POWERLESS #7

POWERLESS

A Composite Graphic Novel exclusive to Absinthe Hour

PAGE SEVEN

“POWERLESS”

1 – Medium Panel.  Chief Harrison sits idly in his office, with a looming depravity about his person which has become the norm for him.  A single desk lamp, lit, angles concavely upon his desk—upon a book in which Chief Harrison writes—slicing through the oppressive darkness of night’s natural veil.  The city skyline behind Chief Harrison offers a broad look at the city at sleep, for most; a few scattered lights from a few illuminated windows tell a tale of the restless nocturnal.

NARRATOR (CH): I’ve been feeling a lot of things lately --

NARRATOR (CH): None of them GOOD.

NARRATOR (CH): Which, as surprising as it may seem, is nothing new.

2 – Medium Panel.  A loosely formed circle of a light blankets a journal, the right page of the journal being heavily worked in Chief Harrison’s pensive script (the words are the narration).  Squeezing for the slightest taste of light from underneath the journal is an edition of the day’s news, offering the risen crime rate and the mysterious disappearance of their superhero.

NARRATOR (CH): But, lately, I’ve begun to feel something ELSE.

NARRATOR (CH): I wish it were something I could EASILY PLACE,

NARRATOR (CH): like the last spongy cardboard puzzle piece to a toddler’s four-piece puzzle.

3 – Wide Panel.  The view of the station’s 15^th floor from outside offers a relatively buzzing office at work; everything is ablaze in incandescence, except for Chief Harrison’s office, which offers a meek excuse for light and as much fervency as a deeply embedded rock in an wide field.  Chief Harrison hunches impertinently over his journal, writing diligently his thoughts into the journal like a prophet hoping to capture every fleeting detail before it wanes from his memory. 

NARRATOR (CH): But, like all emotions, this is as complex as Guass-Newton’s ALGORITHM.

NARRATOR (CH): It’s easy to be lost and hopeless,

NARRATOR (CH): secure or hopeful,

4 – Small panel.  The badge of an OFFICER glimmers under the hazy glare of the police station’s artificial light. 

NARRATOR (CH): and everything in-between,

5 – Small panel.  The officer rushes toward Chief Harrison’s office, his badge rattles upon his breast pocket with each heavy step.

NO DIALOGUE

6 – Small panel.  The officer, hurrying fast, wears a face of fear—his brows angled high upon his face, his mouth agape, lips dry without the care for moisturizing them with the slightest lick of his tongue, eyes weighing heavily, deep under his lids.

NARRATOR (CH): but this is something different.

7 – Medium Panel.  An observation from over Chief Harrison’s shoulder offers James Tulley’s criminal file, a picture of James Tulley with a half-smile clipped to a bundle of papers — various police reports, biographical information, and other files hidden by the steep, clipped stack.  There’s a knock on the door to his office.

NARRATOR (CH): I know how James Tulley must be feeling

NARRATOR (CH): because HE introduced this FEELING to me.

NARRATOR (CH): Something PARALYZING.

8 – Medium Panel.  The officer opens the door to the relatively shadowed room and searches for Chief Harrison with fearful eyes.  Chief Harrison glances up at the officer, emotionlessly, not startled or worried in the least in his unexcited anticipation of the officer’s news.  He simply waits.

NARRATOR (CH): I feel—

OFFICER: Sir?

9 – Small panel.  Chief Harrison reaches for the dangling beaded string under the lamp’s bulb.

OFFICER (O/P): Homicide at Seventh and Walnut.  We’re needed.

10 – Small panel.  The light is out.

THE END

POWERLESS #6

POWERLESS

A Composite Graphic Novel exclusive to Absinthe Hour

PAGE SIX

“Breaking and Entering”

1 – Small panel.  James Tulley holds firmly the long neck of an amber bottle of booze, almost completely gone.  The image is set against a dark panel, as if the reader is there in Tulley’s small, dimly lit apartment, sitting with him, poised to finish off the bottle with him.

NARRATOR (JT): They’re calling it a BREAKING and ENTERING GONE ASTRAY.

2 – Small panel.  James Tulley guzzles the bottle like a nervous, reticent young man downing vigorously the right motivation to approach the most beautiful woman at the bar.  Slivers of booze seep from the corners of his mouth and trail down his chin.  Small, quick drops of the cheap liquor wane fast from the tip of his chin.

NARRATOR (JT): A simple SMALL TIME crook looking for JEWLERY to PAWN.

NARRATOR (JT): And I DON’T know WHY.

3 – Small panel.  James Tulley incongruously wipes his mouth with his sleeve.  A glimpse of the television set behind him bares the only light in the apartment.  It reaches out into the darkness of room, reaches out for the attention of James Tulley, whose back is turned on it.

NARRATOR (JT): Maybe Harrison believes in what I’m doing.

4 – Medium Panel.  The television consumes the panel.  The news is on, and a FEMALE NEWS REPORTER sitting at the desk is inauthentic in her reading of the news, even as she reports the most recent of James Tulley’s exploits.  She fixes a small pile of papers appropriately, orderly; taps the bottom of the stack atop the desk with a loose grasp on either side of the pile.

NARRATOR (JT): Believes in the INUNDATED RECKLESSNESS of my approach,

FEMALE NEWS REPORTER: --no signs of our city’s Superhero for days as our city’s crime rate slowly rises.

5 – Medium panel.  With an extended arm and the assistance of one of the chair’s arm rests, James Tulley props himself up weakly and staggers to his feet.  He tosses the empty bottle of booze carelessly to a spot on the floor in front of him.  His clothes, or what can be seen of them under the heavy shadows, are disheveled and tousled.

NARRATOR (JT): Believes in the seemingly MORALLESS, UNINHABITED island of DELIVERANCE on which only I come MARGINALLY close to residing.

6 – Wide panel.  The view of the night from the expansive widow duly acting as a wall at the far end of the apartment reveals a night undisrupted, quiet, and serene.  It’s unruly still, and the full moon hangs large and motionless amongst hovering, stagnant grey clouds.  James Tulley, hunched, overall acrimonious in spirit, as though he were a wobbled puppet disturbed by the inexperience of his controller’s hand, walks meekly into the kitchen.

NARRATOR (JT): I know now, though, why no one does.

7 – Small panel.  James Tulley grabs the handle of the refrigerator, and yanks slightly on it.  A weak, exasperated light funnels out of the small space between the refrigerator door and the refrigerator itself.

NARRATOR (JT): I FEAR he believes in me.

7 – Small panel.  James Tulley’s face basks in the artificial glow of yellow light.  He’s a mess emotionally.  It’s clear he hasn’t been able to sleep—his eyes are barely open and the areas below them sag dramatically.  He’s horribly ridden with a great depression.

NARRATOR (JT): He shouldn’t.

8 – Small panel.  James Tulley grabs a tall, unopened bottle of booze, the only item on the top shelf in the refrigerator.

NARRATOR (JT): I’m no one’s SUPERHERO.