My crazy idea today was to do a Mardi Gras illustration featuring Faye, the main character from my upcoming story “Elf Princess on Mars” — which, in itself, is another crazy idea, since I intend to release the story in the first part of March — with illustrations — and I only started working on it last week.

So, that makes doing the Mardi Gras on Mars illustration even crazier, as it’s spending time I should probably be using to do something else.

On the other hand, maybe it’ll pique your interest for the project.  Stay tuned to my Twitter and Facebook accounts for more info (and some other sneak peaks from the project).  Don’t forget to sign up for my free newsletter, too.

And, the day after, you might even find a more “New Orleans friendly” version of the illo in my gallery at Renderosity.  (Sorry, my timing was off to get it put up on the day.  Just pretend our photographer is still out having a good time and will get to it when he returns.)

Happy Mardi Gras from Faye & Friends!

The Candle Goes Dark… – Cover

Stephen D. Sullivan

For Aalandria Holly Edmonds, 1993-2012.

* * *

My name is Crimson. I’m a warrior, and I’ve lived many lives—though only in fragments. That is my gift … and my curse.

For most people, life is like the flame dancing atop a candle. While the flame burns, you’re alive; once it’s snuffed, that individual flame is gone, never to return.

I’m different. I did the gods a favor once, and because of that, the flame of my life is more like the filament in a light bulb. Throw the switch, and the light is gone, but the filament remains, essentially unchanged, waiting to spring back to full luminosity once the switch is thrown again.

So when the gods flick the switch, I’m back, reconstituted from local materials into a fair semblance of my former self—same red hair, same muscular frame, same blue eyes, same weapons and armor—nearly as good as new. Nearly. Though the “light bulb” of my life has usually been moved to another room since the switch got turned off.

Yeah, always another room, another time … and often another planet or another reality entirely.

I live in the remnants of other people’s lives, reborn into their transformed bodies to use the moments they would have wasted. That’s how the gods told me this deal works—a kind of metaphysical recycling—a fate they deemed both reward and punishment for my past deeds.

Flick! I’m in Asgard. Flick-Flick! I’m in Vietnam. Flick-Flick! I’m on a moon of Tau Ceti. Flick-Flick! I’m in the Blue Kingdoms. Flick-Flick! Pharaonic Egypt.

I never notice the time between the flicks of the cosmic switch—if there is any. For me, it’s just one life after the next. Some of my lifespans run fairly long; most are relatively short. Few allow me any chance to form lasting relationships or even catch a bit of rest.

But I guess I wasn’t put in this position to make friends. My karmic mission is to make things better, to set worlds right, to live out the allotted span of wasted lives and make something useful of them.

I’m the multiverse’s Designated Hitter. You screw up fatally; I take over. Elvis leaves the building, and I finish out the set ’cause he ain’t coming back for that last deep-fried peanut butter, banana, and bacon sandwich—not in this lifetime.

In each of my new lives, I’m reborn from the body of a life cut short, a life that didn’t deserve to go on.

Sometimes, the span I’m given is horribly brief. But brief or long, I remain the same warrior woman I was when I first died, so long ago. That death was easy compared to some of the ones since.

Flick!

I’m lying face-down in a puddle, my right cheek pressed against wet concrete. A chill breeze blows away the dust of my reincarnation, the fine ash that is all that remains of this body’s previous appearance … and life. This place smells of garbage and piss. An alley, I deduce. It smells of something else as well. Metallic … Iron? The pool I’m lying in is not composed entirely of water from the gently falling rain; a generous amount of blood is mixed in, likely a remnant of my body’s previous owner.

Not surprising. My rebirth is often accompanied by gore and other unpleasant stage dressing. Usually, though, I don’t awaken with my face in the proverbial dirt. Usually, when my eyes open, I find myself gazing at an alien sky. If I’m lucky, I can see the stars; if I’m very lucky, I even recognize the constellations. If I’m unlucky, I find myself staring at a dungeon ceiling, surrounded by hungry manticore. I don’t know why I’m usually reborn facing out into the cosmos, but that’s the way it is.

Not today.

