Who fancies a bad-ass superhero/comic book calendar for 2015?

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My treatment of Frambles has been nothing short of barbaric lately, but life is as hectic as ever, and this is just one of those hectic moments:

Basically, the superhero/comic book blog I write for/am junior editor of A Place To Hang Your Cape are currently putting together a SUPER calendar called Year of the Mockbuster.

Its a calendar that parodies a whole bunch of major sci-fi/fantasy/comic book films that are coming out next year via some stellar artwork by comic book artists who we’ve supported through the blog over the years.

Its also got a tonne of nerdy dates, stretching from the release date for Avengers: Age of Ultron to the date when Marty Mcfly travels into the future!

We’re funding it on Kickstarter and are three quarters of the way in, but with just over a week to go we need all the help we can get! So if you fancy the best calendar for 2015 (yes I know, that’s rather optimistic), then click below!
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1266838166/year-of-the-mockbuster-2015-wall-calendar-by-ap2hy

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Snapshots, part three: Split Kit

The final installment!

Jim Pywell is a name you’ve probably never heard of, but he once made me feel as though I had just sunk through the floor never to return to the normal world again. One day in college, we finish a lecture and we are coming down the stairs, heading to the canteen for lunch. Outside the canteen, there is a large cardboard box with several white packets in them. On the box, it reads ‘Free Chlamydia Testing Kit’.

Jim turns to me with a sly smile.
“Should we?” he asks.
“Should we what?” I answer, not quite getting the gist of it yet.
“Take a test!”
“Why, do you think there’s something wrong with you?”
“Oh c’mon, just for a giggle!”

So we take a packet each and go to the toilets. Finding the place empty, we choose a cubical each and the fun begins. I open my packet, but let out a moan at seeing that the contents are broken.

“Mine’s busted, how’s yours?” I call out above the cubicle.
“Fine thanks, nearly there!”
“Oh god, what do you even plan to do with it?”
“Send it off to the clinic of course!”

We both leave our cubicles and he proudly displays his full bottle. I throw mine in the bin as we leave. Jim swaggers towards the canteen like he’s the king of the world. We enter the canteen, I behind Jim at a normal pace and he all smiles at high speed. We enter the canteen, and suddenly something terrible happens.

A bump and a splash are the first sounds I hear, before a tense silence takes hold. Jim has just crashed into a sharp dressed man, complete with black suit, white shirt, black trousers and black tie, although most of the man’s chest has turned to a yellowy-green colour. A distant voice that comes closer suddenly breaks the silence.

“So as you can see, Principal Davidson, the canteen now has all the… Oh, hello Jim, hello Fred, now then Sir as I was saying…”

But here our lecturer from earlier looks down at what the rest of us are looking at. He now looks as if he doesn’t know whether to show anger towards us for what we’ve just done or remorse and sympathy for the Principal he is showing around the canteen.

The yellowy-green liquid spreads slowly downwards, dripping off the Principal’s shirt, onto the floor and through the cracks. I wish I could join it.

Snapshots, part two: Fulstow

Apologies for this being a day late – my internet was being odd last night.

Fulstow is like a pig farm, its crap. Fulstow is like a piece of Limburger cheese, it stinks. Fulstow is like Metallica playing disco, wrong, just wrong. Crap, stinks and wrong.

You drive into the village but its not like you want to, it drags you in. The first thing you see is the post office and pub. The pub’s gone through 4 owners in the 10 years I’ve been living there, and each of them had to discover the hard way what a rubbish village this is.

The post office has met with a similar fate, it’s completely abandoned. The thing you notice the most about it is the roof, it hangs low, really low, over the walls, like it’s trying to protect it from people like me.

The two of them are facing each other on either side of the street. As you go down the road, they’re like two beady eyes staring at you, and then you realize the road is like a tongue, swallowing you up and trapping you. Down the tongue you go, passing each little house along a road that’s constantly tripping you up with its bends and turns and corners.

Travelling through a dead man’s digestive system, that’s the best way to describe travelling through Fulstow, it just gets worse as you keep going. Every home you pass is decaying more so than the last home. The woodland surrounding the village acts as a kind of littered barrier, keeping the village away from the world. But even the woodland doesn’t like its job. The trees sprout high into the sky, as if they’re trying to escape their task of making sure the world never sees this grotty village.

Finally, when you leave the houses behind, it’s like coming out of the arsehole and into the fresh air. From here, there’s nothing but fields and a few farms, one of which is mine. Before you get to it though, the road shrivels up like your grandmother. Cracks begin to appear, the surface starts going grey and weird little bumpy spots catch you off guard. The road is also a bit senile, determined to give you a bumpy ride or make you crash into the ditches on either side. Deep at the bottom of either ditch there lays a thick, steaming river. It bubbles and swells away in an ominous manner, almost like there’s something lurking beneath the surface, ready to jump out and kill you at any second.

If you’re brave, lucky or stupid enough to go down this road, you’ll end up at my place, Studworth Farm. Even Napoleon wouldn’t want this farm. All the buildings are in ruin except for the shed where we keep the tack for the horses.

But beneath all the cracks of this place lies my home, the one place I can feel safe and happy and escape into a village of my own that’s more to my tastes. But I guess having to go through a village that awful makes coming home all the more special, and I’d rather it’d be here instead of trapped within that crappy little village.