George's Writing Section

A Hero’s Welcome A brawny man named Q’UONAN hunches under a partially uprooted tree on a hill. Around his waist is a loincloth which fails to cover his tattered nethergarments. His wrists, ankles and biceps are wrapped with leather straps. An open pack of travel supplies is laid out before him, like a picnic. The nearby grass alternates between overgrown and shredded, as if livestock has been feeding on it. One javelin’s throw away, a tangled network of buildings grow horizontally from a single hut, like vines sprouting from a potato that’s been left in a box for too long. CHARLIE, a short, older man wearing a dirty apron, limps toward Q’uonan. He raises an arm while continuing his lazy march. CHARLIE: “Morning! You stole my breakfast spot! Mind if I join you there in the shade?” Realizing that someone is speaking at him, Q’uonan looks up. He straightens his posture and replies with a swampy, graceless accent. Q’UONAN: “O-of course.”

Breakin' Bones, Breakin' Bread The sky had become awash in a luminous pink when Chicago Wind made it to the Livingwater residence. Though he was running low on money this month, Greg happily paid the inflated toll a second time without complaint, like a gentleman. His one regret was that the exhaust of his car smelled a bit like turpentine, though neither of his passengers said anything about that. “Greg-o-ree! Man alive!” bellowed Mr. Livingwater at the front door. His monstrous frame had to squeeze sideways as he reached for the young man standing sheepishly behind two of his oldest daughters. “It’s so - good - to - see - youuuuu! Aaaaahahaha!” Greg tried to return the hairy hug as best he could, though his arms could only reach halfway around the man. Xaviere shuffled past her father who continued rocking back and forth, laughing with delight. “Is dinner ready?” she asked, not looking up from her game of Persona. “Ooh, I smell chicken with riiiiiiice,” commented Oli

Showdown in the City Before either of the girls could react, an elegant net of ornate silver chains was thrown around Olivia and Xaviere, rooting them in place.  At one end of the chains stood the Minesweeping Receptionist, who sprang from behind his desk. The other was caught by second man, built like a Bodyguard. He had long blond locks and wore a tight T-Shirt under an authentic shark-tooth necklace, with artificially aged jean shorts hand-cut at mid-thigh. His fair-trade sandals showed off a set of immaculately pedicured toenails. “Well done, men!” sneered a third man, who emerged from behind a pillar, clapping his right fingers against his left palm with sardonic amusement. He was short, with round sunglasses and a long, twirled mustache over handsomely cropped chin hair. He carried a glass cane and walked like a cat. “Bind them well!”  “Who is this clown?!” Xaviere grunted, struggling against the powerful chains while the Receptionist and the Bodyguard obeyed their

Chapter 2: Olivia Livingwater Greg tilted his head forty-five degrees, raising an eyebrow at his reflection in the Men’s Room mirror. Nice, he thought, applying a light splash of water to his hair, pushing the bangs to the side. Girls don’t know what they’re missing. But I know. That’s all that matters.  The silhouette of another gentleman washing his hands appeared two sinks down. Greg straightened himself and sniffed through a nostril, self-conscious. He cleared his throat, turning to look for a hand dryer. The sound of Xaviere’s foot slamming through the door sent an echoing shockwave through the tiled room. Greg’s shoulder bumped hard against the wall as he raised an arm to defend himself. “Are you in here?!” her voice boomed from around the frame. Greg and the man at the sink exchanged an uncomfortable glance. “...Yes?” Xaviere’s leg kicked the door open a second time as it tried to swing itself shut. “Get your keys! I’m going to the car!” Finding a pape

Chapter 1: Hearsay, Here Now Note: This story appears in Bite-Size, Volume 2. Support the comic and buy a copy here! “This selection is shameful,” observed Greg, shaking his head at the racks of magazines. He and Xaviere stood in the broad U-shaped peninsula, adjacent to the Used Books section. Covers featuring models, celebrities, and bodybuilders greatly outnumbered the isolated row labeled Comics & Hobby . “Hm,” Xaviere muttered absently, not turning her attention up from her game. “Compared to dozens of titles they release in Japan on a weekly basis?” Greg continued. “And you know what? Even if we were in a dedicated comics shop right now, it wouldn’t be any better. Ninety-eight percent superhero junk. The same characters, thirty or fifty years old, still doing the same stuff, fighting the same enemies. How many times can the planet Earth be in danger? Or the galaxy? Or time/space?” In spite of her sincerest effort, Xaviere couldn’t prevent all of this drivel f