Doctor Strange -- and me

  A headline that remains topical

I wasn't allowed to read comics when I was a kid. I could read the newspaper funny pages, where I predictably followed "Prince Valiant." And because these were parental favorites, I also read "Pogo" and "Lil Abner."

When I was sent to camp for most of several summers (scorched-earth divorce in the works at home), I met NYC kids who refused to leave the bunkhouse and just lay around and read the zillions of comics--DC, mostly--that they'd brought in boxes from home.  I've always wondered why, if their parents sent them to camp to get some sunlight and air, they allowed for the transport of all those comics. Maybe they only wanted the kids to read this stuff elsewhere. Anyway, no one could forbid my reading here, so, among this motherlode of graphic fiction,*  I soon found a superhero to fit my (then) off-beat personal taste for history and myth, this time "The Mighty Thor."

It wasn't until college, as a young married student, that I met up with comics once more. This time the forbidden fruit was found in the rooms of Boston friends, many of whom were early psychonauts. It was in such rooms, hung with black light posters and India print bedspreads, that I was introduced to Doctor Strange and the rest of the Marvel© World.  It was "Make Mine Marvel" from then on.

As does this one

I had kids young. My husband I used to read all kinds of things while seated on the floor or on the bed before lights out. As the little ones passed beyond the "Wild Things" and "When We Were Very Young," they were naturally attracted to the vivid panels of our stash of old comics. Cheap, bright, colorful, and full of drama, those old books found new readers. Eventually, every one, (which, if preserved in a plastic sleeve might be worth something 40 years later), was all read to rags. The coolest psychedelic drawings were silly-puttied to death.

The kids got older and so did their parents. Comics disappeared, only to return with Hollywood's decision to make lots of blockbuster teen/YA movies--a natural home for such stories of derring-do. For years, as CG progressed towards the astonishing flowering that marked Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings, I've muttered, "Why don't they resurrect Doctor Strange? At last they've got the tech to really do him up proper."

Then came 2016 Dragon Con. I'd heard about the upcoming Doctor Strange movie with real excitement, especially as I'd heard about the talented cast. On the first day of Dragon Con, we were bumbling through the crowd, admiring the amazing costumes dreamed up by attendees of this yearly blow-out festival of cosplay. I had just been grousing "So, where's Doctor Strange?" when he walked through the door of the hotel. I rushed the guy, crying "Why, it's Doctor Strange, Master of the Mystic Arts and Wearer of the Eye of Agomoto! Can we get a picture???"

 

And there, bumped and blurry with excitement, we are! This was just the first of the excellent versions of Doctor Strange that I met over the next three days. They were all pretty great, all dressed in costumes that were copies of one or another of the character's long and varied sartorial existence. (Different artists favored different get-ups.)

Next, the movie came out. I went with a contemporary who uses a cane because she needs a knee operation. We two old girls helped each other to seats in the already darkened theater, then showing the first of 10,000 DC/Marvel trailers. We'd snuck in apple slices and water bottles and settled down, after a quick glance up at a bunch of teens hiding out in the back, wondering if they wondered about why the heck we were there. We hoped for the best.

Long story short, I really enjoyed the heck out of this movie. Although there was a little too much 21st Century snark, those classy actors gave their all to such dialogue as they were offered. The knock-out visuals accomplished the rest. Suddenly, I was back in that long-ago black light lit room.

Someone in authority, I believe, really studied the originals of those old graphics, the ones I remember so well, and they were sufficiently respectful to elder fans like us to make sure these vignettes were included. At the end, I was rewarded by a vision of the same sorcerer I remember so well, gazing from the window of his Greenwich Village Sanctum Sanctorum!

Some fantastically lucky fan took this at a NYC Comic book store...

And who could be more perfect for the character than Benedict Cumberbatch who has been giving us his BBC Sherlock Holmes with such panache--Star Trek villains, etc.? The few changes--such as making the Ancient One's gender ambiguous by casting the chameleon actress Tilda Swinton--or giving Chiwetel Ejiofor, as a strong Baron Mordo, a backstory, seemed an improvement, even to such a grumpy traditionalist as me.

I hope the residuals from some Marvel jobs will enable these talented actors to get some meatier, and far less lucrative, roles later on.


