Saturday, April 30, 2011

Myebook - D'n'A Comics #1


Myebook - D'n'A Comics #1 As promised: the
online version of DNA #1!!!Myebook - D'n'A  Comics #1 - click here to open my ebook

Friday, April 29, 2011

Happily Ever After All





DNA comics #2 is coming along fine! Layouts are in the works; chosen scenes have been discussed; it's a small movie, in a way.


Let me tell you, we have heavy hearts for the city of Tuscaloosa, terribly damaged, almost beyond recognition. The very first Apartment of Ideas is most likely rubble. Probably all three places I ever lived are gone. Marc and I are taking it in, but focusing on doing something, and maybe you can help.

We'll host an EBay auction to raise money for Red Cross very shortly. We're going to give 70% of the auction proceeds to Tuscaloosa's Red Cross.



I think we're going to auction some drawings, too, still deciding what those would be. I know they'll be with me when I write, about Japan as previously planned, and something newly made, what, I don't yet know.


There's some cool music, but it's not been recorded "The Right Way" just yet. We just keep re-working bits and pieces of songs we really thought might be ready! Lots of new musical ideas to integrate. But, no way to share even the workshop versions on Real Player (could it be I'm not on the right blog host?).


So, silly as it is, I'm watching the carriage pull away with the newly married Royal Couple and deciding to enjoy the little touches. I talked for two hours with just one friend last night, brought together by the devastation. I'm going to keep my spirits up and do this thing. I know it's so tight right now it hurts, but if you or someone you know would like to participate, meet me back here for details, or on Integr8d Soul's Fan Page on Facebook.


Be chill, Cease ill




Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Danger Bot! With art by Robert Last!!

Would you look at the take on my design, by the gifted Robert Last?


I am re-thinking this idea a bit. I'm going to go back to the original notion for the story. I will keep my head up for any better uses for Danger Bot, though, as I like the idea, but at the core, there is a real story I can tell that will leave people more enlightened. But would reality be more boring? Sometimes, but here, not so much!

I think it's pretty cool but I should use more fantastical, superhuman opponents or organized villains; that seems a little juvenile, but while I'd love to see Japan develop robots that can do the dangerous, disease-threatening work, it's still just a fantasy. Maybe I should back the two ideas apart to let them be themselves.

Let's hear it for the real nuclear engineers! Lyron


The hour in Nippon was dire indeed.


The clock’s digital face tells Kumiko Sakura it’s 10:44 pm, which is fifteen minutes ahead of time. She awaits clearance to join with the Hogosha, the metallic seventeen foot, joined from symbols in a form not unlike humanoid, for its bipedal symmetry. When the word comes, not a second can be wasted. Kumiko will stand here however long it takes, now. Nowhere else on Earth exists for her right now, save this unlit silo. The black telescope across the room catches a twinkle of moonlight through the opened dome.


“We’ll be out there soon, Danger Bot.” she says quietly. Sakura’s name for the cybernetic armor had come from her hours of practice at this, her dream to make a difference. She’d hated the training when she was a teen, sometimes, and what if it was for nothing? The crisis that befell her homeland, however, had solidified her feelings about the hard work and secrecy. When the tsunami swallowed the coast in its mindless, hungering mouth, the horror Kumiko felt, the tears she cried, all came crashing into a rebellion against despair that rose up like fire from her belly. In a time when no one knew what to do and everyone wished to help, she had given half of her life to the possibility that Kumiko Sakura could make a difference.



Before she was able to rush her grandfather’s creation to the place of disaster, however, his department---half-acknowledged, half-funded, half-appreciated---ran into politics. Kumiko wanted to argue that no one could stop Danger Bot if she arrived in it; a military stand-down would just be ridiculous, and a shame, for all the lives she might save. Grandfather had insisted they conduct the rescue by the book; mother had drawn up plans for coordinating Department Hogosha with other rescue services. Now, Hoshi Hayato, their scandal-embroiled friend in the assembly was conjoining a committee, to discuss the same possibilities that had been discussed before, basically. Red tape was prolonging the disaster.


An earthquake, nearly unequalled in size, and the deafening tsunami had obliterated the northeastern coastal settlements; worse, the emergency evacuation would still require tremendous outside effort, as though who were saved became the victims then of expediencies, as every hand grabbed for the bare necessities. The kindness between the people was the only saving grace of a miserable situation, which was still worse yet.


Meditation and exercise had become Kumiko’s preoccupation, as she reviewed schematics of both Danger Bot, the Jinzouningan Kikensei, and the failing plants. All of the preparations for the nuclear facilities could not save the vulnerable reactors from overheating, and she knew why, and she had a plan of how to reconnect electricity, move some rubble, and stop the irradiated waters from entering the sea. With the electricity reconnected, however, there was no guarantee the cooling rods would be in time to deal with the excessive fissioning. The hospitable nature of the rolling country hills and port streets of Fukushima was dangerously close to lost, for untold decades.


For that matter, she could not see why they did not let the robot participate in largely-demolished sites where the desperate were stranded, and then, as their possibility for life subsided, why she could not go out to these areas to aid in recovery. Grandfather told her she was welcome to do so in person. Never had he been more tight-lipped about the reasons for things. She suspected this was because he’d already found the situation in which he was going to offer the “Danger Bot” (she had gotten the name to catch on with him, though he rarely used it, in favor of “the prototype armor” in his typically clear-headed fashion).



The final debate for clearance had been moved continuously. Meanwhile, the horror at Fukushima remained Sakura’s fixation. She had slept in this very chamber for the past two nights, waiting to board her fantastic machine and attempt to save Japan from the dark side of its technology with a new and shining light.


Her meditation moved to the courage of those workers who chanced everything to work towards a safe shutdown of the nuclear plants. She had begun learning some of the names first hand. She thought about the fear and pride of their families. She thought of their discovery of knee-deep water, one thousand times more radioactive than the safe limit. Two hours in the plant were the maximum safe limit. As for herself, she counted on Danger Bot’s shielding. Sadly, she reflected there was only one mechanical marvel of its kind. She sat in seizen-no kamai, her hands clasping her knees gently as she balanced on her heels above her down-turned feet. The agony of preparedness, she reasoned, was the least of the stress to come, so she must endure, until she hears the word:

“Hajime (Begin).” It was Gorou Etsuko, her scarecrow-thin sometime rival pilot. His black shock of hair stabs the light invading from the opened door to the hangar, and their eyes meet just before the rest of the lights flash on. He held her helmet in his hands.

The metallic giant, activated, rolls out of the bay on wheels, supplemented by a tremendous battery; Sakura knows every circuit, chip and articulation. The hammered trees bow in still-dampened ground, scattered with debris from the sea and the woods, and the goliath lumbers more slowly through the valley, its treads mired by the drinking earth. As she drives across the savaged countryside, she surveys the horror of the tsunami devastated landscape. The people taking a casket on their shoulders stir her heart the most. She know they are going to a temporary, but thoroughly depressing temporary burial. It was the sacrilege of the culture’s most enduring rite. She swears to honor their spirits with bravery.

At last, the Jounzingen Kikensei---after her personal name for the droid body--- arrives in the middle of the night at the jeopardized power plant.
CONTINUES!

InterAction has a list of organizations accepting donations for disaster relief.
Kids in Distressed Situations (K.I.D.S.) brings hope to over 4.5 million children in need every year by giving them new clothes, shoes, books, toys , furnishings and baby gear. This is made possible by manufacturers, retailers and licensors who donate NEW product, as well as individuals and foundations who provide financial support.. The agency utilizes a global distribution network of more than 1,000 local nonprofits. You can make a donation to the K.I.D.S. Japan Earthquake Tsunami Children's Fund by texting the word ALLKIDS to 85944 to make a $5 donatoin to KIDS on your mobile phone bill. Because K.I.D.S. has a 10 to 1 system of matching $10 worth of product for every $1 donated, your $5 will provide $50 worth of brand new merchandise to victims in need.

