The Comics Part 1: Dancing Toward Oblivion

It’s clear to anyone who follows my blogs, (Hello? Hello? Is there anybody out there?), that one of my favorite things in the world is comic books. At this point in the history of the art form this is a deeply challenging love.

There’s no denying that the comics biz has taken its lumps in the last three decades.

The business is in trouble.

I don’t want to waste too much time on the many reasons this is so, but a few salient points of information are required for the uninitiated.

1)    Direct Distribution

How it happened:

In the late seventies and early eighties, as comic shops became more prevalent, distributors began to shift their attention from the traditional newsstand, and drug store markets and into the comics shops. Eventually, this became the only real target market. On the up side, more adult content was developed to interest the aging customer base, but unfortunately, the simpler, more kid-friendly comics content began to disappear.

Why it’s bad:

No new, young buyers. As the comics fans of the era began to age, no new generation of comics fans was being wooed to the form. If they didn’t go into a comics shop for some reason, they just never discovered the medium. While the emergence of more adult content was a good thing in some ways, it was a double-edged sword. Some content was genuinely more sophisticated, but some was simply prurient “adult” material designed to make a quick sale. Direct distribution also eventually led to the major comics distributors merging into one big, monopolistic company.

2)    Image Comics: Style Over Substance

How it happened:

As the nineties rolled around, comics experienced a temporary boom in sales. (Mostly due to the falsely inflated “collectors market”, as discussed below.) At that time, some of the major illustrators working at Marvel comics did a little math and realized that their “work for hire” page-rate contracts were unconscionably shabby and that their financial benefit to the company was substantial. They demanded a piece of the profits and ownership of their work. Marvel balked. In response the artists formed their own company, Image Comics.

Why it’s bad:

They made bad comics. (And some bad business decisions) These talented illustrators made the very strange choice to write their own comics. Unfortunately, as writers, they made very good illustrators. At the time they split from Marvel, there was a great deal of buzz about how this might be a real game changer, but ultimately, after an initial year of incredible sales the image of Image began to tarnish.

Most of the books were so badly written they were barely readable. Effective page design and storytelling were sacrificed to slick, vacuous, pin-up style artwork, and regular publishing schedules gave way to increasingly inconsistent production. Hey, I get it, they were young guys, they were suddenly making hundreds of thousands of dollars, they goofed off. (Most of them, anyway.) But, it was a bad choice. Eventually many of the titles at Image were being farmed out as piece work, just like at any other company.

Marvel and DC both responded with equally weak, vacuous comics, bad promotional gimmicks like embossed covers, multiple covers and other sales-grabbing techniques. It was a very bad scene. It nearly led to the death of Marvel Comics, which filed for bankruptcy protection in 1996. It did, however lead to better profit sharing contracts and creator owned imprints at the major companies.

You can read more about this stuff here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image_Comics

Here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Creator_ownership

And here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marvel_Comics

3)    The Collectors Market

How it happened:

Right around the time the Image guys were doing their thing, comics sales were at their highest point in years. This was due to a unique phenomenon called the “collector’s market”. What happened was, word got out that people with basements full of old comics from the 40’s a 50’s were discovering there was a lucrative market for these aging magazines. A large group of people started buying up multiple copies of new comics as a form of financial speculation.

Why it’s bad:

The thinking was: “I’ll buy these up and in 20 years they’ll be worth a fortune. Of course it doesn’t work that way. The comics of the 40’s and 50’s were considered throwaway items, and were printed on cheap, acidic paper. Therefore, very few survived, and even fewer survived in good condition.

A few hundred copies and a high demand equals a high price, thousands of copies and low demand means not worth a plugged nickel. After a while it became clear that no one was going to make a lot of money from these comics, and the speculators simply stopped buying them.

Read more on this here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Comic_book_collecting#The_speculator_boom

4)    Digital Media / Superhero Movies

How it happened:

The personal computer became ubiquitous in Western society, and digital effects technology became highly sophisticated. The big comics companies began actively marketing their properties to Hollywood, which could now convincingly present the mighty feats of these larger-than-life characters through digital effects.

