Dark Discoveries #16 - Comics! Pulps!
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DESCRIPTIONOur take on the phenomenon that is comic books and an homag to the pulps! Brimming with art and content! Get it NOW!! Also, an O'Bannon Tribute, as well as interviews galore!
<ul><li><p>1</p><p>Issue 16, WINTER/Issue 16, WINTER/SPRING 2010SPRING 2010</p><p>$8.99 U.S./$10.99 CAN$8.99 U.S./$10.99 CAN</p><p>File un-</p><p>der: Film, </p><p>Comic, </p><p>Special In-terest</p></li><li><p>33333</p><p>Winter/Spring 2010Issue Number 16</p><p>www.DarkDiscoveries.com</p><p>Winter/Spring 2010Issue Number 16</p><p>wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww........DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiissssssssssssssssscccccccccccccccccooooooooooooooooovvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrriiiiees.com</p><p>Publisher/Editor-in-ChiefJames R. Beach</p><p>Art Director/Managing EditorJason V Brock</p><p>Design and LayoutJaSunni Productions, LLC</p><p>(www.JaSunni.com)_________</p><p>ContributorsJames R. BeachPaul G. Bens, Jr.Jason V Brock</p><p>Sunni K Brock (+Web Mistress)Sarah L. Covert</p><p>Cody GoodfellowWilliam F. NolanWeston Ochse</p><p>R.B. PayneFrank M. RobinsonWilliam Simmons</p><p>William StoutKaye Vincent</p><p>ContributingArtists/Photographers</p><p>Leslie Barany (pg. 32-33)Jason V Brock </p><p>Lee Christian (pg. 34)Al Feldstein</p><p>Brian Komm (Cover/Comic Adaptation)Kitty Maer (pg. 53, 55)William Stout (pg. 35)</p><p> Ryszard Wojtynski (pg. 32-33)</p><p>Special Thanks Leslie BaranyJoyce Beach</p><p>Darren G. DavisAl FeldsteinH.R. Giger</p><p>Shawna GoreBeverly Hartley </p><p>Steve NilesDiane OBannon</p><p>Frank M. RobinsonWilliam StoutThe Estate of Hugh B. CaveThe Folks at</p><p>Dark Horse andBluewater ComicsRobert Williams</p><p>For Dan OBannon and April Brock:You are loved, and will be missed...</p><p>PrintingB & B Print Source</p><p>(with veg-based inks) _____________________</p><p>DARK DISCOVERIES (ISSN 1548-6842) is published quarterly (Spring: April 30th, Summer: July 31st, Autumn: October </p><p>31st and Winter: January 31st) by James R. Beach and Dark Discoveries Publications, 142 Woodside </p><p>Drive, Longview, WA 98632</p><p>Copyright 2009 and beyond by Dark Discoveries Publications, and where specified elsewhere in the issue. All rights refer to the authors upon </p><p>publication. Nothing shown can be reproduced without obtaining written permission from the </p><p>creators. All book/mag. cover images remain the copyrighted property of their respective owners. </p><p>Direct all inquiries, address changes, submission queries,subscription orders and </p><p>changes, etc. to:</p><p>James R. BeachDark Discoveries Publications</p><p>142 Woodside DriveLongview, WA 98632 U.S.A.</p><p>e-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org</p><p>Please make check or money order payable to: James R. Beach or Dark Discoveries Publications. </p><p>Advertising rates available. Discounts for bulk and standing retail orders.</p><p>fictionfictionMarvelina 9by R.B. Payne </p><p>The Beheld 14by Paul G. Bens, Jr.</p><p>Big Rock Candy Mountain 23by Weston Ochse</p><p>Night of the Katzenjammers (Comic Adaptation) 48by Cody Goodfellow (Writer) and Brian Komm (Artist)</p><p>interviewsinterviewsFrank M. Robinson: Collector, Humanitarian 20by Jason V Brock</p><p>Weston Ochse: Blazing Glory 21by James R. Beach</p><p>Al Feldstein: MADly Yours 30by Jason V Brock</p><p>Shawna Gore: Dark Horse and Creepy 42by James R. Beach</p><p>Hugh B. Cave: Last of the Pulpsters 45by William Simmons</p><p>Steve Niles: Architect of Fear 53by Sarah L. Covert</p><p>Darren G. Davis: On the Run with Bluewater Comics 57by Kaye Vincent</p><p>non-fictionnon-fictionDan OBannon: Imagination Brought to Life (A Tribute and Poster) 32by William Stout, Robert Williams, Jason V Brock, William F. Nolan</p><p>Back from The Edge 37by Sunni K Brock</p><p>The Horror of It All! (EC and Its Lasting Influence) 38by Jason V