I’m face-down and wet and cold before I’ve even been alive a minute. I’m in a stinking alleyway, and I’ve no idea where in hell I am. Darkness surrounds me, along with the patter of the rain, and the sound of distant traffic. Cars. A post-industrial city.

Without moving, I take inventory. Chainmail; sword at my hip; the heft of a dagger in each boot. All good. Thanks to the godly bargain that puts me in situations like this time and again, I remain well equipped during my “travels.” With this gear, I can take on the nine worlds … or at least make a start of it.

Voices echo from nearby, rough and unpleasant: two male, one female. Fully awake now, I concentrate on the sounds, though the way my head is turned I can’t see the talkers.

One of the men laughs cynically. “Jesus, is that all there is?”

“Should have been more,” the woman slurs. “Said she had more. I heard her.”

“Maybe you heard wrong,” the third says. “The little bitch!” He turns and spits in my direction.

They are the killers; whoever I was before, their victim.

I turn my head to the right, so I can see them. The darkness of the alley hides my movement from them, just as it hid my transformation from victim into avenger. The three are standing in a pool of wan yellow light cast by a single bulb burning above a battered warehouse door. Grimy industrial bricks form the walls of the alley; debris and refuse make up its décor.

“Gotta go,” the woman says. “Cops’ll come. Somebody musta heard.” She looks nervously down the alley in the other direction from me, toward a deserted city street. She’s dressed inappropriately for this cold rain: short skirt and cropped jacket, t-shirt, belly bare, nylons with a long run down one leg, scuffed knee-high boots. She clutches a stiletto in one hand and hugs herself with the other, trying futilely to stop the shakes. The blade of her knife is tarnished.

“Your fault,” the third killer says to her. He’s a brute, more than six-foot two and built like a linebacker. Wears a fancy leather jacket two sizes too small. Showing off his beef. “You reeled her in. Shoulda known she didn’t have enough.”

The first one finishes counting a small fistful of blood-spattered greenbacks. He’s slender and handsome, but with a wolfish look to his face. He wears a team logo leather jacket, jeans, and new boots. He finishes a cigarette and casts it to the street, looking at the other two with a mixture of amusement and contempt. “Enough to get us by … for tonight anyway.”

“Sh-she shouldn’t have fought,” says the woman. “Not enough to fight over. Pisses me off!” A drug-fueled mood swing: panic to manic. “Lied to me. Shoulda cut her!”

“Forget it,” Wolf-face says. “She’s done. Let’s go ’fore someone sees us.”

“Dumb bitch!” the big man curses, angry at their dead victim. He steps into the shadows hiding me and reels back to give a savage kick to whoever I was.

I grab his sneaker and surge to my feet, toppling him backwards. He lands hard, the air rushing out of his lungs with a puzzled grunt. I kick him in the head, to keep him from getting back up.

The wolfish man freezes in shock, but the woman charges me, knife in hand, her face pulled tight in a drug-enhanced blend of fury and fear. “You seen us? Cut you!” She stabs at my gut.

My sword clears its scabbard in an instant. I parry her weapon easily and slash my silver-traced blade across her throat. She reels back, spraying blood.

Wolf-face drops the money—not more than fifty dollars—and reaches into his jacket.

Gun! I think, and stab at him. He turns, though, and my blade only pierces the arm of his leather jacket.

I jerk the sword out, slicing down the length of his forearm. He screams and falls to his knees. I aim the sword at his neck. It will feel good to kill him.

What?!

I can’t breathe! My chest is being crushed.

“Stupid bitch!”

The big man recovered too fast. He’s got his beefy arms around my ribcage, trying to squeeze the life out of me.

Pop!

One of my ribs breaks.

I snap my head back, shattering his nose. He slackens his grip. I heave forward, taking us both to our knees.

With my left hand, I grab one of my boot daggers and stab it up between my legs and into his groin.

He screams like a soprano until I leap to my feet and put my sword through his heart. He falls dead. I smile.

Two down.

Urgent fire courses through my left leg.

I look and find the woman’s stiletto plunged into my calf and her hanging onto it with both hands. She’s too drugged out to know that she’s already dead; she’ll bleed out from the neck wound I gave her within minutes.

I block out the pain and swing my sword hard. It finishes the job it started, and the woman’s head rolls across the alleyway, a look of dumbfounded surprise on her face.

