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Timmy, Zach and I were still in bed. It was a cold Christmas morning. All three of us were cuddled up with each other under the blankets. Timmy was in the middle and me and Zach held him from both sides. Timmy was always warmer than the rest of us so it felt even better … Continue reading Daddy’s Princesses Chapter 3 →
We walked up the stairs and Timmy followed. I opened the door to daddy's room. Dads room was dimly lit. I leaned in. Daddy was looking at himself in the mirror with his back towards me. He was wearing a robe. Are you ready for him daddy? He gestured us to come in with his … Continue reading Daddy’s Princesses Chapter 2 →
Christmas is a time when families get together. That one time of year where people come together for a very merry holiday. It is the same for me and my siblings, even though we stay together all year round anyway. There are four of us. Two younger ones, me and our father. We all get … Continue reading Daddy’s Princesses Chapter 1 →
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By Jason Rhode | July 26, 2018 | 10:00am
“Life isn’t divided into genres. It’s a horrifying, romantic, tragic, comical, science-fiction cowboy detective novel. You know, with a bit of pornography if you’re lucky.”—Alan Moore
How do I even begin to explain Alan Moore? Simply, he’s the greatest comics writer of all time. I’ve ranked his top 10 works below.
The pocket biography of Moore reads like this: Alan Moore is an English writer born in 1953 in the Midlands town of Northampton, where he still lives. Growing up after World War II, the working-class Moore is profoundly influenced by comics and the counterculture. In the ‘80s, he writes a groundbreaking series of comics that change the field forever. You’ve heard of most of them. Up until the ‘90s, the majority of his work was published through DC Comics. After DC Comics pursues what many consider to be an underhanded interpretation of contract laws on his most famous work, Watchmen, Moore breaks up with DC. He spends the next 25 years writing for independent houses. Moore declares himself a magician at age 40. In the ‘90s, the comics-to-film boom commences. Large corporations begin offering him ungodly heaps of filthy lucre. Moore refuses on principle, making him even more prominent. Year by year, Moore releases more work: indie films, performance pieces, one-off comics, a short novel, a leviathan novel, volumes of interviews.
Apart from his direct impact on comics and movies, Moore exerts a hidden gravity on our culture, his true reach hard to describe. The best way of thinking about the Magus of Comics might be to shove him in the same category as economists and philosophers. For example, most of Jimmy Fallon’s audience doesn’t know Adam Smith or Niccolo Machiavelli; these people were mildly famous in their lifetimes, and slightly more famous now. But these two figures exert a huge influence on the world. They named theories and set boundaries and made arguments, and even if you haven’t read them, the people who set the agenda for our society have.
That’s how Moore works. Practically everyone who has a say in our culture has read the man (or they have employees who have).
Confession time: I adore Moore. I spoke to him once over the phone for an interview. And so writing about him in a detached, scientific way is a rough proposition. There’s no chemically pure angle for me to take here—the man is a bedrock for me. I believe that he is the true father of comics-as-literature, the first sequential-art writer of the blood royal.
But even rabid apostles can learn to read a text critically. And honestly, whether you know it or not, you’re a fan of the Magician of Northampton. Moore is akin to David Lynch or Buddy Holly: we are all his students.