Going to Anaheim




dON'T miss DNA #1! Our black and white comic book kicks off a new series and a new company! It's Southern Gothic horror in a completely fresh way. Send your check or money order to

Cecil L. Disharoon
542 6th Ave.
San Diego, CA 92101

$1.30 covers shipping and handling. The issue itself, DNA #1, retails for $3.25, but you can have it for $3, a total of $4.30.

Meanwhile, our remaining t-shirts are available at Convention Special Price, for $12 each or 2 for $20, plus $5.00 for shipping & handling.

You can do the same over PayPal, at luelyron@gmail.com !!!

AND!! You can use the button provided; the $15 will cover your postage.






D'n'A t-shirt #1




or





D'n'A t-shirt Puzzle pieces (girl and boy)




Integr8d Soul will be appearing at the Anaheim Comic Book and Science Fiction Convention, May 1st, get your tickets online or at the door, come out and meet Lue Lyron and the Marc Kane.

Danger Bot

The hour in Nippon was dire indeed.


The clock’s digital face tells Kumiko Sakura it’s 10:44 pm, which is fifteen minutes ahead of time. She awaits clearance to join with the Hogosha, the metallic seventeen foot, joined from symbols in a form not unlike humanoid, for its bipedal symmetry. When the word comes, not a second can be wasted. Kumiko will stand here however long it takes, now. Nowhere else on Earth exists for her right now, save this unlit silo. The black telescope across the room catches a twinkle of moonlight through the opened dome.


“We’ll be out there soon, Danger Bot.” she says quietly. Sakura’s name for the cybernetic armor had come from her hours of practice at this, her dream to make a difference. She’d hated the training when she was a teen, sometimes, and what if it was for nothing? The crisis that befell her homeland, however, had solidified her feelings about the hard work and secrecy. When the tsunami swallowed the coast in its mindless, hungering mouth, the horror Kumiko felt, the tears she cried, all came crashing into a rebellion against despair that rose up like fire from her belly. In a time when no one knew what to do and everyone wished to help, she had given half of her life to the possibility that Kumiko Sakura could make a difference.



Before she was able to rush her grandfather’s creation to the place of disaster, however, his department---half-acknowledged, half-funded, half-appreciated---ran into politics. Kumiko wanted to argue that no one could stop Danger Bot if she arrived in it; a military stand-down would just be ridiculous, and a shame, for all the lives she might save. Grandfather had insisted they conduct the rescue by the book; mother had drawn up plans for coordinating Department Hogosha with other rescue services. Now, Hoshi Hayato, their scandal-embroiled friend in the assembly was conjoining a committee, to discuss the same possibilities that had been discussed before, basically. Red tape was prolonging the disaster.


An earthquake, nearly unequalled in size, and the deafening tsunami had obliterated the northeastern coastal settlements; worse, the emergency evacuation would still require tremendous outside effort, as though who were saved became the victims then of expediencies, as every hand grabbed for the bare necessities. The kindness between the people was the only saving grace of a miserable situation, which was still worse yet.


Meditation and exercise had become Kumiko’s preoccupation, as she reviewed schematics of both Danger Bot, the Jinzouningan Kikensei, and the failing plants. All of the preparations for the nuclear facilities could not save the vulnerable reactors from overheating, and she knew why, and she had a plan of how to reconnect electricity, move some rubble, and stop the irradiated waters from entering the sea. With the electricity reconnected, however, there was no guarantee the cooling rods would be in time to deal with the excessive fissioning. The hospitable nature of the rolling country hills and port streets of Fukushima was dangerously close to lost, for untold decades.


For that matter, she could not see why they did not let the robot participate in largely-demolished sites where the desperate were stranded, and then, as their possibility for life subsided, why she could not go out to these areas to aid in recovery. Grandfather told her she was welcome to do so in person. Never had he been more tight-lipped about the reasons for things. She suspected this was because he’d already found the situation in which he was going to offer the “Danger Bot” (she had gotten the name to catch on with him, though he rarely used it, in favor of “the prototype armor” in his typically clear-headed fashion).



The final debate for clearance had been moved continuously. Meanwhile, the horror at Fukushima remained Sakura’s fixation. She had slept in this very chamber for the past two nights, waiting to board her fantastic machine and attempt to save Japan from the dark side of its technology with a new and shining light.


Her meditation moved to the courage of those workers who chanced everything to work towards a safe shutdown of the nuclear plants. She had begun learning some of the names first hand. She thought about the fear and pride of their families. She thought of their discovery of knee-deep water, one thousand times more radioactive than the safe limit. Two hours in the plant were the maximum safe limit. As for herself, she counted on Danger Bot’s shielding. Sadly, she reflected there was only one mechanical marvel of its kind. She sat in seizen-no kamai, her hands clasping her knees gently as she balanced on her heels above her down-turned feet. The agony of preparedness, she reasoned, was the least of the stress to come, so she must endure, until she hears the word:

“Hajime (Begin).” It was Gorou Etsuko, her scarecrow-thin sometime rival pilot. His black shock of hair stabs the light invading from the opened door to the hangar, and their eyes meet just before the rest of the lights flash on. He held her helmet in his hands.

The metallic giant, activated, rolls out of the bay on wheels, supplemented by a tremendous battery; Sakura knows every circuit, chip and articulation. The hammered trees bow in still-dampened ground, scattered with debris from the sea and the woods, and the goliath lumbers more slowly through the valley, its treads mired by the drinking earth. As she drives across the savaged countryside, she surveys the horror of the tsunami devastated landscape. The people taking a casket on their shoulders stir her heart the most. She know they are going to a temporary, but thoroughly depressing temporary burial. It was the sacrilege of the culture’s most enduring rite. She swears to honor their spirits with bravery.

At last, the Jounzingen Kikensei---after her personal name for the droid body--- arrives in the middle of the night at the jeopardized power plant.
CONTINUES!

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Jinzouningen Kikensei? (Danger Bot ?)

Story begins here! Happy Earth Day!


The hour in Nippon was dire indeed.
The clock’s digital face tells Kumiko Sakura it’s 10:44 pm, which is fifteen minutes ahead of time. She awaits clearance to join with the Hogosha, the metallic seventeen foot, joined from symbols in a form not unlike humanoid, for its bipedal symmetry. When the word comes, not a second can be wasted. Kumiko will stand here however long it takes, now. Nowhere else on Earth exists for her right now, save this unlit silo. The black telescope across the room catches a twinkle of moonlight through the opened dome.
Sakura’s name for the guardian
Clearance debates, politics
Meanwhile, the horror at Fukushima
Hajime (Begin)
Wheels, supplemented by antigravity tremendous battery; Sakura knows every circuit, chip and articulation. She surveys the horror of the tsunami devastated landscape. She swears to honor their spirits with bravery.
At last, Jounzingen Kikensei---her personal name for the droid body arrives in the middle of the night at the jeopardized power plant.

Next, I absorb this information into the narrative:

http://www.google.ca/search?q=LAYOUT%20OF%20NUCLEAR%20POWER%20PLANT&hl=en&biw=1024&bih=573&prmd=ivns&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=4cezTdfOBYfRrQfxi43IDQ&ved=0CC8QsAQ
can't wait to read more, right? ;-D







dON'T miss DNA #1! Our black and white comic book kicks off a new series and a new company! It's Southern Gothic horror in a completely fresh way. Send your check or money order to

Cecil L. Disharoon
542 6th Ave.
San Diego, CA 92101

$1.30 covers shipping and handling. The issue itself, DNA #1, retails for $3.25, but you can have it for $3, a total of $4.30.