Why it’s bad:

It’s an issue of competition from other media. Specifically, digital video games, internet social media like Facebook and Twitter along with internet delivery of TV, movies, and the sort of homemade videos one finds on YouTube. These distractions are a lot more accessible and more insidiously addictive than comics ever were.

Yes, there are comics on the web, but digital delivery is a poor fit for the form. The shape isn’t right, you can’t easily flip between pages, and it doesn’t move. Scott McCloud’s blue-sky theories aside, (http://scottmccloud.com/) I personally don’t believe comics have a big future on the web. Some would argue there are a few dedicated people out there making profitable web-comics, but they generally have a very different definition of “profitable” than I have. I hope I’m wrong though, because we do need a new delivery system.

As for the movies, there are many reasons I think they are bad for the humble comics that spawned them, but I’ll just mention two. First, they are big, loud, pretty, and they move. (And have enormous budgets for promotion, which comic books don’t.) Also, Hollywood has no real respect for these iconic characters and they’re happy to water down the fundamental strengths of the characters for short term ”coolness”.

5)    Huge Entertainment Conglomerates

How it happened:

Same as what happened with all sorts of companies. They want to establish a worldwide presence, become large and powerful on the world stage and get ALL the money.

Why it’s bad:

It’s bad because the actual money made by comic book companies is insignificant in comparison to the money made by movies, television and video games. Also, the licensing and marketing of the comics properties is more profitable than the comics themselves.

The Terrible Unspoken Truth is that the big comics companies don’t really care that much about their comics being of high quality or creatively fruitful. They don’t care if they protect the integrity of the characters, or even if the comics are fundamentally profitable, because they make most of their money from licensing T-shirts and coffee mugs and making movies.

There are myriad other problems of course, and some bright spots, but the bottom line is, the comics are in trouble. 

Is there a solution?

I honestly don’t know.

There’s a lot of buzz about a “Creator’s Revolution’ on the web right now. A lot of talk about diversity, and opportunity and the future of the industry, some of which was touched off by a controversial video created by cartoonist Eric Powell. Eric has since removed the video and you can read about his reasons here:

http://www.digitalspy.com/comics/news/a302011/eric-powell-removes-protest-video.html

Illustrator Michael Netzer has started a petition, and even filed a complaint against Marvel and DC with the Federal Trade Commission. You can read about that, here:

http://michaelnetzer.com/mnop/?p=2026

I’m reading the debates with interest, and I’m trying to weed out the possible solutions from all the bluster.

However, in the next few installments I’m going to offer a few thoughts of my own from the perspectives of both devoted fan and interested professional.

Here We Go Again

        I was recently playing around with a new short story, and at the same time I noticed the latest Toronto Star short story contest was coming up.

        I decided to enter the story, for better or worse.

        Although I've never been big on contests, I did enter the Comedy Network's television pitch competition a few years back. I was chosen as one of the five finalists, and did the "live pitch" for a couple producers, two celebrity judges and a live audience of about 50 people. 

        It was not a good experience. 

        First, the amount of time available for the pitch was ridiculously short, seven minutes, with a few minutes of follow up questions from the panel of judges. I had to live or die by the presentation of one short scene from the show, and few minutes to present the concept. I had to recruit friends to perform the excerpt, and a theme song, and spend time and energy rehearsing. Secondly, the first prize was a $5000 "development deal" wherein the Comedy Network would supposedly develop your idea for broadcast. The prize for second place was a T-shirt.

        My health was very poor at that time, and I spent about 50 hours preparing the script, visual designs of the animated characters, and rehearsing. Another 30 or so man-hours of rehearsal were contributed by three very wonderful pals of mine from the improv world, Jane Luk, Gord Oxley and Sarah Buski.

        Long story short, I got a T-shirt.

        I really felt ripped off. All that time an energy and I didn't get so much as a dinner coupon to reward my investment, or all the time my generous friends contributed.

        My show, Dorkwads, was an animated show about a couple of awkward, nerdy computer experts who move into an apartment building inhabited mostly by sexy women. Sound familiar? About a year and a half after the pitch competition, the sit-com Big Bang Theory, about two awkward, nerdy scientists who live across the hall from a sexy gal, debuted and became a smash.

