Popular artist, Andy Warhol, even produced silk prints of “The Scream” in 1983-1984 in order to desacralize the art even further by mass-producing it for the pop-conscious and high-consumerist fad culture of the 1980s.

The iconic face of the anguished foreground character in “The Scream” was undoubtedly injected into the minds of a whole new generation of movie-goers when Wes Craven’s aptly names “Scream” franchise hit cinemas in 1996.

The Ghostface antagonist in “Scream” wears a mask that was influenced by a novelty mask created in the 1991-1992 Halloween season by Fun World employee Brigitte Sleiertin, which in turn referenced Munch’s painting. The costume is the highest sold and worn costume in the United States. Due to its rapidly growing popularity, by the time Scream 3 hit theatres in 2000, the mask was referenced in many commercials and other television shows shortly after–Beverly Hills 90210, Dawson’s Creek, Sopranos, Simpsons and Robot Chicken to name a few–cementing the visual even more firmly in the minds of the general public.

The Doctor Who character, named quite antonymously “The Silence”, appears in the 2011 episode “The Impossible Astronaut” and bares a striking resemblance to Munch’s character which The Silence was partially based on.

It’s no surprise that geek culture has latched on to the popularity of this memorable work of art to create derivative works depicting popular fictional characters for yet another generation.

These five mashup examples are only a sampling of what has turned into a well-established troupe online. It’s a safe bet for any artist to use Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” as the subject of their parody if their intention is for fans to have an immediate awareness of the reference.

They may not capture the intensity of the colours or the emotion in the lines that Munch intended, but there remains a suggestive subtext to the parodies that adds a layer to the narrative–at least for the geek-inclined–whether intended or not. There lies the genius intrinsic to the composition of the original work of art.

His posture here is telling of his chivalric nature; a trait that makes him possibly a bit naive, but he stands confidently and true.

Orca uses a high frequency sound waves to echo locate under and above water. The entire surface of his body reads the rebounding sound waves as the bounce off objects. He can emit sound blasts that can shatter objects and leave living creatures stunned or paralyzed. If it wasn’t for his devotion to a strict Code of Honor, he’d be a serious threat to the Seven Seas.

The LOAH characters are a group I still wish to push in the future! I couldn’t pass up the chance to have Eryck give each toon some new life. Here’s the Astonishing Boston Crab! He’s always felt like something out of a pulp horror comic from the 60s in my mind. There’re some great texture here and I love the heavy shadows which add to the ambiance of his creepy factor!

“Living in the city,” Bo said, “can be a cold and lonely place to be.” He raised his massive woolly head and horns up past the windshield of the Cadillac convertible. The Alberta prairie air rushed into his flared nostrils as he drove west down the Trans-Canada Highway.

Bo breathed in deeply and smiled.

His buddy, Hirc, swayed in the passenger seat while breathing music out of a red steel harmonica. He raised his hairy arm high to feel the wind current.

Bo loved his Cadillac. It was an Eldurato, ninth generation, an ‘85 custom painted the colour of golden wheat fields. It was freeing. He could take in the land’s scents. It wasn’t cramped like most roofed cars. He’d even drive the convertible in winter. Cold didn’t bother him.

“This is the highway that I run to,” Bo said. “This is where I’ll find my dreams.”

The music stopped. The white minotaur glanced at Hirc looking out over a landscape that stretched out to the horizon.

“Don’t worry buddy,” Bo tapped the satyr’s shoulder. “You’ll find yours too.”

Hirc shrugged and absently tapped the harmonica against one of his horns. He couldn’t help but glance at his friend’s massive ones, curved and majestic. Everything about the minotaur was massive, larger than life, from his hulking head to his outlook.

Hirc felt very small.

Eyes going bleary he stared down the road and undid his seatbelt. One tremulous hand on the windshield the other on the door, Hirc stood in the seat, careful not to scuff the leather with his cloven hooves. Face in the wind, he hurled a rebel yell against the torrent of life, a mighty cathartic scream.

Spent, he slid back to his seat and asked without turning, “How do you do it, Bo?”

Bo snorted and mused, “Keep it simple, my friend. Try not to take what you don’t need.”

Hirc twisted in his seat, retrieved the small dufflebag, and tossed it over the door.

“Not exactly what I meant, buddy,” Bo chuckled, “Now just think about freedom. Dream a little each day. You’ll get there.”

Hirc nodded and smiled on down the highway.

“So, where to?” Hirc asked as he reclined the passenger seat of the Cadillac. He got comfortable and folded his hands behind his head. His unbuttoned denim shirt flapped in the wind. “You got a plan?”

