Welcome to the portfolio of Dennis Budka, a place where you can discover original artwork; comics and graphic novels, along with examples of my writing and music.  I have now written three complete novels (having just completed the third, I am working on 15 more).  I have written (and recorded) more than a hundred songs.  These are the developing dreams in all of my pixel-aided projects.    I hope you return often to see how this work progresses.  Feel free to contact me at dbudka33@gmail.com

St. Peter's Pillow

Recent Church Bulletin Article

   Way back when dinosaurs roamed the earth (or at least decorated the walls of my bedroom) I heard a version of the following story in my 5th grade classroom.    

   It seems that one day St. Peter was called upon to address a very pastoral issue.  In those early days of the church I don’t suppose they were as organized to handle grievances; so, a very informal delegation asked the good St. Peter to confront the town gossip.  “He’s spreading rumors and stories all over town and upsetting our church members,” they said. So, St. Pete dropped in to visit the gossip. Sure enough, he got an earful about who said what to whom; and all the latest dish about what had been done and how often, and who is hiding secrets, and how “everybody” seemed to have the same wise opinion as the gossip did.

   So, St. Peter quietly walked over to the gossip’s sleeping pallet and asked if he could use his pillow.  The gossip said, “Of course, Peter! My pillow is yours!” At that St. Peter took the pillow to the man’s front door and shook it so that all the feathers inside of the pillow came pouring out.  The feathers were picked up on the wind and carried to every corner of the little town.

   “Now,” said the saint, “Would it be possible, do you think, to retrieve all these feathers?  Can you pick up every one and return them to the pillow?”

   “Assuredly not, Reverend Peter!  Alas, my feathers are gone for good!”

   Peter replied, “Just so the words from your mouth.  The damage that they do can never be undone and your words can never be taken back.”

Now You See It, Now You Doughnut (Excerpt)

2007 Previously Published Book

Chapter I

Hard to Swallow

  Robert Rotundus Maximillian Blob was born fat.  One could say that Bob was fat in the same way one could say of the Mona Lisa, “that’s a nice painting”.  His obesity seemed vast as the Grand Canyon.  No ordinary comparisons need apply.  In vistas unplumbed and unimagined he invited second and third looks of awe and disbelief.   Tourists could have lined up to take pictures. 

  For most of his life Bob stood five and a half feet tall.   He also happened to stand five feet and six inches wide.  You could, I suppose, say that he was classically proportioned. 

  In short Mr. Blob was a masterpiece of marbleized mass.  As he grew, Bob tried to come to an appreciation of his own unique, personal magnificence.     

 After that he could convince the world.

  It was some years prior to the major events of this story, that baby Bob was born to Julio and Tiffany Blob.  You may assume that “Blob” was not their real name if Dickens is not your favorite author or you are otherwise numbered among the coincidenciophobic (did I make that word up just now?  I certainly hope so!)

   At any rate, I will spare you the bouncing baby references.   All that comes later.   You see Bobby was a most unusual child.  It is true that he kept his small family in poverty for years - all unknowing of course.   It wasn’t his fault that the genetic and evolutionary factors in his makeup happened to go “sprung!” with all the alacrity of a crushed bathroom scale.

  Baby Bob was cheerful, intelligent and active.   He was also large, a bit weird and always hungry.   He would gnaw on things.   Things like furniture; plaster, dirt and the occasional chips of reinforced concrete that he worked loose from the foundation of their modest home.  That home, by the way, was to become a symbol for the Blobs.   The loss of it was to drive a deep wedge between Bob and his parents.  

  Baby Bob grew up fast.  He was getting pretty big for a toddler.  The very kindest of visitors, relatives and sitters found it hard not to make unflattering comparisons with the child to medicine balls, the planet Saturn, that sort of thing.

   It happened one day that Tiffany was going off to work and was distracted just enough for tragedy to get its big foot in the door.  In a moment of unthinking inappropriateness, she had repeated to Bob a phrase she had learned from her mother.   She said, “You must not leave the table until you eat everything.   I’m going out now and when I get back, I want to see everything gone.”   How could she have foreseen the consequences? 

