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dethoratsPrompt: Background
Word Count: 725
Kalla strode into the seedy inn, one hand resting comfortably on Taerythos' grip. The inn is composed of one big room, fire pit to one side, several long trestle tables and benches in front of it. A bar dominates the other side, no stools, dirty glasses scattered on top. A rickety staircase on the far wall leads to the paid rooms. A balding man with a paunch and rather ugly face stands behind the bar. He looks up, a sneer on his face as Kalla enters. Kalla walks up to the man, a pleasant expression fixed on her. "A pint of your best local ale, please." She plunks several silver coins on the counter as the man continues to stare at her in distaste...
Eirlys carefully clicked the little floppy disk icon, saving the lastest installment of Kalla. She was suffering from a bit of writer's block at the moment, having some idea for events, but no idea how to make them happen. And it was still so difficult writing in the descriptions for Ted. Ted, a man she never met, yet who was technically a co-creator of HER work.
It galled her still, that she wasn't allowed to draw her own comic. Too Kirby-esque, they had said. Manga is all the rage now, especially among girls, and that's who the main audience will be. Joe Mad, that style is what we're thinking. She'd snorted at that, Joe Madureira indeed. Well, they certainly weren't going to get him, but they did find a young man in middle America, some boy raised on Dragon Ball Z and Sailor Moon from satellite TV. He lived at his parents' house on some farm in Iowa.
She'd talked to Ted once or twice on the phone, when he'd needed emergency clarification of some plot points, but mostly she just emailed her work to the main office in New York, where they butchered her text, sent it back to her, she patched it up some, and sent it back, and it got passed off to Ted, who actually didn't do that bad of a job. If she was being honest with herself, she enjoyed Ted's work. It was just that Kalla was her baby, the character she'd slowly developed since junior high.
She'd drawn Kalla big, bony, somewhat raw looking. A female warrior who actually looked like a fighter. Ted had kept the height and the basic coloring, but he'd made her face attractive and had added some serious hips and cleavage. In short, an Amerimanga fighter chick. It didn't help that this appearance was often at odds with her characterization. It threw off readers. The manga look led them to expect a manga-style story, and a somewhat comedic one at that, given the medieval setting.
But Kalla was more Conan than Slayers, and with a strong heaping of serious fantasy thrown in. It was more a weird hash of Moorecock, Howard, Eddings, and the ironic mindset of Chicks in Chainmail than anything. She had a hardcore fan following and just enough support that the title remained in print. Vertigo was good to her, forgiving sales numbers that wouldn't fly elsewhere. She'd sold her soul to get published, though, and some days, well actually most days, she regretted it.
But now was not the time to think about that. Now was the time to stand up, pull on her black polyester pants and cotton t-shirt, her cracked and smelly tennis shoes. She checked the clock on the desk beside her. "Fuck, 4:30 already. I gotta get moving or I'll be late."
One couldn't survive on a single non-mainstream title alone. Her real money came from her main job, although she actually referred to it as a temporary occupation. Saturday's was a chain restaurant, ranked number five in the country as her GM was often wont to remind the staff. Not that she gave a shit, but they paid her relatively well to do a relatively crappy job. And they let her work odd hours and weren't too mad if she called out sick to work on Kalla. But it didn't mean she liked it.
"Fuuuuuck, I hate my job." She turned off the computer and ran out of her bedroom. Her uniform was still in the dryer, she hoped, as she hurried on her way to a paycheck.
Word Count: 725
Kalla strode into the seedy inn, one hand resting comfortably on Taerythos' grip. The inn is composed of one big room, fire pit to one side, several long trestle tables and benches in front of it. A bar dominates the other side, no stools, dirty glasses scattered on top. A rickety staircase on the far wall leads to the paid rooms. A balding man with a paunch and rather ugly face stands behind the bar. He looks up, a sneer on his face as Kalla enters. Kalla walks up to the man, a pleasant expression fixed on her. "A pint of your best local ale, please." She plunks several silver coins on the counter as the man continues to stare at her in distaste...
Eirlys carefully clicked the little floppy disk icon, saving the lastest installment of Kalla. She was suffering from a bit of writer's block at the moment, having some idea for events, but no idea how to make them happen. And it was still so difficult writing in the descriptions for Ted. Ted, a man she never met, yet who was technically a co-creator of HER work.
It galled her still, that she wasn't allowed to draw her own comic. Too Kirby-esque, they had said. Manga is all the rage now, especially among girls, and that's who the main audience will be. Joe Mad, that style is what we're thinking. She'd snorted at that, Joe Madureira indeed. Well, they certainly weren't going to get him, but they did find a young man in middle America, some boy raised on Dragon Ball Z and Sailor Moon from satellite TV. He lived at his parents' house on some farm in Iowa.
She'd talked to Ted once or twice on the phone, when he'd needed emergency clarification of some plot points, but mostly she just emailed her work to the main office in New York, where they butchered her text, sent it back to her, she patched it up some, and sent it back, and it got passed off to Ted, who actually didn't do that bad of a job. If she was being honest with herself, she enjoyed Ted's work. It was just that Kalla was her baby, the character she'd slowly developed since junior high.
She'd drawn Kalla big, bony, somewhat raw looking. A female warrior who actually looked like a fighter. Ted had kept the height and the basic coloring, but he'd made her face attractive and had added some serious hips and cleavage. In short, an Amerimanga fighter chick. It didn't help that this appearance was often at odds with her characterization. It threw off readers. The manga look led them to expect a manga-style story, and a somewhat comedic one at that, given the medieval setting.
But Kalla was more Conan than Slayers, and with a strong heaping of serious fantasy thrown in. It was more a weird hash of Moorecock, Howard, Eddings, and the ironic mindset of Chicks in Chainmail than anything. She had a hardcore fan following and just enough support that the title remained in print. Vertigo was good to her, forgiving sales numbers that wouldn't fly elsewhere. She'd sold her soul to get published, though, and some days, well actually most days, she regretted it.
But now was not the time to think about that. Now was the time to stand up, pull on her black polyester pants and cotton t-shirt, her cracked and smelly tennis shoes. She checked the clock on the desk beside her. "Fuck, 4:30 already. I gotta get moving or I'll be late."
One couldn't survive on a single non-mainstream title alone. Her real money came from her main job, although she actually referred to it as a temporary occupation. Saturday's was a chain restaurant, ranked number five in the country as her GM was often wont to remind the staff. Not that she gave a shit, but they paid her relatively well to do a relatively crappy job. And they let her work odd hours and weren't too mad if she called out sick to work on Kalla. But it didn't mean she liked it.
"Fuuuuuck, I hate my job." She turned off the computer and ran out of her bedroom. Her uniform was still in the dryer, she hoped, as she hurried on her way to a paycheck.
