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Well, look at this! I’m totally blown away by EC Steiner | King Unicorn’s stunning artwork for the imminent eBook and Kindle edition of DESCENT! Not sure how the final cover design will lay just yet, but The Creep in the Art Department went nuts mere seconds ago, claiming visionquest! and shouting for paint and pixels and brushes with much gusto, so we shall see. In the meantime, let’s give this lovely pic some content from the big bad tome itself; this is a bit from Chapter Eight, also known as

N o   S o u l s

The rock must have struck bottom—must have struck something—for a distant plume of flame rose, mushrooming upward. Catherine’s face was splashed with red light. Her eyes widened. Her foes cackled. She gazed at the newly illuminated landscape below.

She stood leaning and helpless at the edge of a massive circular pit with concentric rings, wheeling seemingly forever into darkness and scattered flames, like a gigantic spiral staircase fashioned of mud and rock, adorned and stuffed on each ridge with the flailing pale blue limbs of the lost, thousands upon thousands of naked figures, a human beehive of suffering and torment. They fought, they argued, they cursed their Hell without words, they carried the stain and the sin of a thousand generations before them, they were the lost. And there were so many.

Catherine understood at once that this was their city, their church, their temple; they had dug it with whatever fingers remained of their hands. They had come to Phelan seeking salvation, and this was the place he’d delivered them: the depths. How many, she wondered, how long—? But it didn’t matter. Looking down into the pit of the lost, Catherine knew in her heart there was no limit, no end, no bottom; Phelan’s dark hunger could never be satiated, that the depths of an evil, careless soul carried the cost and the ignored burden of innumerable victims. Here was the proof.

“Damn him,” she whispered. “I…”

Straining against the chain, against the hands that held her, Catherine tried to look back over her shoulder.

She said, “Let me help…”

They responded by shoving her off the ledge.

†  †  †

Text © Simon Drax

(watch the skies else ye be punished)

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Old character designs from goddamn centuries ago.

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Takato Yamamoto

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“Is he bad?” the girl asked the giant, her eyes never leaving Phelan, her voice like the whisper of a fresh-water stream. “Are you going to burn him up like the others?”

Phelan swiveled his head wildly for the giant’s response.

With reluctance he turned his cold eyes from the priest’s.

“Lucretia,” the giant said to the girl, his voice soft. “Do as I told you. Wait outside.”

“I want to watch. You never let me watch!”

“There is nothing to watch. This man and I—we have things to discuss. We are going to talk, nothing more. Wait outside.”

“I want to watch.”

The giant glanced at Phelan. Then he knelt beside the child. His great hand smoothed back her long silky hair, his huge knuckles caressed her cheek. He whispered soft words. The child never looked at him; her eyes held Phelan’s.

On his back, cowed by this stranger and his pants soaked with his own waste, Phelan wondered: Is she his princess, or his prisoner? She seemed to merely tolerate his affection, nothing more.

“Be a good girl,” the giant whispered to the child, “and later I will find pretty things for you, rubies, diamonds, jewels. The kind you like.” He paused for a moment, thinking.  “And the strange flowers. From the highest mountain.”

“The highest?” she murmured. “With no color?”

“With no color. Wait outside.”

“On the steps?”

“In the cemetery,” the giant said with finality, and he stood. He looked down at Phelan. There was no anger now, merely distaste. He turned. “Go, Lucretia.”

She went, her shoes scuffing past Phelan on the old, worn rug of the church.

“Stand up,” the giant said to the priest.

“I can’t—”

“Stand up.”

Somehow, Phelan got to his feet.

“Who are you?” he said, attempting some modicum of self-control, his hands sharp against the supposed dust on his clerics, though he merely tried to hide the dark stain on his pants. “How dare you—”

“Be quiet,” the giant said, “be still. Count yourself lucky you still breathe, priest, for none has seen or heard as you, this day. I will have answers from your lips, answers that will count for much if you value your life…”

“What do you know of the value of my life,” Phelan hissed. Though he had no doubt the giant could flatten him with a shrug, the priest had reached the end of his tolerance for this intruder.

But the giant merely smiled, indulgent. “I know nearly everything about you, Robert Phelan, all that I need to know: Hollow Priest. Failed Messiah. Butcher. Murderer. Did I leave anything out?”

“Who are you,” Phelan whispered.

The giant drew back a few haughty inches. “Some call me Ryder,” he answered, his voice like far-off mountains rumbling in their sleep. “To others I am the Grim One, the Old One. It doesn’t matter. Call me what you wish. But know that I have traveled long and far to find you, priest. You will give me what I want. Or you will die.”

Text © Simon Drax

A Very Fast Descent into Hell by Simon Drax

Download FREE eBOOK

Hard copy order info

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(shit like this never ever hurts, ever)

Signed copies of the original Studio Phaedra Edition of A Very Fast Descent into Hell are now available for purchase. Trade paper, 5.25 x 8, matte finish, 256 pages. Your library wants one. It is a strange and unusual tale of a demon, a priest, and a broken love that pushes the world to the brink. Be warned, however; this book carries with it strange and unusual properties…

When in the book’s proximity, children become possessed with an over- whelming compulsion to physically devour it. Do not allow this to happen. The book won’t taste good and the child will suffer a stomach ache. Also, strongly discourage anyone under the age of 14 from actually reading the book’s contents, as terrible nightmares (and lawsuits) will undoubtedly occur.