Meanwhile, our remaining t-shirts are available at Convention Special Price, for $12 each or 2 for $20, plus $5.00 for shipping & handling.

You can do the same over PayPal, at luelyron@gmail.com !!!

AND!! You can use the button provided; the $15 will cover your postage.






D'n'A t-shirt #1




or





D'n'A t-shirt Puzzle pieces (girl and boy)




Integr8d Soul will be appearing at the Anaheim Comic Book and Science Fiction Convention, May 1st, get your tickets online or at the door, come out and meet Lue Lyron and the Marc Kane.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Harvester of Eyes: Take Me Away (Conclusion, 3 of 3))

“How many times have we talked about this?” Waymon pleads.


“No, how many times have you listened quietly? What don’t you want to tell me?”
Waymon now reveals to Kaylisha why she'd been spared during the Harvester's first manifestation. “I did not want you to have to deal with it. I’ll tell you, but I can’t take it back.” He pauses for a moment.


“You, too, were possessed by the Harvester of Eyes that first night. I thought the spell I used would banish the creature. Remember the image of great fire, before the warehouse went up like a tinderbox?



Only you, Kaylisha, remained, and for almost three months we did not see anything.”
“Why didn’t your spell put it away forever?”
“You know I’ve tried again. I’m not sure what else to do. I won’t stop trying.”



Waymon had been racking his brain for a new banishment spell ever since they realized the Harvester was running wild, only three days before. They had not slept since!


The plane begins approach once more. For the longest three minutes, they wait. Her stomach drops. Harvester laughs, his eyes now visibly around her. The fusilage begins to rip off the top! Standing atop the ripped open plane, his eyes squirm as though they will drift out of the ghostly baby hands.


“I’ve been sight-seeing like you wouldn’t believe?” says the Harvester of Eyes. “Big city madness! Some concert promoter found me and begged me to come on stage for a heavy metal concert. I had live TV on my eyes, baby! I was a star in the wild! A reality celebrity more outrageous than any ever seen by mortal eyes!”


The wheels begin to scrape the tarmac.
“But I haven’t shown them the REAL goods yet! No. And already, they’ll never know what I’ve taken from them as they watched. It’s been a wonderful vacation, your world.”

“I’m not afraid of you!” Kaylisha screams hoarsely.
“And why would you be?” asks the Harvester, in multiple voices speaking as one. Then he turns to Waymon. From his stretcher, Buddy raises his head, and begins to murmur
“no!”


Kaylisha begins to batter the Harvester’s body with her fists repeatedly. It turns its back to her.
“Oh, I’ve HAD you!”


He then takes Waymon’s struggling body up by the head, and possesses him. Now Waymon’s head flows with serpentine strands of tiny baby hands. His eyes, depraved and orange, grow wide over a joyless grin, filling with sharpened teeth. “I always wanted a head for poetry!”


“To hell with you, you son of a bitch!” swears Buddy, still strapped to the gurney. The Harvester merely gazes at the end of his new body’s fingers, while Kaylisha’s tears flow, at his feet. Then, the space above their heads seems to fill with a bizarre claxon sound. The creature reaches for her chin, as she fights with all of her strength, hair tearing in other hand and falling as a tangled tuft on the floor of the plane. “I can’t see what you’re afraid of,” says the Harvester.


Then, the unbearable siren culminates in a blue hologram of a head above them all, as the plane slows to a stop. A cold, hard, weary visage drifts above them. The eyes begin to fire a concentrated red beam towards the head, which cloaks itself in a flashing yellow band.



“Finally, I have answered the call, with my own call,” speaks the echoing voice. “I long to war no more. Curse your kind, that I must fight on for your sakes.”



A strange, watery blueness begins to open, a cone receding beyond sight, as the creature turns again towards Kaylisha. Its orange eyes harden, as its grip around her throat tightens, her cries, choking pitifully. The blue wateriness begins to surround the Waymon/Harvester and Kaylisha, and then from within the cone flies an orange and yellow machine man, with green eyes. In place of its right arm, drifts a yellow beam, wavy, snaking out to surround the creature, who roars angrily, and then, closing all its eyes a moment, says, “yes, then, my home, at last.” Before the startled woman, now so over-stimulated as to be expressionless, the enveloping glow becomes a blob, and as the Harvester of Eyes resolves into billions of tiny red lines, the robotic visitor begins to shrink into the center point of the receding blueness. Only the head from before floats above.


“W-Waymon!” she screams. “What have you done with Waymon?” The impassive head does not answer, but fades, also. She slumps to the ground amidst the smell of ozone.
Behind his bandages, Buddy weeps.


A long, impossible moment passes as the plane comes to a halt. In her mind’s eye, the blue face now drifts above, resolving into an albino man with a black leather body suit, and a tarnished, scarred belt. She hears his voice. “There was no other way. I am a veteran of so many psychic battles as to know nothing to say of the innocents in their wake. Your friend may find his way to you again one day. His sacrifice was willing. I doubt the possession of any other body would’ve resulted in your death.” Kaylisha hears blasts of winds, as his voice distorts and grows in volume.

“I have taken from his mind the poems he loves, and words the same will remain with you until your age dims all memory. He will fade like the outcasts of the tide upon the beach. You alone will remember his words and the love for those words, and the words for those loves.” The figure vanishes like a dream upon wakening.


Detective Bloom oversees the emergency call to the airport. He interviews the pilot whose approach was delayed before the horrible truth was discovered in the control room. The plane seems whole, in one piece. The paramedics take Buddy away, and decide to take Kaylisha Nichols, as well, as she is apparently exhausted.



Detective Bloom stamps out his cigarette, frustrated. The other documented passenger, Waymon Jarrell, is lost without account. No questions put to Buddy elicit more than memories of some years before. No questions to Kaylisha provide her previous connection to Buddy, whose eyes begin to heal after surgery. An Ithaca, NY woman named Pearl Sands, 57, had been waiting in terminal D for her flight to Santa Fe, New Mexico, when she lost track of an hour, completely, only to be found outside the landed Medivac.

The fate of the air traffic controllers, found with eyes gouged out, leaves only a baffling, gruesome mystery, with the only person in any way connected known to be aboard the plane bringing in a similar trauma victim to two (with criminal records) in Long Island.

Somewhere, a poem remembered by heart spreads across a barrista’s lips.
Somewhere, Vera Gemini laughs cruelly.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Wings Wetted Down: 2nd Approach (Harvester of Eyes)

“Waymon,” she says, from the next seat, “you’re awake now.”

“Thought I felt us approaching to land,” he says.

“Almost were. I wouldn’t wake you before necessary.”

“Sorry you weren’t still asleep yourself. How is Buddy?”

“Still sedated.”


They didn’t need to repeat the facts; they had learned they should not.


She thinks back to something she heard on the news five days before...six?

The eyes taken in the mass graves by the Mexican border told her he was back.


Then, Ladell, the last person they’d stayed with, renting his converted garage.

They had come back to Buddy’s farm the next day, but there was no sign of Buddy until they checked the barn, and there, beyond a trail of blood droplets, in the hay he lay, unconscious. His eyes were pulled from his head, scattered aside with contempt nearby on the ground. They had moved as fast as possible to get him to a hospital, keeping his eyes on ice in Tupperware found in the kitchen. His brief awakening had been one of the most awful instances in life. How did Waymon calm him down, even elicit a chuckle, while living with the fear of the damage to his eyes?


