SPARKLE!* (2017/11/20)


TRIANGLE (2017/11/09)


written and drawn by Stanley Lieber

12 pgs.

cbz | pdf

ACTRON v3, ? (2017/09/19)

ACTRON v3, ?

written and drawn by Stanley Lieber

16 pgs.

cbz | pdf



by Stanley Lieber

30 September 2099

20:20:20 EDT

TAB2 sat in the house trailer and wondered why he had returned again to the only place where he had ever felt truly unlike himself. Who wrote this shit, anyway?

A quick sweep of the premises had yielded no comics or other items of interest. Switching to infrared: Same result. Why was he here?

This was not his home. Hadn’t even visited the place in years. When last he had bothered—the ninth grade?—Christopher had not even been home.

He rolled over on his pallet bed. Urine soaked trousers. Good thing he was alone. Stuck his leg out of his sleeping bag and felt for the gross carpeting of the living room floor.

It was there.

21:18:23 EDT















The black box attached to the inside of the front door emitted a long strip of white paper printed with an assortment of colored blocks. Also, sound. TAB2 listened politely for as long as he could muster before it was once again time to shut the box. He closed the lid carefully and sat quietly in the dark. Queasy.

His hands ached.

TBQH, all of him ached.

Flash on an image of his father being helped up, then down, the hospital hallway.


What was it Piro had said about these intrusive images? "Uriel was right," or something along those lines.


Well, he couldn’t remember.





21:35:24 EDT

Through the plastic window TAB2 stared at the horizon. The long, winding strip of colored blocks advanced, curling around his slippers, accumulating in tangles throughout the house trailer. Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out... There had been nothing in his pocket.

He poured a finger of RED KOOL-AID™ into his blue plastic tumbler and swallowed it in one gulp.

Along the wide horizon he sensed the approach of stiff, dark clouds.

"I can feel it die," he said to himself.

And then:

"Oo-o, Oo-o."

22:23:05 EDT

The gravel road stretched around the house trailer, curving gently into the wan light beyond the trees.

Eyes followed road. At the limits of his vision, just inside the horizon, he saw them.

One twister made of light too bright to look at directly. Beside it, seeming almost to be an after image of the first, a second twister, made of total darkness, nothing within it being discernible at all.

The two twisters were advancing toward the trailer.

23:07:09 EDT

Presently, the black box spoke to him audibly.





































The spiraling strip of paper continued to spool on the floor.

Came a knock at the door. Since no other human beings had fouled the Earth for some decades, the knocking could only have been caused by the wind. To wit: The apparently approaching twisters.

"It’s not even my trailer!" pleaded TAB2.

He grasped at his visor, his window to the world, panicking. Slapped at the black box until the lid once again closed.

Blessed silence.

But the problem remained. Not talking about it, not believing in it, had not made the problem go away.

"Magic without intentionality," he suggested, futilely.

He knew this was not going to work.

23:17:02 EDT

TAB2 approached the outsize projection television and switched on the attached SEGA MASTER SYSTEM™. He loaded a save state from a popular JRPG and wandered around the world map until he was killed by a (frankly) stupid looking monster.

Tossing the controller on the floor, he picked up the television’s remote control and attempted to—Right, no cable, no broadcasts.

At the window, the twisters had progressed on their journey down the road toward the trailer. Tom didn’t want to think about it, so he didn’t.

The house trailer rocked gently in the accelerating wind.

23:23:23 EDT

One day, Christopher’s cousin Jason had attempted to push the trailer over with his bare hands.

Standing in the unmowed grass wearing nothing but camouflage surplus trunks and a thick gold rope necklace, Jason had flexed his twelve-year-old muscles and pressed his hands against the side of the trailer until his face had turned red.

All assembled had laughed, as the trailer had not moved.

Jason had become angry, and the irregular corona of his curly brown hair had seemed to expand on his head.

Tom thought of this and smiled, uselessly.

23:59:59 EDT

The black box:





TAB2 was beside himself. There had not been enough warning. There would be no time to complete any of his several unfinished projects.

Additionally, the paperwork was going to be a nightmare. He found an ink pen on the kitchen table, clicked it once, then set it back down again. Swept his arm across the table, knocking the stacks of papers every which way on the kitchen floor. Fucking bureaucracy.