        I could have puked.

        So, as you can imagine, I'm a bit wary of competitions.

        However, the Star contest has a long, positive history, and the time I invested was much less extensive. (In the event that the result is, once again, negative.) Plus, if they don't select it, I can still send it out to other publishers.

        As I mentioned before, this year I'm sending out stories. This will be the first.

        Wish me luck.

Taking The Plunge

            This year I start sending out stories.

            I write a lot of horror fiction, and those may be the scariest words I’ve ever written.

            But, I’ve been working hard, writing a lot of stuff, and taking my medicine at the writer’s group in an effort to improve my work. It’s time to put up or shut up.

It’s a terrifying objective, for a number of reasons.  First, because the fiction magazine market has withered into a shrunken, dried out little prune in comparison to the big juicy plumb it once was. Second, because what little market remains is an intensely competitive, live-or-die Colosseum of Blood, where one has little chance of even being noticed, let alone surviving and thriving. Third, and most depressing, the money involved is either non-existent or hovering around 1935 pulp magazine standards at only a few cents per word! (How is it possible rates have not gone up in nearly a century?)

However, these are not the things that truly terrify me. It’s the impending judgment that causes my blood to turn into sand and a girlish shriek to rise unbidden into my throat.

While it’s true that I face summary judgment at the hands of the Moosemeat writers group on a fairly regular basis, these rulings do not spring from faceless editors existing only in the misty, white ether of some distant Literary Limbo. When a Moosemeat associate comments on one of my stories, positively or negatively, I can look them in the eye, take the measure of them, and even offer a reasonable counterpoint to their comments at the end of the discussion. These are not luxuries afforded me by magazine editors.

In fact, the usual response is by way of a form letter, faceless, impersonal and utterly devastating to one’s ego. There are no eyes to look into, no way to assess their sincerity or insight, and no one to punch in the groin, should the occasion call for it. 

Many moons ago, (about a decade or so), I sent out a few stories to some magazines. I had three stories, which I submitted to a total of five magazines. None were accepted.

To be fair, I gave up after only about a year of submitting. The rejections hurt, to be sure, but what hurt much more was the stated, or implied justification for the rejections. Those really made me feel like an idiot. I simply couldn’t work out the seemingly inscrutable wants and needs of the magazines and their editors. Especially since they bore no discernable relationship to the stated parameters in their submission guidelines.

Here’s a reply I got from Marion Zimmer Bradley’s magazine, unfortunately now defunct.

This was by far the most frustrating response I received. Now, don’t get me wrong. If you don’t want to publish my story, that’s okay by me. Just say so and move on. But, damn people, don’t give me a lot of baloney.

Apparently my story lacked any discernable elements of “classical fantasy”, oh and by the way, it also has no “sense of wonder”. It also tells me to read a few issues to get a feel for what they publish.

Well, okay… I guess.

But, just for fun, let’s look at the submission guidelines for the magazine, which I sent for and received by mail in May of 1998. That date is interesting, so remember it for later. 

What an incredible list of do’s, do not’s and beware of’s. What the hell is left? What elements of classical fantasy remain if you obey that extended shopping list of taboos? Those are almost all the damn elements of classical fantasy.

And, just for the record, I bought and read three issues of the magazine before submitting. I’m a Virgo, damn it, we always do our research. And you know what, in those three short issues I read a story that was an angular take on Sleeping Beauty, one that was pure, unadulterated romance with an inter-dimensional twist, one about a ghost and one about a sorceress. Clearly, I was getting some mixed signals here.

The last line of the list is the key I suppose. “We reject all but the truly unusual and well written ones.” Hmmm… that gives you a nice little trap-door escape hatch doesn’t it? In other words; “We don’t like that sort of thing, unless, of course, we happen to like it.”

In the immortal words of Good Old Charlie Brown as Lucy pulls away the football at the last moment: AAAUUUUGGGH!

