Quacky

by JIm Woodring

Review by Anthony Servante

Introduction:

"Jim Woodring pays homage to the classic Big Little Book format to put his silent signature character through his most transformative adventure ever.Jim Woodring has been drawing the otherworldly, allegorical adventures of his cartoon Everycreature, Frank, for three and a half decades. These stories are a singular rarity in the comics form ― both bone-chillingly physical in their depictions of Frank's travails and profoundly metaphysical at the same time. Not since George Herriman's Krazy Kat has the comics language been so exquisitely distilled into pure, revelatory aesthetic expression.

With Quacky, Woodring adopts the format of 1930s Big Little Books to deliver a text story with illustrations, in which the typically nonplussed Frank’s reactions are told to us explicitly, through narration and his own thoughts. Frank is buffeted by generosity, anguished to see how loving friends perceive him, distraught by the process of aging and physical transformation in a beloved pet, delighted by nature and physical experiences shared with others, and ultimately sees a path toward radical acceptance in the face of trauma.

Frank cast regulars Pupshaw, Pushpaw and Manhog are here, along with new entries to Frank’s world of the Unifactor. And, in a backup feature, we meet a cast of toontown pigs in a story that undercuts the kiddie book format: “Hoggy Goes Hogwild.” Cunningham, the clever pig who helps all his friends, and his confirmed fiancée, Porceline, are called on to assist local pal Hoggy – who turns out to have gone on a violent crime spree, presaging a possible psychotic break.

Jim Woodring is back, and no two worlds wouldn’t be the same without him.

Black-and-white illustrations throughout. "

Review

For those of you familiar with Jim Woodring's world, Unifactor, where its residents include Frank, his pets, Pupshaw and Pushpaw, neighbor Manhog, plus all the regulars, you are no doubt accustomed to artwork with no narrative. The visuals tell the story that unfolds via a landscape which combines pastoral vistas offset by surreal architecture. It takes a while to figure out what's plant, animal, or artifact. But through it all, our hero, Frank, goes about his daily life with mundane regularity like a hermit living in the world of the fantastic as if it were a normal lifestyle, which plays against the supernatural world of the Unifactor. 

And there's the rub. The supernatural becomes normal as the normal becomes surreal. We know this because we see the story of Frank unfold in panels. No one tells us what is happening. Only our imaginations fill in the gaps in our comprehension, for instance, when our hero lifts a bizarre-looking item from a table, and we don't know if it is food or animal until the next panel reveals what Frank does with the item. We wonder at the development of the story with curiosity about what Frank will do next or what will happen to Frank next. Woodring designs his panels in such a way to keep the movement going to maximize our curiosity and reward us with amazement. 

In Quacky, Woodring reduces his panels to illustrations for his narrative. He tells us what to see, and then he shows us what he said. Now, don't get me wrong: The narrative and the illustrations work together in a new way for Woodring's storytelling. Although he utilizes the "Big Little Book" format, he manages to keep the "wordless" story intact. I won't say the narrative and the illustrations are redundant, but I also cannot say the narrative can stand on its own, as it can in the Big Little Books of old. 

This doesn't make the read any less marvelous. We still get a Frank story in our favorite world, the Unifactor. We meet our old friends on a wondrous adventure. The surreal nature and curiosity are still present. It's just that I cannot say that we are getting more from the story with the "words", but, at least, we're not getting less. Jim Woodring still delivers us a great tale, and lovers of his work can marvel at that.

 

A Reverse Movie Review

The Catharsis of Crystal May Creasey

by Anthony Servante

The Hunt (2020)

Starring Betty Gilpin

The Hunt (2020), starring Betty Gilpin and Hilary Swank concerns a group of conservative social influencers being hunted by a group of liberal executives. That's the movie you see, but the real movie revolves around Crystal May Creasey. I want to tell her story, which has nothing to do with the two groups of political combatants. 

Crystal May Creasey served in the U.S. Army. When she returned to civilian life, she had trouble finding employment and had to settle for a job at Ranger Car Rental place where she is belittled by customers. She puts up with the bad treatment and bottles in her anger, disappointment, and retaliation in order to keep her job. Then she gets kidnapped. 

Crystal May being flipped off by customer at car rental.

