Skook WIP #16

Another town, another train.
Nothing lost and nothing gained.

No. Wait. Those are lyrics from an ABBA song.

Another Friday, another newsletter
Nothing to read is ever better. 

There’s a good way to get started.

Welcome to the sixteenth issue of the Skook Works in Progress newsletter. It’s been a more eventful week than I would have preferred. I would prefer to just stay home and draw and occasionally hang out with friends. This week … I had to stay home and draw and avoid people for the good of humanity.

But we’ll get to that after the pictures.

Greeting Card Conversions

The following are the last examples of my before (scans of hand drawn and colored art) and after (digitally edited and updated) greeting card designs. I did the first versions of most of these back in 2013. I did more than fifty of them and these are the final designs that needed updating. The current versions are all available for purchase in my Zazzle shop.

Everyone Needs a Hobby

There are so many uses for a chainsaw other than carving up random tourists for the family sausage business. Carving sculptures is one creative one. I hear you can use them to cut down trees as well.

Chainsaw sculptures can be used to decorate the grounds of your family sausage business and attract more tourists! Marketing is everything!

Working for Bones

What’s in your lunch box?

Or is it a lunchbox? Is a really a suitcase filled with extra socks? A carrying case for an unusual musical instrument? A kit bag for a cat assassin? Is he a good boy or a bad boy?

Any Other Friday

If Friday the 13th is your day for chopping up horny teenagers, what do you do with the other 51.2 Fridays that don’t fall on the 13th day of the month? And what do you do on the other six days of the week?

You could garden. You’ve got more tools at your disposal than just a machete. Gardens are good places to dispose of bodies and said bodies can enrich the soil.

Cognitive Dissonance

Most people seem to hate clowns. Most people seem to like cats. What happens when you combine the two?

You get the apocalypse of course. Or maybe you just get a sardine custard pie in the face.

Yumm.

Shall We Dance?

Of course we shall. Any other answer is the wrong one.

Dance at dawn. Dance in the afternoon. Dance on into the night.

HOOOOOOO?

Last week I said I’d be designing a calendar featuring the Mighty Nizz for 2022. Zazzle has a template that looks like it will work for the project. There will be twelve full page illustrations. Maybe thirteen if I use a different image on the cover. It is, of course, a work in progress.

The above image is my process gif for the first illustration I completed for the project. The calendar will probably only be available through Zazzle. If you’d like to have Nizz staring at you before then, she and her feathery friends are available now on a variety of merch in my Redbubble store.

These Days …

Bleah.

We have a new housemate. She’s here a little earlier than we planned. Officially she wasn’t going to move in until May. She stayed here for a week last month to be sure that her cat and our cats could get along. The visit was success. Flax and Chemo and Sabe reached cat detente and even worked their way up to some moments of playful interaction.

We thought the new housemate would be able to move in during April, being here completely by May 1st. She had some medical problems that she couldn’t put off that made moving her stuff and cleaning the apartment too much to manage so things got delayed for a month. She was getting those problems handled when she started to get sick in unplanned ways. The kind of sick where one loses ones sense of smell and taste. Where one coughs a lot.

She got tested and came up negative for covid.

She got sicker and was having a hard time taking care of herself and her cat. So we offered to have her stay here until she felt better. No biggie. It wasn’t as if she had the plague.

Except she was having constant coughing fits. So we took her to the emergency room. Where they diagnosed her as having covid.

That happened Saturday night. We’d been wearing masks to avoid catching her cold or flu so we had some protection. On Sunday Sarah and I went to an urgent care to see if we could get tested for covid. Sarah got her second dose of vaccine Thursday morning last week. I got my first on that afternoon. The urgent care folks said we would need to wait five days to get tested and that our vaccines wouldn’t be fully effective until two months after the second dose. Probably. New virus. New treatment. Not enough history to be certain of anything really.

Our housemate has her own bedroom and bathroom. Quarantining her is relatively easy. We’ve got masks and gloves. I called in covid to USPS. I have plenty of sick days and no one wants a possible plague carrier in the station so there was no argument.

I’ve spent a good part of the rest of this week in bad mood. I have a better understanding of why some people are lousy at plague safety. I feel fine. I don’t think I’m sick. I didn’t do anything to try to get the plague. I’m just helping a friend. Shouldn’t I get to just keep on with life as normal? Shouldn’t I be able to go to work and hang out with the rest of the world? Why should I be inconvenienced when I’m healthy?

In general I place being responsible to and for others over following my whims. I also know that shit happens even when you’re being careful. So I may be grumpy but I’m grumpy about the situation. I’m grumpy about the culture and the systems that have allowed (even encouraged) the current mess.

I’ve also been getting a lot of artwork done. It’s the sort of art that takes advantage of being cranky. Bonus!

Our housemate’s health has been improving. When she was at the emergency room she got a dose of the drug cocktail that the 45th President had received. It seems to have helped, as have the various meds and vitamins she’s been taking since. Her cat and our cat are getting along. Sarah has been very patient with both our housemate’s needs and my attitude.

We’ll be in the weeds for a bit yet but we’re forging ahead.

Thank you for dropping by. I hope you are doing well. I hope you are healthy. I hope you are in a good mood. If not, I hope you’re able to use your mood for something that will give you satisfaction down the line. See you next Friday!

Skook WIP #11

Today is March the 12th, 2021. Friday the 12th. One day away from being a Friday the 13th. Supposedly the 13th is a day for bad luck. I’ve only experienced one bad luck Friday the Thirteenth. That was back when I was 16 on a bicycle tour of Europe. I got lost. I got into an accident that required replacing my back wheel. I was grumpy and frustrated. I was also in Europe with friends so, in retrospect, it wasn’t that bad a day. Perspective is everything.