A Small Killing Cover Art by Oscar Zarate

Artist: Oscar Zarate
Publisher: Avatar Press
Here’s the landmark which stands nearest to Moore. Allow me to explain: I don’t think A Small Killing is the work that means the most to Moore emotionally, or that it shows some never-revealed Rosebud, or that it amounts to autobiography by code. What I mean is that A Small Killing is the work I see as somehow closest to the heart of the creator, the way the Book of Job is central to any exegesis of the Tanakh. A Small Killing is a story that unconsciously comments on Moore’s anxiety. (This is all rabid hearsay, of course, and should not be aired in a legitimate court of law.)
Near as I can tell, Moore does not fear fire, flood, famine or pox. But he’s wary of being false to himself. I read A Small Killing as a stylized alternative nightmare world where Moore became an advertising executive. If Halo Jones is Young Moore who worked in a gas company, the protagonist of A Small Killing is the Moore who sold his birthright for a mass of corporate pottage, and became a gutless executive in the Time Warner conglomerate.
During this story, the lead character Timothy Hole leaves his sleek, lifeless city existence to travel to his Midlands childhood home. As Hole symbolically moves closer to his origin, he effectively moves backwards in time. All the while, Tim is haunted by a strange boy who looks exactly like his forgotten younger self. The child lobs armor-piercing questions at Tim: “Do you really like beer?” Of course he doesn’t. There’s a lot that Tim doesn’t like.
A Small Killing is the story of forgotten and lost alternative selves…the people we might have been, and could still be, if we want it badly enough. This story is a book to be read by quiet summer moonlight; it’s about selling your young self. If you’re a haunted reader, this is the stuff evening readings were made for.
But aren’t all of these works haunted stories?
It’s an apt phrase, “haunted.” To deal in Moore is to speak of occult wonders, of lingering spirits that do not depart easily.
These are only 10 (or is it 11?) stories from the magic mountain of modern comics. Would that there were 10 times as many works from this particular wizard. It’s said that Alan Moore has decided to step away from comics. Perhaps he’ll stay away this time. He may truly retire, and go on write movies, songs, and other novels. But selfishly, I hope against hope that his leave-taking won’t last. I don’t think he can stay away, and never look back. Moore is haunted by comics, and we are haunted by him.

Artist: Alan Davis
Publisher: Marvel Comics
Captain Britain is Alan Moore’s Pickwick Papers. The inchoate mass of ambition trying to become the creator Moore. Like watching a charismatic box of Duplos teaching itself to form St. Peter’s Cathedral. Moore did a few pieces for Marvel Comics, and this is the maypole of the lot. In this sprawling, trans-dimensional saga, we see the writer’s almost appalling fertility. Captain Britain fights Mad Jim Jaspers, a reality-warping politician. He assembles a team of costumed adventurers to fight off a truly ghastly robot, The Fury. Stay for a while. You won’t sleep again.
Moore has a dozen ideas every page, and five of them are solid-gold immortal. There are fights, monsters, time travel, alternative realities, love affairs, turns of phrase, fictional references, allusions to British comedians. The superhero at the heart of the game is barely the point. Moore is getting away with whatever catches his fancy. Where other strip could have given us Captain Britain’s Orwell-universe parallel, Captain Airstrip One? Moore’s Captain Britain run is also the story of Moore’s two halves at war. On one side, the practical-minded professional who studied Brian Eno. That guy’s trying to build a narrative and craft a calculated piece of sublime entertainment. On the other side, the magician: Moore the raw creative. The professional superego barely keeps ahead of his creative id; here is the rational storyteller trying to outrun his profligate and prodigiously gifted creative subconscious who gets bored at the drop of a hat.
In time, Moore would learn to fuse the two, but in Captain Britain, he’s in a beautiful conflict, and it’s a joy to watch. For a tale about parallel worlds, Moore manages to never say the same thing twice.

D.R. & Quinch Cover Art by Alan Davis/ The Bojeffries Saga Cover Art by Steve Parkhouse

Artist: Alan Davis/ Steve Parkhouse
.Publisher: 2000 AD/ Top Shelf
“My name’s Ernie Quinch, College Student. I like guns and starting fights. My psychiatrist says I’m a psychotic deviant.” So speaks one of leads of Moore’s hooligan saga, D.R. & Quinch. It’s a line that works for either of these titles.
D.R.&Q is the story of alien juvenile delinquents: two psychologically disturbed space youth have raw, Hunter-Thompsonian fun. Moore referred to the pair as “Dennis the Menace with a thermonuclear capacity.” The Bojeffries Saga is the tale of a working-class family of horror creatures who live in Northampton: one’s a werewolf, one’s a vampire, one’s a blob creature. The Saga is Moore doing his version of the Munsters. If you’ve read any Moore, you know by now how intense and otherworldly Moore “doing” any premise is. To live a Midlands British life is to be one horror among many, Moore is saying.
I pair these two off because they’re a natural fit: they’re the two sides of the strange cosmic comical vision.
There’s a contingent of Moore fans who prefer to view him as a purveyor of dour, gothy culture. But that’s a limited perspective. For starters, Moore made his bread in a daily comic about a magic cat. That was his go-to; that’s how he began the business.
Honestly, once you start reading all of Moore, it’s amazing how often the goofy and absurd shows up in his work. Outside of the serious books, Moore is surprisingly funny. Put simply, D.R. & Quinch is his guilty pleasure, and The Bojeffries Saga is his account of childhood.
That’s straight from the horse’s mouth, by the way. I’ll let the man speak for himself: “So in a sense, I suppose all stories are autobiographical to some degree or another, but with the Bojeffries this was taking observations from my deeply-buried memories of a working-class upbringing. It was probably taking memories of a working class world that wasn’t there any more by the time I started writing the story, or at the very least was on the brink of vanishing.”

