Insanely busy today. I don’t expect I’ll get much more done than chasing art deadlines, but who knows, I might make it to Enochia later… or maybe Landon Connors’ stomping grounds. Anyway, I felt like I owed you something, and myself to, so here’s a look at what a few notable wordsmith’s hammered out their best works on.
Sweet, huh?
Then, of course, there’s this one:
Who did this beauty belong to?
Robert E. Howard.
Feeling inspired yet?
Yeah, me too…
New this week from Dark Horse Comics comes a welcome sight for sore eyes — an adaptation of Robert E. Howard’s The Hour of the Dragon by writer Tim Truman, illustrator Tomás Giorello and colorist José Villarrubia. It’s no secret that I have a deep affinity for Howard’s creations, particularly Conan of Cimmeria. I have also been very vocal about my utter disdain for Brian Wood’s most recent take on the character. With Tim Truman in the driver’s seat of King Conan, in a very real sense, this felt very much like rediscovering a long lost friend, erasing the foul taste left by Wood’s work. By Crom, my Conan was back.
I am, in addition to being a fan of Howard’s Conan stories, a huge fan of Marvel’s comic adaptations and loved Roy Thomas, Gil Kane, and John Buscema’s take on The Hour of the Dragon (which played out through Giant-Sized Conan #s 1-4, and Savage Sword of Conan #s 8 & 10). How does Dark Horse’s imagining measure up? In a word? Beautifully.
The writing is crisp and direct, capturing the essence of Robert E. Howard’s fiery prose. There’s no question that Truman drinks from the same well. This is a man who understands the medium he’s working in, pacing the story and delivering a fantastic cliffhanger guaranteed to entice even the most jaded comic fan back for more.
As for the art, Tomás Giorello is really a wonder, capturing perfectly the mythic grandeur that Howard’s original tale inspires. Giorello’s style invokes the perfect cross between Barry Windsor-Smith and John Buscema, with classic, sketch-heavy line work that’s just beautiful in every sense of the word. The real star for me, artistically, however, is José Villarrubia, whose color palette just sings with so much emotion coming through in those muted, color-pencil-like hues.
If there’s a negative, it’s in the issue’s lettering. The special effects seem out of place and digitally dropped in. And while I dig the adaptability and simplification of computer lettering, this is certainly an instance where hand-lettering would have been better served. But then again, maybe that’s just me showing my age.
All in all, a stellar outing for King Conan: The Hour of the Dragon. This is how Conan was meant to be represented on the comic page and I look forward to the ride to come.
Landon Connors’ Introduction to Rookhaven’s
A Cat of Nine Tales
Nine Occult Detective Stories from
Blackwood, Crowley, Howard, Lovecraft,
Meikle, Mitchell, Morgan, Reynolds, & Shrewsbury
for the lucky sum of only 13 American dollars.
Available Now via Amazon or CreateSpace
Order your copy today.
William Meikle’s A Slim Chance — I smoked too many cigarettes, sipped too much Highland Park and let Bessie Smith tell me just how bad men were. For once thin afternoon sun shone on Glasgow; the last traces of winter just a distant memory. Old Joe started up “Just One Cornetto” in the shop downstairs. I didn’t have a case, and I didn’t care.
Joshua M. Reynold’s An Ounce of Prevention — It was 1920 and in the light of the flickering torches, strange shadows danced across the stone of the church. Men and women in rough-spun robes intoned hymns in a language not seen since the last King of the Picts had fallen to Roman swords and Roman treachery. An uprooted, flat grave-marker lay flat across a tomb and a woman, head lolling thanks to the drugged powder mixed with her cider, lay across it.
Algernon Blackwood’s Ancient Sorceries — There are, it would appear, certain wholly unremarkable persons, with none of the characteristics that invite adventure, who yet once or twice in the course of their smooth lives undergo an experience so strange that the world catches its breath—and looks the other way! And it was cases of this kind, perhaps, more than any other, that fell into the wide-spread net of John Silence, the psychic doctor, and, appealing to his deep humanity, to his patience, and to his great qualities of spiritual sympathy, led often to the revelation of problems of the strangest complexity, and of the profoundest possible human interest.
Aleister Crowley’s The Artistic Temperament — Jack Flynn was the centre of a happy group of artists. They were seated upon the terrace of the Café d’Alençon to drink the apéritif; for although November was upon Paris, the Sun still remembered his beloved city, and fed it with light and warmth.
