The Comic

He worked by lamplight, his pen moving quickly as he tried to jot down all the ideas he had before they left his head.  It was odd how they just appeared and sat there before they were zapped away by memory.  Sometimes they came to him when he was walking down the street, others came as he slept and then hid in the trenches of his mind until he dragged them out and put them on paper.

His brother had enjoyed the last comic he had sent out to him and told him he should become an artist.  He would like that, if he ever got the chance.  Who was to say.  Another couple of years and he could be far away from here, just like his brother, you just never knew what was going to happen.

He put all that out of his mind and scratched doodles on paper with his pen.  This time he wanted to do something different – something unique and exciting – a cartoon that would entertain his brother, cheer him up far away from home.  He started doodling.  Men, men with guns, strong men with guns, victorious, strong, lots of guns.  No.  He wanted to draw something better than that, something more unusual.  Maybe a strong man, a victorious man but a man without  a gun…

How about…

How about a man who was part man and part spider.  He could shoot webs out and leap around everywhere, climb up the side of buildings, things like that.  He could be called SPIDERBOY and  have a costume and everything, he could…

Or.  How about a man who could fly after he ate a banana.  He could have a yellow cape and be really strong and save the world.  He could be called BANANABOY and and…

He ripped the piece of paper out of his notebook, scrunched it up and threw it over to the other side of the room.  It was no good.  Spiderboys and Bananaboys would be no good.  Who would possibly believe in them?  Who would believe in anything?  What could he possibly draw or write, what could he send to someone stuck out there in amongst the mud and blood and bombs and gones?

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