SUNSHINE Comic
I released my debut EP, SUNSHINE, on February 2, 2024. For a long time, I hesitated to share my music, feeling disconnected from the medium. Though creating music felt natural, I always identified more as a visual artist. To overcome this sense of imposter syndrome, I decided to build a visual world through a comic, which helped me ease into the role of a musician. While the comic doesn't directly tie into the songs, it captures the essence of the project as a whole.
MATEO
The next beacon they had decided to investigate, was now thirty miles away. Mateo insisted on pushing in as close as they could manage, but Griffin could not bring himself to go any further. After having trekked for five hours already, Griffin was in a state of complete refusal to walk anymore. No, he would not move another inch until he got some RnR. Though the Rivland air felt fresh and cool, those who understood magic, knew that it was extremely toxic. But how could this be, wondered Griffin, if the animals roaming this land seemed perfectly fine? This was one of many things Griffin pondered as he gazed about himself, lying flat on his back. The unfamiliar constellations and space matter looked so clear, as though they had been captured on one of the expensive telescopes, certain universities like to hoard.
“So, are you gonna play the guitar,” Mateo asked, “Or did I interrupt your cosplaying as the mysterious member of a boy band?” Having finished setting up their campsite for the night, Mateo now sipped on what Griffin imagined was the cheapest-tasting beer there was. Bottom of the barrel, as they say. Though it wasn’t particularly cold out, the warmth of the campfire did make their unexplored surroundings feel less unsettling, nevertheless. Griffin sat up slowly, like the undead mummies of monster movies, long gone.
“Your wish is my command.” Griffin took a moment to tune his guitar, listening carefully as he jumped from note to note. Mateo followed his movements, intrigued.
Then, suddenly, silence.
It was a rare moment of pure presence. You are forced out of your head and made to feel as though the melody enveloping you was composed to fit your own life…perfectly. Mateo and Griffin were prodigies, within the field of magic. Mateo was blessed with a rare gift of prediction, and Griffin, a wizard. Both were highly valued for their respective skills and as a result of this, there was considerable push-back on their being granted permission to embark on the tour they were currently on. There were techniques Griffin performed daily, which Mateo wouldn’t dare dream of attempting, yet still, the tune Griffin played on this night was a reminder that music was his true gift.
The next beacon they had decided to investigate, was now thirty miles away. Mateo insisted on pushing in as close as they could manage, but Griffin could not bring himself to go any further. After having trekked for five hours already, Griffin was in a state of complete refusal to walk anymore. No, he would not move another inch until he got some RnR. Though the Rivland air felt fresh and cool, those who understood magic, knew that it was extremely toxic. But how could this be, wondered Griffin, if the animals roaming this land seemed perfectly fine? This was one of many things Griffin pondered as he gazed about himself, lying flat on his back. The unfamiliar constellations and space matter looked so clear, as though they had been captured on one of the expensive telescopes, certain universities like to hoard.
“So, are you gonna play the guitar,” Mateo asked, “Or did I interrupt your cosplaying as the mysterious member of a boy band?” Having finished setting up their campsite for the night, Mateo now sipped on what Griffin imagined was the cheapest-tasting beer there was. Bottom of the barrel, as they say. Though it wasn’t particularly cold out, the warmth of the campfire did make their unexplored surroundings feel less unsettling, nevertheless. Griffin sat up slowly, like the undead mummies of monster movies, long gone.
“Your wish is my command.” Griffin took a moment to tune his guitar, listening carefully as he jumped from note to note. Mateo followed his movements, intrigued.
Then, suddenly, silence.
It was a rare moment of pure presence. You are forced out of your head and made to feel as though the melody enveloping you was composed to fit your own life…perfectly. Mateo and Griffin were prodigies, within the field of magic. Mateo was blessed with a rare gift of prediction, and Griffin, a wizard. Both were highly valued for their respective skills and as a result of this, there was considerable push-back on their being granted permission to embark on the tour they were currently on. There were techniques Griffin performed daily, which Mateo wouldn’t dare dream of attempting, yet still, the tune Griffin played on this night was a reminder that music was his true gift.
ADAM
There’s a common misunderstanding that once a person reaches the bottom, they can only go up, from there. Well, believe me, if you’re creative enough, things can always get worse. Desperation was the unique market Adam learned to understand and thrive on. It began with loans. Loans, paired with risky favors. This was before Adam learned that desperation took many forms–lacking money was only one of them–an introduction if you will.
The other day at the office where Adam worked–Madame Pluto’s massage parlor storage room– a man stopped by. The man stood at about 6’3, clothed in a mix of luxury brands that did not announce themselves. The man crouched as he stepped into the room at the far end of the parlor, wearing a nervous expression that made it seem as though he was quite new to establishments such as this one. Or perhaps he was only new to the type of transaction he was about to make. Either way, this was the sort of client Adam preferred to work with.
“Damn! Nobody told me it was Fashion Week! You’re looking good, brother, I can’t lie.” Adam rose quickly to introduce himself, disarming the crouched man with a warm and familiar embrace.
GOMEZ GOMEZ
Gomez Gomez was known for two things, outside of him being the most popular mobster on the East Coast. The first was his red-bottom stilettos and second, the fact that they hid the blood of his debtors whenever he paid them a visit.
The man, now sat in front of Adam, was Mehdi, a swiftly rising fashion designer who apparently was backed by Mr. Red bottom stilettos himself. Mehdi didn’t owe Gomez any money, thankfully, but he had been given quite a task.