Today is also the fifth day of my Long Week. Because of rotating days off mail carriers have a six day work week once every five weeks. That week is bookended by a three day weekend at the beginning of the week and a two day weekend at the end. After seven years at USPS I’ve gotten used to it. Of course I complain about it. I am human. Humans complain. It’s in the handbook.

Tomorrow is Saturday the 13th. Since it’s the last day of my Long Week it seems like a lucky day to me.

Shall we get started?

Greeting Card Conversions

Once again – before (scans of the original hand drawn and colored illustrations) and after (digitally cleaned up, edited and ready to print) versions of greeting card designs. The after versions are available in my Zazzle shop.

Let it Snow!

I love the idea of snow. Here in Seattle it only takes a little snow to shut the city down. But I still have to go work. So I don’t love the reality of snow.

That’s okay. This mouse isn’t me. He’s enjoying himself!

Forget the cold. Forget the wet. Enjoy the miracle of fluffy frozen water drifting down from the sky!

A Master of the Feather Duster

Armed with a feather duster, Jeeves attacked the disorder and entropy of the house. Armed with dry wit and keen observation Jeeves deflated the egos of his “masters”.

Jeeves is unflappable. Mess not with the Jeeves.

A Room with a View

Available soon: one room, great views, very cozy, perfect for writer or monk or other single hermit. Current occupant is a working mother who is looking forward to stretching her wings and getting away from it all.

The mother will be taking her children with her. Some redecorating may be necessary.

Eight Arms to Hug You 

Love is whatever you make with whoever will make it with you. Love can happen at the beach or the bottom of the sea. Love is a word. A gesture. A look. Love is vast and may have suckers.

Love is where you look for it. Love is where it looks back. Love is love is love.

Bigfoot Boogie

Sasquatch are generally solitary creatures. Mostly quiet. Mostly keeping to themselves. Once in a while they feel a need to be social and loud. You won’t hear them. They know how to be loud a long way from human ears.

Most human ears anyway. They consider the Mighty Nizz to be, if not exactly a Sasquatch, different from those critters that only see a forest for the number of trees they can slaughter.

The above is a process gif of one my Mighty Nizz illustrations. The final illustration is available on all kinds of stuff in my Redbubble store. Plug. Plug.

Defining Octobriana 

Octobriana is 50 years old this year. I first met her as supporting character in The Adventures of Luther Arkwright back in the early Nineties. Her first published appearance was in 1971 in Octobriana and the Russian Underground. Her original adventures can be read here. Supposedly she was the creation of a group of Soviet artists and writers in the 1960s. She wasn’t. That’s a hoax. But it’s a story that gives the character an attractive background and it inspired quite a few comic book artists to use her in new stories in the following decades.

I’ve drawn her in my sketchbooks a few times over the years. I included a couple of illustrations of her in my 2019 daily drawing project. One of those is now gracing a coffee mug in my Zazzle store. She seems like she’d be fun to use for other merchandise so I set about doing development sketches.


My version of Octobriana is more conservatively dressed than most other depictions. I’m a fan of dressing comfortably. That boob bandana she is usually shown wearing just doesn’t seem practical, especially in a fight. Octobriana has magic powers and deadly combat skills. Maybe she also has superior sartorial sorcery?

That’s a question I didn’t try to address in these sketches.


Part of the fun of drawing Octobriana is that she’s angry almost all the time. Well, maybe not angry, maybe passionate is a better term. She’s a revolutionary. Revolutionaries have got to have strong emotions to keep going. Octobriana stares into the abyss and laughs.


What will I be doing with Octobriana?

Eh. I don’t know. Part of my creative process is to (re)invent a character first and then find a place for them. In the process of trying to write this part of the newsletter I came up with a new backstory for Octobriana that ties into a few of my other imaginary mythologies. Once she was Nurri Kala, child of the caverns, daughter of Surrilana, Blessed of the Blue Flame, priest of Shub Niggurath, citizen of Carcosa, Devil Woman of the Endless Revolution. All that is a bit too complicated to fit on a coffee mug.

These Days …

The house is quiet. It’s been quiet for a week. Thing One and Thing Two have moved on to better places.

No, they aren’t dead! They’ve literally moved somewhere else.

Names have been changed to protect the innocent and to laugh at search engines. The Thing One and Thing Two designations come from Dr. Suess’s The Cat in the Hat. I’m sure you know the story.

Thing One came to us a year and a half ago. “Came to us” sounds effortless. It wasn’t. Thing One is one of Sarah’s young cousins – 22 at the time of acquistion. Sarah had been in contact with some of her cousins in Texas. A group of them was homeless and she had been trying to help them out, not an easy thing to do given the distance and our minimal resources. He and Sarah had struck up a friendship via text and messenger. He was living in and around Spring, Texas. He was friendly and had spent some time caring for elderly relatives when he was younger. Sarah has medical issues that have made her eligible for in home caregiving. The agencies in charge of supporting caregivers advocate making family members caregivers whenever possible. Sarah had had one caregiver that she’d really liked and a number that hadn’t been good fits. Her favorite caregiver was needing to return to her home country for a while so Sarah got approval and offered the job to Thing One.

That was the easy part. One had lost his ID. He had no bank account. He had a cellphone for communication and not much else. You can’t get on a plane without an ID. You can’t get an ID without a mailing address. It took months of wrangling to get him an ID and onto a plane. It was his first plane ride. He’d never been out of Texas before. He arrived in Seattle in September, 2019.

