The Comics Journal Review

April 6, 2016September 12, 2018 | Paul Greer

Having a home holiday and digging around in the files, came across this cutting of when Scenes From The Inside, an anthology comic I was involved with in the ’90’s, got reviewed in the illustrious Comics Journal (kind of a Cahiers du Cinema for picture literature for those unfamiliar).

They talk about my 20 page insert “Kings of the Wild Frontier“, which was a documentation of the final performance piece by Bristol artist, Dan Eastmond.

The Comics Journal had a tough reputation, so being reviewed there and not getting completely mawled by them was quite the thing.

“You Said Everything Would Be OK.”

February 20, 2012September 12, 2018 | Paul Greer

I wrote this story and submitted it to STS:

She walked back to the station, the replays going through her head, feeling light, transcendental, avoiding morose.

Was there much to say? The weekend had run away with itself somewhat, the laughing, the vanity and the music. She could see people getting hurt, wrapped up in their own immaculate expectations, the internal maths not being fulfilled.

HJ had stormed off alone into the night, she had seen the rage crashing into his eyes like a tidal surge, where there has previously been quiet joy. He knew he was out of step, his feelings were not compatible with the time they were having, but he had no choice, something had turned away from him and he was obliged to react.

“You said…”, he said.

They kept tabs on him by text message, just to make sure he was safe.

She has suspected he might go that way when they hooked up, but had buried the suspicion, because it was such a good moment. Now the weight of a responsibility for another person’s emotion was pressing down on her. She bought some coffee, lit a cigarette and shook it loose.

The train would be here soon and she wasn’t interested spending the last few minutes in this town feeling bad for a possessive motherfucker.

She conjured up that beautiful dawn that came after. Standing with Sally as the orange and the red took hold of the city, skin prickling as they held each other in the morning light, whiskey warming their blood. The love they felt in that moment expanding into time.

The cigarette smoke swirled around the cardboard cup, patterns in front of her eyes.

She would leave now and return to the working life, this fantastical world an echo behind the routine. She felt blessed to have been part of that it, and thought about how often she would remember.

Stubbed out the cigarette.

Caught the train.

Horticultural Fudge Page One

March 20, 2008September 12, 2018 | Paul Greer

1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 – 9 – 10 – 11 – 12 – 13 – 14 – 15 – 16

Fortune: “Tellin’ everybody ’bout the chief of police”

My Dracula

April 17, 2007September 27, 2018 | Paul Greer

“A great awe came on all as they realised that the ship, as if by a miracle, had found the harbour, unsteered save by the hand of a dead man! However, all took place more quickly than it takes to write these words. The schooner paused not, but rushing across the harbour, pitched herself on that accumulation of sand and gravel washed by many tides and many storms into the southeast corner of the pier jutting under the East Cliff, known locally as Tate Hill Pier.

There was of course a considerable concussion as the vessel drove up on the sand heap. Every spar, rope, and stay was strained, and some of the `top-hammer’ came crashing down. But, strangest of all, the very instant the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck from below, as if shot up by the concussion, and running forward, jumped from the bow on the sand.”