if not as durable.

She is a creature of physical perfection. The likes of her never walk amid the squalor of the slums. She is a toy, the property of a Bloodslave Lord. When she no longer amuses her lord, she will be given to the Children for her blood, or for her body.

She has chosen to flee, to escape. She must have known it was impossible to escape our masters, yet she ran anyway. She left her pampered, if degrading, existence for a brief moment of freedom. I cannot decide if she is courageous or foolish. And I know that she is both.

It is death for me to harbor her. The Bloodslave Lords will soon trace her here to my secret place. They must be nearby even now. We will both be punished. I, with death. The runner, with torture, then death or maiming.

She steps into the shelter of my hut. Her eyes are bigger than ever. I can't move. My despair and her fear fill the hut like a thing alive. I notice that the water under her eyes is not all rain.

I hear the sound of a harsh voices coming from the beach below. Orders are being shouted. The Bloodslave Lords and their hunters are near. Escaped slaves are always made an example of. And I, an orphan from the slums, I will be an example as well.

I bow my head. My despair is now complete. Unlike the slave, I have no tears. I have used them up, long ago. Then her soft hand is on my chin. She lifts my face to hers. Her blue eyes are deeper than a well.

Somehow, she is nude, her robe pushed away. She gently pulls me to the dirt floor with her. A wave of passion bursts over me, and all else is forgotten.

Is this how the Bloodslave Lords feel? Coitus with woman who are collared, and cannot say no? I curse myself for enjoying it so much. Then all thought is swept away as I possess her, and we are one.

She is passionate, uninhibited. She is making love as though she will never have the chance again. I reach new heights of ecstasy, highs that I never have reached in my fumblings with street whores.

A harsh voice is shouting. Mailed hands pull us roughly apart. Men in black uniforms with a single red flame over the breast drag us out into the rain. We are forced to kneel. Something sharp and cold is pressed to the base of my neck.

There is a terrible sound, the sound of an axe cutting through meat. I cannot help but flinch as the blow lands. Beside me, the slave is laying face down in the wet grass, her head nearly severed from her body.

I am numb. If it were possible, I would go insane, just to escape this ruthless reality. I wait for the whistle of the axe cutting through air to end my suffering. I welcome it.

A man removes his helmet. He has a captain's pin on his sleeves. He is a Bloodslave, and his eyes are arrogant. He stares at me, and I cower. He expects to see a submissive cow, and I am a submissive cow.

Then with a gesture, he and his men file away. They turn away from me without bothering to speak to me. The Bloodslave Lord wants me to live. He wants it known in the slums that the lords brook no interference of any sort. They leave the slave girl's corpse where it fell.

The men of the flame are gone. With rocks and sticks, and my bare hands, I dig a shallow grave in the soft, wet dirt of my secret place. I place the slave girl in the grave.

I realize I am sobbing as I cover her mutilated form with dirt and pile rocks over her to make a cairn. I collapse as my body is racked with convulsions of sorrow and shame.

Even at night, even when wet, Magadan is warm. I don't move from her grave for hours. It is beginning to appear as though I cannot move. There is simply no will to drive my body. I have seen one too many atrocities.

Then, from a corner of my mind, the poet speaks to me again:

"That is not dead which can eternal lie,

"And with strange eons even death may die."

I hear it again and again. The sound of it grows louder and louder.

Somewhere, a spark of hope is lit in my soul. I rise on legs that are numb. A new passion arises in my soul, and it threatens to consume me. I am bursting with hope.

And with hate.

The two are strange bedfellows, to be sure. But I am now evenly yoked to both of them. I scream my hate. I savor my hope. I swear to the heavens and to any gods there may be.

There is a certain captain of the Bloodslave Lords who is going to die. His face is in my memory like a hot burn on virgin flesh. How or when I will kill him, I cannot say. But he and his entire accursed race of oppressors, are going to fall. Someday. By my hands.

I leave my secret place. I will never go to it again.

The rain in tropic Magadan is never harsh, but it can rain for weeks.