Brock</p><p>Dark Matters - Max Brands Darker Side 56by William F. Nolan</p><p>Post-Crypts - Bleak History; Blood Will Have Its Season (DD Reviews) 59by DD Staff</p></li><li><p>1313</p><p>crashing into his partner. They tumbled into a pile of garbage.Herbert scooped Marvelina into his palm and ran. His artifi cial legs groaned and clanked in the cold air. He watched the ground </p><p>as he lurched toward the alley entrance.Bill and Jimmy were shouting but he couldnt hear them.Run! Watch your step! Keep your balance. How far?Forty steps! Forty steps to the alley entranceThe black uniforms stood and pulled out their nightsticks.Thirty-fi ve. The uniforms ran after Herbert. ThirtyTwenty-fi veTwentyHerbert looked over his shoulder. They would have him before he reached the alley entrance. He stopped.As he opened his hand Marvelina stood. He gently bent her wing straight. She fl utt ered, rose into the air, and landed back on his </p><p>palm.You have to go. Herbert gently touched her with his fi nger. I love you Marvelina! I love you Herbert! Always Marvelina slipped from her pink dress and, naked, fl ew upwards. Herbert watched until she disappeared into the snow clouds. From behind, a black uniform tackled him and they crashed to the ground. The other uniform kicked his face. It split Herberts </p><p>lip and a bone cracked. He leaked blood into the snow as the world spun around him. The uniforms smashed him against a brick wall. Herbert slid into a heap.</p><p>Leave him, hes a wino, said a black uniform. Well be back tomorrow, said the other, you bett er be fucking gone!In the afternoon, it began to snow again.Smelly Bill and Jimmy the Chaser headed downtown to hustle up some wine and fi nd a new place to live.Herbert lay against the brick wall. He had cried until he could cry no more. He rose and painfully dusted off a layer of fresh </p><p>snow dott ed with frozen blood. He touched his swollen face: He was hurt, but he would heal.Herbert gathered his violin, straightened his coat, and ran his fi ngers through his hair. Taking a last look at the alley, he headed </p><p>uptown.Things would be bett er now. In his pocket was a neatly folded pink dress.She had been so beautiful</p></li><li><p>1414</p><p>by Paul G. Bens, Jr.The Beheld</p><p>He watches.That is what he does.</p><p>It is what he has always done.It drives him.</p><p>Consumes him.Invades him.Defi nes him.</p><p>He is a Beholder and the beauty he fi nds through his eyes is his and his alone.</p><p>From dawn until dusk, as they walk from building to building carrying their daily burdens, he does nothing but watch. He stands amongst them. Walks beside them. Speaks of them; seldom to them. He is their shadow, nothing more, ghosting their every move through the long, suff ocating days of summer, as close as their breath in the achingly brutal winters. He hears their sighs, but cares not; sees their tears, but does not pity; knows when they have found the tiniest morsel of humor in their daily lives, yet never laughs. He knows not a single name; doesnt care to, for they really dont matt er. They are objects. Nothing more. Nothing less. He need only do what he does best. And so he does.</p><p>He sits upon a cold mound of dirt, a glorious harvest moon hanging wraithlike in a Van Gogh night, and he sucks upon a cigarett e, struggling to draw warmth from its pitiful ember as a bracing, autumn wind spiders down his spine. They are but a short distance away, over the rise upon which he sits, and he can just make them out in the moonlight. They are as naked as the day they came into the world, each and every one of them, and they lay with one another, entwined in each others arms, part and parcel of each others soul. Long hair drapes over bosoms, some full of the milk of motherhood, others petite and beautiful. Lips press against one another, hands sneak into warm, private places, tongues loll over thick, veined...