Archive for the ‘Stories’ Category

Outlander #0 now on sale for $4

Saturday, March 1st, 2014

Dear all,

Please check out Outlander #0, which is now on sale for $4 standard and $4.50 variant. Your purchase will be gladly used towards the future adventures of our Native American hero as he confronts his destiny.

Please check it out here: http://bit.ly/1mLQpuz

Thank you all!

-TRZIV

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THE OUTLANDER #0 ON SALE NOW

Monday, January 13th, 2014

Ladies and germs, I implore you… please buy The Outlander #0…. you are truly missing out if you don’t check out his adventures…. it will change your life, and if you don’t spend $6 dollars now, you will not be able to see the preview to the next issue! So, do us all a favor, and help the get some demand in the economy by purchasing Outlander #0 now!

http://indyplanet.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=9390

The Outlander #0 NOW ON SALE!

Wednesday, January 8th, 2014

http://indyplanet.com/store/product_info.php?manufacturers_id=14602&products_id=9390

Please do check out a copy of The Outlander #0! Nino Cajayon and Dong Beniga Jr’s art is amazingly complimented by Marisa Brenizer, Noel Barrios and Mikko Cardenas’ colors… OF COURSE, we cannot forget the great Mindy Lopkin and her work on the book! Please do check this one out for the time and costly effort put into it! Thanks!

TRZ-OUTLANDER UNIVERSE!!!!

Monday, January 6th, 2014

And be sure to keep an eye on this link:

RIGHT HERE: http://indyplanet.com/store/index.php?manufacturers_id=14602

We have more comics coming…. when I mean more, I mean more…. including one with a variant by my friend Joao Baptista!

MORE EXCITING STUFF TO COME SOON!

The Outlander #0 VARIANT EDITION

Monday, January 6th, 2014

Ok folks… while the standard edition is the cooliest, you want the Stephen B. Scott variant! It is only $4 dollars more, and it is the most awesome to purchase. If you want to spare some extra change, make Steve Scott a proud man, and purchase his variant cover:

http://indyplanet.com/store/product_info.php?manufacturers_id=14602&products_id=9391

The Outlander #0— NOW AVAILABLE TO ORDER

Monday, January 6th, 2014

http://indyplanet.com/store/product_info.php?manufacturers_id=14602&products_id=9390

There’s the link. I am extremely proud of this, and this blog will also serve as a place people can find more about the behind the scenes of it all. I will post as many pencils, inks, character designs, etc as I can but first…..
BUY THE BOOK, PLEASE! Lots of hard work went into this zero issue to make it the best it could be…. so much, that it was delayed to get extra awesome quotes from Tony Gray, Phil Hester, Dirk Manning, Jimmy Palmiotti and Nick Defina…. some awesome names in comics. CHECK IT OUT!

From the Diary of JP Marquette

Tuesday, October 11th, 2011

This was a character I came up with, and it was interesting to integrate my experiences with his. Enjoy and comment.

FROM THE DIARY OF JP
MARQUETTE: May 10th, 20–

It was early morning when I woke up.
Sweat was dripping down my neck to my legs, and I seemingly felt like I had
panic attacks all through the night. I felt my heart racing for first place as
my eyes opened up. As the door to my eyes opened, I saw my bed sheet had been
twisted around. The night prior it was all tucked under the mattress, and all
was neat and form-fitted. Feeling the suddenness of the experience, I began to
think about a recent dream I had that night. I think that is where the entire
heart racing came from. My sister has a dog which my family adopts. We have no
other choice but to do so. If we do not adopt him, he goes to the dog pound,
and no one in my family has the heart to send a cute and innocent dog to the
perils of the treacherous dog pound.  She
is kicked out of her apartment for disturbing the peace as she refuses to quit
playing her music on loud volumes. The music’s vibrations irritate her
neighbors. Thus, it leads them to complain that my sister is terribly
insensitive to the needs of her communal residence. My parents are pretty
furious about this when they pick up the phone. The anger from my dad perspires
from his body as I watch him on the phone. My mother is on the other end of the
phone. She is just as mad. The expressions on their faces look like the >:o
or angry faces AOL made famous.