Remember that date from earlier? I got these guidelines just a few months before the North American release of the first Harry Potter book. A book for which J.K. Rowling received 12 rejections before Nigel Newton of Bloomsberry publishing, not bothering to read some sample chapters, gave them to his daughter Alice to read instead. His daughter loved the chapters and demanded more. Newton basically bought the book to stop his kid whining.

Rather like the record companies that passed on the Beatles, isn't it?

Sadly, I think Marion Zimmer Bradley would have been one of the ones to reject the book. After all, it includes half the stuff on her list of no-no's.

Am I saying I'm as good a writer as J.K. Rowling? 

No. 

I'm saying, publishers and editors, that having a long list of taboos and bugaboos predisposes you to instantly reject that which may be quite special based on the sudden appearance of a Troll. Perhaps that's a short sighted approach for someone looking for a "sense of wonder". 

Bottom line?

I liked my little story a lot, and still do, but I stopped sending it out because I got discouraged. Well, not this time. After freshening up the story a bit, I'm sending it out again. And this time I'm not stopping until someone publishes it or I have exhausted every viable market.

I have some pretty good new stories to accompany it, and I'm going to be just as steadfast with them this time around.

So look out editors. I will not be discouraged this time.

Of Apes and Men

If you are a Planet of the Apes fan, (and who the heck isn’t), here’s something nifty you should check out, Timeline of the Planet of the Apes, and the recently released Lexicon of the Planet of the Apes.

More fun than a barrel of... well, you know...

            These two tomes of delicious Apey goodness were written by a rather mad genius named Rich Handley. Rich, who can only be described as an extreme Planet of the Apes fan, has compiled the definitive timeline of all things Apes, and a compendium of all the remaining elements of the Apes sagas. It encompasses all the movies, TV series, comic books and assorted ephemera that have borne the name. It’s a daunting task, to be sure, and one that has been performed with great precision and unmatched dedication by the industrious Mr. Handley.

            But the most fun thing for me is, I’m kinda in the books! As part of a short lived Canadian comic book publishing company called Mr. Comics, (AKA Metallic Rose), I wrote and drew a short, five-page backup story for issue #4 of their mini-series Revolution On the Planet of the Apes, edited by Toronto comics maven Ty Templeton.

            And such is Rich Handley’s obsession for minutiae and unassailable accuracy that he has included my little story and its characters in both books. Hell, the dude even includes references to a story I roughed out for the comic, which was rejected in favor of the published story! How delightfully compulsive is that? But Rich didn’t stop there. He shared the roughs of that unpublished story with a UK periodical named Simian Scrolls, who liked it so much they published it in issue #16 of their magazine.

Thanks for helping that story see the light of day Rich.

            Rich Handley first became obsessed with all things Ape after viewing all the Apes movies during a week-long afternoon film festival on ABC in the late ‘70’s. As a precocious ten year old with an already overdeveloped love of movies, he was doomed from the moment the first gorilla appeared on screen.

            Shortly after the millennium ticked over, Rich began a website featuring a rudimentary version of his Apes timeline entitled “The Hasslein Curve”. Science fiction writer Ed Gross approached Rich about turning his web site into a book. Unfortunately, after compiling the timeline, Ed Gross was unable to follow through on the publishing. Rich then teamed up with his good friend Paul Giachetti, and the diligent duo deftly decided to publish the book themselves. And thank goodness they did, because this stuff is just indispensable for any self respecting Apes aficionado.

            Rich currently lives on Long Island with his wife Jill, their two kids Emily and Joshua and their skittish cat Newton. Rich is busy working on some new books, including two Apes novels with co-writer Drew Gaska and some other top secret stuff.

            Check out Hasslein books at the URL below, or be forever banished to the Forbidden Zone.

http://www.hassleinbooks.com/

            And, since this is my blog, I’ve included my own little Apes stories, published and unpublished, for your enjoyment and edification.

The unpublished story.

The published story.

Everybody's Doing It

            Today, while Googling P.D. James to find out about her book Talking About Detective Fiction, I inevitably ended up on the Amazon site. What struck me, after finding the book in question, was the little moveable bar of book covers at the bottom entitled “customers who bought this item also bought”. Here I found dozens of other instructional books about writing detective and thriller novels. And, when you expand the search to writing instruction in general, you open it up into the thousands. The screenwriting section alone is enough to stock a warehouse of shelves.