There was so much to forget, no wonder Waymon had taken to filling their time together with poems he’d memorized. Kaylisha never remembered more than the chorus of songs she’d heard a hundred times, nor ever knew anyone who loved poetry so. Those words were calm in nerve-wracking instances. They were a mental sedative, a release, an occupation to recall life aside from the vile happenings of their four months together.


Why had they stayed together? Why did she not put all the blame squarely with Waymon Randall for using the spell that ...but then, she could never know what would happen after she was taken by her father’s mob cronies.
We sat grown quiet at the name of love;
We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.


Waymon had been so funny and kind, and she’d been so miserable, it seemed like three or four times talking to him at her job had forged an unbreakable bond, already scary and joyous enough in itself. He glances over at her, and continues reciting Yeats:

I had a thought for no one's but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love;
That it had all seemed happy, and yet we'd grown
As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.

The sunset as the plane inexplicably rose again from its approach formation. Immediately, Kay walks up into the cockpit to ask why.

“No one from the tower,” says the pilot, shaking his head.

“What the hell, are they asleep?” she says, in disbelief.

“I’m going to figure something out. Just take your seat, it’s fine.”

Kay quickly relays this to Waymon, who sits gazing out the window. Her stomach begins to drop. He turns to her, wordlessly. Her internal monologue begins to rush over her conscious mind, as worry gathers in her countenance.

But now they’re thrown together in life or death and she realizes: it was all for her. The conjuring, the sacrificing...how many more need die that she might live?

"Here, love, this is the Mouse’s Nest, by John Clare.
I found a ball of grass among the hay
And proged it as I passed and went away
And when I looked I fancied something stirred
And turned agen and hoped to catch the bird
When out an old mouse bolted in the wheat
With all her young ones hanging at her teats
She looked so odd and so grotesque to me
I ran and wondered what the thing could be
She recalls the ceremony that brought the Harvester at their darkest moment.

And pushed the knapweed bunches where I stood
When the mouse hurried from the crawling brood
Her blood and Waymon’s mixed on the paper Waymon burned.
In her mind, it’s there again. "Harvey" makes crude, insane jokes and literally gets drunken on its enhanced awareness, as it adds stolen eyes to its mind and goes psychic joyriding, seeing sights from superhuman perspectives, as though taking on additional imaginations.

The young ones squeaked and when I went away
She found her nest again among the hay
The water oer the pebbles scarce could run
And broad old cesspools glittered in the sun

It did its grizzly work of attracting the eyes, literally, on outstretched vessels and nerves before snapping bloodily, pulled invisibly to its tiny baby hands that stretched out of the top of his otherwise human head. She recalls the Harvester, digging through garbage to find eyes for his pouch of leather. Waymon’s smile fades. He is sorry the poem did not pleasantly distract her.

“Why didn’t the Harvester kill me, Waymon?” she asks. “You were lucky to be in the alley behind the warehouse. “I used to think it simply wanted a witness.”

“How many times have we talked about this?” Waymon pleads.


“No, how many times have you listened quietly? What don’t you want to tell me?”
Waymon now reveals to Kaylisha why she'd been spared during the Harvester's first manifestation. “I did not want you to have to deal with it. I’ll tell you, but I can’t take it back.” He pauses for a moment.


(Concludes next)

Monday, April 18, 2011

Harvester of Eyes: to the back of your skull


Sponsored by Integr8d Soul Productions, featuring DNA: The Mountain, drawn with crisp, clear story telling by Lue Lyron and the Marc Kane, with scenes and ideas you won't find anywhere else in entertainment!! The comic for those who don't read comics! Black and White, $3 plus shipping each.
Available from C Lue Disharoon
542 6th Ave.
San Diego, CA 92101



to the backs of their skulls: The First Approach

The nights, of an open closet door, inspiring paranoid terror, or a shadow by the moonlight causing a heartbeat's skip. Her concept of just what was, after all, out to get them (wasn't it?) was too vivid for Kaylisha to sleep regularly, two months after she'd seen the Harvester of Eyes, and, in the house of the man now lying wounded on a stretcher at the back of the medivac airplane, she had cried out, times a few, as she imagined her pursuer still lived, following her for no other reason save he had been called for the sake of her life, and she had born his singular witness.

Flashes running like floaters, dust motes across her eyes, could in the lamp-lit room call to mind the sparks that scintillated as "hair" on a head nearly otherwise human...save for the baby arms. Upon tentacles they waved mindlessly, giving the deathlike creature greater height than human, and what those baby hands did...the men who'd sneered and bullied Kaylisha only moments before still cried in her private, horrible memories as their eyes...

...their eyes...

With a shudder, Kaylisha looks out the airplane window, as the land three miles from the airport resolves into building tops, intersections, neighborhoods...the airstrip plunge waits.

What an odd moment to remember Buddy's silent treatment of her...his mean-spirited slurs after three days of refusal to allow her to sleep in the house, which he offered to her companion, and his childhood friend, Waymon Jarrell...Buddy's anger, with the rifle, as she cried out in paranoid fear, and the slow dawning of realization that his friend would not abandon her now, and the seriousness of her true medical panic attacks, all converged to create a bridge of grudging tolerance that made him question the best course of action. Something scared the shit out of all three of them, and he became involved with their notion of staying somewhere that could be isolated, patrolled, and out of reach of any neighborhood.

Why Buddy decided he would risk his life for Waymon---who'd only met her about three weeks before he'd shared his horrible secret to protect her? Strangers, thrown together: Buddy had not seen Waymon in years, had so little in common apparent with the soft-spoken poetry student in whom she'd confided, her new friend, that gangsters had shown a chilling interest in her whereabouts and personal life. And why should anyone die, she wondered, over that two faced shitbag of a father she'd never really known, either? She suspected these gangsters knew more about his real world than she ever had.


When Waymon finally called Buddy, they had fled the grisly scene of the crime, burned in flames, spending her savings for three weeks of restless wandering away from the
Long Island site of her abduction, and the bizarre, homicidal incident which had left one of the mobsters alive, still in critical condition and unconscious when last she heard. Who would ever want to wake up, after that? Yet, here, Kaylisha felt she could never again enjoy sleep. Somehow, her problem ensnared the intelligent tendencies in Buddy, still unclear on how Waymon had met this Gemini woman who Waymon claimed had given him the tiny parchment that seemed to call, upon its destruction, the most terrifying thing Kaylisha ever had experienced. The sheer mystery began the bridge of understanding. In two weeks time, Buddy had begun presenting Kay with clean sheets for her bed, his, while dutifully took the fouton and Waymon, the sofa. A man who had lived alone for two years found himself unable now to live alone. Perhaps the danger made it good.

The bond of friendship led to ten weeks of three, rather than two, and in the good of the wilderness, the anti-social hideaway hosted an uneasy truce. Over time, she began to wonder which of the two of them were truly more haunted! When she came home from the store with the Cully Stout Beer, she'd finally cracked his facade, after the frightening nightmares they'd experienced, the life-deep superstitions that tugged at the minds of Waymon, Kay, and Buddy.

Yet gradually Kaylisha straightened out her sleep, without any meds or psychiatric help, which was out of the question, anyway. Wasn't it academic what a responsible doctor would do with a person, after all, who was running from the Harvester of Eyes? If you beg something wants your life...are you ready to be locked up?

Buddy, all along, had enough homegrown pot to fill in the necessary chill pill, and over the course of twelve weeks, a place Kay had not planned to remain one single night became, gradually, the one place she first felt safe.