In
the dream state I found myself in, my sister’s dog has a twin dog, and our
normally friendly German-Shepherd does not look or at all act like himself. The
twin does not act like the friendly, gentle, and constantly kissing dog we have
either. They are two brown-furred dogs. I play with these dogs, and have fun
with them. However, they eventually transform into polar opposites of
themselves. They become evil, angry dogs. They start to “grrrr” at me
constantly. I become frightened for my life. Billy Joel stays relatively like
himself except his fangs grow out from his mouth like when he opens it to stir
fear in his prey. They are the size of elephant tusks. The twin of my dog Billy
Joel has fur covering his entire face, and only one of his eyes could be seen.
He looked like a dog version of a Cyclops. That adds to my constant fear as
they began to chase me because I began to leave as they “grrrred” at me. The
chasing causes my heart to race faster and faster as I realize how fast I am
running. A second later, the twin dog latches onto my right foot. His teeth are
like shark fangs, and he does not get off as I try to shake him loose like
seaweed off a fishing pole. As I try in peril, Billy Joel latches onto my left
leg with his fangs. I am unable to shake him off either as my chin crashes to
the ground like an asteroid hitting the earth.

I
immediately then wake up as my doom became prevalent in the dream. I was still
sweating when I recounted what had happened to myself. It did not make sense to
me, and, as I walked off to the shower, I could feel the continual terror still
in my veins. My body was shaking with fear. The dogs had gotten to me. The
damage was done. The dream would continue to haunt me the rest of that bright
and sunny day.

The Past

Tuesday, October 11th, 2011

The
Past

            As I stood there, I began to think
about how I had gotten to this eerie cemetery. Looking around at the many gray
gravel tombstones; some with angels and others with crosses; I realized my
actions had led to the creation of one of these. I had been having a rough time
at the steel mill, and my fat, hairy-chested boss would always complain about
something I was doing wrong. “JIMBO!!! Why are you doing it that way?” he would
ask me. His name was Robert Kantz, owner of Kantz Steel Inc. I had been with
the company for many years, and never gotten my share of the profits in my
paycheck. One day, I had discovered after a quite grueling day working that my
house was going into foreclosure. I had known that my mortgage payment had not
been what it should have been but I had been told by some nutty experts whose
name I got off of watching Stossel one night that it would be fine to not pay
it. They had strategic freeloaders on the documentary his show had put
together, and I thought it might work. However after I received my foreclosure
notice, I did research, and realized that I would have more of a chance of that
in California; not in Arkansas. My bouts of depression that night lead me to
Ol’ Billy’s, a sleazy cheap bar on the east end of Little Rock that you went to
if you wanted a cheap beer. That night, things got out of control with the bar
tender. I had gotten into a fight with him over telling him my issues. He did
not give a care in the world about my troubles, and said I should have done it.
I started getting quite roused with him prompting him to pull a gun on me. I
was not a stupid person, and realized I had to get rid of that gun. I quickly
punched ol’ Billy out, and took the gun from him. There had been a cop sitting
right down from me at the bar, and he saw I had knocked out ol’ Billy. I
quickly took the gun, and fired the trigger at him. Realizing what I had done,
I ran for it, took the gun, and quickly jumped in my car. I drove to the
Arkansas River, and threw the gun into it. It was a foggy night, and the drive
took me a half hour to get to the south bank of the river. My fear of my crime
that night had not evaporated with time. And now, I stand here in front of the
tomb of Officer Jack Williamson. I had taken his life; the image still stained
in my memory. The bullet entering his stomach as red, fruit-punch like blood
flowed out of the whole it made. I had been haunted by this since that night.
Now, the blood is covered by the wooden casket surrounding his body. My
conscience continues to cause my heart to beat as fast as a boat’s motor
speeding on a lake. I cannot escape its beat; the beat of justice it wants me
to accomplish. I am heralded by that feeling. It leads me to walk to the
downtown police station. I walk in, and go to the desk. I say to Officer Terry
Walker who is seated at the front about my sins. He understands, and puts the
handcuffs on me. I am taken to the nearest cell. I sit there while there is an
investigation into whether or not it is me. I anticipate they will find me
guilty. They will find DNA from my punching him when they match my fingerprints
up to it. I await my fate in this grimy old prison cell with rats and mice
running all around its dusty floors. The two men in the corner are my only
company. I wait for my salvation to come when I sit down in the chair, and I
feel the last spark of life enter and leave my body all at once.