In a case of mistaken identity Crystal May is mixed up with Crystal Mae (with an "e"), a political podcaster known as "Justice For Y'all". Crystal May wakes up with several others by a cache of weapons and is hunted down. She doesn't know what is going on; however, it doesn't matter. Her survival military instincts kick in. She understands that her life is on the line, so she kills indiscriminately, bolstered by that suppressed anger, disappointment, and retaliation and sharpened into a weapon of rage against that same humanity that has filled her with rage. 

After she kills the remainder of the hunters in their bunker, she has a moment with the group's combat trainer to ascertain the whereabouts of the leader of the group, Athena, played by Hillary Swank. During her questioning, the trainer asks Crystal why she doesn't just leave since she killed nearly the whole group of hunters. Crystal almost breaks her composure when she tries to explain her reason, grimacing and pointing her finger as if mimicking a customer at the Ranger Rental, and in the moment when she almost tears up, she instead gathers herself and proceeds to torture the trainer by sticking her finger in his bullet wound until he tells her Athena's whereabouts. 

Crystal cannot leave and return to her previous life without first reaching full catharsis by killing the last of the hunting group, its leader. It's not about politics, revenge, or satisfaction. She has nothing to do with these groups killing each other. For her, it's about returning to the combat field where everything made sense, where survival mattered most, where you kill the people trying to kill you. In the rental agency, she couldn't kill the customers. But here where she is being hunted, she can kill the hunters.

Crystal versus Athena

In the end, Crystal May Creasey kills Athena, eats her lunch (in a symbolic gesture of victory), and boards Athena's private jet to fly home. She tells the pilot and stewardess, who are surprised to see that she survived, that she killed all the people trying to kill her and if they have a problem with that. They assure her that there's no problem. They head back to the United States. 

We never learn if Crystal May returns to the rental agency job or if she is happy with her reckoning. The movie does not give us enough information to determine the future of our heroine, but if you follow the story of Crystal, there's a lot more to the movie than the politics of the other characters. That's just background fodder. For this film, Crystal May Creasey's catharsis is all that matters. 

 

In Dream... #2

Only Death & Dream Paralyze

It is a hot night, even asleep I know that. I am in a house I do not recognize, surrounded by young, college-age people, drinking and smoking. I wonder who they are. The host--I don't know why, but I know he's the host--stands and asks visitors if they're ready. I stand to leave, trying to remember where I parked. A flash of a parking lot at the college hits my mind and vanishes. I almost transitioned to the lot, but he host interrupted. "No one leaves," he insists. There seem to be more people now, almost twice as many as before. 

"Start with me," a teen-aged girl says, raising her hand. 

The host agrees with a nod, and the girl faints. The host raises both his hands as if signing applause. More people pass out. Till I'm the only one left awake in my dream. "Your turn," he warns. "Waking up won't help you." My mind spins like spiral, twisting into nothing. The room shrinks till there is no room. 

"Wake up," I say, "it's your vertigo again." 

But it's too late. The spinning stops. The room is gone. I am alone in empty space. No floor. No ceiling. No walls. Just me. And I know I am dead. Yet knowing that I know I am dead, I have a chance if I wake up. I force my eyes open. I'm back in the emptiness. This time I use my fingers to pry my eyelids open. I'm in my bedroom, but in the wrong year. At least my mind is still alive. The vertigo must have been a stroke. 

Breathe in, breathe out. In through the nose, out from the mouth. Slowly. Now pick up the pace. My chest heaves as a raspy wheeze escapes my throat. The sky has returned without stars or moon. A light breeze mimics my final gasp. Till I notice...

Someone... or something is in the room. 

I had come for me. Then I must be dead. This is not a dream. I am in purgatory. But the breeze tussles my hair. Did I leave the window open. Did someone... or something crawl into the room. 

I am in bed again. It is at the foot of the bed. I try to kick at it, but I am frozen. Its eyes glow red. Like a movie monster I think. Yes, a movie. Sleep paralysis. Nightmare. Wiggle that damn toe and wake up. 

I open my eyes. Where am I? Did I die? Was it so bad? I turn, fluff the pillow, and reset the dream. 