Perhaps 18 is better. No, 21. That’s it. NOT INTENDED FOR READERS UNDER 21. No cheating. Or else.

10 Dollars per signed copy. Includes shipping and handling. Please order via the widget on the left or email, simondrax AT comcast DOT net. Thank you for shopping at Ichiban Weapon Ready. We will now return to the usual nonsense of monsters and moody babes and smoking craters.

Special thanks to Brian and James (and Mister Bill, of course).

Ω

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DOWNLOAD FREE PDF

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This was the manuscript I turned into Underland Press in March, 2009, as per the editorial direction given to me by Victoria Blake. It’s substantially different from the first edition I pubbed in 1999 (which we’ll be looking at real close in an imminent post). The biggest difference (for me) was the handling of Phelan, the Hollow Priest. His stand alone chapters were changed from journal entries to third person. There was also substantial re-ordering of chapters, some delated scenes, lots of new scenes. Is it better? I don’t know. It’s different. I was not happy about making a lot of the requested cuts and expansions and changes and shit, but I like to think they were coming from a vested interest in the success of the book. I have no idea if the changes worked—no one’s ever read this version. Well… actually, one of my friends read this version, and he said the ending still made him cry. But he was always kind of sappy for stories like this.

The PDF doc comes with zero bells and whistles: more or less mss format.

THIS CONCLUDES Phase I of TOTAL DESCENT BLOW OUT! Phase II commences shortly! I have a beautiful physical book for sale. And I’ll even sign it for ya! Pretty soon these damn posts will be over and the DESCENT stuff will be no more than little widgets in the corner of my site: “FREE DOWNLOAD!” and “BUY THE HARDCOPY!” It’ll look nice, I think. Hang tight. Ya gotta let ghosts walk to set them free.

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EDITED: Had to fix the copyright page, realized I had not attributed a few excellent words to Carson McCullers. ANYWAY. I took a look inside and the text is all bitmapped, it looks like, well, hell. If somebody really wants to read it but finds the quality of the pdf unacceptable, give me a shout. Otherwise it’s keep walking, ghost. AND ANOTHER EDIT! That’s weird, it looks fine in a reader! I wonder why— Oh well. IT LOOKS FINE. READ IT. AND WEEP.

D

PICK THE COVER FOR A SPECIAL eBOOK EDITION OF DESCENT! SOON TO BE REVEALED ON THIS SITE!!

Come on, now’s your chance: 1 or 2! White or Black! Flaming skull or Gothic Font Cross!

Both designs go way back, courtesy 12e Design.

More (much more) to come, shortly. All will be revealed. But for now… pick your fave! Tanks.

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EDIT: VOTING HAS CLOSED!

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Early cover concept by 12E Design

Tuesday. Big news. BRING MONEY!

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From Paul’s brilliant NIZNIK series. One of my favorites, KER-SMASH

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PAUL DiNOVO?! You’ve heard (read) that name in these haunts before, haven’t you?! Sho you have. Because he’s designed a fistful of draxian projects, including this little ditty:

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And its rarely seen variant sibling edition:

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And this minor masterpiece, which Paul painted more or less from scratch in photoshop:

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As well as other wicked cool Drax shit that will probably never see the light of day…

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But far and away beyond the Drax stuff Paul almost casually creates, there is terrifying whimsy…

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And brutal self-appraisal…

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And so many other pieces of wonder I’d love to share but I can’t because Paul’s shopping them. He really is a tremendous artist and designer, and I’ve been damn fucking lucky to have Paul in my corner, I’m damn fucking lucky to call him my friend. Happy Birthday, monkey.

Ω

Maximilian Pirner, Finis (The End of All Things), 1887

Ulterior-Motifs

•   •   •

It was the end.

Everybody knew it, they had felt it coming for a long time, heralded all too clearly by the stiffness of their limbs, the sluggishness of their blood. The people of the world rose each day from beds that reeked of regret and wasted years, their lives no more potent than the empty promises of politicians, no more meaningful than the discarded newspaper with its idiot symbols that had once been language. Screens crackled with pictures from other planets: insect-covered children starving in a far-off desert, riots ripping through burning city streets. When people touched, they tried to imagine other times, other hands. When they stared at their ceilings and waited for sleep, they prayed for good dreams. They closed their eyes, and their world slipped steadily into darkness.

DESCENT

(Couldn’t resist.)

Text © Simon Drax

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Dan Verkys

Phelan, the Hollow Priest from A Very Fast Descent into Hell.

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“Here they come!” Phelan shrieked. “Meet my mistakes! There are enough of them, every one that your faith can’t leave behind!”

A noxious smell assaulted Catherine. She saw darkness within the darkness; she heard a slow hungry hiss, she saw countless shapes, shadows. They shambled forth, lurching. Hissing. Reaching for her.

She turned to the Hollow Priest, but Phelan was gone.

Catherine was surrounded. The shadows came close.

Her heart boomed. Her lips trembled. She could not slip her wrists free. She tried to stay calm. “I will not give up,” she whispered, as much to herself as to the darkness closing in. “Phelan! I will not give up! I will not surrender to these dead souls!”

“No,” a ruined mouth rasped, “no souls.”

A black claw lashed out and seized the whole of her face, smothering her scream.

Ω

Text © Simon Drax

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