            This started me thinking about the ubiquitous nature of the how-to genre of books. Why are we so drawn to these books? How many people actually learn something from them? How many people go on to successfully write a novel, screenplay or sit-com, based on the techniques espoused in these volumes? And here’s the biggie: Do they work? Is it just a big scam, or can anyone follow the ABC’s of any given book and become a successful writer?

            As a creative person, I kinda want to believe that not just anyone can do it, but I wonder if that’s true.

Certainly not every person who attempts it is going to make it happen, but there are a lot of obvious reasons for this.

1)    You don’t start.

2)    You don’t finish.

3)    You don’t possess the technical fundamentals required to write coherently.

4)    You lack the imagination and research skills required to create engaging and believable people and environments.

Even beginning an undertaking like writing a novel is challenging. I’m sure there are many who purchase a book on writing who never manage to pick up a pencil or sit down in front of a keyboard. Perhaps they are big dreamers, who buy the how-to book to feed their daydreamy reverie but lack the discipline to hunker down and do the work. Then there are others who are simply too overwhelmed by work, kids, and the many other hurdles and tragedies of life to ever get going.

And, if one does make the start, finding the time, energy and pure stubbornness required to finish the job is no small feat, especially if it is a creative endeavour as large and difficult as writing a novel or screenplay. As someone who has given his life to writing, performing and drawing I have seen many projects through to the end. However, there are many more I’ve attempted that hit dead ends, or petered out, or were simply beyond my abilities at the time.

Finishing something that big is hard, man!

And, for many who finish the job, the result is ineffective because they are trying to lift big, heavy barbells without having gradually developed their muscles. Imagination, research and the technical understanding of language are crucial in the creation of a readable piece of fiction. Like any muscles, they must grow slowly over time, until they expand to the required strength to do the job. You’ve got to know your spelling, grammar, plotting and other rules of the road, and you must have the discipline required to create an engaging, readable whole. No small tasks, these things.

I have many instructional books in my library. I own several on writing and dozens on drawing and painting. Many artists and writers I know have similar books in their collections and many of these books are excellent. I have learned a great deal from reading them, but I have also followed through with the practical exercise and constant creative exploration required to build up my muscles to a pretty good size.

I often hear writers spouting the old saw: “If you don’t have to write, if you aren’t utterly driven and compelled at your very core to write, then just don’t do it.” 

Well, that’s all very dramatic, and makes for a good sound bite in interviews, but I don’t think it’s really true. Personally, I think wanting to write is enough. If you approach it intelligently, diligently and sincerely, and you remain committed, I think most people are capable of writing a good story, doing a good drawing or giving a good performance. They may not become a Hemmingway, Rembrandt, or Nicholson, but they may be able to garner some joy for a job well done, and perhaps even make a living into the bargain.

Greatness Personified

  So, I’m going to cast my vote for the how-to book, with the caveat that one’s dedication to the process must be absolute. If so, the instructional book can start you off quite well and take you pretty far.

Arts and Crafts

Rockwell speaks to me.

I’ve been doing a bit of thinking about what elevates something from the pedestrian to the sublime. What is the difference between something that is merely well crafted and entertaining, and something that is ART?

            This is not an area of study that rests easily within the limited space of my diminutive brain-pan.

Picasso does not.

            It doesn’t help that my tastes run more toward the popular and less toward that which is traditionally, or generally, considered art. The truth is, whatever the unique thread of creative logic that lead him there, I will never appreciate the work of Pablo Picasso as much as the work of Norman Rockwell. I will never prefer the writing of Charles Dickens to that of Orson Scott Card.

            I know. What can I say? I’m a rube.

            Don’t get me wrong, I have read, absorbed and even enjoyed much of the work of Dickens, and have come to appreciate, on an intellectual, and visceral level, the paintings of Picasso. But, ultimately they simply don’t engage me in the same way. There are dozens of mitigating factors, of course. Picasso’s style is challenging and Dickens’s writing is a somewhat dated product of its era.

