Implode's A Hole in the Earth is a "cross-media, audio visual pre-novel".  This is what he has to say about it: 

Okay, here is the article i knocked up this morning. Kind of shitty but i rushed it. Feel free to make changes, additions or cuts. If you want me to write something more, let me know.

The art of storytelling is evolving quickly. In film this evolution is often painfully evident. Watching almost any film made in the eighties is usually done with tongue planted firmly in cheek. The writing, dialogue and plot devices are often (hilariously) cringe-worthy.

Thankfully in literature, the pace of advancement is much slower. If novels are going to compete with the fittest in the 21st century however, they too must adapt. A Hole in the Earth, the exciting new novel by Grant Wales attempts to do just that.

A Hole in the Earth is more than a novel. Four months prior to the release (February, 2008), the author began an on-line pre-novel, Implode. This project, hosted on MySpace, is a collection of vignettes, diary entries and short stories written from the perspective of the characters in A Hole in the Earth. Totaling over a hundred entries, the site also includes original manga artwork and musical soundtracks for each of the characters.

Daisy shines with love.  It radiates from her and if you aren’t prepared to embrace it or aren’t quick enough to duck out of the way, once you’ve seen it coming, it will knock you on your ass, or pierce a hole right through you.  She bleeds it from her heart, and breathes it in and out from her lungs, and when she cries, it runs from her eyes, into tiny puddles.

It stains, like grass and berries color paintings on the walls, and if you get any on you, you’ll never wash it off. You probably won’t even try.  Daisy is my one true love, and she has enough of it for the both of us.  I never seem to have enough of my own lying around, and when I do, I sometimes forget to take it with me. I’ll leave it behind with my keys or my wallet or my phone, in a little wicker basket on the table by the door.  Daisy always carries a little bit extra, in her bag or back pocket, just for me.
Daisy is the coolest of all combinations of intellect and sexiness, being both and everything in between, sexually intellectual and intellectually sexual. Making love to Daisy provokes from you creativity, wisdom and tears of sheer delight. She inspires laughter and free thought, and the spontaneous breaking into song and dance.  Most of all, she can melt two people into one.

Daisy and I spent three years on Pearl Street, a dead end road that ran behind the YMCA in Red Bank.  It was considered the west side of town even though, technically, we were on the right side of the tracks.  The tracks were the dividing line between the haves and the have-nots, as they are in most towns with the rich and the poor and the tracks for trains to run on.  The rich would cross those tracks in chauffeured driven limos, and the poor would lie down on them.  The tracks divided the town into those who roamed the streets looking for spare change and easy marks, and those who shopped.  In those days, shopping meant Woolworths or the hobby store, before the fur coats and cigars in suits wandered into town, driving out the artists and the riff raff, who sometimes were one in the same.  Daisy and I did a lot of living there.  We traveled to Europe while living there, we got married while living there.  We mourned Henry Cole, who never made it from her belly, while living there.

We recorded a couple of albums while living on Pearl Street, in the dining room just off the open kitchen, tiled and decked out in black and white tiles and appliances.  Daisy’s desk served as the control board and the rest of the room was used to record her whispers, her drunken rants and the sounds she made trying to gulp down a mouthful of pretzels in between takes.  The music we made was some of the best music I’ve ever been part of and it elevated our relationship beyond that of lovers and thieves.  There are songs from Pearl Street that are golden and that attracted other musicians to us, eventually leading to Daisy Grace.  Those were the salad days.  The sex was still hot, heavy and often, and we partnered up in things other than the petty crimes of shoplifting and public exhibitions of questionable conduct.  The Pearl Street years were Daisy and I trying to live in a conventional world, unconventionally.  We struggled to keep from getting sucked down into the quick sands of conformity.  They say when you’re trapped in quick sand, it’s best to lie back and relax, and roll out slowly.  It’s going down kicking and screaming that sucks you in deeper, quickly. 

Daisy laid back and floated on top of it, while I thrashed about until I was up to my neck in it.  She evolved much easier than I did, setting into a comfortable life, that I found foreign and unaware of how to behave in.  Daisy and I busted our asses with two-bit jobs while putting ourselves through school. We got married and got better jobs, so we could afford more expensive fun, and insolated ourselves from the dangerous ones who went through life blindly and without reason.  We gave into the follies of the rest of society just enough to reap our just rewards, and long enough to buy a few new toys and retreat back into the safety of our own world.

We performed for the first time as a band at one of our house parties that brought one hundred of our favorite family members, friends and strangers together for booze, pot brownies, vegetarian cuisine and the probability of being completely entertained by the scores of local lunatics that lived in Red Bank back then.  The coolest of the local bands played down there in that basement and the kids around the neighborhood would sneak out and press their ears against the outside walls of the house and listen in.

Daisy was intoxicating to men and women alike, each one sipping from her cup over flowing, a bit too long, and then fallen over or in love.  She was an endless supply of amazement and wonder, and it spilled from her as easily as water might from a broken faucet, until it was everywhere.  Guys would show up to see Daisy sling that sexy thing she had going on up there, around the room.  Girls would show up, dressed in strips of black electrical tape, covering just enough to keep it legal, or strip down to their bras and panties and dance against each other. Some stood gawking at Daisy slinking and twitching and writhing, with limbs broken off and flailing about, like a beautiful marionette with tangled strings. 

I met Alan at Starbucks in Red Bank, when they still had live music there, when artists and musicians still scurried around the town, before the furs and cigars in suits, crushed them like roaches and beetles with the bottom of a shoe.  Alan played there on busy weekend nights in the front window of the coffee shop, and would loop these trippy guitar riffs together and play against them, sounding like a small symphony.  Alan looped.  He liked looping and was always doing it.  He was loopy and liked playing with himself over and over again in pubic.   Alan’s music had wings and would lift off and circle the air above us, dropping tiny bombs filled with color, on our heads.  The bombs would burst and the colors would blast against everything until everyone around was covered in it.

I saw a drawing of Alan floating around one day, something he had drawn himself.  He’d captured himself perfectly, exactly as I had always seen him from the inside out.  The drawing looked like him, but there was more.  You could feel his essence enter through your eyes, and crash into your belly.  Alan plays whatever hand life deals him, But he always seems to get the last laugh on life, goosing it whenever it isn’t looking. Alan is good at laughing at the mountains of adversity that lay at his feet.  Alan is good at making us laugh with him, even when its at his own expense.

Alan and I always talked about him turning his rough and raw scribbles of himself into a comic or an animated cartoon.  So we present to you the makings of just that. I recently sent Alan a link of Glubdub, and he was impressed enough to respond with admiration, that someone had the guts to build a place for the self-expressive, in a “world of poo”.

View the "World of Poo" episodes by clicking on the links below:

Episode 1 - "My name is Alan"

Episode 2  - "The Carpool"

Episode 3 - "Religion"