The Game of the Week

2005-09-27T10:31:00.000-07:00

The Game of the Week

We posted this blog entry over at the Libertarian Librarian. Nick, librarian extraordinaire, is a long time pal. Then we thought, since we went to all the trouble, let's put in on the JJ Ace blog!

We never attended Texas Christian University. But we have enjoyed the success of their football team this year. So we wrote this dramatic tale of their season so far, and their most excellent game with BYU on September 24.

We promise we won't focus on sports here. But good stories are good stories, even if they play out on a football field. So, onto the story!

The Podunk team of nobodies from nowhere opens their season by shocking the number 6 ranked team in the land. Eyes around the world watch in wonder as the underdogs win a really big one.

After a cheerless defeat to another little sister team, our underdogs next challenge is the team that last year went undefeated, with last year's number one draft pick. This is another great challenge!

Charging into battle, the underdogs do it again! Another haughty foe is slain by the unheralded ones! 2-1, and looking good.

Now another challenge faces them, the archrivals of last week's foes. And this team, also hungry and eager to prove themselves, are not looking down in disdain at the underdogs. They intend to take the underdog seriously, and to win.

We have the kickoff. The battle rages. Slowly, the underdog loses ground, finally coming to a 16-point deficit in the third quarter. To the faithless and the casual fan, the game is over.

But in the underdog beats the heart of a champion. With time their enemy, they charge back, each score drawing them closer. Finally, as the clock runs out, the underdog scores to tie the game!

But another heartbreak is coming their way. On the very first possession of overtime, the foe scores on an almost arrogant long-bomb. The hometown fans rock the stadium with their glee. All appears to be lost; the underdog has one shot at it now, and that's all.

There's a glimmer of hope. The foe bumbles on the point after, giving them a 6-point lead.

It's the underdog's turn. They have one possession to score, or they go home with another L added to their record.

The underdogs prove their worth; they drive for a touchdown! The fans in the stands feel the daggers to their hearts. What is driving these underdogs? Why won't they stay down?

No one breathes as the underdogs line up for their point after try. The entire games rides on this kick. It's up…

It's good!

TCU goes to 3-1, all three of their victories over 'better' teams.

Steve Walsh (Kansas Lead Singer): Inner Thoughts

2005-09-26T09:20:00.000-07:00

We've always been big fans of Kansas, the rock group (not the state!). Their music is a powerful fantasy stimulant. What many people may not know is that even though Kansas had their apex of success in the 70's, they're still around.

So when we bumped into a web page dedicated to Steve Walsh, the lead singer of the band, we settled in for a few minutes of nostalgic enjoyment. What we actually found, though, was far more fascinating.

We've attached a few pulls from Steve's SO FAR AWAY link below. We found them captivating, the inner thoughts of this big-time rock and roll singer. Normally we're of the opinion that singers should sing, writers should write, politicians should politic, and those who try to cross the boundaries had best be good, or they'll be foolish instead. (Witness the horrifying spectacle of Donald Trump 'singing', or Jessica Simpson 'acting' as proof of our thesis.)

Steve Walsh may very well prove our "Shut up and Sing" thesis wrong. We just love the way he honestly lays his dirty linen out (take note, Kitty Kelly, that he mainly casts stones only at himself) and reveals how he thought and felt about things.

Read the quotes below, then go on and check out the website. If you have a few minutes, you'll as least come away with a unvarnished glimpse into someone else's life.

Steve Walsh Website

"…I asked Vick if he would watch my back which he said he would do, and then I stood up and blindsided this guy who hit my wife. Well, round two was definately underway."

"…We traveled all around the country in that thing. Mainly playing strip clubs up around Flint Michigan, and Grand Rapids, Muskeegon. We all had to get fake I.D.'s to play these places. Hell, we were barely 17 years old…"

"It made me start to think about the time my own father died, about 14 years ago. The way I was, and the way he was. It made me regret that even as I was there with him in the hospital, I really wasn't there at all. I was so wrapped up with myself. What scares me is that I am still. I mean really, what reason on earth is there that drives a person to write anything, or sing anything, compose, act-in front of total strangers; any of these takes a big ego. Mine I suppose is about the biggest I've ever known. And I'm getting closer to the age when he died every day. So I guess I'm wondering who's gonna be there with me. or not."