Whatever the reason, their stay was always temporary, and two months afterwards, they were in Oceanside working their first ongoing jobs, with so many issues unresolved, she couldn't help wondering if he might ever regret listenin to her, getting involved, trying to be the shining knight of whatever. Doubtlessly, he'd had some poem in mind when he agreed to jump a bus with with her.

She couldn't remember a word of the one he'd recited when he took them both to Buddy's to hide and, well, attempt sanity again. Waymon, for their differences, has her heart. She could feel it break when they'd returned to find Buddy...dear God...and now, here they were escorting a critically wounded man to the nearest hospital capable of handling the skull trauma.


Not that she quite liked the guy---he was still an instigating asshole, but...to see him lying there, sedated, his face covered in gauze...at some point, much as Buddy could not admit it, he had cared what became of this insane-sounding woman of a skin tone for which he did not approve. But what a terrible price he'd paid.

The landing she expects does not occur. She realizes they are headed skyward again. But that does not make any sense. She's flown four times in her life, and the certainties of touchdown are a reliable source of relief...

"...but this is nothing." Kaylisha knows she can do nothing. As she had discovered during her deep woods refuge: there are times one must let go of the semblance of control to find out what is really happening.

That is why she could buy that, after her erstwhile boyfriend's banishing spell, they would not see that thing again. She would never again witness the inhuman things it did, and with the burning of the scroll upon which she'd also put a drop of blood, the one means of which she knew (but never would've believed!) to summon the Harvester of Eyes was now absent the world.

Yes. yet...when he'd been given the scroll...did that person have more? Would it ever walk the Earth again? And would it plan to visit her again? Why had it not killed her?

She'd already expected she might die: kidnapped at last by men who'd harassed her over the course of a week, she found herself shocked with battery cables as they questioned her about her father's dealings, on things which the no good bastard had never shared, only making her speculate more widely what her mother never told her. Her boyfriend, bleeding from a shot fired moments before in her kidnapping, added his blood to the paper, and with its burning now apparently magic o shit IS real, the shaking this time's not you being drunk it's a real fucking earthquake, this...man...steps into the warehouse room with Kaylisha and her captors and...

always, her mind returns here, on circuits ranging far and interested, yet the reason for her sleepless nights had its way with the teases caught in her imagination. Pulled into the mire of her mind, darkened daydreams arriving by surprise repeat this very unman's figure, standing out like fire in leather and deep-shaded jeans, addressing the mobsters with a kind of mocking, "pukey" announcer voice: "conga-rats!" he said. "Your eyes are outstanding."

They'd sworn loudly at this apparition, one initially, the other quite unbelieving until their eyes....their eyes...how could any creature with eyes its won not see more perspectives, when thinking through so many eyes held along to see? Yet the addition of these two new sets of eyes, pulled from their sockets by some invisible, ruthless force, into distended nerves gushing with blood flowing around their human mouths, screaming with agony and awareness...the men she'd wished dead suddenly had problems of a seriously fatal nature.


Some memories need the present moment more than others. In the skies, she searches for something greater than her troubled heart, her sickened worry returning like a gall bladder attack as she watches out the window for the airplane's second approach.


TO BE CONTINUED!

dON'T miss DNA #1! Our black and white comic book kicks off a new series and a new company! It's Southern Gothic horror in a completely fresh way. Send your check or money order to

Cecil L. Disharoon
542 6th Ave.
San Diego, CA 92101

$1.30 covers shipping and handling. The issue itself, DNA #1, retails for $3.25, but you can have it for $3, a total of $4.30.

Meanwhile, our remaining t-shirts are available at Convention Special Price, for $12 each or 2 for $20, plus $5.00 for shipping & handling.

You can do the same over PayPal, at luelyron@gmail.com !!!

AND!! You can use the button provided; the $15 will cover your postage.






D'n'A t-shirt #1




or





D'n'A t-shirt Puzzle pieces (girl and boy)




Integr8d Soul will be appearing at the Anaheim Comic Book and Science Fiction Convention, May 1st, get your tickets online or at the door, come out and meet Lue Lyron and the Marc Kane.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Watching the skies of Joe Bouchard

I feel lucky I found a band with such concentrated songwriting power; to me, Blue Oyster Cult is like a prototype of a band I'd like to be in, in that aspect. My own is called "Integr8d Soul" and all my projects have moments that remind me of specific people. Lately, I even have an exciting new collaborator...but you'll find out about Princess Jenn soon enough...


Anyway, just as I thought I might have to name a child of ours "Dharma" I inspected the BOC songbook, where I'd sought out Patti Smith's work. Note how the willingness to share songcraft with other talented people blossoms; you can hear the fruits of collaboration in what these people did. It's a very selfless approach.

In that spirit, let's just say the bassist (and Ithaca College alumnus) Joe Bouchard had a hand in some good Blue Oyster Cult songs. I found a list to start:

http://youtu.be/7xXEtO3bEe0

You aren't a BOC fan until you've listened to "Astronomy." I put up Metallica's cover on an earlier post. Albert arranged, Joe wrote, basically.



I haven't even heard every single early cut, but I'm trying to straddle a body of work with the help of about eighty songs I've researched, including some covers, getting to know the band. Still, I think this will endure as a favorite, and it's Joe Bouchard with Eric Bloom and Albert Bouchard writing. "I threw in a chord or two," Joe offered. But this other one is his all the way:

This one, I come to, seeking it out as Joe's work.


I really should include a track from the first live BOC album as it shows what a band working hard and touring everywhere they can will earn a crowd truly enthusiastic about the work, and "suddenly", a great live band is born (after years of playing, including about ten at this point for Eric Bloom).



See how much Joe loves referencing about the sky? Well, actually, wow, what strange things to say in a song...but they had me from the arcane title. I am imagine them surrounded by bikers, playing this in a smoky club in 1972.

That's already some kick ass rock. No wonder that first album's on the turnstile of at least one longtime fan (and journalist) I know. "It fits my style of music right now," he explained.




Man. I'm looking around these songs for great new listens, and finding them! So busy was I assembling this cue originally I couldn't give everything attention. But wow, this is such excellent work!

this, Joe wrote with the late Helen Wheels.

I know there's a later chapter to Joe's work, but here's a good start. I particularly love this last one, I must admit, it's really right there on the moment between the sixties and seventies. I find the ending a bit creepy. "Subhuman" plays next on my cue, but I'm going to think about these tunes and see if one might be attractive to cover soon. I am attracted to about seven songs already! it's like the days when I'd buy cassettes or cds with my work money...living in a small apartment and driving when gas was cheap...listening to rock...dreaming...

So, here's a fist=pumper about driving even faster than I did...like a b-movie drag race...



Well, got no car...but I have great music...and a terrific new business!
Joe was originally a guitarist before joining BOC as a bassist. Here's some 12 string solo Joe:

There's Joe on "Astronomy," making it all his own.




Finally, here's the brothers Bouchard, working with great Alice Cooper Band member Dennis Dunaway, in their new band, Blue Coupe!


So there, for now, is my Joe Bouchard tribute. Maybe I'll do Albert soon, too!

After this, I might share another of the collaborative efforts that are right at home here at Integr8d Fictions.

I put several hundred words into describing Not Another Comic Book with our new collaborator earlier this evening. It's basically a breakdown of the first two issues: I think we're shooting for a May release date!

Also, there's that way my imagination works to bring me things like the story I'm thinking of writing...I just wonder about what I don't know yet...but it's an appealing fantasy, even if it's still just speculative fiction.