Miracleman Vol. 1 Cover Art by Alan Davis

Artists: Garry Leach, Alan Davis, Chuck Austen, Rick Veitch, John Totleben, John Ridgeway
Publisher: Marvel Comics
As Chesterton said of Dickens’ Sketches by Boz, Marvelman (now titled Miracleman) is the only one of Moore’s works where it is necessary to know the date.
Marvelman is Alan Moore’s Book of Changes. Moore is a different creator at the beginning than he is at the end. When he starts the narrative, he has an idea, a sort of skeleton to hang a story on: what if the superman was real? What would happen? Marvelman is the story of Alan Moore saying just what. There are missteps and half-executed notions. But even his errors are gigantic wonders. When the story opens, Moore is merely the most gifted creator of his generation of British comics writers. He is trying, like Michael Moran, to make sense of a confusing situation. Any number of good scriptwriters could have handed the first issue in.
By the end of Marvelman, when the premise has been worked out, the writer is the modern Moore we all know: polished, sure, knowing, and rhapsodical (with restraint). Oh, he overwrites, he pours out prose by the purple yard. But Moore’s most salient (and underappreciated) feature is there: his humanity. In Moore, even when he is on board with a premise, there are always dissenting voices. That’s the hallmark of a great creator.
We are still in danger from this book, frankly. Before Superman the comic book character, the Victorians were worried about the superman, Nietzsche’s superman. George Bernard Shaw’s entire artistic canon came out of that obsession. The superman has several meanings, and Moore’s Marvelman meets them all. Is he a locus of power who makes a mockery of our morality? He is. Is he a supreme physical being that diminishes the human? Certainly. Is he a self-creating artist not bound by herd morality? Yes. Does he lose a part of his soul in the change? Without a doubt.
I need to repeat this, because it’s an important point, and scant few seem to notice: Moore is not the mocker of superheroes.
All Moore ever did was take comics seriously. Their premises, their possibilities, their audiences. It’s strange to say this about a man who got kicked out high school for dealing LSD, but nobody has ever been a more faithful student than Alan Moore. Imagine a radical doctor who made their patients immortal. That’s Moore.
The story of Michael Moran, who remembers that he is a superman, begins as a whimsical take-off on Captain Marvel, and ends as the story of a living god. Along the way, Moore reckons with issues of morality, humanity and the fragility of our world. After Marvelman, everything was possible.

Artists: Gene Ha & Zander Cannon
Publisher: DC Comics
Imagine a cop show set in a city where every single woman, man and child has superpowers. That’s the world of Top 10. It’s one of several titles Moore created for the America’s Best Comics line, Moore’s return to superhero comics. He outdid himself. In the story of one police department, Moore shows the skills he’d perfected after 20 years of comics writing. Like most gifted artists, Moore went looking for inspiration, and found it everywhere, like fire in hell. The throwaway characters are better than the protagonists in other books.
Top 10 is a rambunctious demonstration of Moore’s Silver Age fanboyism. Look, I’ve been reading the words of Alan Moore for two decades now. Of course the man has his grim moments. But when Moore has negative emotions, they tend to rest on an ambient sense of disappointment. Moore is not a cyberpunk writer; the cyberpunks were cynical users of the side-eye and the tech-spec. Moore, as always, is a true believer with gifts that lean toward the prophetic. He is genuinely surprised at the failure of sci-fi in our world—surprised as only the faithful can be. When he creates a sci-fi city, he builds grandly, and without snark.
Moore’s ambitions put him at direct odds with reports of bitterness, which Moore is often (and unfairly) accused of. People who label Moore as a curmudgeon aren’t paying attention. Top 10 disproves them.
Bitter men don’t launch local newspapers (Dodgem Logic) in mid-career. Bitter men don’t write Supreme: The Story of the Year. Bitter men don’t get involved in comics, period, or stick around their hometowns, or care as much as Moore does. And a bitter man would not, could not have written Top 10.
Sci-fi is a smasher of unspoken clichés; it raises questions that complicate everything. And Top 10 is Moore’s treatise on sci-fi and superheroes. His story of civil servants from a freewheeling kitchen-sink Earth is proof of the depth of his vision. Here’s a giant horseman who fuses with a middle-aged office worker. Here’s a dog in a robot suit. Here’s a serious Christian woman who flies like a hawk, and works across from a devout peacock-feather-wearing Satanist. Here’s a toymaker who looks for love and employment, and forms an unlikely bond with a blue brooding fantasy hero. Top 10 is the biggest flattery of sci-fi that Moore ever wrote, disguised as a serial scientific melodrama. Even when Moore is writing a cop show, he doesn’t slack.

