Here's the cover for Chapter Two!
If you purchase your FOUR CHAPTER suscription for ONE DOLLAR, I'll send you the hi-res version!
-adis!
sábado, 25 de abril de 2009
Chapter Two cover
Here's the cover for Chapter Two!
If you purchase your FOUR CHAPTER suscription for ONE DOLLAR, I'll send you the hi-res version!
-adis!
American Punch Chapter Two!
Hello Mighty Reader!
Here's another Chapter in the american Punch saga!
If you purchase or contribute with a dollar you'll be getting a FOUR CHAPTER SUSCRIPTION, four for just a dollar!
So what are you waiting for?
Avanti,
-adis!
Here's another Chapter in the american Punch saga!
If you purchase or contribute with a dollar you'll be getting a FOUR CHAPTER SUSCRIPTION, four for just a dollar!
So what are you waiting for?
Avanti,
-adis!
An Excerpt From Chapter Two
Two days after the incident, he came back, and he kept coming back almost every day after that for two weeks, always landing on the rooftop. He would sit down next to her on one of her bed blankets. She always had some of her grandmother's food for him, Mexico's finest, he used to say. He sat there listening to endless stories about her life and hopes and dreams, and it hardly ever registered he was a superhero. He certainly didn't seem like neither the saintly god-like creature that had saved her city as some people said, nor the imperialistic weapon of American interventionism that others felt he was. To her, he was just Ben. He even asked her to stop smoking and she just stopped right then and there.
He was tender and kind to her and he filled her heart with an urge to start singing like nothing ever had before. And they never even went anywhere. He didn't take her flying ever again, or showed off his powers in any way. Once he took off his mask, he was just the greatest person she had ever met, who happened to arrive on her rooftop wearing white tights and a red cape. He said he could be himself with her, instead of the superhero that could do wonders no one had ever seen.
“That means I'm never taking you flying again, Martina. I don't always want to be a superhero,” he said, “When I'm with you, I just want to be a man.”
“So there's no way you might want to split your time between Superbia and Mexico City? We could use a savior too.”
“Being a superhero means attracting danger, Martina. It's like painting a big red target on your city. So the answer is no. If I'm here, it's because of you.” He looked concerned. “My enemies come from other galaxies, other universes, different dimensions, uncaring families, bad genes and the darkest corners of the city. And do you know what they all have in mind? My destruction. Mine and that of everything I hold dear. So I would not only be painting a big red target on your city, I would be painting it on you, Martina.”
“Well, no one would have to know it's you,” she said. “You could always do it in secret. Good things don't always have to be advertised.” This made a lot of sense to her, but no more than her final argument, “I’m the only one who has to know. I'm the only one who has to know I love you.”
viernes, 27 de marzo de 2009
An Excerpt From American Punch Chapter One
He was not like most guys our age, Mexican or American. We would be at my home in front of the TV, an activity that my mother could monitor from upstairs by yelling every fifteen minutes to ask how much longer until her telenovela started. He cared about how I was doing, how I was feeling, and if I had ever been sick. Which was never. I mean, I pretended to be sick a few times to get out of calculus tests and kickball lessons, sure, but I couldn't remember anything serious. Why would he want to know that, anyway? It was too soon to be concerned about passing along bad genes to our children, a very subtle way to ask me to take our relationship to a different level, a level I was not ready for yet.
He also cared about the world, and seemed to take the news personally, as if the bombings in the Middle East or the riots in Stainsham City were something within his reach to solve.
"Ana?" he would ask sternly.
"Hmm?" I answered, knowing where he was going.
"Do you ever think about the world?"
"What world, this one? Um, third rock from the sun, three quarters water, six billion people, that sort of thing?"
"Six billion. Ever think about them?"
"Individually? No. They all mind their own business, and so do I." I always thought my head was only big enough to contain my own personal experience, a box where I could only fit my life, mom's, a couple of TV series, homework and the possibility of college. I had to admit that lately, I had made room for a tiny concern for fashion and beauty products. The reason why was staring at me.
"Well, what if their business was yours? what if you could help them?" He squinted a little. He was being dead serious. Was I hanging out with a future senator?
"Oh, right... I don't know. I'm seventeen. Why would they want me to help them? That fact alone makes things hard enough. Or it feels like it at least. Mom says I don't know what real "problems" are. "Wait until you have rent to pay, a teenage daughter to feed, who always complains I never feed her what she likes and an angry boss you hate but must please and you can come talk to me about your 'problems'," she always tells me. I think she wishes she had stayed at the farm she grew up in, where the biggest problem were the chicken."
