Creative Handoff

So, I got his idea from Surface, one of many ongoing comics where somebody writes/draws the first page, then another artist picks up the second page, then another artist does the thrid page, ect.

I'd like to do something similar here.

So, if anybody's interested, this is what i'm thinking: screw comic form. Do whatever you like to do. If you write, write a page, a paragraph even. You make drawings, make a comic page, even a single frame.

There is only one rule: Continue the story.

I'll start:

Quote:

It all starts with an image: a lone figure stands on the edge of a cliff. The landscape is white, the sky is white, the ground is covered in snow, and the cliff fades down into mist. The figure’s feet are half over the ledge, he looks down, straight down, into the mist. He is thinking. The trees behind them are wet with snow. He can feel the dampness, the cold, in his mouth. Like metal. And he wants to drink it. Drink the snow in one, breathless swallow. So he can feel the cold run down through the core of his being. Freezing his lungs, his stomach, his heart, into stillness. He wants to be frozen. To stay there, for centuries, standing at the edge of a cliff looking down. And then, one day, when it’s spring, he’ll thaw, and maybe the restlessness will have gone out from his body.
Down the cliff, under the mist, there’s a river. The river still flows, slowly, the banks frosted with snow and ice. Water caresses the backs of rocks like a sigh from Death himself. And it’s all so wet, the dampness everywhere: in the ground, in the rocks, in the air even. So much you could drown in it. Like Ophelia, only in some deep eddy of a mountain stream. The blood slowing down to a crawl, ice clinging to golden strands of hair.
The man on the edge of the cliff thinks about the air, how wet it is, how penguins in the Antarctic ocean swim through all that frozen seawater, and leans forward.

Jam it back in, in the dark.

Originally Posted by whinehurst

The man on the edge of the cliff thinks about the air, how wet it is, how penguins in the Antarctic ocean swim through all that frozen seawater, and leans forward.

There's nowhere I can't reach.

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. . . . D . . . .

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Into the mist's cold caress

This thing is sticky, and I don't like it. I don't appreciate it.

I am a dolphin, do you want me on your body?