V for Vendetta Cover Art by David Lloyd

Artist: David Lloyd
Publisher: DC Comics
A story of politics as obsession. Here’s Moore as Lawgiver: the Author as a Young Terrorist.
In some ways, V is Moore’s most terrifying creation, beyond the dreams of Kid Marvelman or The Fury. Moore’s stories about Superman are justly famous; Moore wrote about Batman, too. The critics assume Moore wrote The Killing Joke and never touched the Dark Knight again. Oh no. Moore wrote about Batman throughout his career. He just split the Caped Crusader into three parts. In Rorschach and Nite Owl, Moore assessed Bruce Wayne as a scarred vigilante and as an overgrown kid. V is what happens when Moore takes Batman absolutely, 100-percent, no-fucking-around seriously. What would it be like, to be Batman? Batman without the neutralizing alloy of Bruce Wayne. A Batman without restraint. A Batman who went beyond a war on crime, to war on the cause of crime: the order of the state itself.
He’d be V. Look at what he does to Evey, his Robin. You’re telling me Bruce wouldn’t be capable of that?
In V For Vendetta, a terrorist wages eternal war on the fascist government that takes over post-apocalyptic Britain. In the same way, Lloyd and Moore struck at the comics medium. The strip is done in gorgeous, minimal colors. The sound effects are gone. The thought balloons have vanished. Noir in art, noir in soul, noir in tone: there is no place in Norsefire’s England where the reader can find respite. V is Moore doing what he does so well: extending an idea to its fullest conclusion.
What kind of man is V? I think we know: the hero. What does that say about our idea of greatness? A man who cared about nothing except abstract goodness would be monstrous, in the way that the heroic always has a touch of the monstrous. Such is our protagonist.
In this book, there are mysteries here that neither Lloyd nor Moore can answer: neither one of them knows what’s underneath V’s mask. An idea is what remains.

The Ballad of Halo Jones Cover Art by Ian Gibson

Artist: Ian Gibson
Publisher: 2000 AD
“Halo Jones was my first love,” novelist Lauren Beukes wrote in her introduction to one of the serial’s collections, “or maybe my first role model. The girl that got out.”
Here’s a blue-collar feminist space opera that was published in a sci-fi comic in Thatcher’s Britain. Like the great TARDIS, The Ballad is so much bigger on the inside. Halo Jones is a character study posing as a space journey pretending to be a war story. The tale was never completed, but maybe it doesn’t need to be.
Set the day just after tomorrow, the eponymous protagonist of Halo Jones is an alienated young woman; she lives in a rough Earth neighborhood called The Hoop. She’s desperate to get out, so she makes her choices and lives with them. She becomes a space stewardess, then a soldier, then something quite different. The Ballad of Halo Jones has all of the deep-set yearning of the early Moore: the needy hunger of young people to get out, get away, to grab at the horizons they were promised.
During the series, the banality of Halo’s daily life is intercut with scenes in the far-future. Inside a college seminar, a scholar and his students debate the importance of the legendary Halo Jones. A saying of Halo’s—”Anyone could have done it”—is treate
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