~~Juliet Waldron

http://amzn.to/1UDoLAi    Books by JW at Amazon

Some of these are fantasy historicals...

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*As currently styled

Black Magic ~~ Shapeshifter!

Goran uses shape-shifting to visit

the other 'powers' who dwell on his mountain

  

           Goran turned and found himself standing on a high rock shelf above a hollow filled with thorns. He saw the eyes, gazing out at him. Glowing, bright living eyes, green fire! He’d only thought of the Great Boar, the eyes in the thicket down in the oak woods—and suddenly, he was there.

            I thought you might be here.

            And so I am, Great One.

            What is it about that particular rock, Lord, that you like so much?

            Wanting to make some sort of an answer, Goran gazed down at his feet and then rather wished he hadn’t. It was shocking to see what they had become, his legs ending in the talons of a bird of prey. The rock below was ordinary granite, dotted with a few white flecks of marble. As he did this, a little puzzled, a buzzing rush of energy blasted into his feet.

     Aha! This rock is an excellent place, full of power!

                               

~ Juliet Waldron ~

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Red Magic ~ Excerpt ~ Amazon Countdown !

Red Magic~Kindle Countdown Special

Caterina has been forced to marry her dead older sisters' rakish fiancé. Months later, the marriage remains unconsummated. When she intercepts a letter from one of his mistresses, she is first jealous and then alarmed, for she realizes that despite her resolve, she has fallen in love with him.

Cat thought she'd never be able to get to sleep.  Still, somehow or other, she wandered into that strange other realm.     

          There was Wili, sitting in the window seat at home.  Her sister, blonde braids demurely crowning her head, was deep in embroidery, a piece stretched on a frame. 

          Cat was horribly agitated.  She ran forward with the letter in her hand, the letter from Konstanze.  Wili gazed at her, a serene expression in place.     

          "Wili!  Read this," Cat cried.  "Does it mean what I think it does?"   With deft fingers her sister ran the needle into the cloth.  Then she took what Cat offered and read.  Her skin, always pale, was of an unearthly translucence.         

          After awhile Wili looked up and shook her golden head.  Firmly she handed the letter back.           "I don’t cry anymore," she said.  The soft gray eyes that Cat remembered so well were full of nothing but a profound, unruffled calm.  "It's for you to cry over him now," she said.   

       Coolly turning away, she retrieved the needle and resumed her handwork. 

 ***

           Someone had come inside the bed curtains, someone with gentle hands, someone whispering something she didn't understand.  Great arms picked her up and Cat's wet face came to rest upon a freshly laundered nightshirt, one that covered a massive shoulder.   "There, there," a male voice comforted.  "Wake up, little one.  Wake up."      

          "Christoph," she gasped, understanding at last.  She felt her muscles gather and flex.          

          "You were having a bad dream." The great arms, like oak, girded her.      

          To push against his chest was nothing but frustration.  She might, with as much effect, push one of the stone walls of the manor.  Sobs tore out of her.         

          Why hadn't Wili given advised?  Why had she been so cold?   Oh, was it because she knew how Cat was feeling about the man she'd loved in vain so long?  Was it because she knew how close Cat was to going through his door and, under the cover of darkness, climbing into his bed?       

          Her husband continued to hold  her.  One hand soothed, while the other cradled her against him.  She sobbed, let the tears drench his nightshirt. He began to rock her.  Now and then his lips brushed her cheek, but it was so tender, as if he comforted a child.   

          "It was Wili," she whispered, telling part of it, the only part she dared.  "I dreamed of Wili."            Christoph heaved a heavy sigh.  "She was on my mind tonight too," he said. 

Cat lay limp against him.  How easy it was to cry herself out against his strength, to feel the affectionate hand on her back, the one in her hair!  His chest moved against hers as his breath went in and out.  She could feel the pulse of his heart, an even drumbeat.

         "Are you better now?" he asked after awhile.  He sounded supremely weary.  

          When she murmured, "Yes," he released her and got up out of the bed. "Elsa," he called.  "Elsa!  Come at once."    

          Cat sat still, trembling with all the warring emotion. A tall skinny figure appeared by the side of the bed, illuminated in the rippling light that came from the open door into his room.       