Crack!

I stagger back involuntarily, tasting my own blood. My chest feels as though I’ve been stepped on by an elephant. Fragments of red chainmail fill the air.

I’ve been shot.

I wheel and stare into Wolf-face’s hate-filled eyes and the smoking barrel of his Saturday-Night Special. Who knew he could shoot left handed? I stab at him.

He shoots again.

My sword goes straight through his left arm; my right shoulder explodes.

More chain mail shrapnel; more pain.

The gun flies from his hand and skids into the darkness.

Wolf-face howls and jerks away, taking my sword with him.

I can no longer feel the fingers of my sword hand; that arm dangles limp and useless. Sparks explode behind my eyes and the world dims.

At least it’s stopped raining.

He pulls my blade out of his arm, but doesn’t attack me. He stares at me for a moment—a wounded animal—panting, glaring. “Who the fuck are you?”

I smile and clutch the remains of my shoulder, trying to stanch the bleeding. My lungs feel like they’re burning, and I know they’re filling with blood from his first gunshot. It’s no use. This battle is over for me. My head swims.

I force my eyes to focus. I will not die with my eyes closed.

Wolf-face must see I’m helpless, but his eyes are searching for his lost gun.

Gun brave. Coward.

“C’mere, you little bastard!” I manage to hiss through blood-stained lips.

I crumple to my knees, my life bleeding away.

He hesitates, afraid of me, even now.

He stoops to pick up the blood-stained money. Then he runs.

With my left hand, I draw the knife from my other boot and throw it into his back.

It’s a solid hit, catching him behind the right shoulder blade, going clean through his starter jacket, but not deep enough.

Not enough to kill him.

He keeps going, vanishing quickly into the benighted street, taking my knife along, dripping blood as he runs.

In the distance, sirens … growing closer.

Not soon enough.

The police will have to catch Wolf-face, because my time in this body is done.

At least I’ve left them a clear trail to follow.

Flick!

The flame of my life is like the light from a light bulb. Throw the switch, the light goes off, and I’m ready to live again somewhere else. Mostly, that’s how it works.

Not tonight.

This time, when the “switch” goes off, my light fades gradually. I find myself floating away from the earth, away from a body no longer mine—a body now reverted to its original state. I’m gone now; no trace of me remains in the victim. Even my wounds are gone. The flesh has returned to its original owner … to the one who wasted her life, giving me a chance to set things right.

But…

This one cannot have wasted her life.

This one is no thug, no brute, no desperate addict, no career criminal…

She is a waif of a girl … seventeen or so years old. Her clothing is casual and careworn, but not ill-kempt; her skin is clear, and her eyes must once have danced with a joyous spark of life—though now the flames within have gone dark.

She lies on her back in the alleyway, her hair fanned out like a halo around her head. Her face is beautiful in the way that only the young can be, a look that radiates innocence despite a hard-scrabble life.

Someone loved this girl.

She wears a hand-made sweater—perhaps from a grandmother—and in the center of the carefully knitted pattern lies a single bullet hole.

Bastards!

No one this age deserves a bullet, no matter what she had done, no matter how these people knew her—whether false friends or opportunist predators—no matter what deal she had made … or broken.

No one this young can have so thoroughly wasted their life as to not deserve another chance.

I realize that I have been too harsh on the people whose bodies I inhabit during my reincarnations. I have thought of them as worthless husks, as hopeless cases, as garbage.

And perhaps some are.

But clearly, there must be others as well.

Others, like this girl, whose journeys were cut short, who could not obtain justice in their lifetimes, but who could find some measure of peace by offering up their last, brief moments to me, so that I could, perhaps, set things right.

And maybe that’s why, this time, my death is not merely a flick of the switch. Maybe that’s why this time I get to see the person in whose footsteps I lived—if only briefly.

Because she was worth it.

My name is Crimson. I’m a warrior, and I have lived out the last moments of many lives, though only one of those fragments was entirely my own. That is my curse … and my gift.

And even after two dozen lives, I don’t know that I am qualified to mete out justice…

But I am very good at retribution.

The girl lies on her back. Her eyes are open, and she’s looking at the sky.

