Author’s Note: Writer’s write. That’s what we do to survive, to make sense of life, to find meaning in an otherwise meaningless existence. For many people out in Internet land, it may seem like a waste of time to keep posting something nobody responds to.
Long before the Internet existed, I was writing to no one in particular. On occasion, I might even design promotions for my stories, little drawings that said things like, “COMING SOON: THANGAR 2!” I would imagine that if Emily Dickinson lived today, she might have a blog like this one. She wrote 1800 poems, most of them unknown and unpublished. Why did she do it? Because writer’s write, because she suffered from the writer’s disease.
Of course, no one will ever dig up Thangar 2 and proclaim it some great lost work of literature. I consider it poor writing even by 1970’s comic book standards. But it’s a part of me. I am a very nostalgic person, and I long for the good ol’ days when my mind still burst with ideas. My six year old daughter already insists on growing up to be an artist. She has produced some very thick ring-binders of her own. And therein lies the beauty of youth: without knowing what came before, you believe anything is possible. As long as that belief persists, I think, success is within her grasp. Who knows? Maybe someday she can illustrate a book I’ve written.
Thangar II
Chapter 7
Edited by Nick Alimonos
Special Guest Edit by Arthur Karapateas
Everything was being watched from Zarack’s crystal ball and he was greatly angered. “If I have no warriors mighty enough to defend me, I shall create one!” he said. Electricity bolted from his hands, electrifying a thick stone wall. It exploded. Eyes pierced the light and from the ruins of the wall a human form appeared. As life was rooted into him, his work began. Instinctively, he knew what his destiny was, his reason for living: give death to gain life.
“I am Stonehedge and I will complete my destiny, master!” He ripped off a pillar and ran to his enemies.
Meanwhile, Sint and Thangar, both wounded, continued fighting, till Stonehedge blocked their path. He struck them down with his pillar. Thangar quickly slashed the pillar in half and Sint, behind him, cut Stonehedge. But the rock [body] grew back immediately.
“The more we hit him, the more he reconstructs himself!” said Sint.
Stonehedge turned around and struck the sword away from Sint. Thangar, all the while, slashed at him, crying, “Ye shall fall, evil giant!”
But Stonehedge kicked Thangar and sent him flying through a wall. Sint turned, boasting, “Come and get me, you wimp!”
At this, Stonehedge was angered. He punched Sint down and Sint’s neck whiplashed. But he got up and struck back with his fist, breaking his hand. Stonehedge pounded him again, yelling, “DIE! DIE! DIE!” When he finally stopped, Sint was in a pit, because Stonehedge had crushed him through the ground.
From behind, Thangar slashed a statue and it came down, crushing Stonehedge. And for a moment, he thought the monster dead.
“ROAR!” Stonehedge screeched, rising from the rubble. He went to pound Thangar, but Thangar blocked with his sword and returned the attack with a quick blow to the head. Stonehedge’s head crumbled and Thangar knew he was victorious.
He ran to Sint’s aid, but this time it had gone too far.
“What’s wrong?” said Thangar.
“I am dying,” said Sint.
“But you . . . you can’t!” Thangar replied.
“Nothing will save me now,” Sint said weakly. “You saved me twice; I only wish I could save you now, Thangar. Make my soul rest in peace, strike down the FIST of FASCISM and spread the ideas of freedom and democracy, and save my beloved one.”
“I swear to god, I will not fail you!” Thangar told him.
“Take this,” and Sint gave Thangar a gold medallion.
“What is this?” Thangar asked.
“Put it on the dragon’s middle head and he will die. Avenge my death . . . avenge my death . . .” Sint’s voice faded away.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Angrily, Thangar continued on his quest, this time without Sint.
The Art of Storytelling 
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