He glanced at the black box and then pressed his face against the plastic window, screaming forcefully, though no sound could escape from the tight seal formed by his lips. He pulled his face away from the window and stared at the ring of moisture abjured by his silent shout. The window seemed to be mocking him so he punched it, injuring his knuckle in the process. Even his invulnerability was no longer a certainty.

He considered the fact that his entire life had been a fiction, conceived hesitantly, in fits and spurts, with long gaps between installments, by a human being who could never find much time to write. He wondered what that guy was doing, right now.

Spurred by this thought, he flashed on a spontaneous idea. A solution? Traipsed through the paperwork and the coils of paper strips to the front door. Threw open the portal and shouted into the aether:

"I’m the protagonist, I can’t d—"



ACTRON v4, #13 (2017/08/31)

ACTRON v4, #13

written and drawn by Stanley Lieber

colored by Pete Toms

8 pgs.

cbz | pdf



by Stanley Lieber


"The cook must be in love."

Plinth Mold poked at his pad thai. Brittle. Dry. Overpriced. Inedible.

Still angry because the waiter had assumed he was a white man.

Ming shrugged.

Plinth sighed and set down his fork. His shoulders sagged. "The median is the message," he conceded.

He looked up at the giant clam.

"What on Earth did you plan to do with characters like that, anyway," he asked.

"Harrrrrruuuuuuunnnnngggggggggggggg..." explained Ming.

"Of course," agreed Plinth.


"Tttaaaaaaaaaaabbbbbbbbbbbbbb Onnnnnneeeee..." stuttered Ming.

Plinth continued to stare at the jumbo clam, unsure of what he had just heard.

"Tttaaaaaaaaaaabbbbbbbbbbbbbb Onnnnnneeeee..." repeated the Clam.

Surprisingly, the precise repetition sharpened the intelligibility of his verbalization.

"Ah. Reassigned. I understand he’s planning a family, some decades down the line. In any case his services are better deployed elsewhere. I’m keeping him in my back pocket. For a rainy day. Tucked away, snug in a cliché."

"Ppppiiiooootttttrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr..." rasped Ming, seemingly depleted of the precious oxygen required for him to sustain such verbal communication.

"Fired. Rehired." Plinth paused and stabbed once again at his pad thai. "Haha. I guess you had to be there."

"Theeeeee Jjjaaaaaacccccckkkkaaaaaasssssss..." hissed Ming, inquisitively.

"Oh, you mean Slake? He accrued a large number of followers. Onolatry." And then: "But no man is a hero to his valet."

Both men laughed.


"I’ve considered it," explained Plinth. "War and peace—they’ve all been tried before."

Ming nodded, solemnly.

"What we need in this business is a sense of history, some semblance of respect for the work that has come before. The entities who made it all happen. But these characters..." he trailed off.

"Standby," he interrupted.

"All is buffering."


Ming produced from his shell a small projector, which he positioned at the center of the table and configured to display an aspect of Brandon’s realm consistent with the ongoing passage of time.

Moving pictures.

Gradually, the image resolved. Plinth Mold leaned forward to examine its contents.

"Wretchedly literal. Painting the whole world green."

"Fffffiiiiiixxxxx iiiiiitttt iiiinnnnnn pppppppoooosssttt..." erupted Ming.

"Black body radiation," Plinth remarked. "He’s caught steam off headlines and co-signs. But there’s no there, there."

Ming sat on his clam foot. He could only agree.

"Ah well. It’s his problem now."

Plinth leaned back, interlocking his fingers behind his head.

"I mean."



Meal concluded, both men replaced their cutlery and napkins and made their excuses to leave.

Plinth took care of the check.

As Ming rolled away the tablecloth snagged in his mechanism. A raft of plates, forks, spoons, glasses of ice water, pitchers, garnishes, condiments, toothpicks, various chunks of picked over foodstuffs, and other various and sundry food-related items tumbled to the cheaply carpeted floor in disorganized fashion.

Revealed beneath the tablecloth was the usual assortment of bland disfigurements, including a vaguely relevant (for our purposes) inscription:

Who Is Buried In Plinth’s Tomb?




by Stanley Lieber

From out of nowhere (his shoulder bag) Uriel drew his flaming sword and dropped to one knee, slicing the air in front of him and bifurcating Sam Walton at the waist.

"Sharpest sighted spirit in all of Heaven..." Sam trailed off as the two co-equal halves of himself thudded dully to the floor.

"No," said Uriel, flatly.