  When she returned hours later, there was a smoking crater where the Blob house used to stand.   A few pieces of plumbing poked up through the rubble and in the epicenter of that wreck sat a beaming baby boy.  It looked as if he had mysteriously expanded and grown in that short a time by at least a factor of two. 

  Realization of what had happened did not immediately occur for the mother until she heard her son pronounce those awful words that would haunt her nightmares for the rest of her life.

  “See, Mama?   All gone!”

  In his childish innocence, Bob Blob was actually proud that he had literally eaten them out of house and home.

  The realization came slowly that Bob was a one-in-a-quadrillion accident; a bit of genetic serendipity had gifted him with super-powers.   For sure, this doesn’t generally happen to anyone we know personally.  That’s what makes it so darn unusual.

  It seems that since birth, the body of Mr. Blob was only concerned with one thing: getting energy to manufacture more and more of Mr. Blob.   This energy came in the form of food.   But it was put to use making fat; and the fat had very strange properties.    It could jiggle like jelly one moment and grow diamond hard the next.  It could expand and contract; squash and stretch; and it could bounce like a Volkswagen in a vacuum on a variegated viaduct.

  Now Bob was not made out of dwarf-star material.  He couldn’t have been.  It’s unscientific to even think that way.  You can ask Stephen Hawking.  But Bob did become compact with years of fat under pressure. 

  This cell compaction even extended to his teeth and brains.  Given time Bob could chew through practically anything.    Every bit of material Bob ingested was used to build his body and his brain into the densest and most flexible matter possible.  

  It followed that Bob became a child genius who also ate up every book he could get his hands on (take that either way).   At the age of nine he was sent away to super-hero school.   They didn’t call it that of course.   This was the fifties and super-heroes were out of fashion just then.   They sent him to Professor Wie’s School for Gifted Children (formally known as the Friendly Regimen Extra Ability Kids School).

  Wilbur Wie worked as a talent scout for a major motion picture studio that specialized in kiddie movies and animation.   After he retired there was finally time enough for him to realize his dream.   Wilbur would gather together talented children from every walk of life to form a university and training camp all rolled into one.   These few kids would one day save the world, it was hoped.  You could say that Bob Blob was his biggest find.

  At first the idea was to form a single team out of the twenty-one kids who attended; but everyone knows that twenty one is much too big for a super-hero team.   Still, the concept refused to totally die.  Even though the official, secret focus of the school was to turn out individual, generic super-heroes, occasionally Professor Wie would try different versions of the team approach.

  It was a four-year school and Bob found that he was expected to graduate as a “crime fighter” in the first year.   The next two would be spent achieving the status of “side-kick”, while an additional year would bring the coveted title of “super-hero”.   Only the best of the best could possibly hope to scale those heights.  Bob hoped to be included in that super-hero graduating class by the time he reached the advanced age of thirteen years old. 

  The first day of school was a blur to Bob.  There were so many new books to get, questions to ask and answer, and people to get to know.   The first thing Bob had to do was meet the guidance counselor, Mrs. White. 

  Mrs. White lived up to her name.   She was dressed all in spotless white set off by her knee length cape; pasty looking jump suit; spotless long gloves and a cute little domino mask. Her snow-white hair sat atop her pale complexioned, chiseled features.   She had a glance that could frost the insides of an oven roasting chili peppers.

  “Mr. Blob, I am sure I want to extend the welcome that Professor Wie offered earlier this morning in the auditorium.   We’re here to get you straightened out with your name, costume, course assignments and so on.”

  “But I already have a name.” said our Mr. Blob.  

 “Yes, yes…but what are you going to call yourself professionally?” said Mrs. White. 

  “I just thought that when people needed my help they could just call for ‘Bob’”, said Bob.