The clouds part.

There are stars.

Then—

All is darkness.

Flick…

* * *

Good night and safe journey, Aalandria, my friend. We’ll meet again.

—Stephen D. Sullivan

January 23, 2012

The characters and situations in this story are entirely fictitious—though they do reflect some of the pain and endless questions in my heart.

Crimson also appears in The Crimson Collection.

Illustration for the story "The Candle Goes Dark, But the Light Remains."

January 2012 was a really rough month.

Aalandria Holly Edmonds 1993-2012

Aalandria Holly Edmonds was a new friend to me — though I’d been involved in her life almost since her birth.  How?  Because she was named after a character in The Twilight Empire: Robinson’s War – a name I made up for the series.  I only found out about her last year (2011), from her dad, who wanted to show her my story for her 18th birthday.  I was so honored that I figured out how to bring the book back into print, just for her.  Later in the year, she and I started corresponding together on Facebook.  She was a good kid who had had a few rough patches in her life.  I became very fond of her very quickly.  I was looking forward to being her friend for many years to come.  In January, though, she was gunned down by persons unknown.  I hope the police will catch her killer(s).  I’ve missed her every day since, and I’ve written a story in her honor that I will publish soon.  Prayers and good thoughts for her family are appreciated, and for those of you of a mind to do more, donations can be sent to:

Aalandria Edmonds Memorial Fund c/o
Tempe Monthly Meeting
318 East 15th Street
Tempe, Arizona  85281

Jean Wells

Jean Wells was an old friend of mine, one of the first friends I made when coming to work at TSR in 1980.  She got me through the only panic attack in my life and was a generous and helpful person.  We worked together on the infamous, banned module B3: Palace of the Silver Princess.  She went into the hospital for a minor issue a few weeks ago and was dead the next morning.  No one is sure why.  Gary Con has a nice memorial here.  Her family said to  make a donation to your favorite charity in her memory.  (I donated to Wisconsin Public Radio.)  Thoughts and prayers — especially for her husband and family — are appreciated, too.  Jean was a very spiritual person.

Damien Bona was a writer and an expert on the Oscars, so expert that he actually helped in the production of at least one of the broadcasts.  I only talked to him once or twice, but he worked with my brother Mark for years and was loved by everyone who knew him.  I own a signed copy of his book on movie casting blunders, Staring John Wayne as Genghis Khan, which is wonderful.  In the middle of January, he had a heart attack at work, and the EMTs and doctors couldn’t save him.  He lingered long enough to become an organ donor.  Though I barely knew him, he was one of those people you felt good just knowing was in the world.  I’m deeply sad that he is no longer with us.

Update: The New York Times just printed this really nice obit of Damien.

Update 2: The LA Times just printed Damien’s obit during Oscar week.  (And the NYT finally put him in the print edition.)  What I like, though, is the company Damien is keeping in the LAT related stories as I post this: James Arness, Elizabeth Taylor, Peter Falk, & Whitney Houston.  Not a bad crew to spend eternity with.

Al Rio was a comic artist, and a great one.  I didn’t really know him, but he was a good friend to my dear friend David Campiti, who also represented him.  Last week, Al killed himself — which someone once noted is usually a permanent solution to a temporary problem.  You can read more here.  My deepest condolences go to his family, friends, and especially David.

I hope not to have another month like this January for a good long while.  Please, all of you, stay safe and be well.

If this is a flick you haven’t seen, you should watch it!  Listen to the podcast and we’ll tell you why.

And it’s not just because of Christopher Lee & Peter Cushing (which should be reason enough for you, anyway).

Enjoy!

“TL,” you may remember, is a knock-down, drag-out brawl between our red-tressed heroine and the mythical God of Thunder.  It’s sure to tickle the fancy of mythology fans, fight fans, fans of warrior women, and (naturally) fans of Crimson herself.

You can buy it separately on Amazon or Smashwords, or get it along with six other stories in The Crimson Collection – all for less than the price of three individual stories!  And don’t forget to check out the trailer.