Four years prior, the Agrarian Sphynx was classified as an endangered species. This meant it was illegal to hunt them, not to mention commodify them. Two days prior, however, Gomez made a request. A casual request. Mehdi was to make a custom coat for Gomez, made of Agrarian Sphynx fur. Illegality aside, the only region where these sphynxes could be found was in the depths of the Rivlands.
Having been newly informed of the severity of the man’s predicament, Adam smirked as his brain worked relentlessly through the list of people he knew. He thought and thought for far too long, he imagined, until finally he paused with a sigh and looked Mr. Fashion designer in the eye. Adam had his question.
“What’s your budget?”
There’s a common misunderstanding that once a person reaches the bottom, they can only go up, from there. Well, believe me, if you’re creative enough, things can always get worse. Desperation was the unique market Adam learned to understand and thrive on. It began with loans. Loans, paired with risky favors. This was before Adam learned that desperation took many forms–lacking money was only one of them–an introduction if you will.
The other day at the office where Adam worked–Madame Pluto’s massage parlor storage room– a man stopped by. The man stood at about 6’3, clothed in a mix of luxury brands that did not announce themselves. The man crouched as he stepped into the room at the far end of the parlor, wearing a nervous expression that made it seem as though he was quite new to establishments such as this one. Or perhaps he was only new to the type of transaction he was about to make. Either way, this was the sort of client Adam preferred to work with.
“Damn! Nobody told me it was Fashion Week! You’re looking good, brother, I can’t lie.” Adam rose quickly to introduce himself, disarming the crouched man with a warm and familiar embrace.
GOMEZ GOMEZ
Gomez Gomez was known for two things, outside of him being the most popular mobster on the East Coast. The first was his red-bottom stilettos and second, the fact that they hid the blood of his debtors whenever he paid them a visit.
The man, now sat in front of Adam, was Mehdi, a swiftly rising fashion designer who apparently was backed by Mr. Red bottom stilettos himself. Mehdi didn’t owe Gomez any money, thankfully, but he had been given quite a task.
Four years prior, the Agrarian Sphynx was classified as an endangered species. This meant it was illegal to hunt them, not to mention commodify them. Two days prior, however, Gomez made a request. A casual request. Mehdi was to make a custom coat for Gomez, made of Agrarian Sphynx fur. Illegality aside, the only region where these sphynxes could be found was in the depths of the Rivlands.
Having been newly informed of the severity of the man’s predicament, Adam smirked as his brain worked relentlessly through the list of people he knew. He thought and thought for far too long, he imagined, until finally he paused with a sigh and looked Mr. Fashion designer in the eye. Adam had his question.
“What’s your budget?”
ISMAEL
Ismael has been an old man for as long as he can remember. He is no stranger to aging and has come to know certain things to be true. For instance, once you reach a certain age, you will need to find a reason to get out of bed each morning. Some reason or inspiration, other than the alarming shit you will need to take at six a.m. on the dot. People would often tell Ismael that he was able to see things others could not, even as a toddler…if you could believe that he ever was one. His demeanor was described as that of someone who had been here before. Ismael was ten years old when he adopted the resting bitch face he’d wear the rest of his life, announcing his boredom with the world that enveloped him better than any words of his ever could. Legend says he wears that face even now, at the dignified age of eighty-two.
SSH (Soul Senior Housing)
A high-level, need-to-know, cover-up department made up of a few senior citizens entrusted with the secrets of an already fragile society. There is not much information available regarding the conception of this department, though many like to joke that the reason why eighty percent of the staff is elderly is not an accident. After all, the dead do tend to take their secrets with them….so who better to hold the keys, than those closest to the grave? Though perhaps immoral, most recruits tend to be roped into the gig as a “last resort” to make things right with their loved ones. Their pasts are typically tainted. Histories tend to be related to things the government holds over them, which tends to mean that they often possess peculiar skill sets.
Ismael, however, is an enigma. Unlike the others, Ismael found SSH himself and wanted in. Therefore, every move he makes has become plagued with suspicion. They struggle ceaselessly to uncover his angle. Even internal assassinations have been sanctioned under the ruse of being “one-person missions”, yet still, somehow, Ismael survives. Thereby earning him the codename: Zebrafish.
Ismael has been an old man for as long as he can remember. He is no stranger to aging and has come to know certain things to be true. For instance, once you reach a certain age, you will need to find a reason to get out of bed each morning. Some reason or inspiration, other than the alarming shit you will need to take at six a.m. on the dot. People would often tell Ismael that he was able to see things others could not, even as a toddler…if you could believe that he ever was one. His demeanor was described as that of someone who had been here before. Ismael was ten years old when he adopted the resting bitch face he’d wear the rest of his life, announcing his boredom with the world that enveloped him better than any words of his ever could. Legend says he wears that face even now, at the dignified age of eighty-two.
SSH (Soul Senior Housing)
A high-level, need-to-know, cover-up department made up of a few senior citizens entrusted with the secrets of an already fragile society. There is not much information available regarding the conception of this department, though many like to joke that the reason why eighty percent of the staff is elderly is not an accident. After all, the dead do tend to take their secrets with them….so who better to hold the keys, than those closest to the grave? Though perhaps immoral, most recruits tend to be roped into the gig as a “last resort” to make things right with their loved ones. Their pasts are typically tainted. Histories tend to be related to things the government holds over them, which tends to mean that they often possess peculiar skill sets.
Ismael, however, is an enigma. Unlike the others, Ismael found SSH himself and wanted in. Therefore, every move he makes has become plagued with suspicion. They struggle ceaselessly to uncover his angle. Even internal assassinations have been sanctioned under the ruse of being “one-person missions”, yet still, somehow, Ismael survives. Thereby earning him the codename: Zebrafish.