Lue

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Harvester of Eyes: the tale of terror

First pass over airport


Kaylisha recalls meeting the man sleepin in the seat beside her: Randall Waymon Jarrell, a poetry student and keeper of company over his head.
Her confidence in him led her to believe him; there was a way to ditch the mobsters and forget them. He took a terrible beating and was even shot trying to keep them from taking her away, when they wanted her father’s secret information.
He played the card held closest to the vest, and it ended her terror at the hands of the hired goons. Waymon thought, “well, I’ve apparently saved the day.”
But he set loose the Harvester of Eyes.
She recalls:

*What happened.
*They fled.

Man with them here in this medical plane, Buddy, was a racist who fondly recalled Waymon from boyhood and gave them shelter deep in the woods.

Their stay with him ended when they got on their feet. After a couple of months, they started to feel free of the Harvester.

Then came the call about Ladell Morse three days before.

The same thing that happened to the thugs who’d chased Kaylisha across half the city, had happened to his eyes.

Kaylisha recalls: What the thing said to her
What she heard it did


Second pass over airport
She recalls the Harvester, digging through garbage to find eyes for his pouch of leather
Waymon awakens, recites some Yeats:


We sat grown quiet at the name of love;
We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.


I had a thought for no one's but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love;
That it had all seemed happy, and yet we'd grown
As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.

Then, they realize they’re being turned away after this second approach to land! Pilot's getting no one at the tower. What's going on?


Kaylisha looks at the man on the stretcher, who introduced himself as a bigot not three months before. Living in the woods, eventually got Kay and Buddy got along, and she started to forget the Harvester of Eyes.


" If it gets the bigot, well, he’s got it coming," she’d thought the first night she stayed there. Now, with him clinging to life, she hopes they land soon.

But now they’re thrown together in life or death and she realizes: it was all for her. The conjuring, the sacrificing...how many more need die that she might live? She thinks back to something she heard on the news five days before...six?
The eyes taken in the mass graves by the Mexican border told her he was back.
She recalls the ceremony that brought the Harvester at their darkest moment.


Her blood and Waymon’s mixed on the paper Waymon and she burned. "Harvey" makes crude, insane jokes and literally gets drunken on its enhanced awareness, as it adds stolen eyes to its mind and goes psychic joyriding. It did its grizzly work of attracting the eyes, literally, on outstretched vessels and nerves before snapping bloodily, pulled invisibly to its tiny bsby hands that stretched out of the top of his otherwise human head.


Waymon now reveals to Kaylisha why she'd been spared during the Harvester's first manifestation: for a moment, she too had been possessed by the Harvester of Eyes that first night. Waymon thought the spell he used would banish the creature, and indeed, after an image of great fire, only Kaylisha had remained, and for almost three months they'd not seen anything. As of late, however, the Harvester is brazenly doing things that create public terror. His attack on Buddy, who was left for them to find, ties them to his path with little doubt.


Waymon had been racking his brain for a new banishment spell ever since they realized the Harvester was running wild, only three days before. They had not slept since!

They were checking on the people where they’d stayed, against her wishes, but Waymon explains there’s just no running now. They stop the Harvester of Eyes from running rampant, or he will be the only wise man in a kingdom of the blind.


Why is the plane being turned away? No one in tower answering? Her stomach drops. Harvester laughs, his eyes now visibly around her. The fusilage begins to rip off the top!

(tHEN SOMETHING UNEXPECTED WILL HAPPEN.)

They hear news about the horrible concert Harvester threw? I think we’ll let the police mention it at the end, but there’s no real body available to arrest, so the police come away unsatisfied. Damn lucky for the recent host for the Harvester of Eyes if he is not connected to this. I don’t know if he will be so fortunate.

As for these three, I’m just about there. I have really three humans, the host (inactive, mentally?) and the Harvester, those five, as my cast. Really, it's one woman versus one mysterious monster, with a couple of guys trying to help and some poor pilot meanwhile concentrating on getting their Medivac plane safely down.

So, with Kaylisha, the Harvester, then Buddy and Waymon, with three peripheral characters (a detective, another victim named Ladell Morse, the pilot) plus the faceless Mafioso who perish in the flashback to the first night. I think a lot of BOC lyrics will find their way into the telling of this one.


But now, I just hope I have you looking out for the story. “Blinding the Kingdom” I think is its name, with Kaylisha, Waymon, the bigot Buddy, and the Harvester of Eyes.

Just some thoughts. I have seen the ending evolve into something strange but believable in context.

I admit, I couldn’t get to sleep after writing this. Lue

Monday, April 11, 2011

Best Blue Oyster Cult Songs




Don't Fear the Reaper, and today May 2nd I found this great 1981 footage from the Hollywood Bowl, based on the number 12 Billboard chart Top 40 hit he wrote for the band on his four track demo, the band's biggest hit.



Flaming Telepaths (Lue) : My personal favorite groove off the greatest BOC album, Secret Treaties, released thirty-seven years ago this month.


That's two of my favorite songs, no doubt, by anybody. A list with David Bowie, Bob Dylan, the Beatles, Neil Young, the Indigo Girls, Foo Fighters, and Prince, with something each year grabbing me and photographing the times around me, some couple or few hits minor or major to which I can't stop listening.

(I've also been into the Clash, Pearl Jam, the Who, Bob Marley, Velvet Underground, Marvin Gaye, Curtis Mayfield, Matthew Sweet, the Eagles, the Beach Boys, Tom Petty, U2, Zep, Public Enemy, Snoop Dogg, Rush, Elvis Costello, Booker T. & the MG's, Charlie Parker, a bunch of half-remembered country my parents liked when I was little, Radiohead, the Police--- did I say Phil Collins? --- Fleetwood Mac & Elton John at different times in my life, and more, but these have created songs I consider faves. "Superstition" lands Stevie Wonder on there, too!)

I love the bands I've seen in person. My blog details my adventures with many of them, here in San Diego, where it's been all local artists for me. Unless you count the time I heard Jimmy Buffet out in the parking lot while doing Pedicab rides, in '06.

I am enjoying the indies passed along to me, but leave it to the history buff to find rock's most under rated band and discover, oily forehead and all, transformational adolescence, as my dreams start to come true one at a time.



This Ain't the Summer of Love (Live '76) Opening number off Agents of Fortune, which spawned their surprise smash hit song "Reaper."


Subhuman (Live)

This is from the very first live B.O.C. album---the lowest critically rated of their three, but their best charting record, at no. 27. I love this.







Here's a fun song, off Secret Treaties, the band's third record:

It's so lonely, honey, in the state of Maine...


O.D'd On Life Itself Second album BOC, Tyranny and Mutation, 1973. (Embedded over on Ceaseill.blogspot.com today)






Veteran Of a Thousand Psychic Wars from Fire of Unknown Origin, their 1981 record, a song with words written by author Michael Moorcock. One of the truly great rock songs.



Burnin' For You Top 40 hit from the same record.




E.T.I. My friend Joe Day loves this one! Another track from Agents of Fortune.


Take Me Away My favorite late era B. O. C. yet.


Hey, you hear about that FBI memo about Roswell they released today?

Look it up.

Hot Rails to Hell An entry from Tyranny and Mutation, the 1973 sophomore record---the only one issued by "The Blue Oyster Cult".


Now this one, I loved from the title on. these words make some deeply strange stories! Love these guys. This is a Joe Bouchard written tune.


Astronomy (Metallica) Why not throw in a Metallica cover, to demonstrate how the greatest BOC songs are versatile, performed with distinction by bands since.



Dominance and Submission Radios Appear. What's happening, New Year's Eve, 1963? I smell a good science fiction story...just as I'm kicking room off the schedule for things I've waited to write...well, I'm not getting into it, but it involves a robot and time travel through the past fifty years or so, and a neutron bomb, I believe...