“Medicine Hat is the next stop,” Bo replied. “We fuel up and keep going west.”

“Mind if I pick up some jerky for the road?” Hirc asked.

Bo avoided eye contact. He patted the door with his free arm which hung limply outside the vehicle. His other hand gripped the leather-covered steering wheel.

“You know,” Hirc added, “that’s cowhide you’re gripping there—anything like the real thing?”

Bo gave Hirc a sideways glance. Like always, Hirc just patiently waited for Bo’s reaction. There he was, head slightly lowered, beady eyes creeping over the circular lenses of his glasses, a crooked smile cracked across his face.

Hirc sprayed spit everywhere as he entered a laughing frenzy.

The minotaur unbuttoned the sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt and shook his head, “Jackass,” he said, then smiled.

This short story was written on Ficly in three parts. The first third, “Gypsy Road“, was written by Nuno Teixeira. The second third, “Keep it Simple“, was written by “THX0477“. The last third, “Cowhide“, was written by Nuno Teixeira. It was part of a Challenge requiring a scene based on a song or its lyrics. The song used was “Gypsy Road” by Bruce Dickinson.

Irakuda closed his eyes in ecstasy and dropped the dragon neck, which landed heavily and sent up a little plume of dust from the ground. He sighed deeply and then reached for his glaive and cradled it to his chest. He stroked the weapon and spoke soothing words to it as he cleaned blood from the blades with a strip of soft leather.

After strapping the weapon to his back, he returned to the dragon head. He kicked at it contemptuously, spat onto the ground, and then crouched to prize open the creature’s mouth. He pulled four sharp teeth from the dragon’s jaws and pushed them through the scales of his snakeskin belt.

Satisfied, he straightened up, rolled his shoulders, and then moved on. He strode across the dry farmland, knowing that he would have some distance to travel before he found another dragon. His beard was already twitching in anticipation and he felt a knot in his stomach. In the distance, shimmering in a heat wave, was the small town of Ardeal. Towns had townsfolk and while human blood was not of the same calibre as dragon blood, it would do to tide him over.

Beyond the town lay the forests of Mircea where dragons would be slumbering. Irakuda could barely wait to wake them from their sleep so they could meet his glaive. He could almost feel the weapon shiver in eagerness and he chuckled quietly to himself.

“Patience,” he said.

The first few thick spots of rain hit the dusty over-worked farmland around him. Then a roll of thunder sounded in the distance and Irakuda picked up the pace as the clouds opened. The rain poured down, soaking his animal skin cloak and making it hang heavy against his back. He growled in irritation and stomped onwards, becoming increasingly bad tempered.

When he reached Ardeal he pulled the first person he saw into a shadowy alleyway and crushed their throat with his hands. He used the spines on his arms to cut the man’s throat and taste his blood before he dropped the body to the ground and peered out into the street. The rain still lashed down, bouncing off the cobbles and forcing people to stay inside, or hurry, heads bent, to their destinations.

Irakuda stepped out into the street. Nobody noticed him as he walked among them, his beard curling and twitching on his chin like the tail of a hunting cat. He stopped, took the glaive from his back and surveyed the town. A woman squealed and dashed away, her feet pattering on the cobbles. Others noticed him now and Irakuda smiled grimly at their shouts and cries.

With a laugh, he ran, swung his glaive and beheaded a man too slow to get away. He laughed again when the head bounced and the body fell with a wet smack to the ground. He kissed his blade and let the rain wash it clean.

Footsteps running towards him, shouts and then a hiss as men fired crossbows. Irakuda turned too slowly, a bolt thudded into his shoulder and, growling, he pulled it free and threw it down. He roared and charged at the men, taking another bolt before they scattered in front of him. He kept on running, stopping only to lift a manhole cover and drop down into the sewers.

He crouched in the gloom and waited for his eyes to adjust. Above him, he could hear running and shouting as the men looked for him. He smirked, kissed his weapon again and then secured it to his back.

Drips echoed in the tunnels. Rats squeaked and fought and scurried around him. As he walked, his feet sloshed through the murky water and disturbed the smell, sending putrid odours to assault his nostrils. Grunting, he tugged the bolt from his thigh, licked his blood from the tip, then discarded it in the water.

Ahead of him, piled high in the middle of the tunnel, was a colourful mound of old clothing. Irakuda approached it, frowned, and stood still with the feeling he was being watched. Quickly, he swung his glaive and an imp appeared, screeching and chattering in panic. The small fiend flapped its leathery wings and fluttered around his head. Irakuda tried to grab the creature but it vanished in a flash, leaving him alone in the sewer.