He spent the first year sleeping on a couch in our library/studio. He got certified as a caregiver in Washington and got a regular salary. He cleaned and cooked and helped Sarah with physical therapy.

In August, 2020 our housemate moved out and we rearranged things so One got his own room. Less than a month later we acquired Thing Two.

Thing Two came to us from Spokane in Eastern Washington. She was 20 years old and she says she’d never been out of Spokane. She was part of group of friends that Thing One had bonded with online. One of her parents had just been arrested for assaulting her and Thing One thought she needed rescue. He convinced a neighbor friend to give him a ride to Spokane and bring her back. Yeah, we agreed to it. We believe in helping people when we can. She and Thing One shared his room.

There was drama. Drama with exes. Drama within their online groups. We didn’t see most of it. It happened online and over the phone with people in other states. They mostly kept to their room. Eventually things got heated enough that the Things needed to go. Thing Two went to Pennsylvania to live with friends on February 25th. Thing One went to live with loved ones in Texas on March 5th.

I had hoped that, in living with us, they would have the chances to build up their resources (mental and economic) so that when they moved on they would be better off than when they arrived. And they were better off. They went to places that are a better fit for them. We’re told to live by the Golden Rule: “Do to others what you would have them do to you”. That’s a good start, but one that doesn’t take the other into account. A more compassionate rule is: “Do to others how they would want done to them”. That one is harder because it requires communication and observation. It requires that I am able have honest, revealing conversations with the other person and that I am able to observe their actions and way of being in the world enough to be able antipicate their needs and wants. It requires time and patience. It requires communication skills that I’m still trying to develop.

The world that existed for me in my twenties doesn’t exist for the Things. Their home lives were very different  from mine. They have a neurodivergencies that I hadn’t really heard of at their age. It’s common to complain that “kids these days” spend too much time on their phones but cell phones didn’t exist when I was their age. Neither did the internet. I’d keep thinking about what I would be doing at their age in their situation and I’d have to keep reminding myself that my experiences couldn’t be used to fit their situation. Economics were different. I didn’t live through a pandemic.

So we gave them a place to stay and regroup. We made sure they got fed. We tried to pass on the knowledge and wisdom that we thought would help. The Things are intelligent. They are generally kind and honest. Thing One is creating a family with people his own age. Thing Two is living with people who were expecting her. I’ve lived long enough to guess the problems that they will face. I wanted them to be better prepared for the world before they left. But they are not me and they have their own experiences and mistakes to learn from. I wish them well.

I wish y’all well as well. I hope that your loved ones treat you as you wish to be treated and you can talk about it when they don’t. I hope you are able to do the reverse with them. See you next week!

Tuesday Night Party Club #51

This is my fifty-first newsletter of 2020. Thank you for reading. It’s been … a year. You can congratulate yourself on surviving. Hopefully things are looking brighter for you in 2021. As I’ve mentioned in the last few issues, I’m moving to a new format. The subscription link to next year’s newsletters is at the end of this issue. I hope you’ll sign up and join me.

This week I have two stories for you. The first is:

Santa and the Pickle Boys 
by Steve Ahlquist

Click on the link to go to Steve’s website and read this tale of Christmas … joy.

Next –

 Once
A Story by Sarah Byam
(First published Christmas 2010, republished Christmas 2013. And today.)

Once, a very, very long time ago, when the world was so young that forests still roamed the earth in great galloping herds, chasing after the moving laughing waters of the earth, there lived a young deer girl named Holly.

Holly had seen many summers, as summer and spring blended into summer and spring. She knew her family, her tribe, and her neighbors. She knew how to stitch a breech cloth, and how to shoot a running squash, how to pick her teeth, and how to ride bareback on her scrap eater. But never had she known hunger of cold. Until this morning

There were three tribes that hunted in the galloping green, the Seed Munchers, the Tree Catchers, and the Squash Hunters. Holly was, as you may have guessed, a Squash Hunter.

She was not a particularly good squash hunter. She was short, small and awkward. Her rack was too big for her head, as yet, and her mother wondered if she would ever marry. It did not help her condition one bit that Holly could hear that voice of the man in the sliver moon, who whispered to her constantly.

“What do you know,” he whispered. “You’re just a dumb girl.”

Holly would lower her chin and lift her eyes ever so slightly. “I know my family, and their family, and their family. I know when to pick berries, and when they are green-sickening. I know how to dry wood, and catch water and – ‘

“You’re just a dumb girl,” he repeated in a soft sneer.

Holly would lower her head even further, and try not to listen. It didn’t help much.

So Holly stayed at the back of the line when the hunting parties were chosen. Holly was hardly ever chosen, because she did not seem to want to go. And so, her skills were not as sharp as they could have been. And when the moon whispered:

“You’re just a dumb girl, what do you know.”

She began to reply, “you may be right.”

In the springs and summers of the valley of the squash hunters, night was always just long enough. Not too long, or too short. Holly would sleep while she was tired and wake just before Sun Up.

This morning was different. Holly woke, refreshed, but chilled. She didn’t have a word for chilled, except when the laughing waters turned on her, and she got soaked. So she checked her clothes to see if they were wet. She had a word for wet. But her clothes were dry. Very dry.

Outside the house, the stars and sliver moon shone along the ground, white like cotton seeds, everywhere. Her breath puffed away from her, and by some magic of a kind she did not understand, she could see her own breath. Holly picked up a handful of the seeds from the ground. She brought them to her nose to smell, and they quickly melted into her palm, turning into water, which was slow and still.