Weak excuses, I suppose.

I certainly value what more esoteric artists have added to the world, but a Frank Frazetta painting or good pulp adventure yarn still engages me more thoroughly.

            Why?

            Maybe I’m just a farm boy, whose taste is in his mouth.

            Or maybe I’m a simpleton whose taste is in his ass.

            Both assertions might be true.

            However, there is one thing I know for certain. I don’t appreciate anything that doesn’t stem from a deep understanding of the craft. By craft, I mean the nuts and bolts of the medium.

A short history of Picasso's artistic development
displays his early mastery of the craft.

In painting, that’s anatomy, perspective, color, composition, and other fundamentals. In Picasso’s case, he was rigorously trained in these fundamentals, and then made an intellectual and creative choice to eschew those basics. That I can appreciate. Certain other individuals, who have been widely heralded as great artists, lack these skills completely.

That I cannot abide.

This shows no understanding
 of craft whatsoever.

I can see the great skill and craft utilized by comic book artist Dave Stevens as readily as I can see it in the work of Rembrandt, and I can fully appreciate both.

But, Dave transports me away from the mundane, and I guess that’s the key.

Maybe the question is why I need to be transported away. Why do I crave escapism more than intellectual or aesthetic stimulation?

Perhaps it stems from my frustration and disillusionment with the world and my life as it is, or perhaps from an unfulfilled adolescent need for the magical, I don’t know. But whether it’s little “a” art, or big “A” art, you’d better have your craft figured out, or I will dismiss you as unworthy.

And this is where I find myself. Working on my own crafts of writing and drawing, and trying, perhaps in futility, to master and transcend those fundamentals, whatever my subject matter.

Wish me luck.

The Trapped Story

About 6 years ago, when I got a new computer, I ran into a bit of an unfortunate situation. The new machine read CD’s and the old one read floppy discs. (Yes, that’s how infrequently I update my computer. And I don’t plan on getting another until this one is so old the plastic turns to dust! Grumble, grouse, gripe. Curmudgeon, curmudgeon, curmudgeon!)

My excellent friend Darryl helped me transfer all the files I thought were important, and I made hard copies of many others prior to retiring my old model Mac. But, as is to be expected, there was one file I failed to transfer or print out. It was a short story, about 75% completed, entitled The Bitter End. It’s a humorous tale set in the near future, about mankind discovering, and meeting, the creator of Earth.

At the time I was occupied with other endeavors. (Like joining Facebook and playing online poker on my new Mac, for instance.) By the time I finally decided to finish writing the story, some 18 months later, I found I had no file or hard copy of the piece. My old computer was still plugged in, (reserved for the occasional contest of the classic shooter game QUAKE), and I was easily able to find the file. Sadly, I had long ago disconnected the printer. Hoping I could still get the thing to print, I dug the it out of mothballs. Unfortunately, I had somehow misplaced a key connective cord. The thing was now useful only as a novelty burglar basher.

My story was trapped like a rat in a limbo of inaccessible pixels!

And so it stayed for four more years until my lovely wife Beth bought a new laptop for her new job. Using her portable computer, I was able to transcribe the unfinished tale to her Word program and e-mail it to myself. I have since finished the tale and plan to submit it for critique at the Moosemeat writer’s group at the soonest possible opportunity.

In the meantime here is a short excerpt, to whet your appetite. I will let you know what the Moosemeat clan had to say about it in the New Year.

Story by Sam Agro. All rights reserved. Steal it and I’ll crush your kneecaps.

The Bitter End

By Sam Agro

God’s name is Irving.

The millennium came and went without a ripple. The much-dreaded Y2K bug was a big bust. Contrary to popular expectation, the groceries got to the store on time, and the water, electricity and television programming continued to flow uninterrupted into everyone’s home. The devout were not taken up into the Lord’s throne room, and the survivalists were left with vast stores of powdered eggs to silently mock them for their misplaced prudence. Ultimately, no one was forced to feast on the roasted eyeballs of their neighbours to stave off starvation.

Well, a few did, but were dealt with in short order by the constabulary.

Life went on.