          "Elsa, dear," he said gently, "sleep with the Grafin tonight.  She's having bad dreams."  

          "It's not necessary," Cat said, but she had to move back, because Elsa was already climbing in beside her.         

           "I think that it is," Christoph said firmly. He began a retreat towards his own room.  "Please stay, Elsa, no matter what."         

          "Yes, Herr Graf," whispered Elsa, sending a questioning look at her mistress.         

          "Thank you," he said.  "Good night, ladies," he added, carefully shutting the door behind him.  Now it was dark again.  Silently Cat lay back.  She felt exceedingly strange.

          "I don't want to talk," she said softly.  "I'm upset but I think I just ought to try and go to sleep again."     

          "As you wish, Mistress," came the reply, "but you know," Elsa said after a pause, "you can trust me."     

          "Yes."  It was pitch black and Cat couldn't see a thing, but she knew that the long thin girl beside her was bursting with questions.    

          Suddenly, she ached to confide.  Maybe not everything, but something.      Finally she reached out, took Elsa's hand and whispered, "The Graf never takes me to his bed."

          "I know," came the whispered reply.  "You are always so angry and so sad." 

          "We are both angry and sad."   

          "It is because of your lady sister, is it not, Grafin?" came the surprisingly astute reply. 

           "Yes. "

           Elsa's thin fingers pressed hers warmly, but Cat was grateful when the servant didn't speak again...

~~Juliet Waldron

See all my historical novels at: 

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And, dear reader, if you've got a moment, hop on over to these other talented

Books We Love Authors:

 

http://triciamg.blogspot.com/ (Tricia McGill)

http://mizging.blogspot.com/ (Ginger Simpson)

http://connievines.blogspot.com.au/ Connie Vines

BLACK MAGIC ~ Amazon Countdown Feature

War-weary soldier Goran von Hagen returns for the first time in years to the alpine estate where he was born. Here, although he does not suspect it, a strange destiny awaits.

"So much more than the garden-variety shapeshifter v. vampire story, as the hero engages with the day-to-day realities of his post-transformation self..." 

 

 Black Magic ~ Amazon Countdown! 

 

 

After an exchange of letters, Goran and Mina decided to make a summer journey to the neglected estate. This would be the best time to ride the place over and find out how things were in the fields and forests of their domain. Their younger siblings—all but Rupert—were still school boys, incapable of such duties.

            It was not, as his father had always said, a good thing to leave houses and property in the hands of servants for any extended period. Even the best bailiff and staff could lose their way. Herr Stocke, who had managed the place for so long, had grown frail, and the Graf had concerns about relying so heavily upon a man who long ago should have been comfortably retired. At the time, Goran believed he could face anything with Veronique on his arm. Now, his twin, Mina, would have to help him stay strong, but she, her little daughter, Charlize, and his youngest sister, Birgit, had not yet finished their journey from Passau.

***

            Being alone in the house was painful. As soon as he had finished a good splash in the basin, Goran abandoned the master bedroom. He’d often pictured Veronique there. She’d have teased him, no doubt, laughing mercilessly about the antique bed-curtains. They were embroidered with an erotic subject of nymphs and fauns--not at all to his, or to any modern--taste--but a work of art, nonetheless. They’d been purchased at great expense in pre-revolutionary France. Why his mother had never replaced these wicked bachelor relics he had never understood. Goran had heard stories that his father had been “a famous rake” before he’d settled down to become a dedicated family man.

             Damn Veronique!

 

             How often he’d imagined her here, standing before a mirror, letting down her heavy blonde hair. He’d have taken her in his arms, watched her lovely face flush with desire. They’d begin the prelude, as they had many times before, and this time—this time—it would happen, the fiery moment when she would allow him to enter her lush body!

             Instead, he was here, on the mountain--alone.

 

             Goran donned his knee-length riding coat. Habit caused him to check to be certain that his boot knives were snug in place. During the war, he’d learned never to trust to the safety of even the most familiar places.