In that same instant Uriel found himself staring down the barrel of Piotr’s side-arm. The pirate had managed to train his weapon on the center of Uriel’s mass without alerting the Archangel to the fact that he had moved. Crucially, Piotr’s facial expression had not changed since early childhood.

"Apparently for some people hypocrisy in the name of gathering power is a positive thing."

Piotr did not snap at the bait. Nor did he relax his aim. Uriel stared deeply into his eyes, to no apparent effect.

This soul was not human.

The stalemate persisted for several more minutes, with each remaining more or less as they were, until Uriel at last began to wonder if Piotr had forgotten where he was, what was happening.

Finally, Uriel provided a prompt.

"Sometimes the painfully obvious solution can be hard to see, even for somebody experienced."

Piotr’s expression remained unchanged. His weapon did not move. Finally, he stuck out his lower lip and blew a tiny puff of air upwards, across his face, causing a loose fold of his long, straight hair to flip out of the way of his line of sight.

"Hehehe," tried Uriel.

Scrupulously, Piotr maintained his silence.

Presently, there unfolded a large, translucent display.

בְּכָל-צָרָתָם לא (לוֹ) צָר, וּמַלְאַךְ פָּנָיו הוֹשִׁיעָם--בְּאַהֲבָתוֹ וּבְחֶמְלָתוֹ, הוּא גְאָלָם; וַיְנַטְּלֵם וַיְנַשְּׂאֵם, כָּל-יְמֵי עוֹלָם.

Uriel reached out his hand and it passed through the barrel of Piotr’s weapon.

"The war is over," claimed Uriel, and vanished into the remains of the aether.

Piotr egressed the SAM’S CLUB, alone, sinking up to his waist in the street. Eventually his progress halted. Outside, visitors to the amusement park diverted around him, milling about, ingesting inscrutable foodstuffs and accumulating licensed merchandise. Unaware of the significance of their actions.


URIEL (2017/08/23)


by Stanley Lieber

Dominus illuminatio mea

A ram’s horn trumpet split the curtain of silence, penumbra of so-called dignity discarded on the un-mopped floor. The Archangel Uriel appeared before them, there in the SAM’S CLUB, fully visible in all his splendor to the human eyes who gazed upon him.

"It is quite simple actually," said Uriel. "I hold the key."

Uriel descended the stale air of the manager’s office, seeming to pass through the drop ceiling without disturbing its corporeal aspect. He gripped the rusty key in his right hand, extending it for no apparent reason toward the ceiling he had presently traversed. Neither human understood the significance of the gesture. In point of fact, neither human had wondered after the gesture in the first place.

Sam Walton removed and then slowly replaced his meshback cap. His eyes narrowed as they tracked slowly, left to right. His panic was evident.

"You are not alone," Uriel assured him, easily.

"Why... You’re the drawing I made. Right here, in my notebook." Sam tore the page from his notebook and shoved it firmly across his desk at Uriel, ripping it nearly in half in the process. It wasn’t a handshake but it would have to do.

"One of the most important things in life is to know your limitations," said Uriel.

"I—I’m not much of an artist, I’ll admit..." stammered Walton. His mouth opened again and then he realized he had nothing more to say.

"Just because something is easy to do doesn’t mean it is a good idea," countered Uriel, gently.

"Simplicity is harder to reach than complexity," Uriel explained. "This is more an implementation detail than anything."

Walton and Piotr had not been sure how to respond to the sudden invasion of the manager’s office by this... What was he, exactly? Piotr’s incredulity was plain.

Uriel gripped Sam Walton by the shoulders and stared deeply into his gray eyes. "You do not know what you are doing."

And then:

"This is simply false."


"And you are wrong again."

Sam Walton stared back at him, dumbfounded.

"Uhu?" said Uriel. "I honestly and deeply hope you fail completely."

Sam shuffled backwards, landing awkwardly in his chair. His meshback cap felt heavy on his head. It jostled, fell flat on the floor.

"People are fucking stupid," Uriel revealed. "Morals are subjective and individual, and in many cases in conflict with the law."

Piotr tilted his head, as if considering the point.

The Archangel Uriel, steadily frustrated at Sam’s apparent lack of comprehension, reached into his shoulder bag for a visual aid.

Sam Walton, for his part, had run out of words.


SAM’S CLUB (2017/08/22)


by Stanley Lieber

"Mister Alamo," Piotr intoned calmly into the microphone.