“Water?” she said, curious.

“You’re just a dumb girl. What do you know.”

Holly ignored the voice, and pushed on. Her scrap eater was pawing at the squash rinds in the (what would she call it? Still water?) as she approached and scratched him behind his ear.

“When d’we go? When d’we go?” the scrap eater asked her, eyes bright. He danced in quick circles, chasing his tail, too excited to sit still and let her mount.

“When d’we go? When d’we go?”

“Yes, yes – Wendwigo – you finish your breakfast and we’ll ride at Sun Up.” She threw down a couple of dried apples and a man shaped carrot she’d caught in her root trap. The scrap eater munched them down, greedily.

“Hungry!”

Wendwigo, who wasn’t the brightest scrap eater, spoke often about going and about hunger. If he talked about anything else, travel and hunger would soon distract him. But Holly loved her mount. He was strong, and fast, and faithful. He was white as the still water on the ground, and his fur was soft wild. The other Squash hunters didn’t take them too seriously, but she didn’t care.

“What do you know. You’re just a dumb girl,” the moon whispered.

“Right,’ she said back at the moon. “Tell me something useful next time.”

Wendwigo was the only scrap eater in the village this morning, and Holly didn’t quite know what to make of that. After the furry beast had finished his breakfast, he bumped his nuzzle under her hand. She dug up a neck full of fur and swung herself more or less gracefully onto his back.

“Go-o-o-o-o-o-o-o “ the happy beast crooned as they rode off in the direction of the galloping forest.

The village had followed the forest since the villagers could remember. The forest seemed to wander, following the water, which was lively and never still on the land. Never until this moment.
Holly expected Sun Up by the time that she found the forest, but the sun did not rise and, when she found the running brook, it was not running. It was shiny in the moonlight, but as she and Wendwigo rode down into the middle, the waters did not – could not – scamper away. The water seemed hard, like stone, and their speed sent them crashing forward in a great, awkward sprawl along the surface.

“Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on – “ cried the scrap eater as they spun. But Holly was sent flying to the far bank, landing smack into the middle of a thicket of broken tree roots.

Holly shook her hands free of blood and splinters, to examine the roots where the trees had been. Trees were pretty nimble in her experience. Holly had never seen a broken root, let alone a whole bank of them.

“They tore away in a run!” cried Holly, “Look at this, they bled sap all the way down!”

“Stupid girl,” said the sliver moon, a little brighter now, “ what do you know.”

“I know the sun should be up by now!” she cried. “What have you done with her?!”

The moon did not respond. Holly pulled the splinters out of her hands, and wrapped them once more in Wendwigo’s mane. Tracking a forest was something she knew how to do – but this was something new – a wounded forest? Tearing itself out of a stone brook? Holly rounded Wendwigo in a tight circle and rushed back to the village.

It was dark, but there was enough light to follow her own tracks back the way she came. She had no warmth and was hungry. Wendwigo was getting hungry again too. And there was no sign of the hunting party.

Holly rode through the village calling alarm, raising the villagers from sleep. Ordinarily they rose at Sun Up, but Sun Up was late, and she couldn’t wait for it. Something was deeply wrong.

Her mother was first out, then the elders, toddles, and ‘tweeners. Everyone of hunting age was nowhere to be seen, and she had the only mount left.

“Where have they gone, Holly?” said one toddle, eyes wide.

“Yeah, why did they run off and leave us?” said a ‘tweener, angry.

“I don’t know anything, except that the forest is gone too,” Holly replied.

“Where is the sun??!” Cried her mother.

“Who will warm our breakfast?” cried a granther.

“I said,” began Holly, tentatively “I don’t know, but I am going to try to track the forest, and may find the hunting party with it.”

“Breakfast!” cried another toddle.

“You will have to share what you have until I get back, “ replied Holly – but they did not look like they were in the mood to share. It was dark and there was not even a little heat. Everyone clung to their little baskets, and held them tightly. Some had more than others, but none had very much. Having only summers and springs, this was a time before anyone had thought to preserve food. Hoarding fresh food only caused it to spoil and eating too much only made one fat.

“I don’t want to share!” said her mother, clutching her basket the most tightly. “There’s only enough for me.”

“Mother, please,” Holly tried, “Something different has happened, so we must do things differently if we are going to live through it.”

“You’re just a dumb girl!” one of them shouted. “What do you know!”

The words cut through Holly like a knife. Did they all know? Was it true after all? Holly dropped her head and rounded Wendwigo to leave the village. She would find the forest, and the hunters, and food for the village. She would find them. Or she would die trying.

“What do you know,” chuckled the sliver moon, cutting deep, “You’re just a dumb girl.”

She turned back for one last look.

The toddle was holding out his basket of apples– “I’m small,” he said, “take mine.”

Holly bent down and took only two apples, one for her and one for Wendwigo.

“Thank you little one,” she said. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

She touched his face with two long fingers, and rode off, leaving the rest to squabble or share as they chose.

They rode for what seemed like many days, and the sun did not rise at all. The moon got brighter and fatter, running back and forth across the sky, but the sun did not show her face. As the ground was white with the still-water seeds, it was not hard to see their way, and Holly found little snatches of the forest along the route.

A berry branch that had grown prickly and sharp, that snapped at her with its last bit of life.

A carrot shaped, clear stone that she could crunch and swallow. It turned into water like the white seeds.

But while there were minor forest signs, nothing of the hunters or their mounts.