            He departed in a hurry, for the bedroom seemed full of ghosts, banging his boots on the stairs. From the sideboard in foyer he seized a dusty, half-full bottle of brandy. He thought he’d walk—and drink. The house was worse than he’d thought. A sensation of loss and grief pervaded the familiar rooms where he’d spent a happy childhood.

             Not to mention the disorder in his bailiff's once tidy study!

             Goran could only imagine the hours of mind-numbing book work which waited—and right now, he didn’t want to dwell on it. He stalked through the small, overgrown ornamental garden some grandparent or other had created. It was set in view of the long study windows, and had several slate paths, now narrowed by encroaching flowerbeds. The whole place was overlooked by a lichen-spotted marble faun atop a pedestal. Balanced upon one cloven foot, his head thrown back in abandon, the creature cheerfully played a flute. Goran paused to study it, remembering how it had frightened Mina when they’d been children. She’d complained she had nightmares in which it chased her...  

 

 

~~Juliet Waldron

See All my Historicals at:

 http://amzn.to/1UDoLAi   

 

And, dear reader, if you've got a moment, hop on over to these other talented

Books We Love Authors:

 

http://triciamg.blogspot.com/ (Tricia McGill)

http://mizging.blogspot.com/ (Ginger Simpson)

 

http://connievines.blogspot.com.au/ Connie Vines

 

A LITTLE RED MAGIC

 
Take a little RED MAGIC to keep out the cold:

Red Magic at Amazon

 

"Why are you doing this?  I don't need a tutor; I need time to ride the manor.  I know how farm things should be.  And," she ended, meeting his eyes, "haven't I‑‑done my duty?"     

          "Splendidly." His arms crossed around her waist and touched his lips to her shoulder.  "But tutoring is not punishment.  Learning should not be confined to childhood."    

          He was so close, a bit whiskery and dusty from the road, but the smell of him, the touch of his hand, rekindled all kinds of memories, not only of the mountain, but of the tenderness between them on the morning he'd gone away.  When he came to a kiss, she let him and promptly felt a thrill at the touch of his mouth.

          "There, there, my cat woman, please stop scratching.  I was thinking about your sweet backside every other minute I was away."         

          "You must excuse me, Herr Graf," Cat muttered, head close against his great chest, "but I'm really getting cold and my arm hurts."

          "My poor Caterina," he said, shifting to a warm rubbing of her long back.  "Damn Heidelburg.  Is it deep?"       

          "Herr Goran says I'll live."      

          "Well, then, you will.  He kept telling me that last year when I thought I was dying, swelled up and covered with pus and leeches and attacked every other hour by surgeons with sharp knives." He pushed back the sleeve of the morning gown to look at her bandage again.  "We'll undo his bandage before you go to bed and I'll look at it again. I've grown to be a pretty fair surgeon myself."

          With as much dignity as she could muster, Cat started to rise. 
         
          "I would like another kiss before you go," Christoph said.      

          "You shouldn't have got the first!  You did--what you did--before you left and then you come back and treat me like a child !  Why do you want to waste my days so that I won't be able to ride and watch over your land as I should?"  Frustration built with every word until she shouted:  "I hate this dreary snow pile and I hate you."  

          He did not let go.  Because the hand he held was attached to her throbbing arm, she couldn't bring herself to jerk that away, either.

              "I think I'm right about bringing Stocke here and I hope that in time you will understand why.  Come on, dear little Cat.  Just for a minute pull in those claws."              

          She found herself against his chest again, cradled in his arms, her mouth repeatedly and softly kissed. 

          "I've been on fire for more of those sweets I stole on the mountain.  Why can’t you believe I'm in love with you?"      

          "Because you say it too easily." Nevertheless in the next instant she was kissing him back with answering warmth. 

          Not only did it feel good, but Cat was beginning to understand that his wanting bestowed upon her a kind of power...         

          "Our marriage is in its seventh month.  Must we go into the New Year quarreling?"   

          "Yes."  In spite of his words, in spite of the warm excitement she experienced in his arms, she still felt cross with him.          

          "By God," he chuckled softly, "the next time we see your Papa I'm going to tell him this is no red filly he's married me to, but a tough little red mule."   

         

~~ Juliet Waldron

 

 RED MAGIC

 

Book #1 of The Magic Colours Series

~~~~

Red Magic

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