The Hand

Tuesday, October 11th, 2011

The
Hand

            On a windy, misty, snowy mountain
sit a cabin of wooden logs and tells of the hard work of a family. Jim, the
old, white-haired but not frail father built this two years ago. He commanded
his young child Jimmy who would run to and fro at the speed of the Flash
getting logs. He worked out a lot at his local gym down the mountain. He would
take the tram down. Despite being remote, the family still communicated with
their small town down there. However, they limited themselves to just using the
gym to stay in shape for hunting. While Jimmy was 18, Billy was about 14. He
did work out but not as much as Jimmy, and got tired easily. He mostly sat on
the snow while Jim and Jimmy completed the house. Upon its completion, the
cabin did not have any snow on its roof. That would never be so again.

Inside
the cabin and near the fireplace, watching television is where Jim sought
solace and comfort in his old age. He often reminisced about the many animal
activism conferences he attended. He remembered his many years working for PETA
giving out pamphlets outside Barnes and Noble. “Ahh! The good old days,” he
would tell his children before he began telling them of one of his many feats
of glory working for the animal cause. In all his years, he had not budged on
his worldview that animals should be treated as human are treated. It was what
he felt back then.

Now against his wooded walls near his silver
staticky TV and sun filled fireplace, he counted down his last days. His kids
wondered about the logic of a fireplace in a wooden cabin. He said, “If you do
not take risks, you ain’t livin’.” Jim was right, and there had not been any
problems encountered. His two boys, mostly Jimmy, kept the house up and
running. Billy would often sleep, and watch TV with his father. Their father
did not care, but Jimmy did a little. He would always ask his father, “Why do I
have to do all the work, and Billy just sits there!!??” His father responded as
always, “Work it out amongst yourselves. I am an old man, and I do not have time
for this shit.” His father was not always vulgar but when push came to shove,
he would be vulgar to break up what he saw as childish complaining. Old Jim had
changed since those days back in the auto union. His faith in his activism
began to die overtime. He saw the people’s response to his activism. It was a
negative response he never intended for. During his protests, people would
label them as “PETA freaks.” He did not like being labeled, and felt the pain
of discrimination falling upon him. “I do not know if I should continue to do
this,” he often said to himself. The confusion led him to a place of deep
sorrow. This sorrow led the righteous and vigorous youth to an angry old man.
He decided he was done, and if his kids wanted to be labeled for being active,
they could do that.

To
Jimmy, it was a matter of justice, and he felt that he should be recognized for
his work. He felt his brother should be dealt with by his father because
despite the anger he felt, it was his father who had and continues to provide
for him His brother was uncaring as to the opinion his brother had of him.
Jimmy always wondered if he did not receive that from their father. The
influence of being around their father often made Jimmy wonder about that
possibility. The two boys never had any other siblings, and their mother and
father were divorced at an early age. Their mother saw their father’s anger
coming on as his PETA activism failed him. She could not put up with his rants.
“I do not understand why people do not get it!!!” he would scream at night in
the bathroom as he showered. He often showered at night waking his wife up. His
hours were always running him until late at night. So, he had no other choice
especially since he did not like to sleep without having a good shower. He
could not stand sweat being on his body when he wanted to relax.  On a quite normal day, the family got up, and
did their routine. Jim and Billy went for the tube, and Jimmy went for the
vacuum. The boys did not attend school but worked for their father. However,
Jimmy was really the only one working. The two others complained about the
noise but always got over it.

