Old Business First...

I have new stuff, but pulled out these photos while searching for images for your stories. I thought they deserved to be seen----only a handful of people have ever seen them---and that you'd like seeing them. A Measure of Grace, is the second sculpture ---or third, maybe, that Neil Gaiman bought. He bought this one outright at an art show, much to the chagrin of several collectors who were planning to bid on it. He says there is a story in here. I believe there is too. I wanted to show you the other two pieces I made along with this. I called the series "The Fugue". After I finished the third sculpture, I started Dark Caravan, and didn't make any more for the series. I would have liked to keep them together, but as a struggling artist I couldn't quite manage it. Looking at these images and remembering what it was like to create the pieces fills me with a powerful nostalgia. I want to do this again. I'm not finished with this world and don't want to be. See the companion to "Measure of Grace"

Enter the Human Element. This angel is scratched and bloodied. The gargoyle on the left is holding a pocket watch, the harlequin in the center is drinking her tears and the one on the right is peeking under her skirts. I don't really think I'd want a story written solely about "A Measure of Grace". In my mind, any story written about that piece would have to include this one too. They are locked together that way for me. I still have this sculpture here with me.
The third, Brilliance II

Brilliance II is the third sculpture in "The Fugue". And the last, because this is where Dark Caravan took over. There is a lot going on here. The harlequin's missing shoe is in a secret compartment in the back of the sculpture. This sculpture was bought at auction by a mysterious man with a motorcycle helmet under his arm. He later sent me a deposit for "Enter" but disappeared. This though, is one of those rare pieces I got lost in. I rather suspect, and hope, I'll relive the experience soon. 

You'll recognize the indifference of even this early angel. She has just the tip of his claw in her lips. This was true of the first Brilliance as well, but in this one, with her in fllight, it becomes more influence than control. 

I've been drawn time and again to the idea of feeding upon one's self. I'm reminded of Arthur Schopenhauer and his The World as Will and Ideas where he states, "The world is my idea." Though, I don't think this is quite what he meant. 

This is the first 'Brilliance'. Really, I'm not sure where this piece ended up. I remember making it and wanting to do it better. Now I'm obligated to a whole list of work, but I'm longing to do more figurative pieces. I have a frame up in the studio for a huge angel piece. It's not committed yet to a collector. I'd considered making it a male angel, so I can sculpt more skin. Sounds like a good idea. K will agree. 

Where is she????

I'm off painting rats and thinking. Mostly I'm thinking and painting rats on the side. Eventually, I'll find a way to put into words what I can only see for now as images in my head.
Damned left-brained linear language!

If I manage to do that, I will post it later tonight. If I don't, I'll put up some photos of new toys.


Also, I've exchanged a number of emails with the Podrasky unit. We are cooking up a new call for stories and planning something extremely cool to do with them-----at the very least a really weird little chapbook, at best a very interesting hardcover book. More on that later.

Ahh, my coffee has perked. Keep doing what you do, my lovelies...

Heather FaerieStar - One Hundred Words

No introductions necessary for my cat, there is fur, its striped. Normally kitty spends his days eating, sleeping, purring...simple. One fairly boring afternoon, sweet tabby happens upon a cozy blanket...perfect napping zone. Paws begin to gently knead, slumber follows...bringing awake-like dreams where he finds an adventurous winged faerie friend. This laughing mischievous creature toys with whisker boy, First buzzing about velvety ears expecting quick chase...next giggling when little lion hands miss--skilled escape artist. Soon our pair settle down, whispering secrets of love and life. Listening, remembering the hunter wakes, finds warm lap, curls up.

Xander Wiggins III
Heather Faeriestar
faerie

Robert C. Johnson Jr. One Hundred Words

Ever get a sudden feeling there's more to existence than you previously even suspected? I'd known Allen since 6th grade, been mad in love from 7th. We were best friends right at the start, and he didn't have clue one how I really felt. But I'm not telling that story now. This story's about Allen's dad, sorta. Mr. Lewis’ funeral. Holding his son with these arms afterwards was an epiphany. Him sobbing, grief wracked. Such strong non sexual emotions shocked me, seemed truly alien. My heart broke for both of us. Al’s loss so very plain. Mine just discovered, unexplainable.