New money was in play.

Gradually, additional staff made their way to the overflow registers.

Remarkably, Drumpf’s check had cleared. The unexpected windfall would all but ensure success.

Piotr’s little green men drifted in and out of SAM’S CLUB, replenishing depleted stocks and selecting new equipment that would be required for the upcoming mission. Commencement: To be announced.

Meanwhile, Brandon’s forces were known to be in disarray. Effectively missing in action for three decades, his knowledge of the situation on the ground was by now limited to open source reporting. Piotr allowed himself a smirk. Nothing like his father.

Here was Samuel Moore Walton: Grade school dropout, unlikely billionaire, leaning up against the service desk with a toothpick clenched tightly between his tight-grouted teeth. Unidentified detritus streamed like silt from the corners of his wide, thin mouth. Sam sighed, eyelids drawn close, surveying the expanse of his domain.

"We’ll need a lot more pallets," Piotr remarked. "These hand trucks will come in handy."

"Safety is our first concern, but customer satisfaction is certainly not far behind," Sam assured him. "Always."

Without further comment, Sam turned, replaced his meshback cap, and ascended the nearby stairway to the second floor. Piotr followed, as his men explored the vast retail environment, exploiting the opportunity to top off their personal inventories.

No one followed them upstairs.


COWBOY ACTOR #4 (2017/08/06)


by Stanley Lieber

8 pgs.

cbz | pdf

LITTLE GREEN MEN (2017/03/23)


by Stanley Lieber

Fred Drumpf had shit his pants.

"Cobalt, God damn it!" he bleated, referring to the popular toilet bowl cleaner. The old goat had succumbed to senility.

"If we need to bring in the big gun, we’ll bring in the big gun," Piotr said, dangling the plunger above Fred Drumpf’s waiting mouth. "You are helping the other side." Piotr tapped the side of the spotless commode with the plunger. Aimed it, again, at Fred.

Fred considered his predicament. Life in the Salt Pit had been something of a disappointment. Certainly, the facilities were in need of an overhaul. Pink sand filtering in from who knows where, coarse and irritating. He felt to some degree taken advantage of. Expenses had been, demonstrably, disproportionate to services rendered. What exactly he been paying for, all this time? To be fair, Fred was not sure what he had been expecting. Something... different? Anything but this dreary open plan prison he now called home.

Conditions were unsatisfactory. A rip-off.

At length, while obviously frustrated, Fred relented.

"Okay, sign me up."

Piotr jotted down Fred’s name and address, then asked for further identifying details, including information about Fred’s holdings and financial institutions. Baseline qualifications fulfilled, Piotr next presented a written request for disclosure of Fred’s citizenship status and any contractual obligations that might interfere with his ability to discharge the terms of the new agreement.

Fred placed his fingertip on the leaf. Removed it.

Piotr withdrew the leaf.

Finally, Piotr asked Fred if he was now, or had ever been, an employee or stock holder of UNIVERSAL MOLD, INC., to which Fred shook his head. And that was that: Mission funded.

Gradually, Fred realized that Piotr’s visit was drawing to a close and that there was no way of knowing when he might drop by again. As if triggered by some remote command, Piotr immediately egressed Fred’s cube.

That was abrupt.

Fred reclined on his bunk, resolved to try and get some sleep before the call to prayer.

You know what? Fuck that guy.


MING THE CLAM (2016/11/26)


by Stanley Lieber

ROLAND NIP, JAPANESE MAN NUMBER TWO stood upon the deck of the USS JACK NIETSZCHE and wept.

"What am I supposed to do now?" he whined.

Ming the Clam’s inscrutable countenance held fast. Silence followed.

"You are going to tradecraft yourself into a God damned corner," said Nip.

Ming’s unreadable expression solidified. He stared at a point that seemed to be fixed, some way off in the distance. Nip tried and failed to track the blip. To his mind, nothing was out there. Fog, fog, and more fog. What in the hell was the clam looking at?


"Fucking clams," creaked Nip, his voice expiring under the strain of his predicament. He now faced early retirement at the hands of this... fucking clam. And on account of what? Indeed, it made no God damned sense at all.

Ming continued to stare. Was he smiling, now?

Nip fumed inwardly.

"Harrrrrruuuuuuunnnnngggggggggggggg..." interrupted Ming, suddenly.