"She has a point. There's adult problems, and then there's everything else. What do we know about what real suffering? What do we know about real hopelessness?"
"You are such a ray of sunshine, James." I told him, and he laughed. "See, that wasn't too difficult, was it?" I asked. He looked puzzled. "Being seventeen, silly. You don't have to care about everything."
"I feel like I do."
"Well, you don't, it's not in your power."
"What if it was? What if making an actual difference was in my --in our-- hands? Someday, I mean."
"Well, we'll worry about that "someday" when it comes, and we both have the super power to make everyone hold hands and sing songs. In the meantime, let's care about what's close to us." I said, and he grabbed my hand. I was being metaphorical, but I wasn't complaining. We stood there in silence for a second that felt like an eternity. He smiled at me for a moment before his smile turned to determination., inching closer to my face. We kissed, like it was the most natural thing in the world, although it was probably someone else's world, because little me had never, ever, been kissed. Nunca.
It was soft and gentle, his lips even felt respectful and chivalrous like the rest of him, if that makes any sense. The first kiss had attributes no one had ever mentioned to me before. It made me feel something I had never felt inside, a surge of inexplicable energy, like a complete universe on fire inside me, giving me strength to do just about anything. It sounds corny, but nothing feels corny when it comes from deep within, does it?
James opened his eyes and jumped back, his face an ugly grimace.
"What? What happened, James?" Number one fear: bad breath.
I looked down at our hands intertwined in one another, and his was a all broken, like a hammer had smashed it. I let go in a panic. James looked in a lot of pain.
"Dios mio! What's wrong? How did this happen?," had I done this to him? Did I do some strange Mexican stranglehold to turn his hand to pulp? Oh my god, he was never going to kiss me again. I freaked out more.
"Ana! Is everything ok?" my mother asked from her room. We need to go to a hospital. I broke James. I'm a monster who crushes men with her bare hands. I thought all of these things, but nothing came out of my mouth, because James had put his good hand on it to cover any sound from coming out.
"Ana, Ana, it's ok," he tried to calm me down, but he was in obvious pain. "Look, it's nothing, ok? Don't worry. I'll go to my family," he meant the Academia family hosting him, "and ask them to take me to a doctor. It's going to be nothing, I swear. There's no need to worry your mom." He leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. The forehead! He wasn't the only one in pain now. He took out a cell phone, a different one from the old and beaten one I had seen him use. This one seemed slicker and more expensive. He texted something and within five minutes a black car was outside waiting for him. He sprinted outside after a quick "bye", leaving me standing by the door. He stopped to look back at me before getting inside the car, and smiled. I still thought he looked in pain, despite his objections. Or maybe he just looked sad.
That's the last time I saw him.
Miss Gómez-Stahl said an urgent family emergency forced James to leave early. "I'm sure he'll stay in touch," she told me after I intercepted her on her way to assembly a few days later. I hadn't heard anything, no phone calls, emails, texts or letters; not even the telepathic messages that young people in love seem to send to one another. And it had only been three days.
Three weeks later without any news, I had made up my mind.
I hated James.
Obviously, I had a plan to go look for him and let him know personally.
He also cared about the world, and seemed to take the news personally, as if the bombings in the Middle East or the riots in Stainsham City were something within his reach to solve.
"Ana?" he would ask sternly.
"Hmm?" I answered, knowing where he was going.
"Do you ever think about the world?"
"What world, this one? Um, third rock from the sun, three quarters water, six billion people, that sort of thing?"
"Six billion. Ever think about them?"
"Individually? No. They all mind their own business, and so do I." I always thought my head was only big enough to contain my own personal experience, a box where I could only fit my life, mom's, a couple of TV series, homework and the possibility of college. I had to admit that lately, I had made room for a tiny concern for fashion and beauty products. The reason why was staring at me.
"Well, what if their business was yours? what if you could help them?" He squinted a little. He was being dead serious. Was I hanging out with a future senator?
"Oh, right... I don't know. I'm seventeen. Why would they want me to help them? That fact alone makes things hard enough. Or it feels like it at least. Mom says I don't know what real "problems" are. "Wait until you have rent to pay, a teenage daughter to feed, who always complains I never feed her what she likes and an angry boss you hate but must please and you can come talk to me about your 'problems'," she always tells me. I think she wishes she had stayed at the farm she grew up in, where the biggest problem were the chicken."