 

Views from a Troubled Mind

Scene #10

The Pumpkin Patch/Petting Zoo

in Happier Days

The storm front that brought the San Gabriel Valley three days of thunder, lightning, and torrential rains is still trying to push in a new front from the Pacific Ocean on the west coast, but the Santa Ana Winds (aka The Devil Winds) that are blowing in from the desert from the east are clashing with the cooler winds from the sea and creating a monstrous wind storm between the desert and ocean gusts.

At about 5:30 a.m., October 15th, 2018, this battle between the two wind fronts pounding on the house, ripping down the awnings, tearing up the roof tiles, and tossing the half-full recycle bin and the full trash container and scattering plastic bottles, plastic bags, and aluminum cans across the driveway, into the front yard, and unto the street in front of our house

Wind uproots a tree,

splitting the sidewalk apart.

When I finally got up (yes, I did manage to sleep through much of the noise), I expected to find more damage to the house, the neighborhood, and the community. Mostly, however, there was a hell-load of trash, leaves, broken branches, and general debris covering the streets and lawns of every home and avenue. As I walked by the neighbor, who also is a gardener, he told me in Spanish that this mess meant lots of work for him. He was like a kid in a candy store sitting on his tool truck sizing up the piles of leaves that needed to be blown and the number of branches that needed to be bundled. I laughed, but he laughed louder.

The bus-stop was shut down going east because the sidewalk was folded in half. Meaning: half of the sidewalk was lying in the street, preventing the bus from being able to stop there, and the other half was sticking straight up, blocking pedestrians from using the sidewalk. I crossed the street to catch the other bus (both buses end up at the Target department store).

The skeletal structure of the tents

is first to be rebuilt.

Then I saw something that shocked me. The Pumpkin Patch/Petting Zoo was destroyed. The fences were yanked up and away by the winds, the circus tents were ripped apart (pieces of red and white tent strips were everywhere), and most incredibly, the Zoo animals were dead. No one bothered to cover them up. The workers were more concerned with rebuilding the framework to lay the new tents over. Police were there, helping the workers to move the heavy tent poles, city workers were there, shoveling the broken pumpkins, but no one was there for the animals.

I wasn't just thinking of the unhealthy state of these dead animals. No, this was a major street where children walk home from school. But no one seemed concerned.

As I stood there watching the men work, while I waited for my bus, I heard what it was that concerned the workers. No, not getting the tent up as quickly as possible, not replacing the broken pumpkins with new ones, and not replacing the dead petting animals.

What concerned them was why they were rebuilding the damn Pumpkin Patch. They're coming back, they kept saying. And the supervisor said that the winds had died down. Fuck the winds. They're coming back. Look at the animals. The wind didn't kill them. That's why we can't move them. The cops want to examine them.

The new sign is put up two days

after the destruction.

The supervisor glanced at the police helping with the tent poles. Not our department, said one of the cops. The supervisor told them to finish their work and he'll find other workers to take their place. No one was forcing them to work there. He'll cut them a check at the end of the day.

The workers nodded as they went about their work. I focused my phone camera on the dead animals and zoomed in. I couldn't even recognize what animals they were. No animal was complete. Pieces of the animals were placed together as close as possible to resemble what the animal used to look like. I didn't take pictures. What for? Just like in every horror movie I've ever seen. What killed those animals? Why, the winds, of course. The Devil Winds.*




*From the Archives: The Tragedy of the Petting Zoo, excerpted from the Norinko Series, available on Amazon.com ebooks.

 

Purchase Here.

The Summary

"Sienna Shaw is an apex predator. She kills without remorse when it suits her purposes, steals from those she judges undeserving of what they have, lives by her own set of rules. Just don’t call her a serial killer. She knows what she is and what she always will be—a survivor whose governing creed is simple: Trust No One.

Or so Sienna believes, until the day she encounters a shadowy group that calls itself the Book Club. A small, well-funded, highly secret society united by their shared taste for the macabre and a desire to instill fear among entrepreneurs, industrialists, politicians—any who imagine themselves in charge of civilization—to remind them who is really at the top of the food chain. Sienna soon finds herself a reluctant guest on a remote and supposedly haunted island where the Book Club plans to unleash hell upon its next target and usher in a new chapter of its horror-inspired mission.

