He signed up because he needed the money. They recruited him because they needed a wizard after what had happened to the last one. It was their job to keep humans out of The Enchanted Forest. Every day, the big folk pressed a little further into the woods. Their machines did a bit more damage. They all knew it was time to get out. They also knew that there was nowhere left to run. But he was a wizard, and doing the impossible was his business. He got them through the portal and never told them what it cost him.
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When her grandfather died, everyone whispered about who would inherit his fortune, but all he left her was his china collection. The plates were beautiful, but she couldn’t help but feel disappointed. The thing was, nobody else seemed to inherit the fortune, either. In time, the whispers quieted, and the family concluded that he must have spent all his money. One day, she broke a saucer and tried to find a replacement. But there was no maker’s mark on the back, and when she looked closely, the red-painted pastoral patterns were all different. Her grandfather had left her a map.
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When the explorers came to trade their hard metals for practical things like food and medicine, we knew what they really wanted. We had seen what became of our neighbors, and contrary to their opinions, we weren’t stupid. We traded with them but said little. And we made sure they saw the wonders of our land, especially the Far Valley. When the explorers saw the fertile soil and gorgeous views, they had to take it for themselves. We didn’t warn them about of the dragon that slept beneath the hills, due to soon awaken from his hundred years of sleep.
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He looked up and saw the symbol piercing the darkness of the night: An eldritch mark of light and shadow reflected and projected to every corner of the city. It was a symbol of madness but also the truth. It was a rejection of the comforting lies of sanity and an acceptance of the bleak, vast universe as it was. Everyone in the city who saw the symbol knew what it meant. It was a call to action and a call for help. It was his symbol, and he raced into action when he saw it. The city needed Cthulhu-Man!
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When you hang a warlock, you stick around to make sure he’s dead. We hung the bastard at noon and sat three nights with the body in case he was playing opossum. We sat around the fire and told stories, keeping an eye on the corpse and occasionally poking it with a brand. “Alright, fellas, let’s mosey,” I said on the third dawn. We doused the fire and packed our horses. The rest of the posse hit the trail, but I hid behind the hanging tree and waited. I was the only one who heard the corpse sigh in relief.
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She leaned heavily on her cane as she searched her way through the labyrinth of a garden. The Pool of Calm Reflection was somewhere in this maze of hedges. She had searched for the fabled pool for years, hunting for it across an entire lifetime. And now she was here, even if her sight had dimmed and her joints ached. She looked down at her reflection, as clear and still as a mirror in the silvery water. A wind passed over the surface, but the image didn’t waver. She smiled. She had done it! And then she felt herself ripple.
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Waller Vs. Wildstorm #1 Written by Spencer Ackerman & Evan Narcisse Drawn by Jesus Merino with Vicente Cifuentes Colored by Michael Atiyeh Published by DC Comics
The Skinny: Cold War spy craft meets ’90s superhero excess in this unique miniseries. I’m the biggest fan of DC’s Black Label comics. I found previous comics in the line oversized, overpriced, and all too often reliant on shock value and gimmickry rather than their story. (See Batman: Damned for more hot tea on Batman’s junk) But Waller Vs. Wildstorm is a book that I have been looking forward to, and it did not disappoint. Written by famed political journalist Spencer Ackerman, and Evan Narcisse, the book is a taut reimagining of Checkmate, one of the DC universe’s metahuman government organizations, as a late Cold War-era spy agency, doing shadowy deeds in war-torn proxy states. But with super-powers. The whole issue serves as a framing device, with Stormwatch leader Battalion meeting cub reporter Lois Lane in the hotel bar of one of DC’s many fictional third-world countries. He is trying to get her to dig into the past of a black site operative who is gaining control of Checkmate, an ambitious young woman named Amanda Waller. My background with the Wildstorm universe and Stormwatch is spotty, having only picked up the books during The Authority and having seen little of the line’s reinvention as a part of the already overly stuffed DC Universe. But this issue gave me the relevant information without needing a degree in DC lore or becoming too much of an information dump. This issue serves primarily as an introduction to the story and universe, so I’m interested in where the book goes from here. Jesus Merino’s art is showcased by the DC Black Label large print size, and looks absolutely gorgeous paired with Cifuentes’s inks and Atiyeh’s rich, vibrant colors. The more grounded, serious story really pops against the colorful era-accurate designs for these ’90s heroes. Waller Vs. Wildstorm is a prestige miniseries being released episodically from DC Black label. The first issue is available now digitally through Comixology, or in print at Your Local Comics Shop. If you are in the mood for some late Cold-War nostalgia, or want a superhero comic with a bit more bite to it, I recommend you give it a look!
Like many of the city’s residents, she enjoyed feeding the herd of tame deer living in the park. A small cottage industry had grown up around tourists coming to feed the creatures, and the deer had grown quite fat and happy with the arrangement. Today she had attracted quite a herd, and they had practically pressed her up against a tree in their zeal for deer biscuits. In horror, she felt her fingers graze the bottom of the empty bag. The impassible herd of deer stared at her, bleating hungrily. Days later, all the police found were her gnawed bones.
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From the aft deck of the ship, she watched the railroad bridge come down behind them and a freight train speed along not ten seconds later. “That was a close call,” she said to her companion. “How so?” He asked. “Imagine if the boat had been a minute late or that train a minute early.” He scoffed. “You should have a little faith. We are in good hands, and everything works as it should.” “I suppose so,” she said and watched the houses pass by on the green hillside. High above them, the child was getting bored with his models.
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She heard the soft, hissing tick of clockwork somewhere close by. The sound faded in and out as though someone was holding a watch close to her ear, then removing it. She dismissed the distraction. Doctor Syncopal would make his move soon. She felt a prick on the back of her neck. She slapped at the irritant, and the tiny machine, a replica of a mosquito in gears and cogs, tumbled into her hand. The glass bulb at the back was half-full. So it was poison then, the coward. She reached for her auto-pistol. It was time for the showdown.
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Hugh J. O'Donnell 