Regrouping

Having made exactly zero progress on further illustrations to story no. 15, I ended up looking more closely at existing sketches, and have decided they are crap ('cept for the one of the Pillbox Tavern), crap I say!

So I'm turning to the next available blank page and starting over with better ideas.

(Above: incomplete pic of Deadbeat - not nearly degenerate and loathsome enough)

~d.d.

Sketches

Should make some good progress during lunch today.

-d.d.

the slow progress

illustrating story no. 15, 'Eastside Transversal,' continues at a totally slogging pace. But results, nonetheless...



The pillbox tavern!

A big barricade I keep running into is that I keep forgetting to pack some older character sketches/studies in my pack, and then when its lunch I open my current sketchbook and realize I forgot them. This issue features first-appearances by Sling and Creep, drawing of both feature bodies with no heads cause I can't remember obscure details of what they're supposed to look like.

I think the title of the 2nd part, story no. 16, is gonna be something-Thunderbolt-something.

Pencils down!

The wordcrafting for SHARED HOUSING stories 15 and 16 is complete! Well, 16 still needs a few closing sentences, but that's easy work at this point.

Here's the opening paragraph for No. 15, Eastside Transversal:

With a combination of relief and dread, Sling greets the familiar noises of further customers opening the heavy steel-plated front door of the Pillbox Tavern. Sling nods at the guys from the house called High Style, all squinty as they adjust to the dim lighting. The 'Box is entirely lit by neon beer signs, a regular light bulb nowhere to be seen. The squints give way to movements floaty and lazy, the first steps of a well-practiced and beloved dance.

And here's the opener from No. 16 (yet untitled):

In every corner, every pothole, every nook, every gutter, every storm drain of the streets of the Packing District, bits and pieces and scraps of paper and cardboard were accumulated like the unmelted remnants of a snow storm after the thaw. And they breathed. Even with the weakest of breezes, they shuffled and somersaulted from one side of the street to the other, tried to levitate up the side of buildings on gusty thermals, or sprinted down the avenues and out into the surrounding districts and wards. A grumbling delivery truck left a good half dozen flurries in its wake. El Humidor cursed and picked paper flecks from his bloodstained pants.

I think I started writing this in August, and its the longest piece of fiction I've ever written. Personal and work life stuff just kept severely limiting my time so it took forever. By a complete stroke of luck, C.Collision's new story (no. 17), finished just two weeks earlier, fits perfectly as following these two stories. So I'm pretty excited to stop writing and start drawing - lots of drawing!

After all of that, maybe we'll try to get Book Two, compiling issues 7-12, together.

-d.d.

like a sloppy hook sliding into your tongue

Tinzeroes is proceeding apace on his latest multi-part epic.

Volume 2 is breathing hard, rhythmically, and its chest is flushed. Pupils dilated. Heart beating ever faster.

My own works proceed, as we know, more in sits and farts fits and starts. However, to prove that I've been working, I present to you:

The First Line of the Next Collision-Penned Issue of

Super! Hero! Shared! Housing!

"Where once she seemed to waft, now only chunder hurtles." MudMan's illustrative hand dawdled like a butterfly, then plunged like a hawk, flinging beery droplets & foam across the living room.

Fuck. Yes.