It was 10 am when they heard the knock. It
sounded like a mini earthquake. The vibrations of the knock were felt across
the wall. The chairs Jim and Billy sat on were up against the wall, and their
necks felt those vibrations of the continuous second by second banging on the
door. The vibrations made the two aware of the event. “WHAT’S THAT NOISE,” they
both exclaimed at the same time. The knocking went silent. Their loud anger
caused reactions from Jimmy and the mysterious stranger knocking. So much so
was it felt by the knocker that they continued as before. It continued
perilously in his pursuits in hopes of an answer. It became angrier and angrier
it seemed to the three males as they assumed it was becoming impatient.
Eventually, it broke a whole in the door where its hand became visible to the
others. It was very hairy, and the individual fingers could barely be made out.
The hand moved back outside the hole in the door. The knocking commenced
again.

Jimmy
was the only one concerned. The other two were back watching a football game on
ESPN. Jimmy found this pretty disappointing; that he was the only one taking
this whole crisis seriously. There was a shotgun that lay up against the
fireplace. Jimmy never used it before. His dad was the one who always used it
in case of any problems. However, Jimmy saw that his father was rather
unwilling but not incapable of using it this time around. It was long with a
double gauge and silver paint all across it except for the trigger and ammo. It
was in great condition for sitting near a fireplace that would normally melt
different features of it away. It had not done so in all its time lying up against
the fireplace that melted the boys’ grandfather’s copy of the Mona Lisa. Jimmy
grabbed the gun quickly. He aimed its silvery gun hole at the opening created
by the thing that had been knocking on their door. He shot the first bullet as
the silver pustule came out of the barrel, and flew through it. It was a pretty
quick process.

“OOOWWWROORRR”
was the response of the thing outside. Jim and Billy again chimed in. “WHAT THE
HELL IS GOING ON THIS TIME,” they both exclaimed at the same time. Jimmy tried
to explain what he was doing. They did not hear him out, and immediately upon
his talking went back to watching the game. It was a Detroit Lions v. Chicago Bears,
and Jim grew up in Chicago. So, you had the fandom of the Lions that was still
present in this family despite the Lion’s terrible record, and you had the
older respect for the Bears. After Jim left Chicago, the family moved to
Chicago. Ford had transferred him there, and when he retired, he moved up to
northern Canada with his kids. They did not necessarily want to leave but the
father forced them. They had finished high school but never attended college
because of their location in the mountains and their need to help their father.
His age was making him weaker along with his anger, and he began to ache when
he moved. The boys decided not to make him do too much. However, that only
became Jimmy’s duty after awhile. Jimmy had found it useless to take part in as
the house’s smell grew from the lack of cleaning and the dishes began to pile
up. The house began to smell like rotten eggs, and the dishes started to
accumulate bugs flying around and crawling on the plates. It looked like a
party had begun in the family’s sink.

As
Jimmy continued shooting, the same response would come with the creature going,
“OWWWROOOR,” and the two lazy beings going, “WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!!???” Upon
his third shot, Jimmy heard someone’s feet banging away on the ground. He was
nervous but took the chance of looking outside the whole created by the thing.
He saw a dark shadow silhouetted against what seemed to be blizzard. It was
running away. Jimmy took one more shot to make sure it would not bother them
again. However, he could not be certain of that happening again. As he plugged
up the hole in the door to prevent snow from coming in, he realized that he was
not alone up here. He would have to be the one to defend his father and his
brother. They themselves were curious of what it was after the game was over
when they all spoke at dinner. However, none of the three men could come to any
conclusion. It baffled them all, and would continue to perplex them for years
to come.

So,
as the years went by, Jimmy sat at the door daily; waiting for the thing to
come back; ready and waiting to protect his house. The others understood what
he was doing but still found him strange. “You know he ain’t comin’ back,” his
father would say. “Why do you continue to do this?” his brother would ask him.
These questions were disheartening to him because all he was trying to do was
guard the house. However, he came to the conclusion that most heroes had to put
up with this stuff. As the years went on, Jimmy sat there daily. It became his
mission; his quest; his glory. It became his duty. He sat there, and did not
care if he ever gained recognition for protecting his family. He did not care
about his father and brother’s attitudes towards his choice to do so. He was
protecting his family, and that was enough solace and comfort he sought in his
choice.