"So as I got into this limo to travel a couple of weeks ago, I felt conspicuous and out of touch. I don't know if it was just me or what, but people who were passing this thing on the highway, seemed to be peering into the brown tinted windows with a strange mix of loathing and curiosity on their faces. If they were black, they might be wondering if Snoop was inside. That would be OK with them. If they were white, they might be thinking of Brittany. That would make sense to them. They craned their necks to absorb the wealth of the individuals who they wished they were at that moment. But it was us. Just us. In this smelly dilapidated thing that seemed more like a broken down mobile home that nobody had ever taken care of. I could have sworn that somehow the old torn leather seats were still housing many an old butt waif. So many butts in fact that the "stew" that permeated the air began to make me clastrophobic-wondering if I would ever be able to breathe fresh air again. My nose began to run. I couldn't get my mind off the fact that this air was damaging my sensabilities."

So, Rich who is always pulling this kind of practical joke told her to order the oke chimbo...he said it was the best oke chimbo in the states, and the place was known for their fine selection of oke chimbo...But the Japanese words oke chimbo mean big dick. And just as she was about to order it we stopped her-obviously all of us knew what it meant and were in on it. She just about died when she found out what she had almost ordered, and we all-including her just about choked to death laughing.

"After our set, we walked backstage where Fleetwood was standing around, and I noticed that something was very pungent...almost burning my nose with the aroma of methane death. I got close enough to Stevie Nicks to figure out that it was her. It beat about anything I've ever been around that prevented me from feeling like I was getting enough oxygen."

"At one point one of them took a large container of ice water and threw it at the other, but it missed and instead hit the monitor man square in the head. It also completely soaked the monitor console which really started to spark. We were all standing backstage with our jaws on the ground watching this. I'm sure we all had felt like tearing each other apart on stage before, but this was the first time we had actually seen it happening. So as soon as the drenched monitor guy got his bearings, he bound up onto the stage and started to chase the Davies brother who had hit him with the water. Chased him all the way off stage. The crowd was stunned, as was everybody else in the band. I remember they all just kinda looked at each other for what to do, since the guy who was suppose to be singing was now nowhere to be found. "

"The back seat was facing backwards, and that's where I wanted to sit, cause with the rear window on the tailgate down, I could smoke dope back there. What ended up happening however was that all the fart wind would make it's way directly to the back and up my nose. It was like a giant force feeding funnel with me at the receiving end. Man, with the kind of food we were all eating, that was the kind of smell you know is buried deep in old decrepid grave yards. Actually I had quite a reputation of being the bad gas king myself. My first wife even made me go to a specialist about it because she couldn't figure out how a healthy person could emit such a repelling array of green butt gush. So I guess it was karma that I was finally on the receiving end of a dead meat and cheese stew baked in the dead bowels of my musical brothers."

Was Star Trek Really that Good to Begin with?

2005-09-23T10:33:00.000-07:00

Was Star Trek Really that Good to Begin with?

Theresa: Star Trek hit at a time when fantasy and sci-fi were needed in America. The world was in upheaval and people needed something to escape into. The tradition has continued through the years, with varying degrees of success, but yes I think the original series was good and extremely popular.

John: I think it broke new ground for what TV could be. The adventure format was nothing new, but that freaky aliens and plastic space ships bobbing on fish line could be a hit with audiences must have been a huge revelation to Hollywood. Great comment! I didn't consider the escapist possibilities.

Theresa: Think about what was happening in the 60s when the original series began. We were just coming out of Korea and heading into Vietnam. Kids, and many adults, wanted only to forget reality for a while. Twilight Zone was a huge hit, as was the Alfred Hitchcock Hour for the same reasons.