Thor Loser – Crimson

In solidarity with the other protests, I will not be interacting online for the day of Wednesday, January 18, 2011.  That means no e-mails, no Facebook, no Twitter — no contact at all.  If I were better at this technology, I’d actually turn my page off for the day.  But if I did that, I’m not entirely sure I could get the page right back up on the following day.  So, this post acknowledging the protest will have to do.  (Though it breaks my heart not to have a picture — which is part of the point —  for my post today.)  Edit: I’ve found a black out plugin. Hopefully, I can turn it back off, if it fails to do so itself.

Here’s a salient bit from Wikipedia about why this is being done:

“Although the bills have been amended since their introduction, they are still deeply problematic. Among other serious problems in the current draft of the bills, the requirement exists for US-based sites to actively police links to purported infringing sites. These kinds of self-policing activities are non-sustainable for large, global sites – including ones like Wikipedia. The legislative language is ambiguous and overly broad, even though it touches on protected speech. Congress says it’s trying to protect the rights of copyright owners, but the “cure” that SOPA and PIPA represent is worse than the disease.”

I suggest you click this link and get the full story.

Heck, you might join the protest and disconnect for a day yourself.  (And those of you who really need me, you should know my phone number by now anyway.)

See you back online on Thursday.

Y’all may know that I’m something of a hermit. It’ s not that I don’t like leaving the house, hanging out with people, doing conventions, etc.  It’s just that being a writer and artist is not something one normally does with other people (aside from the occasional bullpen/studio situation, like we had at TSR).  So, in order to churn out books and art, it’s kindof necessary to hole up in my studio and be alone.

Last year, I managed to get out to a number of conventions/events, and I’ll be doing a few this year as well.  However, the  easiest way to find me out and about will probably be to attend the movie series I’m hosting at our church.  (Yes, I can go into a church without bursting into flames, and you probably can, too.)  Plymouth Congregational UCC has a wonderful sound and projection system, and I’m taking advantage of it by running films there on the 3rd Friday (usually) of every month, starting on January 20th (next week as I write this).

We’re kicking off this year’s schedule with Jackie Chan’s First Strike.  (Notice the clever “kicking off” pun?)  And I hope you’ll consider joining us — especially if you’ve never seen a man defend himself with a folding ladder (in one of the great action fights of all time).  This is the one place you can be sure I’ll be showing myself in public on a regular basis this year.

Hope to see you at the movies!

For those of you keeping track that means that the book contains:

Forever Crimson
The Gates of Paradise
Crash of the Titans
Crimson & Dragons
Time War
Thor Loser
Crimson the Barbarian

Previously, “Time War” had only been available in Stalking the Wild Hare, the 1st Gen Con Anthology, and “Crimson the Barbarian” (long form) appears in this collection for the first time anywhere.  Though a print edition will follow in 2012, the complete book is available right now for Kindle.

So, what are you waiting for?  Click here, go to Amazon, and pick up a copy for the new Kindle that Santa brought you!

All the Crimson short stories to date, now in one book!

Frost Harrow
The Twilight Empire
Dungeons & Dinosaurs

In the coming days and weeks, the pages will probably grow, but for now, at least there’s a place for search engines (and fans) to hang their hats.  And don’t forget that the Posts Banner (below the Stephen D. Sullivan logo) contains links to all the posts related to these new pages and all my other products as well.

Enjoy!

Cover to Frost Harrow #1.

John Hebert's great Twilight Empire cover. (Colors by Steve.)

The first D&Dinos story cover.

Grant Winslow at the lake shore.

Grant Winslow didn’t expect to be a millionaire.  For years, he was the family’s black sheep, the teenager more interested in ecology than in the business of Winslow Construction.  No wonder, then, that at age eighteen he lit out from Frosthaven for Europe and parts unknown.  But a strange twist of fate has brought the twenty-two-year-old home as sole heir to his miserly uncle’s fortune.  Now Grant finds himself enormously wealthy and unexpectedly caught in a generations-old feud with the powerful Frost family of Frost Harrow.

Join Grant, Ivy Frost, and the other members of the strange and sinister Frost family as they struggle against supernatural menaces and each other in the Frost Harrow series, coming soon from Walkabout Publishing and Stephen D. Sullivan.  Fans of Dark Shadows and the works of Stephen King are bound to love it!