  “Get real, kid!” said Mrs. White, “Who’s going to want help from a guy named Bob?  You’re a super-hero, not a plumber!  People don’t want ‘Bob’ to solve the murder, fight the villain or recover the stolen money.   They want the Great Bob-O!   The magnificent Captain Bob or the mysterious Dr. Bob, that’s who they want!”

  Bob was impressed with this new idea.  “Gee…”

  “What’ll it be?  Doctor, Captain?  Is there to be an article before your name?  How about a Hyphen?  Are you the amazing, great, astounding, or incredible?   Will your name end in an ‘O’?”

  “Now maybe if we start with your powers.” she said.  “What’s your super-power- your gimmick, you know: let me hear your shtick.”

  A few heartbeats of uncomfortable silence strutted about the room. 

  “You don’t even know what I’m asking you for, do you kiddo?”

  Mrs. White sternly suppressed a smile as she tried to put this shy youngster at ease (yet, she couldn’t bring herself to think of Bob as a “little kid”.  Her mind, along with Bob’s sagging chair, protested at that idea).      

  “Okay Bob,” she said, “we’ll come up with a working concept together.  Now let’s see.  Are you strong?” 

  “Oh yes,” said Bob, “I could easily bash a path through these walls to the outside of the school!” but he swiftly added as he saw White’s unmistakable look of reproach and warning, “not that I ever would do that, of course!”

  “Um hum,” she said darkly and doubtfully, “super-strength to start with.  What else you got?” 

  “Well, let’s see now, strength; limited elasticity; I’m pretty good at puzzles and figuring out mysteries.” 

   “Being good at deductions and ‘who-done-its’ isn’t a super-power,” she said, “It’s a prerequisite!  You’ll find you can do away with just about any of the trappings, even a uniform.  But from Batman to Tarzan super-heroes are expected to solve the case and make smart choices.  More so than ordinary people.   This is true even if they can’t otherwise communicate very well and lack the social polish our school will provide.  

  “I’ll give you an example.” She struck a theatrical pose and said, “’Me, Tarzan, catch bad ivory hunters.  Footprints go in stream.  No come out.  Hidden cave behind waterfall lead to lost valley.  Tarzan catch.’”

  “There you have it: a solution elegant and simple enough to respect, while still retaining the feeling that the admiring fan is superior to this clod.  No,” she continued, “we must look further than your powers of deduction.”  

  “I can eat through just about anything…” said Bob.

  “Superior appetite and super eating power, eh?  That’s a new one, anyway!” she said.

  “Yeah!” said Bob, “and I bounce.”

  “You bounce?” her head snapped up, “how high?”

  “Oh, ten feet or so.  I hope to get into training and better that.

  “I think we can help you there Mr. Blob”, she said.  “Okay, bouncing seems to be your greatest power.  Now, you can’t be just ‘Bob’.  It has no showmanship and is impractical in ways you can hardly imagine at this time (remind me to tell you the story of Miss Page Turner sometime).  There’s a reason for the rules, you know.  So until further notice I have designated for your use a professional identity.  You will be called the Beneficent Bounce-O! …with a hyphen, naturally.”

  “You will have to start work on your costume design.  Some good ideas can be found in Introduction to Graphics.  That’s the salmon-pink and lime-green book.”  She indicated a large book from Bob’s stack, which he had placed on the floor.

  “And,” she said, “You will need to be assigned to one of four teams. There’s Red, Green, Blue and Amber.  I think we’ll put you in the Blue Team to start with.”

  “Remember,” said Mrs. White, “the Golden Age is ended.  Soon will come the Silver Age.  It will be a new day for the super-hero.  In ten years, this place will be crawling with would-be heroes of every description.  We intend to be ready.   The world will have need of us more than ever.”

  “Yes, but,” said Bob, “the world doesn’t even know we exist, does it?”

  “It is true at the present time that our schools’ existence is known only to a very few.” said she.  

  “So who does know that we exist?”