The Darkness

Tuesday, October 11th, 2011

This is a short story I wrote, and the beginnings of my many posts of my short stories. Enjoy and comment.

The Darkness

      Everyday, it is the same thing. My
eyes awake to the orange glowing sun shining its bright light into my average
and plain room. The room itself is full of my Batman, Public Enemies, James
Bond, and Dwight Schrute posters. They are not revealed until the light from
the sun comes in. The first instance I see as my eyes open like a door opening
to a store is the faces of these men. They are determined continue on in their
lives regardless of what comes their way. They are prepared to get the job
done. As the image of these men stare back at me, the thoughts they represent
come back to my mind. Bruce Wayne lost his parents, and devoted his entire life
to fighting the criminal element of his city that took them from him as his
alter ego Batman. Melvin Purvis is determined to find and arrest John Dillinger
in order to obey orders even though, he may have second thoughts about
Dillinger’s guilt or not. James Bond partakes in the delights in life to cover
up his past of losing a loved one which pushes him forward to fight for queen
and country. Dwight Schrute is constantly ridiculed by his fellow office
workers but continues on to do what he thinks/feels is right. My sense of self
is increased as I think about what they mean to me. “I continue on,” is what I
am always saying to myself.

“I always see the kid,” I tell
people. The poor guy is never with anyone else. He is always by himself. I live
near his apartment, and I feel for the guy. Since the damn auto union stripped
me of my uniform and my tools, I have been living outside of the apartment
building on Main and South Streets. It is not too bad a place to live with the
white painted building that is slowly fading away with age. Now, it looks like
a cake; with all the different ingredients adding different colors to it. Or
does it look like a piece of garbage. “I am losing my mind,” I tell the same
folk walkin’ by. They say to me, “You’re crazy,” and I tell ‘em right back:
“You’re prolly right!” The kid though. He seems to be a lonely kid. I wonder
what’s wrong with the ol’ chap. I was groovin’ and swingin’ back in his time
prior to the war. Oh man! Did I ever have a good time?

My plight is more than I can bear
sometimes. My morning usually consists of my slowly moving out of bed. I am
like a train whose motor has engine problems. That is often the case with me. I
have to get myself to the place as quick as possible like the train having to
get its passengers to their stop. My stop is my desk. I pull out my huge
notebook full of papers like an overstuffed sandwich. I open to the subject I
have work in. That’s where my hell begins. The fires seam from my paper. My
hands start to hurt really badly: “Ow!!” I can feel the pain emanating from it.
I immediately put them down. “Feew!!” I say; relieving myself of them. I have
to sometimes step away from doing my work in the morning. If I do it long
enough, I experience similar pains that would occur if my paper was actually on
fire. As I think to myself, that is just another way that I continue on.

“What does that kid do up in that
room in the mornin’?” I always ask myself that. I lay on a bunch of trash bags
near my dumpster just thinkin’. I assume he is doin’ somethin’ up there but who
knows. Either he is one hell of a worker or he is avoidin’ social contact!!
“What is up with him?” “Is he depressed or somethin’?” “Does he have no
friends?” I mean; I am merely a homeless man askin’ these questions but will
any of em’ get me out of this dump? Prolly not. I ain’t tellin’ the cops nuttin
though because they will find out I am livin’ here, and get rid a’ me. I can
let that happen. Now, I know I stink but I wonder if I walked up to him and
asked him……..

After finishing my homework, I
usually get up from my desk, and make sure I have all my stuff packed in my green
North Face bag. I rush to make sure all my stuff is in the bag like a bagger at
your local grocery store. I swiftly move like an ice skater to gather all my
things if I do not have such. If I am missing something, I search everywhere
like a detective for a dead body. After all that, I move outside. Opening my
door brings me into a hellish environment. I make my trek down the stairs as
the doors of people mock me. They mostly mock me later at night. As I pass by
them, I exit out into the fires of hell. My feet burn as I continue to walk. As
I walk, the devil is all around me. He mocks me through the other students.
They laugh and stare. I move on. As I always do. Because as I say to myself:
“It isn’t worth it.”

