From the 2018 Christmas Collection..
Eden | Alternate Pathways
Rain falls in a steady drizzle just beyond the stone pillars of the breezeway, the slate tiled roof overhead connecting the east and west wings of the manor house. A cool, stiff breeze gusts through the open area every so often, tugging at the small, bright new leaves on the trees and long hair and uniform livery of the solitary figure alike, a reminder that the spring is new and barely begun. The straw broom wicks over the stone flooring, the dirt neatly collecting in a pile to the servant’s left, each motion made with a precision that belies the fabric that wraps around the man’s eyes. Not truly blind, but simply light sensitive, the blindfold is necessary, yet it’s also a convenient way to ensure that he’s generally dismissed by the other inhabitants of the manor, servant and noble alike.
Which of course is exactly in line with his plans. Continue reading
I’ve recently jumped in on a monthly art challenge. One of my goals this year was to produce more art, so I’m excited to be part of a challenge that will ensure I produce at least one piece of art a month. It may not be colored, but it will at least be inked.
There’s no set list of themes, but every month, one of those of us on the challenge pick a new theme. June’s theme was “Oh Pepe,” and I chose Arch for the first idea that came to my mind, which of course was a rather famous Pepe: Pepe le Pew. Who else but my shapeshifter to rock a cute skunk look?
This year instead of normal valentines, I wrote a mini short story collection from my boys to their significant others. These first two stories are from Arch to Roin and Zeph to Jun. Continue reading
A variety of sketches from last year.
From the 2016 Christmas collection…
Eden : Alternate Universe Unrelated
They say these meetings are only temporary. A crutch to help with transition after tragedy. A place to tell your stories and to listen to the stories of others, to share in the healing process. The goal is not to forget, but to ease, a salve against the worst of the pain and feelings of helplessness. For some this takes a few weeks, maybe a month, for others many more. For a small handful, a year. For me, this is the third year. Three years of loss and grief, and while I no longer feel the acute pain of sorrow, still I find myself in this church basement twice a week. I often ask myself why I still make these appearances. No one else save the facilitator has been here longer than me. Even the scant few who needed a year or so have come and gone. Why do I still come? It’s certainly not for the weak, lukewarm coffee or chafing plastic chairs, nor the slightly stale, grocery store bakery bland cookies. I come to watch the people. Sam whose wife fought a long battle with cancer. Jenny who lost her infant son. Sienna whose husband was killed by a drunk driver while crossing the street. David whose mother died of a heart attack. Carter whose partner drowned on a fishing trip. Kara whose grandfather drank himself to liver failure. There are others, each with sad stories and pain-drenched emotions, each dealing with the crushing pain of having to say goodbye to a loved one.