Ming rolled, his underbelly seething as his single foot padded the steel deck of the ship. Nip could only observe the ridiculous pantomime as the six-foot clam egressed the general vicinity of his bad mood. Was it something he’d said?

"Aw, come back, I didn’t mean it!"

Nip scrambled after the outsized clam, unable to fathom what must be happening, but certain that the consequences of his words would be a disaster to his person.

"Hiiiiiiiiiiigggggghhhhhhh bbbbbbbiiiiiiiiiiiiiiddddddddd..." stuttered Ming, furiously.


Ah. The auction.

"There will be a reckoning," reasoned Nip. "But to be quite honest, I’m not sure if I will participate. In point of fact I’m not sure I understand the situation at all. What do clams even want?"

Ming motored towards the live area. Station joined, he commenced to chatter with his advisors.

Nip could only watch as his hopes and dreams unraveled before him.



THANKS, BRANDON! (2016/10/28)


by Stanley Lieber

Brandon stepped down out of the truck. coolguy98 had made the winning bid. Brandon was coolguy98.

“Payment,” directed Plinth Mold.

“No shit.”

Brandon swept his hand through the air, completing the transaction.

Plinth nodded. Brief pause as the world changed hands.

Nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

Brandon toured the grounds.

“Suggest some changes,” demanded Brandon, to his assistant, who was himself. The arrangement was peculiar in that it had persisted through numerous staffing changes.

Plinth stared at Brandon’s penmanship. Excused himself without further comment.

Brandon proceeded, undeterred.

First on the agenda: Cleaning house.

Things were going to change around here.




by Stanley Lieber

She got mad.

The green doors all opened. Then closed, inhaling and exhaling rhythmically. Costumed partygoers scrambled for the blinking exits, but most stopped short as the portals once again slammed shut. In summary, few of the club’s members achieved egress.

Obviously, none of them had trained for the objective. Also, none of them understood what was happening.

Piotr tapped his ear. I adjusted my visor and the audio finally synched to his moving lips.

“…and then we’re all finished here.”

Nodded. Then followed him out of the club back into the ship.

“Boneyard,” declared Piotr into his collar mic.

The ship commenced the slow process of compressing the club for longterm storage. The club folded, then folded again. Shrinking. Denizens still trapped inside had by now achieved visible panic.

“What a time to be alive,” I lamented, and the membership, though none of them could hear me, seemed to agree.

Compression completed, THE RAGNAROK sighed and closed the file. Removed the temporary copy from memory.

Piotr sat down on the bed and removed his visor.


EH2ME (2016/06/06)


by Stanley Lieber

Clientele within the CLASS ACTION had exceeded Dunbar’s number. Piotr’s brass ceiling exacerbated the confusion. Next, the lights had flickered out.

Tangled relationships. Trading was affected.

Looking around, they were all wearing it. Costumes sagging. Static display of doll gape. Tapped my visor, switching command to internal. Obvious, now. The marks had been made.

We got into it.

Pockets, clutches, bags, wallets, rings, jewelry, cards, bills of all denominations, passwords, pin numbers, car keys, leaves, data gloves, visors. We negotiated each item swiftly but carefully, sorting all such matter into like piles.

Finally, Piotr grunted, “It’s not here.”

The green door groaned inward on its hinges, pre-signaling disappointment.

Incoming communique. Some kind of shorthand.

Piotr deleted his copy of the message, unread.

“Deeper,” he ordered, almost whispering.

Deeper it was.