H.P. Lovecraft’s The Horror at Red Hook— Not many weeks ago, on a street corner in the village of Pascoag, Rhode Island, a tall, heavily built, and wholesome-looking pedestrian furnished much speculation by a singular lapse of behaviour. He had, it appears, been descending the hill by the road from Chepachet; and encountering the compact section, had turned to his left into the main thoroughfare where several modest business blocks convey a touch of the urban. At this point, without visible provocation, he committed his astonishing lapse; staring queerly for a second at the tallest of the buildings before him, and then, with a series of terrified, hysterical shrieks, breaking into a frantic run which ended in a stumble and fall at the next crossing. Picked up and dusted off by ready hands, he was found to be conscious, organically unhurt, and evidently cured of his sudden nervous attack. He muttered some shamefaced explanations involving a strain he had undergone, and with downcast glance turned back up the Chepachet road, trudging out of sight without once looking behind him. It was a strange incident to befall so large, robust, normal-featured, and capable-looking a man, and the strangeness was not lessened by the remarks of a bystander who had recognised him as the boarder of a well-known dairyman on the outskirts of Chepachet.
Christine Morgan’s Matt Brimstone, PI — Finding yourself chained hand and foot to a wooden chair in a falling-apart warehouse down by the docks, surrounded by big bruisers with brass knuckles embedded into their rock-hard fists, is nobody’s idea of a good time.
Greg Mitchell’s Metamorphosis — Josh Banks turned his key and entered the country shack. The place seemed colder these days without her there. On the wall, where portraits of her pretty face once smiled back at him, there was only bare wood paneling. Vinnie had already removed all the painful reminders of her beauty, her warmth. Dirty clothes lay draped over furniture and empty bottles of Bourbon were scattered on the carpet, but what bothered Josh most were the stacks of strange books. Vinnie’s new obsession.
Robert E. Howard’s Names in the Black Book — “Three unsolved murders in a week are not so unusual—for River Street,” grunted Steve Harrison, shifting his muscular bulk restlessly in his chair.
Steven L. Shrewsbury’s Zenith of the Totem— I read the message from Oswald A. Kellod again, as if the words would be different at the airport than they were in my office at Miskatonic University.
Occult Detective Stories, Volume One — A Cat of Nine Tales — featuring supernatural thrillers from Algernon Blackwood, Aleister Crowley, Robert E. Howard, H.P. Lovecraft, William Meikle, Greg Mitchell, Christine Morgan, Joshua M. Reynolds, and Steven L. Shrewsbury — is available now from AMAZON.COM
You want Guns, Ghouls, and Grimoires? Well, look no further. Collected here are nine supernatural thrillers — from Algernon Blackwood, Aleister Crowley, Robert E. Howard, H.P. Lovecraft, William Meikle, Greg Mitchell, Christine Morgan, Joshua M. Reynolds, and Steven L. Shrewsbury — guaranteed to satisfy your thirst for mystery, suspense, and esoteric adventure.
Occult Detective Stories, Volume One — A Cat of Nine Tales — Edited by Tracy DeVore & Thaddeus Sexton, with illustrations by Bob Freeman
Solomon Kane’s set to make a
comeback in a big way.
I hope.
Catch it on Video On Demand before
its limited theatrical debut…
It’s worth a look.
Conan: Red Nails by Barry Windsor Smith
It’s work like that that makes a guy wonder why he even bothers.
1906-1936 All fled...
Yesterday was spent editing the first thirteen pages of Oddfellows Serenade. Today I begin lettering pages fifteen through twenty-seven. This has been a true labor of love and I am thrilled beyond measure with the book so far. Chris Wilson’s drawing some of the best work of his life and the story is everything I hoped it could be. Seeing as how Chris and I both have day jobs and commitments above and beyond the project, the complete graphic novel won’t be ready by Hallowe’en as hoped. Instead, we’ll be splitting the book into three parts and releasing the first issue in time for the holiday. You won’t be disappointed. In fact, here’s a sneak peek at some panels from the pages I’m working on over the next week —
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In other news, for those paranormally inclined, Barry Napier interviewed me over at ghosts in (parentheses). It’s well worth checking out.
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There was one helluva storm that battered my nape of the woods last night. The gods put on an awesome display in the heavens. My old buddy, Joe Strunk, posted the following on my facebook page as the storm raged: “I see lights on over at the old Carinwood House!…I can see the silhouette of it, in the flashes of lighting!”
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I’m still rather bummed that Conan the Barbarian is fairing so badly at the box office. Here’s to hoping that it has a miraculous turnaround this weekend. Granted, it’s not high cinema, but Jason Momoa is a terrific Conan and if we can get enough people to plant their asses in a theatre seat, then maybe, just maybe, we can get Lionsgate to take another crack at it and we can get an even better sequel out of the franchise. Save us Robert E. Howard, you’re our only hope.