But not even Sienna is prepared for the tangled web of betrayal and chaos that awaits, or the very real monsters that will be let loose—including ones that may have been present all along."

Introduction

Hank Schwaeble has been on my reading list since 2009, when I picked up a copy of Damnable. I liked the plot synopsis. Then I was introduced to Jake Hatcher, the anti-hero for a trio of supernatural novels. First there was Damnable (2009), then Diabolical (2011), and last in the trilogy, Angel of the Abyss (2016). And now here we are, 2026, and Schwaeble has a new novel out, Normal for the Spider, published by Weird Tales. I was eager as all hell when I heard there was a new book out by the genius behind Jake Hatcher. Well, when I read the synopsis, I didn't know what to expect. Where were the monsters? The mega-villains? 

Well, let's talk about those answers.

The Review

A mystery-thriller with Horror overtones, Normal for the Spider tosses the reader into the story in media res, so get ready for that. Sienna Shaw is our anti-heroine. For those who forgot, an anti-heroine is a villain who we root for. And we do root for Sienna. She steals, she robs, she kills, and that's before the story begins. Then she's tossed into the basement of a book shop where she's hiding from some stalkers. And here begins our horror tale. 

Hank Schwaeble weaves a tightly wound tale that leads you into dark corners and hidden crevices that surprise you at every turn. As you follow Sienna through her journey, you experience her harrowing initiation into the sinister Book Club, where we meet the usual suspects of fellow thieves and assassins, and then the storyline explodes, leaving you to figure out what is happening just as our anti-heroine must figure it out. 

Schwaeble's prose style is a natural fit for this kind of terror. He can smoothly escort you down twists and turns with an inviting turn of phrase or a sardonic observation that the reader can only marvel at the calm upturn of the roller coaster just before it tilts down and plunges you back into fear. We don't get jump-scares; we get shocks, but that's what we came for. 

By the third act of our story, all your questions will be answered. The monsters, the villains, and so on. It is nothing short than a grand guignol showdown. From thriller to mystery to horror: Three acts of the perfect novel that we've come to expect from Hank Schwaeble. And he delivers the horror once again with Normal for the Spider.  

 

Memory Corner #11

Victoria

Victoria joined me on my walk to middle school without saying a word. She was thirteen years old, about a year older than me, and about two inches taller than me. She was thin, pale skin, raven black hair that she tied with a red bow, and she wore black lipstick that later I found out she stole from the Sav-On Drugstore. And she always wore that weird dress that looked like an old white wedding gown that was washed in the machine too many times. 

About the third time she walked with me, she told me she liked Black Sabbath. She said she knew that I had the album and if I could lend it to her. "I don't lend my music. I buy import albums and they're hard to replace."

"Then maybe you can play it for me at your house. I can't go in, of course, but I can listen by the window outside," she said blankly, as if my answering yes or no meant the same thing to her. 

"No problem," I said. "It's up to you anyway."

Then she reached over and held my hand the rest of the way to school. 

She didn't walk with me the next day, and I didn't see her at school. But when I got home, she was standing outside my window. "I've been waiting for you,"she stated matter-of-factly, neither annoyed or anxious by the wait. 

"Didn't you go to school?" I asked.

"No, I stayed home, and then I came here, because this is what time you come home," she explained. "I'm ready for some Black Sabbath. It's up to me, you said."

She never seemed to smile, but she didn't need to because she was so pretty when she looked sad, which was always. A smile just wouldn't fit her odd style. 

I set the speakers in the window, put side A of the first Black Sabbath album on repeat and joined Victoria outside. We rarely talked. We held hands a lot. Her attention was always focused on the music. She'd nod when a song finished, her way of clapping, and remain still when the next song started. 

Once we listened to both sides twice, she said it was time to go. No goodbye. No See you tomorrow. Just turn homeward and walk away. 

But there she was the next morning on the way to school. I asked her if she'd like to hear my new Jethro Tull album. She said, "Maybe." Then she disappeared into the crowd headed for their homerooms. 

"Maybe?" I asked myself. The way she said it haunted me. No yes or no. I don't even know if she knew who Tull was. She wasn't the type who ooo-ed and ahhh-ed. Neither a swooner or a hardcore fans. I could've asked if she'd like to listen to Beethoven's Ninth, and I'd have got the same answer. 