And louder, and louder in her mind, the ringing voice of the now half moon, harrowing her along the way.

“Stupid Girl, what do you know.”

She pushed on, counting what she knew and adding it together as she went.

“I know my name. I know my village. I can ride, I can track. And I will find the forest!! I will!”

She might have been discouraged, and she was certainly tired, hungry, stiff and not the least bit warm. But the harder it seemed to be, the more determined she was, knowing that things at home must be getting worse by the mile.

They could not discern one day from the next without Sun Up, so they slept when they were tired, and woke when their toes and fingers prickled painfully. Wendwigo got thinner, and started to be snappish. They ached. Their stomachs growled. Holly pressed on.

“Stupid girl,” she thought she heard the scrap eater mutter under his breath. Of course he said no such thing.

Then, after Holly counted 16 sleeps and more hours than she knew riding, they found their first patch of galloping forest, crawling root deep up a hill, as though it had been culled from the herd.

Holly had been sneaking up on forests since she was a ‘tweener. It had never been particularly dangerous. The worst thing that might happen is that your prey might scatter and you’d go hungry.

This was a different matter. This band of trees was intertwined in a queer way, with sharpened angles. The trees had been dropping their leaves like seed pods, and struggled naked up the hill, branch in branch, with undergrowth shivering and twisted into spiky thicket.

Holly and Wendwigo charged up the hill, and circled around to head the band off before it reached the top and sped downhill.

There were five trees leading the band. The needled greens were out in front, as they had not shed their coats. Three of them reared up, shooting cones and needles at her in rapid fire. Holly ducked and galloped in low, aiming for the fruit trees, but the fruit trees were bare, and huddled in, encircled by the larger trees. The cedar swept a great bough that nearly knocked them off their feet. Holly retreated.

A frightened pumpkin rolled from the pack headed down hill. Holly skewered it with a tethered arrow, and swung it in a great circle to collect after the battle. They charged again, this time the roses and the blackberries joined forces to make a to snap trap around Wendigo’s ankles, almost breaking his leg as they fell beneath the oncoming tree band. It wasn’t nearly a full herd, or they’d have been stampeded. But the white seed-stuff was slippery, and Holly was smarter than the average tree.

“Roll!” yelled Holly, and she and Wendwigo tightened in to a ball of muscle and fur, sliding just out in front of the on coming band of trees as it came over the crest. They slid down into the deepest part of the ravine at the bottom of the hill, skidding sideways over this next stone frozen stream, just escaping the path of the stampeding band. The trees did not circle back.

Holly and Wendwigo limped their way back to the pumpkin that they had barely managed to secure from the forest.

Holly gathered up the shards of wood and briar that the band of trees had left behind in their wake and built a small fire. In all her memory, and the memory of her village, no one had ever heard of a dangerous forest. Running, playful, tricky, mysterious – yes, but vicious, no. Holly rubbed her sore legs, and massaged some heat back into her muscles.

She carefully scraped the seeds out of the pumpkin. Normally she would roast them, but now she was careful. Who knew when they would find a wild pumpkin again? She poured the seeds into a small pouch and tucked it inside her tunic.

It was a fat pumpkin, and she roasted half of it and they ate well. The other half she packed with some kindling. They slept with full bellies, and toes warmed. Holly was feeling so content, that she thought surely they would find Sun Up soon.

“Stupid girl,” said the fattening moon. “What do you know.”

Holly was too tired to respond. She fell asleep in the deep stink of the wet scrap eater’s fur.

+++

That night she dreamed of golden fields, against a gold sky, warm and breezy as the sun set. The first chill of evening tickled at her toes dangling in a pond of still, clear water. She saw the palest refection of herself in the water, but in the reflection she was older than granther. Her scrapeater wandered toward her from the meadow, a small child grasping at the swishing tail. All was right above in the sky and below –

“OOww!”

Holly woke looking down at her matt sandals, only to find that Wendwigo had chewed through the left sole down to her feet, biting down on her toe. No one ever said scrap eaters were smart.

‘Wendwigo!”

“Huuuungry!”

“You just ate, last, last …”

She looked up at the sky with despair. The sun had not yet risen, yet she had been asleep for long enough for another Sun Up to have arrived. They had grown quite thin and had only had one meal the day before, which might keep her, but the scrap eater? Apparently not.

“Ok, lets ride a little, and then we’ll break for food, ok?”

The scrap eater dug his claws into the cold-seed, beneath his feet, clearly not willing to move.

“No Kay!” it said. “Hungry!”

Holly had always fed her mount before riding, and this was a pretty frustrating moment. Who knew how long it would be before they would find food again. Shouldn’t they conserve it?

“Wendwigo, We’ll go, then eat, then go again, “ She reached gently for the fur on the back of his neck and he snapped at her, missing her fingers by a whisper.

Snap! Snap! Snap!

“Wendwigo?!” she cried, backing away.

“GRRRRRR!” growled the scrap eater, hunching towards her.

As they circled each other, Holly was dimly aware that something new was at play here. Scrap eaters did not attack their riders, at least not in memory of anyone she had known. But then, the sun did not hide, water did not turn to stone, and forests did not attack. Something had gone out of the world, something important, and if she couldn’t set it right, would they all be fighting each other until they perished?

“Huuungry!” moaned the scrap eater, foam and spit forming around his mouth.

Holly stepped backward slowly.

Wendwigo stepped forward, angry in a way that she had never seen any beast or person. The moon above was almost doubly bright, and nowhere was there a hint of sun. Wenwigo’steeth seemed to grow longer, as did his claws. His fur even seemed to grow. He reared up on his back legs to throw himself forward, and she ducked underneath, quickly as she could, sliding beneath his legs, upending him with one antler as she slid to the other side..