John: Great point. This was the 60s, and the social upheaval was messing with everyone's emotions. During the great depression people went to movie theatres for the same reason.

Theresa: True. The serials offered the same type of emotional release. Books in those eras also reflected the greater desire for surrealism.

Theresa: Star Trek was an antidote for what was happening in its day. The same performance has been perpetuated for the last 40 years, with measurable success. America is once again ripe for an influx of fantasy, hence the block-buster rating for LOTR and Harry Potter. As long as there's conflict and dismay, there will be a need for release and escape.

John: Star Trek was and is near mythical for me. When it veered into being too commercial and too politically correct it wavered, but I can't think of a series or a franchise I've enjoyed more. I credit Star Trek somewhat for inspiring me to be a writer myself. I'm really pulling for them to go back to the space exploration formula in a new series.

Another great review for Judgment Day!

2005-09-21T10:49:00.000-07:00

Another great review for Judgment Day!

Check this out.

The good reviews just keep on coming!

More Atlantis Studios News

2005-09-20T10:03:00.000-07:00

More Atlantis Studios News

We signed the contract today! You readers may remember an earlier post regarding a comic, er, I mean, 'graphic novel' project we have in the works with Atlantis Studios. We're happy to report that we've signed the contract for one of those projects.

Atlantis Studios are the producers of our friends Barbs Jacobs and Steve Jones great work "Talisman". Atlantis also puts out the popular series "Tales of Lara Croft". So we're in great company.

For the details of this project, stay tuned. We'll give out more soon.

Transporter 2

2005-09-19T10:02:00.000-07:00

Transporter 2

In between playing World of Warcraft (started a rouge on a server with our friend Cleatus), reading R.A. Savlator's "The Drow Chronicles", and mowing the lawn, we took in a movie this weekend; Transporter 2 with the wonderfully gravelly voiced Jason Statham.

Our friend Chris, the Sunday School Teacher and aspiring actor, came along to the movie. Since the roles Chris is auditioning for require long hair and a shaggy beard, he looks a bit like a bad ass. Wouldn't it be great if the bad ass rubs off by association, we chuckled at the silent thought. So we sat in the ominous dark of the theatre, wishing for silence, a radio station, or anything other than the TV commercials theatres play nowadays. Finally, the trailers for coming attractions! At last, the movie.

One more thing about Chris, underneath the Sunday School Teacher Actor Bad Ass lurks a fine illustrator. Chris did several character sketches for Judgment Day that we're going to use if we ever get an actual J.J. Ace website up and running.

Onto the movie! Frank Martin (Jason Statham's character), the over the top action hero of the piece, is easy to like. We sympathize with the receding hairline, and we enjoyed his 'dangerous man bad ass' gravelly voice. Frank frequently employed his "I'm a bad ass who can kill you with only a bent and rusty spoon" glare. The stare was quite effective, but in the end overused. His lithe form was athletic, making it easy to believe he could perform the many unbelievable stunts. The shining wonderment of the movie was the fight scenes. In one scene in particular, Frank takes out a dozen bad guys with a firehouse. The opening fight scene against a squad of carjackers was very good as well.

Jason Statham did falter in one or two scenes. He's great at the action bits, but when it came to interacting with others, he seemed to go a little flat. When he confronts the villain at the climax, he seemed a bit lost.

Frank's Audi is another character in the movie. Blech, don't make a car a character. If I want to see how wonderful a car is, I'll go watch DVDs of any number of old television shows.

Let's talk about the actual story of Transporter 2. Frank Martin is driving an elementary school boy from home to school as a favor for a friend. The bad guys have plotted to kidnap the boy, and despite Frank's best efforts, the little boy is snatched. The bad guys attempt to explode Frank and his car, and they think Frank is dead.

With the bad guys believing him to be dealt with, Frank is free to rescue the boy, and bring the villains to justice. Frank's life is made even more complicated as the parents think he was in on it, and the cops are gunning for him. After a lot of unbelievable stunts, fight scenes, chase scenes, and what not, Frank manages to save the day.

