Dark Discoveries #16 - Comics! Pulps!

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Our 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!

Text of Dark Discoveries #16 - Comics! Pulps!

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    Issue 16, WINTER/Issue 16, WINTER/SPRING 2010SPRING 2010

    $8.99 U.S./$10.99 CAN$8.99 U.S./$10.99 CAN

    File un-

    der: Film,


    Special In-terest

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    Winter/Spring 2010Issue Number 16


    Winter/Spring 2010Issue Number 16


    Publisher/Editor-in-ChiefJames R. Beach

    Art Director/Managing EditorJason V Brock

    Design and LayoutJaSunni Productions, LLC


    ContributorsJames R. BeachPaul G. Bens, Jr.Jason V Brock

    Sunni K Brock (+Web Mistress)Sarah L. Covert

    Cody GoodfellowWilliam F. NolanWeston Ochse

    R.B. PayneFrank M. RobinsonWilliam Simmons

    William StoutKaye Vincent


    Leslie Barany (pg. 32-33)Jason V Brock

    Lee Christian (pg. 34)Al Feldstein

    Brian Komm (Cover/Comic Adaptation)Kitty Maer (pg. 53, 55)William Stout (pg. 35)

    Ryszard Wojtynski (pg. 32-33)

    Special Thanks Leslie BaranyJoyce Beach

    Darren G. DavisAl FeldsteinH.R. Giger

    Shawna GoreBeverly Hartley

    Steve NilesDiane OBannon

    Frank M. RobinsonWilliam StoutThe Estate of Hugh B. CaveThe Folks at

    Dark Horse andBluewater ComicsRobert Williams

    For Dan OBannon and April Brock:You are loved, and will be missed...

    PrintingB & B Print Source

    (with veg-based inks) _____________________

    DARK DISCOVERIES (ISSN 1548-6842) is published quarterly (Spring: April 30th, Summer: July 31st, Autumn: October

    31st and Winter: January 31st) by James R. Beach and Dark Discoveries Publications, 142 Woodside

    Drive, Longview, WA 98632

    Copyright 2009 and beyond by Dark Discoveries Publications, and where specified elsewhere in the issue. All rights refer to the authors upon

    publication. Nothing shown can be reproduced without obtaining written permission from the

    creators. All book/mag. cover images remain the copyrighted property of their respective owners.

    Direct all inquiries, address changes, submission queries,subscription orders and

    changes, etc. to:

    James R. BeachDark Discoveries Publications

    142 Woodside DriveLongview, WA 98632 U.S.A.

    e-mail: info@darkdiscoveries.com

    Please make check or money order payable to: James R. Beach or Dark Discoveries Publications.

    Advertising rates available. Discounts for bulk and standing retail orders.

    fictionfictionMarvelina 9by R.B. Payne

    The Beheld 14by Paul G. Bens, Jr.

    Big Rock Candy Mountain 23by Weston Ochse

    Night of the Katzenjammers (Comic Adaptation) 48by Cody Goodfellow (Writer) and Brian Komm (Artist)

    interviewsinterviewsFrank M. Robinson: Collector, Humanitarian 20by Jason V Brock

    Weston Ochse: Blazing Glory 21by James R. Beach

    Al Feldstein: MADly Yours 30by Jason V Brock

    Shawna Gore: Dark Horse and Creepy 42by James R. Beach

    Hugh B. Cave: Last of the Pulpsters 45by William Simmons

    Steve Niles: Architect of Fear 53by Sarah L. Covert

    Darren G. Davis: On the Run with Bluewater Comics 57by Kaye Vincent

    non-fictionnon-fictionDan OBannon: Imagination Brought to Life (A Tribute and Poster) 32by William Stout, Robert Williams, Jason V Brock, William F. Nolan

    Back from The Edge 37by Sunni K Brock

    The Horror of It All! (EC and Its Lasting Influence) 38by Jason V Brock

    Dark Matters - Max Brands Darker Side 56by William F. Nolan

    Post-Crypts - Bleak History; Blood Will Have Its Season (DD Reviews) 59by DD Staff

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    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

    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

    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

    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.

    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

    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

    uptown.Things would be bett er now. In his pocket was a neatly folded pink dress.She had been so beautiful

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    by Paul G. Bens, Jr.The Beheld

    He watches.That is what he does.

    It is what he has always done.It drives him.

    Consumes him.Invades him.Defi nes him.

    He is a Beholder and the beauty he fi nds through his eyes is his and his alone.

    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.

    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...

    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.

    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.

    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.

    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 abso