by Stanley Lieber
Hokkaido. April.
(Though it felt like summer.)
Prince Rogers Nelson scaled the Black Gendarme, wind biting at his unprotected neck and face. His telepresence flickering in and out of apparent corporeality. His mascara running down his face.
“It’s windy now,” he remarked to himself from between clenched teeth, “But it’s gonna be okay.”
If only that had been the case.
Stilletto heels stabbing dark ice, Prince wondered at the whistling of the mountain wind. He observed each snowflake as it slowly drifted down the Black Gendarme. The snow was mounting beneath him, just as it had happened in his dream.
“Avalanche,” he predicted.
And then: “Oh.”
He stared at his hands as his fingers slipped from the black rocks. His body peeled slowly away from the mountainside, and his telepresence appeared to change color as he fell. This had not been planned, and did not at first seem to be a new idea wrapped in a so-called happy accident.
No such incident had occurred in his dream.
Down, down, down.
Prince’s telepresence resumed at the base of the Black Gendarme. Sunlight glinted on murky water as he waded hip-deep into reeds and rushes. Prince observed the river rising to soak his armpit-waisted, black silk trousers.
“Bullshit!” he protested, rather too loudly.
He seemed pleased when ambient volume adjusted itself automatically to compensate for the outburst.
There could be children watching.
Gradually, Prince made his way to the opposite river bank, where he pulled himself up to his full height atop three-inch heels. A flourish of expressive dance dispensed with the excess river water that had been absorbed by his uniform. He hoped that it all seemed intentional.
He smoothed down his black silk shirt and loosened his apache scarf. The trousers seemed ruined; or at least, had seen better days. Abandoning protocol, he discarded them casually on the riverbank. Damp, his black stockings glistened in the afternoon sunlight.
“All I ever wanted was to be left alone,” he claimed, to no one.
The Black Gendarme, the river, and the valley beyond offered no objection to this obvious lie. What could they have said?
Presently, Prince’s gaze shifted to the heavens above.
Compilation of his new album had been completed before he’d set off for the Black Gendarme. In his absence, album art had been prepared by his staff. Settling his focus mid-field, he reviewed the material for several seconds before gesturing to expand the playlist:
        1. June
        2. U KNOW
        5. affirmation
        6. WAY BACK HOME
        7. Time
This would do.
Seemingly satisfied, Prince authorized the release with his thumbprint, then shifted his gaze back to the river, adjusting several of the microphones that had lately come to hover in the vicinity. Preparations completed, he waded back into the water, proceeding in a straight line until his apparent body had submerged completely beneath the mossy sludge.
Telepresence sustained.
From below, Prince regarded the shafts of sunlight that penetrated the river’s surface, and he smiled, sweetly, at the successful transliteration.
Who would be listening?

UNDERCUT (2016/03/16)


by Stanley Lieber

“I’ve had this haircut since 1920. It’s not my fault.”

Piotr didn’t respond, but continued to trace the shape of things to come. Along my back.

“That part of my back is haunted,” I claimed. “Yeah. Something nasty happened around those parts, some time in the past. We don’t go there.”

Piotr withdrew his fingertips. Pulled down my dress shirt and tucked it back in. He didn’t make a face, exactly.

Back demons.

Since the early 20s I’d been fighting them, off and on. But mostly on.

“Your posture.”

I didn’t care.

“How do you expect to ever recover?”

In any case, this diversion was distracting from work.

We let it drop.


BRASS CEILING (2016/03/01)


by Stanley Lieber

Around the room, displays flashed and fell dark. Save for dance of candlelight against the brass ceiling, illumination honored the void.

Programmatic barrier.

In point of fact the interference was locally generated. Piotr’s equipment floated near the darkly shining obstruction, negotiating constraints.

What was this? Difficult to move. Bumped my head.

Brass ceiling.

The guests comingled. It was unusual to find them all here, conversing openly.

“Sometimes I suspect I’m the only man alive who doesn’t want to die,” I opined.

“You don’t have to like it, you just have to do it,” quipped Piotr.

Too true.

But: Ingress only, for this lot.

I wondered how much they paid to get in.


ACTRON v4, #12 (2016/02/29)


written and drawn by stanley lieber
colored by pete toms

cbz | pdf

back issues

BLUEBIRD (2016/02/08)


by Stanley Lieber

Purple tape, gilded pillow.

“You’re cranky,” Piotr observed.

This guy.

“I think we know who needs a nap,” I snapped, weakly, shuffling my legs above the pillow.

In this case he was right. I hadn’t slept for days. In fact, nearly a week. And my legs were cramping. But I wouldn’t let slip an opening. Not to him. Not ever.

“Anyway,” I said, “Fitness reports.”

Piotr relaxed his trigger finger, snatched the cassette. Unfolding my legs, I discarded the useless pillow.


Tense moments iterated. Nobody liked paperwork. Eyeing me, carefully. On my feet, I waved through the requisite gestures. Did Piotr smile?

And so: Job to do. Behind the green door punctuality reigned. This business with BLUEBIRD had lagged for years. Years that couldn’t be reclaimed. Well, here we were. Piotr had put on his face and I had put on my gloves. We made our way from the staging area to the operating platform.

Switched on.

The site lay essentially unprotected. Piotr dominated with his usual wit and charm. Even though I knew what was coming I was still taken aback by the smoothness, the professional sheen of his delivery. As expected, the program terminated abruptly as it had begun.