This movie took it too far. Some of the stunts and situations were simply non-creditable. This story would have been improved by more human interactions. If the action elements had been tamed a little, and if we had been given more of Frank's life and character, then this would have been a good movie.

Go see "Transporter 2" if you like action and clever fight scenes. If you like real characters, complex villains with complex motivations, and plot twists that surprise you, then skip this movie.

As for Chris, he's looking forward to Peter Jackson's King Kong. If he doesn't shave by then, he might look like King Kong's little brother.

Just kidding, Chris.

Another Star Trek Movie, Yes or No?

2005-09-16T09:31:00.000-07:00

Continuing the Star Trek discussion, we move on to discussing the possibility of another Star Trek movie.

Another Star Trek Movie, Yes or No?

Theresa: I think so. they're great draws and you can tell a lot more, and more coherently than in a mini. There are several dozen books out there that would make good movies.

John: I don't know if the market will be there for another Star Trek movie. The last few movies were boring. What would it take to make an exciting and fresh Star Trek movie? Based on a book? That's a great idea. Can you suggest a title?

Theresa: Kahless was awesome. Stargazer was a two-part book based on Picard's early years. There are more, but I can't think of one right now.

John: I wonder if they shouldn't get a little darker. More tech, more battles, more moral and political morasses that can't be solved in an hour.

Theresa: Trekkies like battle, but only justified unless they're klingon sympathizers. lol

John: Ok, this is silly, but: A Battlestar Galatica tie in? Would that infuriate the fans? Would it be a good idea to tie in the two mythologies?

Theresa: I doubt it would work. The technologies and basic premise of the two are different. Star Wars tie in might work, if it happened before the 23rd century.

John: Didn't you ever have that Star Trek versus Battlestar Galactica argument? Cylons, Klingons, who was worse? As for Star Wars, I don't think the George Lucas would go anywhere near the idea. :->

John: What if the Future Enterprise got lost (they do that all the time) and ended up in the Battlestar Galatica universe? Too much like bad fan fiction?

Theresa: Well, if Kirk and the rest of the original gang can have doubles in an alternate universe, why not? If you made it another dimension, things could tie up very neatly. The champions would have to establish themselves in a Star Trek reality before they could cross over, though, or you'd lose your following.

John: So, you like the idea of another movie? I think they should do a series first, and then consider another movie.

Theresa: I do. I think another movie would be good soon. They could capitalize on the popularity of fantasy and sci-fi right now.

Judgment Day Featured in Dear Reader.com

2005-09-15T10:03:00.000-07:00

Good news. JUDGMENT DAY will be featured in an upcoming Dear Reader book club. It's an email promotional tool that's well known and beloved by many eager readers. Basically, DearReader emails one-fifth of the first chapter each day for a week so that readers can get a taste of the book before (hopefully) buying it.

If you're not already a member, go to www.dearreader.com and subscribe to the science fiction club. Just to be safe, we'd suggest subscribing to the teen club too (because Elias is a teen), and to the fiction club (because they include thrillers and adventures in this category), and the horror club (because you just never know).

The great thing about this is that the people who receive the DearReader emails are all people who are interested in trying *new* authors' books. And Judgment Day's cover page will be shown on DearReader's home page during the week it's featured.

Star Trek, the Continuing Discussion

2005-09-15T09:57:00.000-07:00

And now, for something a little bit different. We present a discussion about Star Trek for your amusement. This is part one. Watch for more segments to come.

Where SHOULD Star Trek Have Gone after Voyager?

Theresa: After Voyager. that's a tough one. Most "new frontiers" had already been covered by that point. But if i had to suggest a new direction, I would have sent them to the past, as in the fourth movie.

If the next generation of Enterprise explorers, or whatever ship they used, could be trapped in the past, it would be fascinating to see how they remained inconspicuous and repaired their ship with limited resources.

John: Interesting idea on sending them to the past. That's what they did in Enterprise, a prequel. I wonder if they would have been better pushing on to a new generation of the federation? After all, none of the series were as good as Next Generation.