"She has a point. There's adult problems, and then there's everything else. What do we know about what real suffering? What do we know about real hopelessness?"
"You are such a ray of sunshine, James." I told him, and he laughed. "See, that wasn't too difficult, was it?" I asked. He looked puzzled. "Being seventeen, silly. You don't have to care about everything."
"I feel like I do."
"Well, you don't, it's not in your power."
"What if it was? What if making an actual difference was in my --in our-- hands? Someday, I mean."
"Well, we'll worry about that "someday" when it comes, and we both have the super power to make everyone hold hands and sing songs. In the meantime, let's care about what's close to us." I said, and he grabbed my hand. I was being metaphorical, but I wasn't complaining. We stood there in silence for a second that felt like an eternity. He smiled at me for a moment before his smile turned to determination., inching closer to my face. We kissed, like it was the most natural thing in the world, although it was probably someone else's world, because little me had never, ever, been kissed. Nunca.
It was soft and gentle, his lips even felt respectful and chivalrous like the rest of him, if that makes any sense. The first kiss had attributes no one had ever mentioned to me before. It made me feel something I had never felt inside, a surge of inexplicable energy, like a complete universe on fire inside me, giving me strength to do just about anything. It sounds corny, but nothing feels corny when it comes from deep within, does it?
James opened his eyes and jumped back, his face an ugly grimace.
"What? What happened, James?" Number one fear: bad breath.
I looked down at our hands intertwined in one another, and his was a all broken, like a hammer had smashed it. I let go in a panic. James looked in a lot of pain.
"Dios mio! What's wrong? How did this happen?," had I done this to him? Did I do some strange Mexican stranglehold to turn his hand to pulp? Oh my god, he was never going to kiss me again. I freaked out more.
"Ana! Is everything ok?" my mother asked from her room. We need to go to a hospital. I broke James. I'm a monster who crushes men with her bare hands. I thought all of these things, but nothing came out of my mouth, because James had put his good hand on it to cover any sound from coming out.
"Ana, Ana, it's ok," he tried to calm me down, but he was in obvious pain. "Look, it's nothing, ok? Don't worry. I'll go to my family," he meant the Academia family hosting him, "and ask them to take me to a doctor. It's going to be nothing, I swear. There's no need to worry your mom." He leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. The forehead! He wasn't the only one in pain now. He took out a cell phone, a different one from the old and beaten one I had seen him use. This one seemed slicker and more expensive. He texted something and within five minutes a black car was outside waiting for him. He sprinted outside after a quick "bye", leaving me standing by the door. He stopped to look back at me before getting inside the car, and smiled. I still thought he looked in pain, despite his objections. Or maybe he just looked sad.
That's the last time I saw him.
Miss Gómez-Stahl said an urgent family emergency forced James to leave early. "I'm sure he'll stay in touch," she told me after I intercepted her on her way to assembly a few days later. I hadn't heard anything, no phone calls, emails, texts or letters; not even the telepathic messages that young people in love seem to send to one another. And it had only been three days.
Three weeks later without any news, I had made up my mind.
I hated James.
Obviously, I had a plan to go look for him and let him know personally.
Welcome to the story of American Punch
Hello Mighty Reader!
You might know me as adis! author of a few comics here and there, and I've gotta say, I've had an itch for a very long time. I've wanted to tell a story, different from the ones I usually tell, this one using nothing more than those little things people scribble, whatcha call 'em? letters?
So, I've decided to bring this story to you, the story of Ana Cervantes and American Punch. Every month, like with almost all superheroic tales, there will be a new installment, and the previous chapter for free!
Hopefully, you will give our story here a chance, you won't regret it, I promise, there's action, adventure, romance, fantasy, family, international intrigue and teenagers! Hope you enjoy it, and see you throughout the week.
Avanti!
-adis!
You might know me as adis! author of a few comics here and there, and I've gotta say, I've had an itch for a very long time. I've wanted to tell a story, different from the ones I usually tell, this one using nothing more than those little things people scribble, whatcha call 'em? letters?
So, I've decided to bring this story to you, the story of Ana Cervantes and American Punch. Every month, like with almost all superheroic tales, there will be a new installment, and the previous chapter for free!
Hopefully, you will give our story here a chance, you won't regret it, I promise, there's action, adventure, romance, fantasy, family, international intrigue and teenagers! Hope you enjoy it, and see you throughout the week.
Avanti!
-adis!
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