</p><p>He shudders, turns away, trying not to look at the men. To him they are spindly, weak things, those men. Not strong. Not virile. They are nothing, nothing like him. Or so he believes. He plucks an errant bit of tobacco from his tongue, rolls it between his fi ngers and wipes it on his trousers as he looks to a sky pocked with stars, shimmering like crystals in the night. His lips crook into a waggish smile as he tries to count them all, but he cannot avert his eyes for long. They are always drawn to the fl esh of the women. The women... with their birdlike fi ngers, arching backs, open legs, and the dewy, musky patches that lay between them.</p><p>He hears a shout, far in the distance, and the dull hum of engines traveling roughshod down a decaying, ruddy road. He stands quickly, a thieving child or a cheating lover, and scans the horizon, listening carefully, assuring himself that he is alone. Soon the cries sett le and the trucks vanish into the haunting night. It is peaceful again; even the soft lull of the crickets has vanished for the impending season. The only sound is the quiet shush of the river from whence they draw their water and in which he had bathed countless times throughout his youth. It calms him. He breathes in the britt le night air, relishes the sweet, tarry scent of evergreen, tastes the acrid smoke of nearby chimneys upon his tongue. Slowly, he sits again on his perch, removes his gloves, and blows warmth into his naked hands.</p><p>He looks again towards the sky as clouds thick with the new season drift across the moon, throwing ominous shadows across the countryside. Winter is coming. He watches as his breath drifts away from him, lights another cigarett e and pulls his coat around him snuggly as his eyes fall once again to them, to their nakedness. Guardedly he moves his hand between his legs. </p><p>Hes watched them for so long, he can hardly remember when it all started, when he saw the fi rst of them with their soft, doe-like eyes. It was in the sauna. Yes, that was it. In the showers. It had to be a year ago, perhaps even two. He knew instantly that all he had heard was true, that these women were all the same, predictable, common. Each one of them shivered and shook--at fi rst--and their eyes invariably darted from one to another, as if seeking tenderness or safety or absolution. Perhaps even a plea for permission lay hidden behind those dark, huge eyes. It was diffi cult to tell, for they were beguilingly pure in their modesty. Their delicate hands trembled as they struggled to hide the wide, brown of their areolas; their fi ngers splayed over their sex as if they were ashamed for what they were about to do. But then the rivulets came, caressed their bosom like icy tongues, tickled their nipples erect, cascaded over the gentle rises of their butt ocks. They soaped themselves, quickly at fi rst, and then almost languorously, their fi ngers skimming over their most vulnerable places.</p><p>The fi rst few times their hands slid lower, The Beholders face would fl ush and his crotch would throb with the beat of his racing heart. Mesmerized, he waited, praying that they would do it. That they would rub their fi ngers between their milky thighs, push the tips </p></li><li><p>373737</p><p> How many living legends can you cram into one small bookstore on a Saturday afternoon? An amazing number, it turns out.</p><p>Saturday, February 20th, 2010 saw legendary writers alongside up-and-comers at the mega-signing event for The Bleeding Edge anthology at Mystery and Imagination bookstore in Glendale, California. Editors (and contributing authors) William F. Nolan (Logans Run; he had just received a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Horror Writers Association) and Jason V Brock (Charles Beaumont: The Twilight Zones Magic Man), hosted the event in cooperation with book shop owners, Malcolm and Christine Bell. </p><p>Brock had earlier dedicated the gathering to the memory of Dan OBannon (Alien), who contributed to the book and was scheduled to att end the signing before his untimely passing in December 2009. In his stead, his wife, Diane, chatt ed with all of the writers and the store had a portrait up in his honor.