He waited. When nothing else appeared out of the darkness, he continued on his way, soon finding another manhole and climbing out into an empty street. The rain still came down but the town was quiet. Irakuda could see the forests beyond, tantalisingly close.

He walked on, soon leaving Ardeal behind. Trees surrounded him, sheltering him from the rain, though large, fat drops still fell through. He walked and walked until his beard twitched and the hair stood up along his arms.

“Dragon,” Irakuda said, taking hold of his glaive. He raised the weapon and ran a hand along the staff. “Soon now.”

Through the trees, nestled at the base of the hills, there was a cave mouth. It would be dry and dark in there. Perfect, Irakuda knew, for sleeping dragons…

“Irakuda” by E.J. Tett, art by Pablo Peppino; © 2011, XEI
Licensed under the Creative Commons License By-NC-SA

You CAN share and distribute this story;
You CAN make “fan fiction” based on characters in this story;
You CAN NOT make profit off this work or any derivitive works;
You MUST use apply the same CC-License indicated above.

You MUST include the proper Attribution with ANY shared story:
“Written by E.J. Tett, © 2011, XEI, http://www.nunoxei.com”

All around him in the gloom, hundreds of tiny warm, wet bodies wriggled and writhed together. His rats followed him wherever he went and he knew that they adored him. Worshipped him.

It was all that he deserved, of course. After killing his summoner and master, Archos, and delivering his soul to Hell, Sewer Rat was free to do whatever he pleased. And what pleased him most was ruling over his kingdom of rats in the World Below.

Other imps mocked him. Imps who could shape-shift better than he could, into bats and cats and spiders… Sewer Rat would shift into the form of his fat, black rat and scuttle off into the darkness, chattering to himself about the unfairness of it all. One day he would take his rats and rise up out of the sewers. Then he would see who was laughing…

Something brushed against his skin. Sewer Rat looked down to see one of his underlings touching the magic ring he wore around his wrist. He hissed at the creature and it dashed off, squeaking in panic before diving into a crack in the sewer wall.

Sewer Rat smiled and sat back comfortably on his rags. He twisted his ring bracelet, flapped his leathery wings, and then folded his arms and surveyed his kingdom. Things floated past him in the dark. Scum floated on top of the water. Slime dripped down the brick walls. Sewer Rat thought it was the best place he had ever lived.

He closed his eyes to doze when he sensed a faint hum of magic in the air. All around him, the rats squeaked and screamed and clambered over one another in desperation, a writhing, boiling mass of bodies that soon dispersed and scattered into the darkness, leaving Sewer Rat alone.

Footsteps sloshed through sewer water, heading down the tunnel towards him. Sewer Rat’s yellowy hide shimmered briefly and then he became invisible, watching to see who would come his way. He could feel magic radiating off the figure and he knew it was a fellow fiend.

He kept as still as he could, holding his breath in anticipation, and watched as a barbazus strode towards him. He opened his mouth in a silent hiss, baring his rodent teeth. He wondered what one of Hell’s elite warriors was doing in such a place but then he felt it again. The tingle of magic. His eyes locked on the barbazus’s belt and he almost jumped up and down in excitement. The belt was powerful, he could feel it. Made of snakeskin and with a metal clasp, the barbazus had adorned it with the teeth of his enemies. Sewer Rat wanted it badly.

The barbazus stopped by the heap of clothes. Its beard twitched and Sewer Rat could see it was looking for something. He stayed still, pressing himself flat to the clothes pile and keeping himself invisible. He waited but his eyes were drawn to the belt again. Carefully, he edged forwards, reaching out with a clawed hand, reaching for the belt…

The barbazus swung its glaive. Sewer Rat screeched and jumped back, his invisibility forgotten. He flapped his wings and fluttered about the barbazus’s head, chattering and shrieking while the fiend tried to grab him.

Sewer Rat spat curses and then quickly disappeared. He flew down the tunnel and away, not making himself visible again until he was certain the barbazus wasn’t following him. After a while, he settled himself down beside the sewer river and congratulated himself on his bravery.

He thought again about the belt. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to wear it and he knew also that, like his ring, he wouldn’t be able to work it. But he knew that he wanted it. And he knew that he’d get it. No imp would mock him if he had such an item.

As he brooded in the dark, rats emerged from tunnels and cracks in walls. They clambered out of the river and slunk down from the walls above to join him. He smiled and gathered them all to him and two came forward from the group, baring between them a small, dead snake. The rats dropped their kill at his feet and Sewer Rat picked it up.

He pondered the dead creature for a moment and then, in one swift movement, stripped the skin from the body and tossed the flesh to his waiting rats to feast on. He tied the skin around his waist and then, in the darkness, Sewer Rat laughed.