Piotr smashed the flickering blue light upon exfil.



DECK 25 (2015/12/29)


by Stanley Lieber

“Hand over the cassette.”

Piotr eased his grip slightly, feigning a check for compliance. The ridiculous largess of this pantomime was lost on the perp. Piotr would retrieve the cassette, one way or another.


“Man, this job never changes,” I remarked, speaking directly into my now empty coffee cup, dregs ringing my chin. Fucking regulations.

Piotr slammed the green door behind him. His patience finally and irretrievably lost.

Presently, an electronic interruption flitted the office network: FESTIVITIES COMMENCE AT 22:30, DECK 25.

Was not immediately clear if Piotr had been included on the distribution list.

The perp, awkwardly: “Uh.”


MORALE CHECK (2015/10/22)


by Stanley Lieber

“Buying soap will help set trafficked sex workers free. Find out how and buy some soap here →”

Oper touched the arrow, followed the black dog into the corridor. But something had gone wrong. Overlapping maps?

“Hesh? Hesh?” he called.

Hesh did not answer. The arrow had vanished. Oper wondered about the fates of the trafficked sex workers. Something familiar. Presently, his mind wandered.

“I’m not a dog,” said Hesh, finally.

“The costume,” observed Oper.

“Is not the costume of a dog,” said Hesh, perturbed. This seemed to settle the matter. At least, Oper had stopped responding.

Approached the entrance to CLASS ACTION.

“Comes the candidates, Oper and Hesh, to all of which they do solemnly and sincerely promise and swear…” The doorman trailed off.

Adjusting their masks, the men entered the nightclub.


ACTRON v4, #11 (2015/06/28)

ACTRON v4, #11

written and drawn by stanley lieber
colored by pete toms

cbz | pdf

back issues

LOYALTY DAY (2015/06/27)


by Stanley Lieber

“If I had all the things I deserve, my net worth would be incredible!!”

Six hours back on Earth.

“Workers are in the streets,” I observed, gesturing toward the nearby the window. Annual parade. My wry humor.

Piotr stared at the parade. Clicked back to situational awareness. He giggled, reaching for the obscured knob of the hidden door just as it opened slowly from within.

“You’re hired,” said the man behind the green door.

We entered, gladly.



THE FOURTH MAN (2015/05/03)


by Stanley Lieber

The Fourth Man arrived just as we sat down to breakfast. Picked through his worms and eggs.

“You don’t have to eat the eggs,” I explained.

“What’s your desktop environment,” asked the Fourth Man.

Gray Gloves waved his gray gloves, blasé blasé. I tapped my own visor, settling the matter.

“Those guys don’t have time to argue with me. AWESOME.”

Finished my worms.

Excavation approached completion. Some brief controversy as an analysis of weathering on the newly unmarsed sections of the hull suggested she had been in the ground a lot longer than what we all knew to be the case.

A lot of these guys were cranks.

Closed my eyes.

Saw more pink.


GRAY GLOVES (2015/03/22)


by Stanley Lieber

Head out of the sand. High enough to get a signal.

Gray Gloves, en route.

Get her started. Open her up before they arrive.

Wait one.

“We need to move her out of here.”


Absence of internal conflict. Working alone was easy.


Black gloves. Technically adept but too involved. Expose yourself to their entanglements. White gloves. Slaves to bureaucracy. On the other hand, nobody ever got fired for turning in the right forms.

Gray Gloves. Quiet professionals. On the list of approved vendors. Best of both worlds.

Well, that was what their brochure had said.

The Gray Gloves rep emerged from the sand, leaf in hand. Dusted off his sleeves and trousers.

“Before we get started,” he began, “I’m required to inform you that our corporate branding is provided by MEGAWATT SIMILE, INC. The artist was Amy.”

“Authorship is censorship,” I agreed, nodding. “When does your crew arrive?”

“There’ll never be enough of us,” he opined, looking around. “It’s just me. The tyranny of adequacy.”

I knew the feeling.

“Anyway. Let’s dig her out,” I observed.


Immediately, we got to work.