I would have liked to seen a brand new Enterprise, the successor to Picard's ship. New crew, new villains, and new uniforms. :->

And new tech, a little projection of modern stuff + 400 years. For example, their military tech was pathetic. So was their medical tech. You'd think that 400 more years of human endeavor will come up with some truly amazing stuff.

Theresa: Good point. "Beam me up, Scotty," was great for its age, but it's a different audience now. kids these days want flash.

John: Flash, yes. But how hard could it be to look at something like stem cell research and predict what that might be in 400 years? Or the internet. What is that going to be in 400 years?

Theresa: Good point. they could do something with cloning or genetic engineering. The internet, I feel was the idealogical forerunner to their communications system. just my personal bias.

John: You said forerunner. Good plug. :->

Theresa: lol

John: Well, please sum it up then; what should Star Trek do now that Enterprise has gone off the air?

Theresa: With Gene Roddenberry (or however you spell his name) passed on, I think they need to bring in new blood. A completely new cast, new situations and new ship. I wouldn't mind the Enterprise again, but make it unique. The technology in the shows hasn't advanced as fast as the audience.

John: Movie of the week format? Cable only show? I'd like to see Paramount wait a couple of years and produce a whole new saga. Dump the prequels, the Lost in Space, and the space stations. Get back to exploring the universe. Those were the best stories.

More to come...

Clementure's Quest Journal (Level 28 Warlock)

2005-08-31T13:53:00.000-07:00

World of Warcraft, Terenas Server, The Wetlands

Gobstomper and I quickly made our way through the Wetlands. I prefer to avoid needless confrontation, but my companion seeks out enemies to vanquish. As we ran, and between cutting down over-eager murlocks, alligators, and raptors, he explained our mission.

A certain Longbraid the Grim, a dwarven commander of some repute, had a problem. The treacherous Dark Iron dwarves had banded together in a compound deep in the Wetlands. Longbraid wanted the Dark Iron dwarves leader, Balgaras the Foul, captured or killed. Preferably killed.

This explained much about my companions desire to perform this task. No self-respecting dwarf will ever tolerate the presence of the cowardly, treacherous Dark Iron Dwarves. So with the opportunity to attack his hated enemies combined with the gold to be earned, Gobstomper found the opportunity too good to resist. With the powerful magics of yours truly, Clementure the Gnome Warlock, Gobstomper was ready to go.

At the barricades that Longbraid had set up, we met the adventurers Gobstomper had recruited for this adventure. (Just getting to the barricades through the legion of raptors and oozes roaming the Wetlands is a story unto itself.) A priest, a hunter, and a warrior had also answered the lure of loot and gold.
With our strategies agreed upon, and our weapons and magics at the ready, we attacked!

Unfortunately, we had more enthusiasm than power. Our first foray through the opening of the compound was met with a decisive repulsion. The four buildings of the fenced compound spread out on the hills in front of us, and from each building poured those dastardly Dark Iron Dwarves.

I'll have to be honest and admit it; they were tough, implacable foes. With their axes pounding against the paladin and warrior, there were enough of them to break past and attack the priest and myself.

This gnome wasn't meant to stand on the front lines, going toe to toe with a maniacal axe-swinging villain. I function best when I can sew destruction and defeat among my foes from afar. We were forced to retreat and regroup. Our second strategy met with more success.

We swerved to the east on our second foray, drawing the attention of far fewer of the Dark Iron Dwarves. And in smaller amounts, we were able to handle the desperados. Finally, cutting down foe after foe, we stormed the building where that shame to the name of Warlock, Balgaras the Foul, was lurking.

Little did we know how bitter our regret would be…

Clementure's Quest Journal (Level 28 Warlock)

2005-08-29T09:59:00.000-07:00

World of Warcraft, Terenas Server, The Wetlands

It may seem strange for a gnome warlock to make his home in the elven lands of Ashenvale. Ah, but this gnome warlock loves the tall trees and the clear blue waters of this land so foreign to my kind. Thus came I to have taken up residence in the backward town (and every town is backward, when compared to the fallen glories of Gnomeregan!) of Astranaar when my long-time friend and ally, Gobstomper the dwarf, contacted me by the post.