She whirled and drew her bow.

She’d never drawn her bow on anything smarter than a turnip before and, brave though she was, it gave her a queasy feeling.

“Stop, Wendwigo. Stop right there!”

“Huuungry!” He lunged for her, she shot his right front paw, then his left hind, then his right hind paw, catching nailing him to the ground for just long enough for Holly to run as fast as she could to get away.

Thumthp! Thumpth! Thumpth!

She ran, foot bleeding where he’d bitten her, but she ran. She might have run all night, if night had ended. Instead, she ran until she collapsed at the foothills of very large mountains. She crawled into an overhang out of the wind and cold and moonlight, and slept again for a long time.

+++

She dreamt about the people in her village, getting hungrier and colder. She dreamt about many days without sun, until the flowered meadows of home curled and turned ash gray. She dreamt of white blankets covering the world too dark for anyone to marvel at the wonder. All the while it seemed that life was being swallowed up out of the living. People argued bitterly and refused to share with children, the old, and the sick. Some started to slip away into the half light, like smoke from the fires. Fires burned low and there was no wood to replenish them. The hunters didn’t come back, but their scrap eaters began to form a menacing circle around the village. In the dream, Holly drew back from the sight of her own village, only to see every village in every valley was the same, one after the next, after the next

Holly pushed herself awake, rubbing her eyes, her hands, her feet, warming them as she could. She stood and shook off the nightmare tendrils, even more determined than before. She would set this right!

Holly found the moon to be almost unbearably bright as she climbed out of the protection of the overhang.

She looked up at the moon, and he laughed back down at her. She felt even more stupid and small than she had before.

“Stupid girl –“ the moon began.

“Will you just shut up!” She cried, her fists balled with all the fury of her 14 summers.

“It seems to me that this all started with YOU!”

The moon was silent, for the moment, and Holly climbed. Hand over hand she climbed the peak ahead of her. The steeper it got, the more determined she was to make the peak. The surface became slick and unbearably cold. She used her dagger to carve small hand holds, then stuffed arrows in the cracks to give her foot holds while she carved more. Up and Up she went until, at the very lip of the peak – she stumbled and slid.

Down she went, Just a few feet, just far enough to see a mirror clear lake, the width of the peak, that could not be seen from the ground. It was so lovely in the moonlight, but like the river, hard as stone.

Around her, in the reflection of the lake, she saw scrap eaters, with no riders, their teeth long and their claws sharp. A rumbling growl resonated around the bowl of the lake. Below the moon whispered as she drew her bow.

“Huuuungry!”

“Stupid girl…”

“Huuuuuungry!”

“Stupid girl…”

Holly took careful aim at the pool, the reflected moon glowing almost as bright as the early morning sun.

“HUUUUUNGRY!”

“Stupid GIRL!”

She whirled and pointed the bow high above her head.

Thwtht! Thwtht! Thwtht – she fired off three shots directly at the moon, his belly popping like a squashed gord!

As the bright golden light began to shine forth, Holly didn’t stop to marvel, but ran to the first scrap eater at her right. She thumped him on the head with the handle of her knife and squeezed his stomach with all her strength. In one great, loud “ URP!” out popped Oak Knot, sprawling onto the ground, shaking his head.

“What?!” he sputtered, drowsed and slippery

“The scrap eater’s belly’s, hurry!” Oak Knot followed her lead as she pointed.

“Grab the next one!” shouted Holly, and they rescued the next hunter and the next from the bellies of the distracted scrap eaters as the sun popped back high in the sky, a safe distance from the moon.

The water in the lake began to melt, The water beneath the hunters and the scrap eaters started to crackle.

“This way!” shouted Holly, and they ran, lightly, to the thickest edge of the pool and scrambled up the bank.

They took a moment in wonder as they mounted their scrap eaters, who were now a little dazed but no longer in the sway of the moon. The valley below the mountain began to sprout green and fine before them.

The squash hunters traveled back home, gathering food and water as they went. The scrap eaters more quiet than usual, were more than a little ashamed for having eaten their riders. A new law was spoken, and to this day, no one dares to ride a scrap eater during the full moon.

The hunters themselves were a little embarrassed for having shunned Holly for so long, but nothing needed to be said. She walked with the herd now.

The villagers were a sorry sight, but they had begun to think about what to save and what to share in times of need. And the more they practiced it, the more they saw the wisdom of it.

They say that mother sun made some decisions that day too. Scrap eaters could run with the people, or eat them, but not both. Most chose to stay, but some went into the wild, consumed with hunger, eating such things as they could catch on the full moon. Wendigo never did return, but people sometimes see him in the forests, fierce and hungry. The people know well enough to run the other way.

And the jealous moon was said to slink from the sky, for he had lured Mother Sun with promises of love and care and rest, only to swallow her whole.

But Mother Sun was wise, and even turned this trickery into something good. She saw that a little darkness for part of the year was good for the squash hunters, the tree catchers, and seed munchers. It made them stronger, more creative and more caring. She saw from her unique vantage point, that it helped them grow.

So three months out of the year, she would travel across the ocean – to have such adventures as we do not know – only to return just in time, every time.

And the deer tribes made these dark times a special time to come together, share gifts and food and stories, lest they forget the lessons of old.

The moon, now only a pale reflection of what he once was, muttered away. But it is said that the daughters of Holly can sometimes hear him whisper on the wind.