Fire of Unknown Origin

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5AOEC_AMKT8&feature=bf_next&list=PLE034A4E604348C46&index=14

I Love the Night

Saturday, April 9, 2011

Mind-a-Rama with Steve Gerber: Defenders #35



Busy saving the world from itself, Nebulon leaves before the rather hot-revved Ruby can get her flirt on. Soon Chondu awakens in his horrible new body, but Ruby points out they can implant the imprint of his mind with her perfect machine heads.

When Chondu snatches a construction worker, he only wants him for his body. Well, that wasn't a first in mid-70's NYC. Jack offers an arm to cushion weary Valkyrie's head from the wall, and she goes for it. Too bad Chondu has to show up and put up a real fight! Aragorn often gets the worst of these things; the winged steed's stranded on the rooftop, injured, as Chondu's new form proves exhilirating for standing up to Val. They smash into a sky top restaurant, an intense combat that ends with scalded, bruised and slashed Valkyrie walking away from freshly crushed Chondu. The police are having NONE of that.

Why I know I live in a free country, and what Sheer-Zan is to me


Unlike the world of Sheer-Zan: One, I did not live in a world of fear for secret police. I mean, I could imagine the paranoia from life in Georgia, but it seems like something I would not get right.

See, the thing that makes it work is that the protagonist, from the first, is aware she is in over her head, just beginning to learn anything at all about her enemy---and her self, it seems. But up to this point, she is very accomplished. It is the nature of the challenge ahead that her every weakness will come exposed.

Like Batman, she can do anything if she has time to prepare. But she is not like any Batman at all, save maybe for the one who nearly bungled to his doom in the early parts of Miller/ Mazzuchelli's Batman: Year One. The years have allowed me distance, but there are scenes so talked about in comic book circles that recollections have come anyway.

Still, I won't re-read those, don't have them on hand, and further, wish to learn nothing more from them, but rather, examine how one's environment could be made hostile by humankind in a way that is foreign, indeed, to me as a citizen of the United States of America. But those bullied people trying to find a way to band together without drawing attention are an inspiration to me. I just can't make it all about me, or America, without remembering this is real life now in the Arab Spring. Where will the changes in the world end?


So what then of this story?

I think it needs to be set aside. Read up, talk to people, let real life come to the fore, and appreciate the need to keep sweet freedom for all who will but find it in themselves.

That's my first clue how to start writing Sheer-Zan: One. The heroine is liberated by her freedom of movement. After knowing life that way, she wants free movement for all. That is her motivation as a human being.


Sheer-Zan. It's Persian for "Tigress," or "Protector."

Friday, April 8, 2011

De la Cruise: Howard and Bev's permanent vacation


You know what? Howard and Bev and Winda and Paul come out just fine, after all. I'm glad. They are easy to care about.

So the grateful caliph, after a scenario you will believe when donkeys fly you should see for yourself courtesy Val Mayerick in Howard's Annual, the one and only one from 1977. You are welcome to buy mine for a dollar, plus shipping/ handling.

Where was I?

Grateful caliph---right! Cruise across the Mediterranean. Nice! Howard promises to ease up on heavy thinking. Remember that ritzy vacation Bev daydreamed in #5, back where this blog's collection began? Well, she got it. Good for her. Should be nice for all four of these kids to enjoy a nice vacation. They will be headed back to a crowded apartment again, soon enough...or will they?

Oh boy.

The sea serpent is huge in comparison to the cruiseliner.
Bev wonders if it can be charmed. "I used to play a recorder!" I love that.
Howard finds the pleasure button. That is, after already being pitched over the rails earlier! Oh yah! Winda, god bless her soul, has delivered a deck hockey puck to the back of the duck, and suddenly we find out about a day he always dreaded, as we find he can't swim!!!

So, there's that. And the Sea Serpent appears. Saying "neeeez" loudly and scaring the Bee Gees out of everyone. Did I mention the lame bar mitzvah style version of KISS playing "Rock and Roll All Night?" Hey, it's 1977 in a comic book, but it's timeless.

None of this, however, prepares you for the deadly boulders from on high, and the savage island of animals mutated into men with "neez" awaiting the banks of quicksand. And Bev's first words to the creep Doctor Bong are laugh out loud funny!

All from the annual, and Howard the Duck #15. I recommend picking up the Essentials in black and white if you want the whole series pretty cheap!

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Talkin' Headmen Blues

Talkin’ Headsmen Blues (another song for the Roshomonics Cycle)




Beware that ol’ black rain
Injection cloud into the brain
Feel them thoughts of self-destruction
While we steal without obstruction
Try to stop me, I’ll open your head
Replace you with Chondu’s brain instead
And learn your friends inside and out
While you search for clues,
Under my machine
You got the Headmen Blues

My surgery can be precise
With gorilla hands I make my slice
Now come hear the plans
I’ve got the head of a man
Beside melted Jerry whose skull bones were shrank
Now meet Ruby Thursday, a computer bank
Was made indestructible head for her body
Her perfected sphere she will give every body
Stolen body say, what’s the reason for you?
To help rule the world with these Headmen Blues?

With a few adjustments to their minds
Any mass movement they’ll just despise
While we get all the cash, commodities
They won’t address over population ill at ease
Shrink them in our boxes, we’ll fit the world to our needs
Run for president, let’s bring the guillotine,
Bozos in their masks have declined, we must redeem
Bozo, Bozo, Bozo, Bozo, Bozo!
No one will mind, for they cannot refuse
When we rule the world with these Headsmen Blues!



Lue Lyron copyright 2011 Wingbat Tunes/ Integr8d Soul Productions.

Sheer-Zan One: rough draft

After two weeks of thinking about it, it was clear she couldn't go on.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

1002nd Arabian Night: Steve Gerber's Howard the Duck



Well, we're halfway into our story, so safe to say Paul Sames and Howard the Duck pull off their parachute leap. Now, it's time for them to encounter a mugger. For this they left New York?

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Blue Oyster Cult, part three the Early. the 80s, and the return

In 1967, the band that would someday become Blue Oyster Cult debuted in Long Island as Thin White Underbelly. This is their only known surviving recording.

In their next guise, the band was called Stalker Forrest Group. Their recordings on Elektra Records were not released, however, until later on the album St. Cecilia.







At the other end of their career, we have the album Imaginos in 1987, one of their last albums of original material. The album is an attempt to at last record an album based on the poetry arc that inspired their name and identity as Blue Oyster Cult, written by longtime manager and producer Sandy Pearlman







Now, a cut from Blue Oyster Cult's debut album in 1972. It later appears re-made as the song, "the Red and the Black" off Tyranny and Mutation.



Chris Middleman writes:

The task of lyrical reinvention fell on Meltzer and especially, Pearlman. Rock music entered the artistic consciousness over a decade earlier and now had a burgeoning community of aestheticians. Meltzer wrote lyrics sounding like sardonic jive talk, reminiscent of the goofier passages in Kerouac's Mexico City Blues, while Pearlman had a singular vision for the band's mythos. He'd already been working on a cycle of poems featuring Imaginos, a cavalier adventurer at the time of the New World's discovery who made a pact with Lovecraftian sea beasties. In exchange for his immortality, he's destined to be reincarnated as influential villains of the West's imperial powers.



That's the fourth track from Blue Oyster Cult's masterpiece third album Secret Treaties. Here's the original radio advertisement from April 1974.



We'll be back after this.