At lunchtime, I understood why. 

She was having lunch with a girl and two boys who shared her taste in make-up and clothes. They were like the Goth kids of their time. That is, a time when there were Rockers and there were Mods, but this look was new. They gathered by the cafeteria table area and ate in silence. Silence. They had that in common. I was playing chess down the steps from the tables, but I managed to catch Victoria's eye. 

She stared at me for about ten seconds, then resumed eating. Her friends turned to look at me but found no interest in me. 

The lunch bell rang. The students massed at the building entrances leading to the next class. 

That was the last time I saw Victoria. I asked around the projects if anyone knew where she lived. None of the younger kids knew. But an older gang member knocked on my door and I answered. "I heard you were asking about Vicky."

I nodded yes, and said, "Victoria."

"Yeah, yeah, Victoria, right, homey," the old cholo said with a smile. "She's my little niece. My sister didn't take care of herself when she was pregnant with Vicky. I mean, Victoria. Poor thing wasn't right in the head when she was born. My hermana had a hell of a time getting her into regular school. Anyway, I'm Hernan, call me Herman if you want. So what did she take from you?"

"Nothing," I said. "We used to walk to school together, then she stopped going to school."

"Oh," he said, and scratched his head. "She likes to steal albums from the kids around the projects."

"I don't lend my music," I said.

"Good movida, homey," he said with a knowing nod. "Don't trust anyone with the sounds, you know. Good you learn that young. Well, I'm glad to hear you have your albums. I live at Project C-101 if Vicky comes back and does take your albums while you're at school. Yeah, she does that. My sister says it's her way of telling a boy she likes him. Doesn't matter now, I guess. Heard she ran away. She does that sometimes. Anyway, take it easy, homey. See you 'round."

That evening I put the stereo speakers in my bedroom window and blasted Black Sabbath till the neighbors started complaining. 

 

Schizophrenic Poetry

Waiting for the Bus

A woman overdressed for the hot weather hogging up the bus bench. She begins talking in a loud voice, then answers herself in a low voice. The following conversation ensues:

Loud: You welfare fraud. You food stamp cheater. Pedo. That's you.

Low: Yes, hon, whatever you say.

Loud: You can't find behind those lies anymore. I'm on to you.

Low: Sure thing, hon.

Loud: Call the police. See if I care. I know your skeleton is shaking.

Low: Of course it is, hon. 

I look at the woman because I can't believe she's doing the two voices, like a ventriloquist. 

Loud: See what you did? Now he's looking at me.

Low: Yes, he is, hon.

Loud: It doesn't matter. I'm not a skeleton.

Here she removes a pudding cup from her backpack, peels off the top, and scoops out the contents with her index finger. 

She finishes the pudding and tosses the cup and wrapper on the sidewalk. 

Low: I'll get that. (She bends to pick up the trash and deposits it in the receptacle). 

A car stops at the red light and the front passenger window is level with the woman. A husky dog appears at the open window.

Loud: I understand what you're saying. Your mask doesn't fool me.

Low: No, it doesn't, hon. 

The light turns green and the car takes off.

Loud: Run you coward. I almost had your mind in mine. Almost had you.

Low: Yes you did, hon. 

The bus approaches. I lift my grocery bag as the bus pulls up. I get on the bus, pay my fare, and grab a seat. I turn in time to see the woman get on the bus and walk right by the fare box. The bus driver says, Pay or get off.

Loud: Okay, I'll get off (and she does). 

Low: Let's go home then. (She walks in the direction the bus approached from).

On the bus, in the handicap section, there are three old people: Tired looking man with a seeing eye dog, Armenian woman with a white cane, and a younger looking man with an old face who seemed to be travelling with the tired looking man. 

Tired Looking Man: She's been like that for years. 

Armenian Woman: Since her husband died.

I then notice that both the man and woman are not sightless and are looking at each other as they talk about that Loud woman. 

Tired Looking Man: Might as well get off. 

Armenian Woman: Might as well. 

The young man signals for the next stop, grabs the dog's leash, and the four of them get off the bus through the rear door. 

I ask the driver. Those people can see?

She answers, They saw that crazy woman didn't pay her fare. 

I kept my thoughts to myself and didn't wonder about it till I was safely at home.