“Stupid girl. What do you know…”

And these days, the girls reply, as their mother’s mother’s taught them “More and more, every day. More and more, every day.”

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Tuesday Night Party Club #50

Galleries – Atomic Age Cthulhu

Atomic Age Cthulhu is the last book I illustrated for Chaosium. I did the work in 2012 and the book was published in 2013. It is a collection of adventure scenarios set during the 1950s. I shared the illustration duties with Caleb Cleveland and Marco Morte. There was some miscommunication between the folks at Chaosium who were sending out the assignments so I started some pieces but didn’t finish them because someone else was already doing them. I did maps for the first and, probably the last, time. It was challenging and sort of fun but not something I feel a call to do again.

The three scenarios that are I worked on were –

High Octane – In which Serpent People engage in shenanigans in the Pacific Northwest.

Destroying Paradise, Hawaiian Style – In which an Elvis type singer is targeted by Deep Ones.

Return of Old Reliable – In which a test subject monkey returns from space with a very bad attitude. This scenario was written by Oscar Rios, the future founder of Golden Goblin Press.

There was companion fiction anthology to the scenario book. I was commissioned to illustrate the cover but, for reasons that were not told me, Chaosium chose a different artist to do a new cover and used that instead. Oh well.

Story Seed #99
Start With the End

If you have a hard time starting a story, try beginning with your climactic scene and work your way back. That’s sort of what I did with these story seeds. I started with the hashtag #99stories and despite a delay after the first few (and perhaps some cheating along the way) we’ve arrived at number 99. If I’d planned better I’d have an actual story seed to offer.

Let’s pretend that I did.

Remembrance
Richard Corben

Richard Corben passed away on December 2nd. The image above was a limited editon print he did in 1978. It was the first and,so far, only art print I’ve ever purchased. Sadly, I lost it somewhere in the intervening years. He was one of the illustrators that has most influenced my art. Tributes to him can be found all over the internet right now. I hope to write something longer about his work in 2021. He had a long and impressive artistic run and I’m sad that it has come to an end.

Local News

In 2021 this newsletter will be hosted at tinyletter.com. If you subscribe, each issue will come directly to your email address. I’ll continure to post links to issues here but, if you want cut down on link hopping, please use the form below to sign up –

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This week is my Long Week at USPS. I’ll be working six days in a row. I’ll just do one thing after another until I get to collapse on Sunday.

Last week I was able to finish a Mighty Nizz illustration that had been sitting on my drawing table for over a year. Yes, it was really on my drawing table the entire time. I put other pages of bristol board over and moved it around when necessary but it stayed on the table the entire time. I’d penciled it and started inking it and then got caught up in doing commissioned work.

The space on my drawing table already has more works in progress on it waiting to be tackled. But Christmas and mail first.

Thank you for stopping by. Stay safe. Write letters. Be good to yourself and those around you. See you next week!

Tuesday Night Party Club #48

Gallery – Masks of Nyarlathotep Companion

In 2020 I was asked to do some illustrations of Jackson Elias for The Masks of Nyarlathotep Companion. Specifically I was asked to do a single illustration that featured photos of Elias’s past adventures. Doing the photos as individual illustrations made them available as individual handouts. I also did a portrait of the Crawling Chaos itself and some of its “Masks”.

Story Seed #97

Invent a conspiracy. Make it as ridiculous and farfetched as you want.

“Fairies run the tech industry because they’re trying to invent tech that doesn’t use iron so they can come out of hiding.”

“Neanderthals didn’t go extinct. They are the secret rulers of the world. Their big brains gave them psychic powers so we can’t see them when they walk among us.”

“There are no real squirrels in the city. They’ve all been replaced by squirrel robots that are spying on your every movement.”

Recommendation

What I’d like to do is sit and read a book. Just spend the day reading a good dead tree edition of something. Since that won’t fit in my schedule right now may I suggest that, if you have the time, you fit it in yours?

Local News

There’s not a lot to read in this week’s issue. My apologies. I sit at the computer and type out a few sentences and then delete them and start again. Most of what I’ve written is either a complaint or an explanation as to why I’m not writing much. Like this.

I’m continuing to add color to older Mighty Nizz illustrations. This –

Became this –

This illustration below was already colored. I did it in 2012 so it’s one of my ealiest images featuring the Nizz.
I like the original but I thought it could use some adjustments. Fortunately I’ve learned to save all my photoshop files with their original layers so making changes was pretty easy.

Thanksgiving was a small affair. Just our immediate household. We’re eating our way through the leftovers now. Thank you for dropping by. I hope you are well and feel seen by someone in the world. We all need that.

In 2021 this newsletter will be hosted at tinyletter.com. If you subscribe, each issue will come directly to your email address. I’ll continure to post links to issues here but, if you want cut down on link hopping, please use the form below to sign up –

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See you next week!

Tuesday Night Party Club #47

Gallery – 2019 Daily Sketches 303-332

This is the penultimate collection of my daily sketches from 2019. 30 images all in one covenient place.

Story Seed #96

Once again, there are thirty images above. They all have stories. The story you find in the illustration will be different than the one someone else tells.

Recommendation

This week I’m recommending David Lasky’s Etsy shop. David is a cartoonist, art teacher and friend. His work is lovely and eclectic. Check it out!

Local News

Rain and cold and darkness have settled over the Pacific Northwest. The holidays loom but we’re staying away from other humans and their icky diseases. The mail and parcel volumes have increased as expected so I’m getting overtime whether I want it or not. Wearing a mask in addition to rain gear leaves me with just a narrow strip with which to observe the world. I feel disconnected and unbalanced. The mask does keep my face warm. That’s an unexpected bonus.