Ravyn - One Hundred Words

After all the months of preparation, stress, confusion, overt disagreements, silent rebellion, this incredible train rolled into her station. Then came nearly one hundred hours filled with excitement, joy, sheer terror, pain, enlightenment, boredom, anger, and finally, exhaustion. New acquaintances were made, old friends celebrated, good times enjoyed by everyone. Nobody slept, much.

My mind absorbed myriad experiences, struggling to comprehend such disparity. Emotions battled against each other without resolution.

Some stragglers breakfasted together Tuesday morning. We exchanged brief goodbyes. I pulled away from our empty hotel feeling a sharp, wordless ache inside me.

Another Balticon is gone.

Robert C. Johnson Jr.- One Hundred Words

At midnight laying in quiet darkness, seeking elusive altered consciousness. The dream sought is just an indiscernible thread hidden among dark dreamstuff weavings. More memory than imagining, never found. Always finding only dreams not wanted.

Remembering flight brings sweet melancholy. Lightness, distance, freedom, almost happiness.

As a child flying through every night, day hours crept by with longing for bedtime. Chance to shed so much weight, sad burden accumulated living ten short years. Nighttime, disconnected from that “reality”, experiences seemed crisp, sharp, tangible. Those daytimes, memories are smudgy, indistinct, surreal.

Drifting off, sloughing baggage, shucking inhibitions, clothes too, I flew.

Lost Dreamer
Robert C. Johnson

Alys Robinson - One Hundred Words

Rose. Velvet, blood, wine, old garnets caught by gaslight. Thorns prick, unmade decision, theft, deserted garden, who will know? Perfume, musk, sandalwood, enthralls, warm fog, drawn deep. Coughing, throat burning. White-fanged death howls down. Threat penetrates enchantment, fear takes hold.Running. Wolves pursue. Deep as forest shadow falls, concealment fails. Scent betrays, clinging like a lover. Comfortless, illusory refuge. Impossible hope strikes spurs into aching sides.Fluttering. Something inside beats, frantic for escape.Falling. Treetops, moonlit, twist into fantastic shapes.Tearing. Skin splits, shining silk emerges. Wings unfurl, spread luminescent, shining, across dark sky. The rest curls away, withers, crumbles.

Forbidden
Alys Robinson

Laura Mann - One Hundred Words

Two parallel worlds, one of indifference, the other obsession. First creates isolation, distance. Second consumes entirely. A magnet, opposite polarities enjoined as single unit. It pulls and rends, twists, torments. Riding this ruthless roller coaster again. Up then downhill again, WHEEEEE! What waits below?

Oblivious bliss, just kiss. Irrational dreams imbued with scenes of passionate things that may never be. Want and desire...craziness. I breath, sigh, cry.

Run fast? Where?

Stay near? Around here?

Choices available?

None but eternal waiting.

Hate? No, love...agony, ecstasy, prevailing adoration...causes tears flowing on soft cheeks.

He does this to me.

Phone rings.

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Laura Mann
Laura

Robert Glaze - One Hundred Words

He sat there without anything to say. Staring at her packing suitcases made him feel complete abandonment. Why leave after six years? She left. Visiting favorite places they went only brought thoughts concerning suicide. Looking upon many old photos would just make nice days, go bad. Songs shared between them were now depressing. Anger ensued then vindictiveness. Shoeboxes flew from the walk-in closet, a firearm retrieved. Driving across town didn’t give much time for reconsideration. When all was said and done, five innocent bystanders lay dead, including an unrequited love.
Will we ever start believing that people kill, not guns?