  “She ticked them off on her fingers.  “Ike; J. Edgar; John Wayne; Rockefeller; Jack Kirby (the great comic book artist) …couple others maybe.  Only those who need to know.”

  The education of Bob Blob had formally begun.

  That evening, after unpacking, Bob made his way from the dormitory to the building that housed the kitchen.  He couldn’t wait to get to know the kids, and maybe make some friends.   So, when he got in line, it was really unfortunate that the very first person he met was destined to become a thorn in his side for a significant portion of his stay at the school.

  “Hey, big bottom,” several kids in line sniggered.  Bob looked up to see who was insulting him. 

  What he saw was a boy who was maybe ten years old, dressed in a very imposing costume of deep orange, red and black.   The design appeared to be based on a triangle motif.  Pointy black boots and gloves seemed to draw the eye to the large letters “MB” embroidered on his chest.   A large, full-lipped mouth (sneering at the moment) peeped out from a cowl or helmet that shone like burnished, orange chrome.  There was a kind of pointy black mask with amber goggles through which intense staring eyes could be glimpsed.

  Bob thought that he had never seen anything more impressive than this kid.  He felt very self-conscious about the rather plain looking street clothes he was wearing.

  “Who me?” said Bob. 

 “No, Bozo the clown!”  There was more laughter.  “You’re supposed to pick up a tray and keep the line moving.  Although I sure hope there’s some food left after you get done!” 

  Oh, this guy had them rolling in the aisles.  He was enjoying every joke at Bob’s expense.

  “What’s your name, anyway?” asked the boy.

  “When I fail to answer to ‘Bozo’, most people just call me Bob.  Bob Blob, at your service.”

“Yeah, and what’s your designated pro-name?”

  “I’m the Beneficent Bounce-O,” said Bob in a voice that trailed off in embarrassment. Coincidentally, it sounded a bit too much like ‘Beneficent Bozo’ even to Bob’s ears. 

  Several geologic eons passed, it seemed, before the laughter washed over Bob’s red, glowing ears.

  “Bob Blob is a stupid name!” said the boy with unshakable certainty.  “Suppose I call you Blubber-Boy,” he said, “then you can answer to ‘B.B.’ three different ways.”

  “If my name is so stupid,” said Bob, “what’s your name?”

  “You don’t get to know my secret identity, so don’t even ask!” said the boy.  “Everyone calls me The Mean Blaster.”

  That explained the ‘MB’ on his chest.  At that point Bob couldn’t help reflecting that MB got the best of that round.  He even had a cooler name!

  Bob learned a lot that evening about his classmates just by keeping his ears open.  

  The next day was Saturday when most of the students were off campus. Later on in his room, Bob read the class lists.  He found a pamphlet with color photos (they spent some money there!) and a description of every student, including himself. 

  It turned out that MB was on Blue team.  It seemed that The Mean Blaster was able to generate “a natural yellow force beam” from his hands and feet.  This took great effort and the wider the beam, the more diffuse it became.  He had the power of limited flight, too.  After groaning about that for a bit, Bob looked at the other members of his team.

  There was The Inexplicable Kid Psyche.  The photograph showed a short, skinny kid dressed only in bright green swimming trunks with a wide yellow belt and boots.  The boy had a high forehead and no eyebrows!  His powers included something called “telekinetic movement of objects at a distance through mental power alone”.   Bob grabbed his desk dictionary and looked up the strange new word.   It said that “telekinetic” was a term that meant “movement of objects at a distance through mental power alone.” 

“Oh.” said Bob, forgetting himself and saying it aloud for no one to hear.

  Kid Psyche could also read minds and could “cloud men’s minds”, (whatever that meant).

  Then there was Willow-wand.  A weird looking little girl seemed to be looking back at him from the pamphlet.  She was even skinnier than that Psyche Kid!  

  Her costume was tan and forest green with a bizarre mask that wrapped around her head and made her resemble some kind of vegetable stalk.  Her powers consisted of bursts of super-speed and strength combined with Olympic style tumbling.   Bob hoped she wouldn’t be on his team if they were going ever going to play football.