Written with fingers the size of sausages, Gobstomper's poor scrawl was, as always, hard to decipher. But we gnomes are nothing if not persistent, and I also knew that my friend Gobstomper would never take up the onerous chore of writing had not his need been great.

I shall not relate the entire contents of his letter here. Most civilized beings will have little interest, indeed may be downright repulsed, to read of Gobstomper's beard-pulling adventures with any lady dwarf too slow to escape his amorous clutches.

Sufficient for your information, dear reader, is that the note related that Gobstomper had chanced upon an adventure with the promise of great wealth to be acquired, and an opportunity for this gnome to exercise his magic powers on something besides the occasional Horde beat-down-of-the-week.

So, heeding my ally's call, I employed griffin and boat to make my way to Menthil Harbor, where my friend awaited, deep into his mugs as I joined him. Since we gnomes are a race of small (yet heroic!) stature, this dwarf friend of mine always seems gigantic when I first see him again.

With a ferocious belch that blew out every candle in the inn, Gobstomper greeted me warmly, and we set off on our adventure. A small group of recruited adventurers awaited us at a certain rendezvous point as we made our way out of Menthil and into the ever-so-dangerous Wetlands.

Next: The Iron Dwarves

David Brin's "Captain America Versus Thor"

2005-08-26T10:05:00.000-07:00

You can take it too far; you can do too much. We were quite excited to receive a gift of David Brin's graphic novel "The Life Eaters". If you are a David Brin fan, and who isn't, this could be a much-anticipated read.

The Life Eaters extends Brin's "Captain America Versus Thor" short story. The CAVT short story remains one of our favorites. It dealt with the power of hope in a fascinating alternate history tale of World War II. We won't ruin the story for you, but just imagine what would happen if the mythical Norse gods descended on earth and allied themselves with the Nazis in or around 1939.

The CAVT story has a poignant and powerful ending. It is one of those stories that haunt you. Such stories are rare, and should be savored. Which is why extending this story didn't work.

The Life Eaters descends into a huge mess. It attempts to be epic, but instead it seems unfocused. Imagine a mess of vegetable peelings and coffee grinds sitting at the bottom of the kitchen sink. The sweet, powerful ending of the original story becomes completely lost.

So if you want to read The Life Eaters, we'd recommend you go to a used bookstore and find Brin's River of Time (scroll down) collection of short stories and read the original story instead.

Today's Notes

2005-08-26T07:48:00.000-07:00

We're developing two comic properties with Atlantis Studios. We'll pass along more details as the development continues. But stay tuned, these are exciting concepts we're working with.

In the meantime, check out Atlantis Studios' Talismen Series, illustrated by our friend Barb Jacobs, artist for Fantasy Readers Wanted, Apply Within."

Greetings

2005-08-23T09:04:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the J.J. Ace web space. We're set on the idea that the world is a vast and incompletely imagined place, and we invite you to go along as we check it out. Here's the quick bio on us:

J.J. Ace is a globetrotting writer who resides in America, Argentina, Australia, and Canada. Under various nom de plumes, Ace has accumulated hundreds of publishing credits. J.J. Ace's pseudonymous personas are best known as the contributing editor of Fantasy Readers Wanted – Apply Within, the award-winning writer of the Brute Force Xbox game manual, and the coauthor with Net York Times best-selling author Piers Anthony, of the epic fantasy novel, Quest for the Fallen Star. Along with the novels Journey of Rem, Return to Glory, and A Stranger in the Realm, Ace's pseudonymous work has appeared in anthologies, chapbooks, e-zines, magazines, newspapers, technical manuals, and reference works. J.J. Ace is currently working on several novels, anthologies, and short stories.

So there you have it. We're going to be looking at the imagination here in this web space. We hope you will contribute.

If there's one thing we know, it's that when it comes to imagination, more is better!