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Ben X
By Greg Timmermans, Laura Verlinden, Marijke Pinoy, Pol Goossen, Titus De Voogdt
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Check it out!
GRIMALKIN PRESS
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| Hey guys this is what I have been working on recently
The first issue of the somewhat quarterly comic journal "Hive" is on sale! It will feature work from . . .
Jon Freihofer
Chris Mostyn
J.M. Shiveley
Mark Leicht
Wayne Wells
Chad R. Woody
Kyle Jefferies
Thomas Beard
for ordering inquire at jordanshiveley@gmail.com or send check or money order to:
Jordan Shiveley
722 S. Jefferson
B01
Springfield, MO
65804
Issue #1 is an entertaining 76 pages and will be yours for a trifling 1,000 pennies or $10 legal tender.
+$3 Shipping and handling
We are taking submissions for Issue #2! We want to see what you are working on!!
Grimalkin Press is a D.I.Y. publishing company dedicated to enabling indie comic artists to publish their work no matter how odd the material or format may be. We are fascinated by the dissapearing art of hand assembly and printing. Is your dream to make a pop up comic about the final days of the Russian czars? We can make that happen. So drop us an email or a covey of carrier www.grimalkinpress.blogspot.com
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| I found a secret diary taped underneath a desk at the flea market I visited today. It only took me a few pages to realize that it was mine. the first date in it was from January 2, 3019. the second entry was dated January 3, 1893. It also addressed me the reader who and I quote "stands holding this book in a cold dusty warehouse between macrame wall hangings and a stuffed horse head, with rapidly fluttering pulse and suddenly dry mouth. Needless to say I freaked the fuck out. The book went on to tell me that I had in fact been born in the far future and was to put it succintly part of some type of temporal PeaceCorps. In the future I informed myself all was golden dawns and languid satisfaction over nature and reality conquered. Disease and death were non-existent. The past was seen as some awful barbaric time, and those without anything better to do would at times journey back to see if there was any way to shorten the gap between the 21st century dark ages and their culmination of human potential. On the very next page my future self told me this was all bullshit. He warned me to never repeat certain sequences of numbers out loud that would trigger my temporal retrieval matrix because in his own words, my own words, "Who wants to spend eternity knowing that everything is done and perfect" He said that his life was a golden balmed hell of the same soft whispered philosophizing and if he had to walk through one more emerald green crystal spired city where lithe perfect youth reigned and benevolent smiles were on every face then he . . . well he didn't know what he would do. Instead he told me what he wanted me . . . his past "emergence" he talked a lot about parallel historical trends and the need for himself to be seeded back in time instead of traveling, to be honest I didn't understand much of it, I can barely balance my check book as it is. I did however find this last few lines to be interesting,
"I don't want to float along in Gilead any longer. I want us to wake up one morning with a mouth full of vomit and smelling of piss and cum and smile! I want us to take curves into tunnels in the wrong lane and I want us to kiss the first girl who smiles at us. We need to walk out of this flea market and stand on the closest rooftop for five minutes before leaving to go to the nearest bar and get drunk within the hour only to get thrown out for our first bar fight ever. A fight WE started because we told that man that we didn't like his cowboy boots but the real reason was because he was holding the arm of the girl next to him much too tight and her eyes were so sad that we thought we had never seen anyone so beautiful. Do you get what we have to do new past self? We have to smash the bathroom mirror and smile through the blood! We have to burn bridges, ACTUAL bridges and then lead the chase along cliff edges to it's eventual fiery end. Fiery end self! We must have a fiery end, because golden gauze . . . well . . .keerst"
That's all the journal said. I bought a bus ticket an hour ago.
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| Sitting in his cubicle he tried to make the sound of tree leaves beneath bike tires by humming and shifting stacks of audit reports back and forth. When he took his five and a half minute water break he imagined the swelling green silence at the bottom of the Mariana trench as he stared into the gurgling water cooler. When he stood in front of the copy machine for thirty five minutes collating he thought of the sun flashing through the slatted sides of a train rail car, that he would have hitched a ride on, with every photocopy flash of the machine's bulb. When he clocked out for the day his time card was the flick of a wrist twirling a matador's caper and the rush hour traffic was the thundering bulls of Pamplona.
The next day he was off from work. He made black coffee and ate dry toast. He stared blankly at the wall opposite the breakfast table for almost an hour before turning on the television.
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| Have you ever ridden your bike through a deserted neighborhood at 4 am
and felt the power lines humming expectantly overhead like bottled
thunderstorms? Each streetlight marking the darkness like green
underwater wells of light. The moment always seems pregnant with
potential. Like the sky and the night air are pressing down upon me
full of fecundity and promise. All I have to do is yell my ideas out
into the air to birth them into the world. | | |
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