Listen, I'm still figuring out integr8dsoul.com, but meanwhile, you can do what Jason (and Aimee!) have done. In Jason's case, he sent us $9 at

C. Lue Disharoon
542 6th Ave.
San Diego, CA 92101

which was really cool as it covers shipping and handling, at $1.25 each! The issue itself, DNA #1, retails for $3.25.

Meanwhile, our remaining t-shirts are available at Convention Special Price, for $12 each or 2 for $20, plus $3.00 for shipping & handling.

You can do the same over PayPal, at luelyron@gmail.com !!!

AND!! You can use the button provided; the $15 will cover your postage.






D'n'A t-shirt #1




or





D'n'A t-shirt Puzzle pieces (girl and boy)







/According to Chris Middleman:
In 1970, the Stalk-Forrest Group was a Grateful Dead-leaning band in terms of style (and much
ess substance), boasting the quicksilver guitar of Don Roeser. The core players, including lyricists/rock critics Sandy Pearlman and Richard Meltzer, met as students attending Stony Brook University. Botched gigs, personnel collapses and the growing irrelevancy of the band's sound precipitated in Elektra canceling Stalk-Forrest's contract; the group floundered, rocking out at bars under names such as Oaxaca and The Santos Sisters and edging closer to calling it quits. Pearlman, running in the same circle as Columbia A&R man Murray Krugman, learned that Columbia was seeking an American equivalent to Black Sabbath, given the unexpected success of their Karloffian thunder. Pearlman, doing triple duty as band manager, rallied the troops back together under the BOC moniker, with the mission of securing the Columbia recording deal through manufactured attitude, sinister lyricism, and overdriven guitar attacks.


Imaginos was a Sandy Pearlman cycle of poetry created in the late 60's, which sometimes provided Blue Oyster Cult with songs such as "Astonomy" and "ME-262" and "The Subhuman." Albert Bouchard, having left the band, spent the mid-80s developing the Imaginos songs for his debut solo record. Eventually, the entire band recorded the final result.






In the 21 st century, Blue Oyster Cult has produced one album, a true return to form for the hard rocking band's well-written tunes. Unfortunately, the band no longer has a record deal, though they continue to tour, with 36 American dates already listed for the summer. Here they are performing "Perfect Water," co-written by Dharma with Jim Carroll, poet and author of the Basketball Diaries.





I'm Richard Rory, your host.
Thanks for listening.

WNRV Omegaville, Citrusville.

Matt's Not Coming Back (by Black Widow)

Here's a nice set of lyrics inspired by Steve Gerber's early Daredevil stories, part of the cycle I call "Roshomonics." I think of them from Natasha's point of view.




Matt’s Not Coming Back
Matt’s Not Coming Back
To San Fransisco where it’s just the man
And dreams are pulling stakes
Homeless, now my heart aches.
I didn’t know he could live without me.

1/ Moondragon, she could read his mind
No longer blind
So of the chances I have taken by his side
It seems a mansion is no home
Where there’s nobody home
Are we all alone?
Sold out, he’s the hold out man
The show won’t sell to feed the band
And all beside the Bay as planned
Fell down once they took their stand
And here am I on another sand
Love, adventure life was grand
But there’s no final act
Matt’s not coming back.
Matt’s Not Coming Back
Matt’s Not Coming Back
To San fransisco where it’s just the man
And dreams are pulling stakes
Homeless, now my heart aches.
I didn’t know he could live without me.

2. Hear my heart, did I lie?
Smell my sweat, don’t deny
Taste of me is memory
That you would so defy
To New York and someone past
And so we are apart at last
In your dark and all alone
Such a heart, a heart of stone
I call but nowhere near the phone
What can I spy, when it’s known
That there’s no final act
And Matt’s not coming back.
Matt’s Not Coming Back
Matt’s Not Coming Back
To San Fransisco where it’s just the man
And dreams are pulling stakes
Homeless, now my heart aches.
I didn’t know he could live without me.


Written by Lue Lyron copyright 2011 Wingbat Tunes

Think Integrated! LL

Monday, April 4, 2011

Bagmom

Two years ago, I began composing a pastiche using the most difficult part of my novel TRANZ using other, existing characters blended with my own. I started working on entirely original fiction again afterwards, but continued a cycle of five long stories with full script, finished in January. Those are in my archives (except for X-Men; that one's over on Ceaseill.blogspot.com.

Now I've been juggling the beginnings of a company, Integr8dsoul.com (Think Integrated) while continuing to write. I even took the time to draw (with the Marc Kane) and finish a comic book.

So in a funny way, this began as an apology to myself, for not having the Sheer-Zan: One yet in rough draft form. A day, maybe two, behind. But I'm learning.


Squeezing by in a crowded apartment, Howard the Duck's trying to snap out of a negative mood with coffee. So the others went shopping while he was asleep? Not a real problem...not like slipping on trash with hot coffee. Howard acrobatically keeps his cuppa, until he is standing in the door as his flatmates Winda Wester, Paul Same, and Bev Switzler arrive. So, he gets what he wants, but in no way he wants. Careful what you wish for.

As soon as Winda opens the door, the Duck's wearing coffee, and he's not happy about it. Appeasement---recommended by the doctor after Howard's problems that led him to meet Winda, anyway---he calls out as transparent. So: subject change. Look at the beautiful Persian rug they found on the cheap! "At least some sucker in Persia has a job," he grumbles. Between the girls' enthusiasm in the living room and Paul's kitchen commiseration at being crowded, they have a conversation about flexibility that ends with Winda's teasing observation, "You're so WIJID!" (Rigid.)

The rug floats upward with Winda and Bev aboard. To great consternation, it then sails out the window. There's nothing Paul and Howard can do.

The two Middle Eastern men who slam through the door, swords drawn, demand to know what's become of the carpet, and mention a sorcerer named Wijid. (Yep. That's the secret word.) About the time the landlord and his wife come in the door bellowing about the racket disrupting their "rasslin' on TV" the heavies have charged out the window. Paul tries to reach them, while Howard believes "charity begins at home" (he's the size of a duck, anyway) and speculates the goons will find a way to "run up a wall or something, like they do in those Douglas Fairbanks movies!" But this is no movie, and it's no cartoon, just a darkly comic fate for two zealots several stories below.

Howard thinks Paul's blaming him for not only letting the threat end fatally but losing their only source of information about Bev and Winda. Paul's really not that explosively reactionary; he knows Howard gets the point. He simply picks up a beat-up antique lamp and uses his nervous energy polishing it. He just wishes they had a way to the place they mentioned: Bagmom. "Nuff said!" reads a cloud of dust and smoke that belches forth.

Phone rings. Howard answers. "Who is buried in Grant's Tomb? Well, Grant, I guess!" Just like that: they've won two vacation tickets to ...

... Bagmom, where Bev and Winda, atop the floating rug, barely miss a praying imam, who bows on his parapet high above the street, so they enjoy a guilt-free view: a city, untouched by hundreds of years of time....still ruled by an aging caliph. He entertains the company of his wizard, Wijid, who brings a bejeweled mechanical donkey before his liege. Why does this ridiculous gift have a meter? At your son's suggestion, Wijid says, so that children might put in a coin for a ride while Mommie shops. Ah, his son...where is he? Every since he returned from Cleveland with his university education, he's developed a distaste with Bagmom and a mania for American things. For this reason, the two woman brought in by Wijid's carpet are immediately adopted for the harem by the indulgent caliph, who adds "and because it is my wish, also."

Parachuting into Bagmom---because landing is prohibited---Howard the Duck and Paul Same begin their no-frills vacation package. Don't worry, ladies, the cavalry's on its fearless way...if they can keep from being smeared across the desert sands.