So, I finally see the kid come out.
He’s goin’ somewhere. I panic. I say to myself “Should I go or not???” I answer
myself with yes. So, I am walkin’ up. My raggedy pans drag on the group as
flies fly around me. I look Pigpen from the Peanuts. I say to the kid: “Hey;
you alright kid?” He immediately begins to run. He heads towards some circular
building in the middle of this campus. I have no idea what it is. But he begins
to run. Instantly, I says to myself: “Do I really smell that bad?” I mean do I
really smell that bad!!?? I actually do not know. My nose has been stuffy since
I began livin’ in alley ways, and I for the love of me cannot smell anythin’.
Prolly due to my allergies. Used to be able to take meds for ‘em. That is when
I had money. Have no money no more. No place. No home…….

So, I am walking up to the Willis
Center, and some homeless man who looks like the Hunchback of Notre Dame comes
up to me. His pieced together English becomes apparent as he says to me: “Hey;
you alright kid?” I immediately run for my life. I am scared of homeless men,
and assume they are going to kill me. I have seen enough movies, and read
enough books where the fate of the innocent kid is death by a knife or gun. I
want to believe they are innocent people but I always say to myself: “It is
better to be alive than dead.” Anyways. I was able to arrive there on time.
Thank God!! Willis has lots of security. So, crazy homeless men can’t come up
to me, and ask: “How are ya doin’, sonny?” Yah. I am safe from there
strangeness. I was already running up the stairs as sweat began to stain my
clothes. I noticed the sweat in my hair and on my face as I got to room 203 on
the second floor of the building. Lucky enough, there were no homeless men
teaching or studying in my class that day.

“Boy!! Is that kid fast!!” I say to
myself right after I see the kid race like he was bein’ chased by Mike Myers
from Halloween!! I mean seriously. He was like that Barry Allen from The
Flash comics I read as a kid. Dang! He was really quick! I get why the kid
didn’t wanna speak to me but he ran as if I had a gun or somethin’!! “Sheesh!!”
I say to myself. I was just tryin’ to reach out the boy but I guess that is
someone else’s job, eh? It was worth a shot on my part I guess to try it out.
He seems like a sensible young lad but I do not know why he would pass up
gettin’ to make a friend. Of course, the fact that I may be a little wack may
be the reason for that……..

Finally, I just got out of a four
hour class. Yah. Most classes at this school are only about an hour or two but
this one was a unique one. Scientology and its Impact on Hollywood. That’s my
English class which sort of crosses-over with history as well. It was strange
when I first saw it that it would be four hours of listening to the blabber of
Scientology but it makes sense regarding the subject matter. In addition to
that, it is only once a week. Every Tuesday is when it is. Anyways. I make my
way back to my room at this time of day. It is around 5’o-clock. I make my way
back to my apartment as I watch the devil again try to tempt me. The people
around me continually mock me. I have to try my hardest especially after a long
day not to give in. I was fine earlier but after a four hour class, things seem
to change for my attitudes. I finally am back, and walk up the old decrepit
stairs. With their fading brown paint, I begin walking. As I continue up, I am
mocked by the doors of others. Some have their lights on, and are obviously
doing something. They choose not to invite me which is more than a mock
sometimes. But what should we expect from the devil who wishes to make my life
a living hell? My answer: “Nothing.” “That’s why I move on,” I am always
telling myself. You have to ignore those things and move on with your life.

So, I decides to give myself one
more shot at bein’ friends with this guy. Someone opens his apartment door
where I walk in. I says: “I am the new renter!” There was a new apartment for
rent. So, peoples thought dat was me. I found the directory to where his room
was. It was in an old black binder at the front desk. Strange that dey got a
front desk at the front. Never did during my time in my apartment back den. I
sees he is on the second floor. I makes my way up d’ere, and knock on his door.
He has a peephole. So, I take my bandaged, raggy finger, and place it on the
peephole. That way he can’t sees me. I knock with my other hand. “Who is it?”
he says. I says to him: “Just a friend.” He has never heard my voice before.
So, he would be unable to identifies me. He opens the door.  Now, I gives him the chance. I ask him: “Are
you alright, kid? Do want a friend?”