Eleanor

Happy new-page-Monday!

With page seven, we began an interesting turn in Eleanor’s terrible fall. Is this real? Is she dreaming? Dead?

I refer often to the novel that Eleanor was before she became a webcomic. That might get old after awhile, but I thought now and then it might be interesting to compare new pages to the manuscript they’re based on. Here’s some of the original text that inspired page eight:

Eleanor falls for a very, very long time.

She falls for so long that she grows accustomed to the sensation, and turns her attention to her location. She tries to look over her shoulder. She doesn’t expect to see Huffnagle behind her, and she’s correct. The great gray rock is nowhere to be seen. She looks down, and there is no sea beneath her. The clouds have been ripped away like parachutes. Gone is the gentle rumble of the Pacific surf. Gone, the distant bellow of ships. Gone, her two friends.

She turns a bit and rolls over in mid-fall. This draws her attention, and she discovers quite easily that she can control pitch and yaw by leaning this direction or that. Falling backwards now, she stares up at absolutely nothing. Nothing behind her, nothing below, nothing before. Everywhere around her it is exactly the same. Complete, dumb nothing.

Her hair tickles her skin, stirred up by some invisible wind. This sensation of movement gives her hope. She is going somewhere, at least.

She tries to relax. There is little else to do.

 

And also this:

Colors begin to flicker just beyond her reach, dim and unfocused, endless paint chips scuttling by at surprising speed. She watches them curiously, and they become brighter and more vivid.

Wherever Eleanor has gotten herself to, it is pressure-chamber silent. Her senses cast about witlessly, dumbed by the absence of input around her. There are no smells to be smelled, no sounds to be heard. She can feel only the slight updraft of her fall, see only the ripple of colors that now accompany her.

See you later this week for the next page!