  Last on his team (except for Bob himself) was listed The Mighty Vortex Boy.  He was a stocky, muscular, older kid with a red and blue colored costume that hurt the eyes to look at.   His mask covered his whole head above a v-neck shirt.  Two black eye sockets were set above a wide orifice shaped like a big, frozen “O”.  He had a cape that hung half way down his back and the biggest boots and belt Bob had seen yet.  Dazzling silver armbands and leggings completed the outfit.

  This kid had lots of gadgets to anchor him when he used his power.  From his mouth could issue a vacuum clocked at 800 miles per hour.

 And then Bob read what the pamphlet said about him.  “Bob Blob, our newest student, is nine years old and has the power of mega mastication.” (Yes, his dictionary was certainly getting a workout that weekend).  “He can bounce more than two meters high and has super-strength.”  Then there was a little box with the words, “Costume and photograph have not been provided as of publication.”

   Bob tried and tried but he couldn’t escape the horrible suspicion that kept echoing in his brain.  “You aren’t good enough.  You’ll never measure up.  You are the weakest kid on the team, no! …in the whole school!”  What Bob never even suspected was that he had just completed two of many happy days to come.    Was it possible for him to prosper in this new life?  The next four years would tell the tale.

Mister Creeply Meets the Reaper

2018-2019

Lyman sprang to his feet and Preston snarled, pushed back his chair, got up and faced Lyman.  The two opponents stood still for a moment, and it appeared that the whole world did the same.  Even the hanging tobacco smoke seemed to freeze in mid-air.

   To the crowd at the surrounding tables, it was as if nothing worth looking at was happening.  Any eyes that happened to be pointed that way simply did not register the two figures standing.  No ears paid attention to what they said.  No one there could even perceive a hint of the battle that had just begun.

   Preston got in the first blow by virtue of the fact that Lyman planned it that way.  It was considered an advantage to goad the enemy into striking first.  Preston struck without moving initially.  He did not even use his mind to engage Lyman.  From deep within the core of who he was, Preston summoned up pure will-power.  The same force or impulse that commands a hand to reach out and scratch an itch or pull a trigger was at work in Preston Dried.

   Like a sluggish muddy tide of invisible, suffocating sludge, the will-to-ruin washed over the figure of Lyman.  But Lyman was not without a powerful will of his own.  An umbrella of light swelled from behind his shoulders and great wings as of light or flame shot out in jets of yet unperceived colors.  The protective spectrum formed a shield.  Preston staggered one step back.

   Dark tendrils of rippling energy came flooding in a stream from the clawing hands of Preston, who released and directed the flow but could not fully control it once it escaped.  The attempt to ensnare and bind Lyman caused him to meet the branching fibers of the attack point by point.  The swirling madness howled and screamed at Lyman, like a storm before the abyss of chaos that preceded time itself.  It was like fighting a vicious wild dog.  No matter how many times the killing will was resisted, the flashing fangs were ever snapping at the jugular.  Lyman met each curse with a prayer, weaponizing his faith.

   Gathering his energies, Lyman stood on the tip of his toes—his arms arching back like a conductor in a symphony ready for the finale—and he threw an indefinable something at Preston.  Covering half the space between them the blow was deflected by a wedge of dazzling darkness.  Preston had conjured up a hole in the fabric of existence.  The obscene pit hung in the air like a scabrous blotch that sucked all light and warmth and life into its void.

   It was then that Lyman threw back his head and laughed.  There was something primal and incessantly vital about that sound.  It vibrated with the essence of life that originated from the True Source of Undying Love.

   The black hole cracked and shattered, splintering shards of brittle illusion in cascading heaps upon the wooden floor.

   Suddenly, the room snapped back into movement and the people there marveled to see, in place of the two quiet men who had been sitting at the table, only blackened scorch marks and rising smoke as if from some spontaneous combustion.  The two men they did not see.