I’m also officially a Guy Who Wears Glasses. As I got used to the new prescription I started wearing them in more and more situations and now I wear them more than I don’t. I go without them in situations where I need to have a mask on because I haven’t yet taken the steps to prevent them fogging but otherwise they’re just part of my wardrobe. The eye doctor recommended cataract surgery. Supposedly that will correct my vision issues so the glasses may not be a permenant accessory. I won’t be taking any steps toward surgery until after the holidays though. Too much to do, not enough time to recover.

I’m continuing to add images to my Zazzle and Redbubble shops. Both shops recently had complete strangers make purchases. That was encouraging. One can’t become a mogul by selling just to ones friends.

I’m currently completing and/or coloriing older illustrations of Little Red aka The Mighty Nizz. The image below is from 2011 or 2012. I’m pretty sure it’s the third time I’d drawn the character. I found it when I was clearing and organizing a stack of art and art supplies this summer. It was mostly still pencils, only the lettering and the bear in the tree had been inked. I wish I’d remembered to scan that version but we’ll have to settle on the completed inks.

From that to this –

I also colored two images from 2015. This –

Became this –

And this –

Became this –

I actually prefer this version to the more detailed one I did later. I’m making both available in my shops. I long ago learned that my taste is not necessarily my audience’s. Unless I hate an image I’m likely to make it available.


In 2021 this newsletter will get a new title – Skook WIP (Works in Progress) and will be hosted at tinyletter.com. If you subscribe, each issue will come directly to your email address. I’ll continure to post links to issues here but, if you want cut down on link hopping, please use the form below to sign up –

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It’s Thanksgiving this week. We’re keeping it small. Just me, my wife, our nephew and his girlfriend. Easy enough since we share the apartment. Others were invited but the C19 resurgence is keeping them home. I’m working the day before Thanksgiving so any cooking I do will happen in the morning on Thursday. Since we’re keeping the menu small I don’t expect to do much. Since I’ll be tired from the day before I really don’t plan to do much.

Thank you for dropping by. I hope that your holiday is warm and relaxing. We’ve been in a slow, stupid apocalypse for months now. Celebrate by doing what makes you happy and keeps you safe. See you next week!

Tuesday Night Party Club #46

Gallery – Strange Aeons

Ah, Strange Aeons 2. The project that launched my most read blog post. If I’d had had sense this either would have been my last project with Chaosium or I would have insisted on being paid upfront from then on. If I had had sense …

Chaosium’s assignments were always fun and they gave no significant editorial oversight so I accepted further commissions. And had to deal with further late payments. Silly me.

Strange Aeons 2 was a collection of Call of Cthulhu scenarios by different authors set in different time periods in different parts of the world published in 2010. The variety made the project fun. My complaints only occurred after I’d done the work.

Story Seed #95
The Price of Redemption

How does a monster find redemption? I’m not referriing to nonhuman monsters – King Kong, dragons,giant ants, whathaveyou. Forces of nature don’t have sins that need absolving. They can smash a city in one story and save humanity from alien invasion in the next without causing a lot of cognitive dissonance in the audience. Human monsters, villains, shouldn’t get such an easy pass. For people, hurting others is a choice. Choices are conscious decisions.

Fiction, especially the adventure genre, is filled with villains. A good villain makes the story more interesting. With series (novels, comics, television, movies) the hero usually faces a different antagonist each episode with a few “archvillains” making repeat appearances. In horror fiction, the “villain” is often the most interesting part of th story. Whole movie series are built around the villain with the hero rotating out with each new installment. Villains become “anti-heroes”.

A bad guy who becomes popular often has their sharp edges shaved off. They get a tragic back story that explains why they’re driven to do bad things. We might learn that their victims were also bad people – perhaps worse than our popular bad guy. Our bad guy might start acting more decently. The really horrible things they did when they were first introduced aren’t mentioned. Those actions get forgotten. Our bad guy “reforms”.

Except that’s not really reforming. The popular bad guy gets a pass for his bad actions because now he has fans. They themselves don’t address their own past actions. They don’t come to terms with the damage they’ve caused. “I tortured and ate your family? Oops. I don’t do that now. I only kill evil people these days. Get over it.”

There are stories to be told of how a human monster comes to terms with their past and makes restitution to, if not their victims, then to greater society. Stories less about how they are forgiven than about how they become forgiveable.

Recommendation

Yes, I did the cover illustration for this book. Buy it for that reason if you like. I’m recommending the book because it’s well written and very funny. For more info and a chance to pre-order, click here.

Local News

The cold and the wet has returned to the Pacific Northwest. Our station manager managed to get our start time moved back to 7 am from the 7:30 we’d been stuck with for the past few months. Maybe I’m getting a cold. Maybe my body is just complaining.

When I started working at USPS I Ididn’t have time for much other than the job. I did very little art. I put a hold on commissions because I had no idea when I’d be able to finish them. I didn’t post here for a year. As I got used to the job I started working on black and white images to get used to drawing again. Quite a few of those featured the Mighty Nizz aka Little Red.

I’m currently adding color to those illustrations and adding them to my portfolio at Redbubble. They are a bit of an odd size. When I originally did them I was thinking about getting art done not where that art might end up.

This:

Becomes this:

This:

Becomes this:

I’ve got another half dozen in process. I will post them as I finish.

Thank you for dropping by. May you have good books to read, good food to eat and good friends to keep you company – even if you can’t see them in person. See you next week!