My Own Evening News
Robert Glaze

Lisa - One Hundred Words

I swim at midnight, remembering Father. His teaching penny, its shocking copper taste, erased emotion, stopped tears instantly, infallibly. Hard focus tattooed my childhood mind. Night forgets murk. Water feels clear, silky. Most have gone, our desert nearly…deserted. Fear followed the attacks, then panic, violence, chaos, looting, horrible smells and finally, terrible quiet. Sandy winds scrubbed everything clean.
Tomorrow, we few will trek with great difficulty up those snowy mountains, taking trucks until fuel supplies run out or roads become too narrow. For now, floating here, memories flow past like currents, preparing me.
All is packed, including one old coin.

Lisa Snellings-Clark
Prelude

Bob Podrasky - One Hundred Words

“But Dad, why must I learn from making mistakes?”
“Experience, Son,” his father said. “There is nothing like figuring something out for yourself!”
Walking together in their garden, parent lecturing child, they stepped into the warm sunlight.
“When a gardener sows seeds, some fall on rock, where nothing can grow. Others find strong, firm soil.”
He contemplated this notion. Questioning results. Accepting losses, failures. Doing better next time. Seemed sensible, yet…
“So you see, it makes sense.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Tell me then its moral.”
“Discard all textbooks. Ignore warnings and directions. Heed not your teachers. Don’t expect any help.”

Mentor
Bob Podrasky

Pete Clark - One Hundred Words

Imagine vast landscapes expanding before uncontaminated, civilized neural pathways. Unfamiliar memes triggering horrific immersions in scale gone excruciatingly awry. Distance… purpose…identity.. sentience… exposed as baryonic shadows played upon quantum walls, formerly Totality, by flames ignited at Time Zero. Forces which hover just below the surface of humanity’s gestalt watering hole where everyone’s soul monkey stops, catching an all too brief yet absolutely necessary repast from unflinching, atavistic predators that never, ever cease chasing delicious morsels, swinging temptingly, piñatas stuffed with guilt smelling suspiciously like cheesecake, whiskey and timidity. We animals must eventually lose, struggling vainly against this enemy, Instinct. Damn .

Lake You
Pete Clark
Lake You

K. Hutson Price - One Hundred Words

Broken glass crunched underfoot. Good people sleep while I roam, peeking in windows. Searching. Sniffing down her scent. Black leather gloves, shiny with age, stretched over hardened hands and a gleaming silver sappara is all the better for slitting throats, dear. Knife-points stars cruelly cut through an ocher bruised sky, lighting paths through darkness.
But which to choose? This house? That one, where Kindertoys lay strewn about like Hugo’s aftermath? Complications. Decisions. Life’s full of them. Creation? No, thanks. Destruction’s my job. Seek out sinners. End it. Michael assigns cases, Gabriel –that’s me- takes care of business, doing God’s work.

Winged Assassin
by K. Hutson Price

Lady of Shallot - One Hundred Words

Slit throats glare back mockingly through hazy vision. Could such horror truly just happen? No fanfare, hardly any emotion felt. Death seems unfriendly now, considering pronounced pain endured in achieving it. Intrinsic guilt bears down before thoughts metaphysical return. Well-pitched lies conjure justification. Metamorphosis, afterlife, glory... crackbrain rationalization. Inevitably, crimson rivers of exsanguination make reality divert, falling upon delusion, unable or unwilling to recognize what ‘IS’. Smiling sheepishly while fingering the blade with reverent sensations, I reject gratitude for venerable actions. ‘You’re welcome, Dear Ones,’ muttered by unfamiliar voice, my own. ‘Time immediate. Move along. More souls require release.’

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Lady of Shallot

Rosie Waller - One Hundred Words

There is a grassy bank where I sat and waited for people who did not come.Leant myself back against rucksack, expecting damp ground working throughtrousers. Gazed at feet in front, marking grass, crushing stems too brittleto spring upright after I'd left. Became aware of earth uncomfortablyirregular beneath me. Still found contentment watching leaves waving above,clouds moving past behind them. Surrounded with glowing buttercups justabove knee height, vetches below them, unripe seedheads everywhere. Heardwind moving trees, but felt gentle breezes. Warmed by sunlight, tasting blossom on air. Absent others stopped mattering. Life was good.

Rosie Waller
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