</p><p>In att endance were authors Ray Bradbury, George Clayton Johnson, John Shirley, Earl Hamner, John Tomerlin, Cody Goodfellow, James Robert Smith, and Lisa Morton. Appearances were also made by John Skipp (The Light at the End), Pete Atkins (Clive Barkers A-Z of Horror), Dennis Etchison (The Dark Country), Paul G. Bens (Kelland), Paul J. Salamoff (Logans Run: Lastday), and many other writers and Hollywood insiders. Although Richard Matheson (I Am Legend) was unable to att end due to an illness, he received birthday greetings via a phone call.</p><p>The event was a huge success, both in sales (nearly 100 copies of The Bleeding Edge were sold!) and excitement (by estimates, over 300 people). It was covered by Famous Monsters of Filmland, and the local newspapers. John King Tarpinian kept the crowd in line with threats of Soylent Green! for those who didnt keep the order. Fans were lined up out the door and down the block to get their copies inscribed, as author/fan Paul G. Bens became a volunteer crowd controller, noting that the Fire Marshall was concerned about the throngs of eager patrons jammed into Mystery and Imagination. James Beach, the publisher of Dark Discoveries, was also assisting with crowd control and mingling with the authors and fans.</p><p>The Bleeding Edge has been called A Landmark Anthology by the genre press, and certainly this was a landmark signing. Ray Bradbury wore his Medal of Arts and Lett ers from the country of France and signed for over two hours while warmly greeting his fans. Best known for Fahrenheit 451, The Martian Chronicles, and Dark Carnival, Ray invited everyone to att end his musical, Wisdom 2116 playing in Pasadena that evening.</p><p>Many fans also lined up to see Norman Corwin (On a Note of Triumph), the radio great and a contemporary of Orson Welles. The 99-year-old was chipper as ever and also signed copies of his book, Thirteen by Corwin. </p><p>George Clayton Johnson, co-author of Logans Run, as well as writer of several episodes of The Twilight Zone, and the fi rst Star Trek original series episode to be aired, sat next to Corwin. The self-proclaimed Dog Without a Collar greeted enthusiasts with vigor, and signed with his trademark doodle and dated copyright.</p><p>John Shirley, whose contribution entailed a ghost that follows a family home from a Costco, was equally inundated with fans. Readers also snatched up Shirleys novel, Bleak History, to get autographed copies. </p><p>Co-editor Jason V Brock rounded out the authors at the front of the store. Fans and colleagues congratulated him on the fi ne book, his editorial debut - and the overwhelming success of the event.</p><p>There were so many authors at the event (over 14 including surprise guests), that an additional line was formed for more writers to be seated in the second fl oor of the store. Upstairs, Jasons longtime friend James Robert Smith, whose novel, The Flock, has been optioned by Don Murphy for a future summer tent pole movie release, was blown away by the number of people. Cody Goodfellow (Perfect Union) and Lisa Morton (The Castle of Los Angeles) were equally astonished by the turn out and the company they were keeping.</p><p>Earl Hamner (The Twilight Zone, The Waltons, Falcon Crest) enthusiastically penned his name and chatt ed with numerous afi cionados in his warm Southern drawl. John Tomerlin, who wrote The Twilight Zones classic, Number Twelve Looks Just Like You, signed alongside William F. Nolan. This is the biggest signing Ive ever att ended for a single book! exclaimed Nolan. Tomerlin concurred, adding that his hand hurt from signing so many times.</p><p>Marc Scott Zicree, television writer and author of The Twilight Zone Companion, noted that, except for Richard Matheson...</p></li></ul>
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