“Sewer Rat” by E.J. Tett, art by Pablo Peppino, © 2011, XEI
Licensed under the Creative Commons License By-NC-SA

You CAN share and distribute this story;
You CAN make “fan fiction” based on characters in this story;
You CAN NOT make profit off this work or any derivitive works;
You MUST use apply the same CC-License indicated above.

You MUST include the proper Attribution with ANY shared story:
“Written by E.J. Tett, © 2011, XEI, http://www.nunoxei.com”

I feel inclined to write up an summary of what is to follow. It was initially written as a 500 word short story as a fill in page of content for my comic Raven Nevermore #1. It was intended as a “bridge piece” establishing a proper homage to the comic’s obvious inspiration: Edgar Allan Poe’s masterful poem, “The Raven”. The content of the piece wasn’t overtly IN the actual comic but it was definitely floating in my subconscious as the pre-framework that structured the actual 8-issue origin story for its protagonist, Corvan Moore.

The short story was written in a day and then a concept struck me: Why not doing it as an alternate story expansion directly inspired by Poe’s poem? And I meant in every way possible.

What followed was about 3 hours of breaking down “The Raven” into syllable patterns, rhyming sequences, sound repetition and so on. When I thought I had it all, I’d find another structural component in “The Raven” that sent me back to re-work what I’d already written. An example is Poe’s use of the double-syllable equal-sound rhyme schemes, not just single-syllable or definitely not near-rhymes; this proved to be the most difficult thing to work around. Some style elements I picked up on were things like the punctuation Poe ends lines with, or how quotation text NEVER gets quoted at the start of a line, or soft sound repetition with “s” sounds and hard sound repetition with “k” sounds (examples).

That all said, about 24 hours of work across two days, I completed a 9 stanza original “mimic” piece. I won’t claim being anything NEAR the master Poe was as his poem still has many subtle intricacies I’m in no position to become aware of easily (and under pressure to see this done sooner than later). An example of these subtle choices on his end concern his line syllables. I worked out the AVERAGE beats and stuck to it rigidly (16, 15, 16, 15, 15, 7); trust me when I say that over “The Raven’s” 18 stanzas this pattern was PRETTY darn consistent. One at one point did this pattern change to (16, 16, 16, 16, 16, 7) and it blew my mind when it did. Yes, something THAT simple blew my mind. There’s a new level of experience you get out of great pieces of poetry after reading it over a hundred times in the last few weeks (probably close to 50 times in the last 2 days alone).

Anyways, I’m not a poetry analyst, so I apologize that I don’t have the right terms to use concerning its structure. The above is a common man’s geek-out commentary. Onward to the “final draft” of my homage that stands in a quite an important addition to the Raven Nevermore experience now.

Read the Original: Edgar Allan Poe’s, “The Raven”, on Project Gutenerg

FOR EVERMORE

Once upon a time forgotten, lived a scholar misbegotten;
A simple recluse self-absorbed, brooding over books of lore.
In distant lands now forgotten, fraught with chill the fog had brought in,
Heart-broken, forever caught in memories of his Lenore–
To hear her voice, soft and splendid, the voice of his lost Lenore–
To hear speak, and nothing more.

How obsessed this man had become, fearing failure should he succumb
To step on Charon’s boat and leave forlorn souls on misty shore.
Never, said he, “I shall prevail! Do you hear me beyond the Veil?
Bird of shadows, of night’s travail! Totem spirit, I implore–
Raven, send me an avatar; I shan’t fail you, I implore!”
Then silence, and nothing more.

With the proper dedication, and sigils of evocation,
The scholar on his knees did scrawl, a spiral upon the floor;
Ancient phrases he did mumble, raven feathers he did crumble,
To summon bowed low and humble, this ominous bird of yore–
I forfeit food and sleep, said he, “come, ominous bird or yore!”
Then stillness, and nothing more.

His fealty did not falter, his position did not alter;
A sacrifice to establish, with the Totem, a rapport.
Open was his Tome of Raven–death no longer left him craven,
Summon circle made this maven–glyph and soul, a planar door–
Three days and nights ajar, said he, “this body: a planar door–
For the bird named, ‘Nevermore.’”

With these final words, he waited, patient for what he was fated,
Watching the walls, floor, and ceiling of his chamber become no more.
In that short moment, half-dreaming, a raven cawed, thus redeeming,
His deep emotions came streaming from out his bossom for Lenore–
I wish to be your host, said he, “take me to my lost love Lenore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore”.