THINK OF THIS (2015/01/18)


by Stanley Lieber

Test articles should be hangared during
periods of foreign reconnaissance satellite
coverage (NIGHTSHOT Condition), or when
uncleared personnel are known to be within
sight of the airfield or the Test Site skyline
(Condition WATCHDOG).  When WATCHDOG is in effect,
the Director of Operations or Supervisor of Flying
may approve or cancel approach of test articles or
other aircraft to the airfield.  If approach and
landing are waived off, test and support aircraft
may be diverted to contingency landing sites.


Awake in the sand. In my hair. Dust off shirt and trousers. Over a dune, there, on the desert floor, the carcass of Slake Bottom.

Remove the golden donkey helmet. Dog’s head. Remove the dog helmet. Elephant’s head. Remove the elephant helmet. Turtle’s head.

Turtle after turtle after turtle. It’s turtles, all the way down. Misdirection. Onolatry. Ridiculous.

Abandon the corpse and helmets, traverse the next dune. Pink triangle, emerging from the sand.


Confirmed. It’s her.

Amidships. Systems cold. Low light. Onward to extremities. Everything checks out, all decks. Asleep, but alive.


Seen this before. Hold down the power button. Keep holding. Eventually, she powers off. Depress power button again. She powers back on.

Awake in the sand.

“What happened?” Modulating my tone.

“Try not to think of a polar bear,” she said, and rolled over.

Came the call for NIGHTSHOT condition.


ACTRON v4, #10 (2014/12/05)

ACTRON v4, #10

written and drawn by stanley lieber
colored by pete toms

cbz | pdf

back issues

THE FABLIAUX (2014/11/28)


by Stanley Lieber

Violet sky, red on blue, copying and melting. Sparkling. Wax drops on desert floor as the lights fell out, one by one. Impressions in sand.

The pink mountain continued to shrink. She was almost under.

Slake drew his fingers along the cracks in the sidewalk, feeling for debris. Spiraling fossil. A shell. Sidewalk curved, terminating in dune.

He could still see the house, the remaining wall, the painting, although it was no longer there. Sky’s curtain had turned and cycled against cold vision. Illusions drawn.

Cheek scraping softly against rough sand.

Alpha empathized, nuzzling the back of Slake’s head. Then, gripped the neck of his green jacket with silent jaws and drug him away from the ruins. Slake stirred.

“I’m so sorry,” Slake said, and Alpha believed him. For what, he couldn’t know. Sufficient?

Panic receded as Slake transitioned from purple to scarlet. Calibrated to the dying woman.

“Low light,” murmured Alpha.

Blue shift, silence, and then she was gone. Last bright corner having slipped beneath the sand.

Slake tried but he couldn’t remember.

From everything, there was nothing.


YOUR DENSITY (2014/11/27)


by Stanley Lieber

Fine sand, hard-packed. The RAGNAROK was up to her neck.

Winter on Mars.

Slake reached out, but his arm passed through her hull. Confounded, he nearly fell to the ground.

“I’m…” she whispered, exasperated beyond consoling, “I’m your density.”

Slake stared.

Out, into the snow. Kicking pebbles over frosted runway. Deserted desert.

Thin end of the pink wedge, sinking in the sand.

Slake lit his purple cigarette, wandered through a hole in the fence. Continued beyond the restricted area.

The spiral stones.

She was dying.


APPLIQUE (2014/11/26)


by Stanley Lieber

Slake on the bridge.

Cat in the corner. He’d nearly forgotten. White eyes. Static display.

Beyond the screen, the familiar Martian sunset.

Going home.

Well, what passed for home, in this life.

Basement liquidated, why wait? Mitigate his risk. The boy would be fine. Nothing more he could do. Right?


Traced the shape of things to come, running his finger along the cat’s haunch. The outline peeled, collapsed into his hand. Shoddy workmanship. This was beyond the pale. Not his doing, but still.

Discarded the fraying applique.

Took her down to the surface.


THE SHIP’S CAT (2014/11/25)


by Stanley Lieber

Alpha’s life had changed, since the transaction.

Slinking with tired paws over the glossy pink floor his marbled skin, still tender, adjusted slowly to the low light.

Ship life.

Alpha had stuck around for the good luck.

Forget Zuckerberg, these pirates had taken him in, taken care of him. Food always right there on the plate. Simple and plain.

His men.

Had lasted at most a month. One by one, fallen to the accelerated tempo. Some without a hint of warning.

All gone, now.

Alpha had persevered. Branded. The blade over the heart. They had said.

His skin itched. Pink.

Where did they want him to sit?

Careful of the scar.