All in all, everyone was pretty disappointed.

The end of the world, when it finally did arrive some twenty-six years later, came from a completely unexpected place. It did not bring the world of man crashing down in one giant, apocalyptic flash of fire and brimstone, as some had predicted. It merely infected our tender little souls and started a painful and extended process of spiritual putrefaction.

It happened on September 19, 2026.

Several years prior to that fateful date, an industrious group of scientists, delving ever deeper into the mysteries of the human genetic code, finally succeeded in mapping the genome in its entirety. New technologies finally cracked the repetitive centromeres and telomeres, and the job was complete. This breakthrough ushered in the long promised golden age of genetic curatives, which, one by one, eliminated the long-standing ills of the human creature. Even the common cold finally fell to the new technology, causing cocktail party wags to quip; “Now all we need is a cure for the common clod.”

Things were pretty damn good for a while and might have stayed that way if not for Dr. Emmerson Quentin Carstairs.

Carstairs was one of the tertiary decoders of the human genome project, and was an avid puzzle fanatic. One might assume that decoding the human genome would be enigma enough to afford a lifetime’s worth of satisfaction for even the most intent decipherer, but it was not so for Carstairs. His gamester’s instinct hinted that there might be a further mystery lurking beneath the first. He was somehow certain that a greater revelation lay hidden in the twists and turns of the double helix. After the project was completed, his fellow scientists pushed forward to put their new information into practical use. Instead of following their lead, Carstairs secluded himself away with several powerful, top-of-the-line organic computers and sought to scratch his nagging intellectual intuition.

He ran the genome information backward and forward. He chopped up the data into tiny bits and rearranged it in every conceivable combination. He considered the problem from all imaginable viewpoints, in an obsessive attempt to find the elusive hidden message he sensed lurking in the myriad compartments of our genetic code. His former colleagues first teased, then scoffed, then worried, then finally abandoned their increasingly obsessive, and increasingly un-showered, peer.

But damn it, he was right.

The specifics of Quentin’s discovery are pretty complex, but as it was explained to me this is what he finally did. He transposed the data found in our DNA into a series of tiny, parallel bursts of light. He then projected the information through a controlled series of prismatic computer simulations. The simulations resolved the light bursts into a designer’s label of sorts. There, in impressive, multicoloured holographics was the complete history of our genetic engineering and, startlingly, the personal signature of our creator.

God’s name is Irving.

Irving’s name was later found in the subatomic codes of everything on earth. He had designed the flora, the fauna, the very rock, dust and oxygen that surrounded us. It was all the handiwork of the great and powerful Irving.

The ultimate truth of our existence had been laid bare. The earth and all it’s creatures were prefabricated. An astounding series of experimental organic constructs. In fact, all the planets in our solar system, and possibly beyond, were further installments in what appeared to be a vast, intergalactic science fair.

An atomic check of our cache of moon rocks quickly confirmed that they were the design of some guy named Aldo.

Once Carstairs’s discovery had been confirmed several things happened right away.

The religious immediately turned their backs on the church. Pagans and atheists rushed in confused desperation back into the chapels, cathedrals and synagogues. Conformists became wild, crazy and unpredictable, while the idiosyncratic lost all sense of self. The noble were reduced to the common and the indigent got downright cocky. The racist became impotent and the elitist became possessed of a newfound generosity.

Wars ended and wars began.

Whole countries dissolved out of sheer apathy.

World governments tried to maintain the status quo, of course, and ultimately found it to be all too sickeningly easy. The post revelation backlash died out after four or five years and, in the final analysis, things didn’t really change all that much.

But, something had happened to our sense of self-esteem. Knowing that our beloved Earth was merely a giant petri dish, created for some otherworldly show and tell, then left fallow by its creator, wounded us. Our sense of specialness had taken a shallow cut to the jugular and we were slowly losing our life’s blood from the wound.

Sure, people still went to work, still bitched about taxes, still watched YouTube and ate pizza, but our hearts were no longer in it. As a race we were winding down. Slowly falling into a bleak hopelessness. Reproduction was at an all time low.

Oh Irving, why hast thou forsaken us?