The scholar stood, lost and confused, for he no ill-intention used–
Why then, Seed of Raven, said he, “echo your name and ignore
The simple request I stated–ancient texts I translated,
All carefully contemplated, all to reach this misty shore!–
To reach the Otherworld border; this Plutonian Shore!–
Take me as host, Nevermore!”

Down flew the raven so vainly, to strut on land so ungainly,
To discuss an agreement for a proposition it bore.
Words it whispered, smooth and sleek all, sealed with the fowl’s fiery call,
Never would the scholar recall the pact made and price in store–
For Lenore, said he, “I’ll accept whatever price is in store–
I’ll be bound to Nevermore.”

Then the Otherworld did shutter, when avatar wings did flutter
As the bird shifted to shadow–to merge with the scholar’s core.
Newly awakened, confounded, finding himself now surrounded
In burnt fields where dead abounded; he thought of his love Lenore–
The Raven Tome still held tightly; he’d now find his love Lenore–
He was bound to Nevermore.

The scholar stared ahead gawking, at a gypsy maiden walking
Past corpses as she looted with eyes on Raven Tome of lore.
He marvelled at her revival–at his lost love’s survival.
I’ve been waiting your arrival, said she, “I’m Bodva Le’Noir.”
Here my love was, Lost One no more–to love my reborn Lenore–
Happily for evermore.

The September issue of Blueprint Magazine, volume 11, issue 2, focused on the theme of “Borders”. A couple concepts came immediately to mind. There was the obvious “macro” definition that related to countries and therefore things like political and cultural boundaries. More physical ideas like the Great Wall of China, the old defensive walls of Constantinople (of which the Sanctuary walls are kinda based on), or the Berlin Wall came to mind.

I wanted to use this strip to explore this notion of “borders”, or “gates”, aka anything that restricts one thing while protecting another, as having a counter-intuitive relationship with freedom and protection. I understand the perceived need in historical times to build walls to better keep the enemy at bay; this strategy will never go away I think. It’s basic logic, especially when there’s an active threat to defend against.

As with many of these strips though, I like to add a bit of a twist in concepts just to provoke the “meaning” of things, not just the popular literal definition of them. In this case it’s the fact that Heaven as a Gate. It amuses me that a place so “good”, so “holy”, so “divine” would still “keep souls out” to review if they are worthy. Sanctuary is an almost literal manifestation of this concept on the World of Hellmouth. To me it represents a very primal notion that places fear above all other beneficial intentions. Fear always wins on the macro scale. Borders just help segment and modularize the control of it.

You can read the full “Borders” issue online.

Read other Beholder strips!

 

Showing the side-by-side images below you can see that I zoomed in to crop out the title and covered most of the bottom scroll-text with two panels from later in the story. The reasons I do things are both intuitive and intentional.

The intuitive  part of the process exists at the start when I start layering things, cropping things, adding filters, using the airbrush tool, masking things, adding text, etc. For the most part during this stage, I trust gut feelings to stumble upon “happy accidents” that guide me to a path I want to take.

The intentional part is when I start applying basic elements and principles of art to re-affirm the aspects of the piece I want to highlight. I use colour to unify the piece and guide the eye around. I use patterns to both flatten layered elements on the same plane (the grunge artifacts) as well as add texture (the comic dots and shirt). I added two simple things to this piece to help frame the Cross-Draw Kid better (the dead tree and birds). I cropped and repeated the title “Cross-Draw Justice” and placed it on a highlight coming from the sun in order to re-enforce the vertical framing created with the lower scroll and panels and the original “Cross-Draw Kid” title bar.

The best thing about making these is discovering things as I go. Layers are my friend. Textures are my friend. Filters are my friend. Moving layers around, or changing filters, or duplicating elements after I get something I like sometimes create whole new opportunities for the piece. Some examples are below.

 

 The July issue of Blueprint Magazine, volume 11, issue 1, focused on the theme of “Home”. It’s likely no accident that this magazine fell into the hands of university students spending their summer “at home”; in some cases even outside of Waterloo, back to the place of family and childhood memories.

I tried to look at the concept of “home” from a different perspective. Using a fiend, an imp to be precise, as the point-of-reference, the idea of “home” existed as a place normal mortals wouldn’t fathom going. I liked exploring the idea that “foreign territory” could be considered another person’s “home”, and vise-versa. It re-affirms the concept that “home” is really defined on an individual basis–be it a physical shelter, a town or city, or a country (or planet or plane of existence!).

Home is where you feel in your element; comfortable in the safety of familiarity. It’s the place you go when you need a break from the unknown. I like that.

You can read the whole Home magazine online.

Read other Beholder strips!