Mostly a writerly post instead of a studio post–

Kinda wrapping up my day and making certain that things that people asked me for are where they can be found relatively easily.


In theory.


Part the first is a couple of things I wrote during our Writing Prompt interludes during the bi-weekly Crit Group.


Writing Prompt:  scrump


There was a slithery noise.


He looked.  He listened.  He waited, but nothing happened.


As he turned to pull the box off of the shelf, he heard the noise again—dry, raspy, papery—like snakeskin moving across a wooden floor with an underlying thump that was reminiscent of tapping on flax paper.


I don’t wanna know.


There was another raspy-skitter, which seemed to originate from beneath a table in the far corner of the old garage where it was always darker, colder, where small voices could sometimes be heard cooing and chortling.


Where sometimes the bones of small animals lay scattered in the dust.


I’m not going over there.


But he found himself moving towards the sound as it intensified, amplified, added to itself an odd chirrupy-coo and what seemed like a more intentional thud.


He eased himself down onto his knees, somewhere believing that if he moved slowly enough, quietly enough the inevitable wouldn’t be inevitable, that the bad feeling he had would only be paranoia and baseless fear.


He crawled forward and saw far in the back, in the darkest, furthest corner something moving, pulsating, looking as if it were trying to wriggle free of its constraints.  Part of him wanted to touch the shadowy-movement, but the smarter part—the reptilian-brain part, the part that remembered what it was like to be hunted and killed for food—recoiled.




Writing Prompt:  head in a bag


She was riffling through the attic boxes, covered in dust and cobwebs and generally sneezing every few minutes, when she finally found the box that she was searching for.  Reaching inside, she pulled out a stack of old, sepia-toned photographs, shuffling through them until she found It: gleaming tubes not diminished by time or photographic reproduction, a dull, lifeless black lens eye, and beauty-white, sewn flesh.


She had found It standing amongst a group of overall-covered legs nearly obscured by dust and smoke, a factory looming ominously in the background.  In the picture, It was fully bodied, little arms and legs frozen in marionette-like motion.


Akimbo and awkward and about ten other words that began with “A”.


It was hideous and glorious:  the culmination of the industrial process, as if industrialization had become creation become abomination.


Looking at the photograph, the hideous little form, she could feel the constant, overwhelming heat of the factory baking her skin, stretching it taunt and uncomfortable across her face and hands.


Feel the ever-present anxiety of men who knew that they were playing at being God and that they would have to pay for it one day with blood and fire and screams.


Could hear—could feel—the sounds of the factory on that last day.


She could feel the ka-chunk of glass and plastic and metal being formed and enclosed.


The whirwhirwhirwhirwhirwhir of the needles sewing dead flesh to simulated bone.


The screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeetch of it all going to Hell, and the patterpattepatterthumppatter of thousands of tiny metal-shod feet as they turned upon those that created them, people who screamed and begged for mercy, forgiveness, something other than the sharp snick-slice of tiny fingers or the tumbling crunch and riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip of becoming components for another batch of hell-spawn Ompa Loompas.


She knew those sounds, knew them with an initimacy that the photograph didn’t lend, although this picture was before that knowing, before those sounds were commonplace and those little creatures had revolted.


It was before her father had brought that first head home, small rips in its scalp with imperfectly sewn seams.


Before those sounds and those creatures were part of an ordinary Thursday afternoon.




So those are they.  I really thing there are some potential story ideas in there.  Either that or I really just feeling Lovecraftian. <—-wooooooooorrisome


I also purchased some knitting needles ’cause I’m going to teach myself to knit. \o?

Last weekend, I made my first codex book. Out of envelopes, so it has pockets and writable surfaces. *feels very, very clever*  I should take pictures of it.  I’m kinda proud of it. \o/

And, so I don’t forget, Apollo (Crit Group de-facto leader-lady) wanted me to post Aya Kato’s website:  Cheval Noir.


And–I’m done!


*tra lala la la*


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