Outside, With Vincent

...It feels like it's been years. I've finally made a new photo! I'm really excited about it, I'm excited to be "working" again. I found a new little skeleton friend; his name seems to be Vincent. This is what we did today:

Two photographs combined. I think it looks like Vincent is laughing his ass off. 

My friend Alice inspired me to do this when she showed me another photographer's photo using a mirror in a similar way. I don't have a story to go along with this one because it wasn't really planned at all. I just grabbed a big-ish mirror of mine, a few props (large black sheet, my favorite hat), and Vincent and headed out into my yard.

This is definitely an idea I want to explore some more. It was actually a little difficult figuring out where to stand to get the angle I wanted for the mirror reflection. Having my remote shutter release really helped out with that; it would have been incredibly frustrating to have to use the self-timer.

I like the way it turned out and it was fun to spend an afternoon making this after a hard shift at "real" work. So thanks to Alice for the motivational kick~

The Water Bride

Self portrait from today with a short story titled "The Water Bride" pending! I'm working on something that is sort of historical fiction set in the East Indies. It's starting to run a little away from me so I wanted to take a break and revisit it. I still wanted to share the photo I made today to go along with it. Taken in my living room, and I used a texture from my friend Sa Scha -- his textures are unbelievable and his is so generous about letting other artists use them. Danke!~

Vultures

Do you know why vultures eat corpses?

They're scavengers, they're lazy.

Some people think so.

What do you think?

Vultures were once people, lost people who stayed lost. The fog swallowed them.

That's only a story. Lost people are just people.

No, it's the Gods' honest truth! After it rains and the fog descends, all the missing people lose control. They scream and cry out. They are overtaken by a paralysis and their arms grow feathers.

Listen to you. Where did you hear all this?

Mr. Lester told me! He swears it. He told me his sister went missing once, but it was muddy and he could follow her footprints. He saw her fall in the field and roll, her clothes were filthy and he couldn't see her face. She was screaming and the birds everywhe--

You shouldn't take Mr. Lester seriously. His sister left for the City. He's been mad with grief ever since.

No, she didn't leave for the City! If she did, how come no one's heard from her? She doesn't write or visit.

You've never met her. She left before you could walk. How would you know she hasn't written?

Because Mr. Lester isn't the only one who talks about her, and she isn't the only one who's gone to the City and never come back. No one ever comes back from the City. How do we even know there is a City? Have you ever been there?

Of course not, but that doesn't mean there isn't a City. You've never been to the Well with me, but the Well is still there.

Just listen! Mr. Lester said her arms flew back like they were pulled, her face grew long and her screams were terrible. He said it's the worse thing he's ever heard or seen. He said she started to turn black all over and the air grew cold. The wind changed direction and the vultures came from nowhere, sitting in the trees and watching like they knew her!

Vultures don't know people. Vultures are just large, lazy scavengers. They clean up the messes from the other animals. They let everything else do the work and then they leave. Don't let the stories of an old man fool you.

He isn't fooling me. We only see vultures in the village when someone goes missing, or 'goes to the City.' They're only here when it's foggy. Do you ever remember seeing them when the Sun is out?

No, I don't, but I don't concern myself with the movements of vultures. You shouldn't either. Look, you're sweating and working yourself up.

You don't believe me.

You're speaking of ridiculous things, the raving of a lonely man who has no family left. Vultures aren't people. I don't want you seeing Mr. Lester anymore.

But I like Mr. Lester. He needs someone to believe him. He saw these things happen, the Gods' honest truth!

He didn't see anything. I don't want you seeing him, I don't want him filling your head with his crazy stories. You shouldn't be so gullible.

♫ When the fogs roll in, the night is dark,

And the animals quiet, even the lark.

When the light is blocked by all the clouds,

Not even the priests will speak aloud.

That is when the lost are called,

One by one, alone, they fall,

And a lonely brother can see her there,

She goes away, he knows not where.

She joins the others in the sky,

To feast on corpses when the fog rolls by.

We don't believe the legends of the Wood,

But it's the Gods' honest truth that we should. ♫

The Black Window that Birthed Me

Here is another collage I made of five of my old photos. I wrote this story to go with it.

Somewhere in an empty country, there is an empty church and within it, a furnace. The few people who live there know the furnace is the heart of their God. He eats skulls and cats and traveling birds. And he spits out little humans, motley children formed in the dust.

The ritual started taking shape approximately 400 years ago. Those few people knew how to read and write then, but they also wanted to keep their secrets: the reasons why their relatives had such unusual coloring, why they were so good at climbing or swimming or hunting squirrels. They did not want the rest of the world to know about their apprehension toward a bipedal lifestyle -- they could walk on two legs, but it was uncomfortable. The only way we know about this history today is because some of those few people did keep their stories, stories their children kept as well.

On the last new moon of each cold year, the last and darkest night, those young adults, looking to conceive their first child, line up outside the church door. Each of them brings a large basket, containing a sacrificial animal, a libation of beer or milk, a lock of their hair. Alone, they climb the stairs and enter the church. What they see, they are forbidden to tell. God will test each of them individually, give them a personalized horror, extract from them an oath of silence, discover their true will within parenthood. With their offerings, they feed the heart of God, and hear his laughter. The milk and beer are burned away, those waiting outside inhale the scent of scorched hair. The floor inside the church is piled ever higher with the bones of the animals. Everyone can hear the screaming of a new baby.

Babies with dark skin and light hair and light eyes. Babies with yellow eyes and long fingernails. Babies with slitted pupils and full, black curls. They develop quickly, learn language easily. They don't remember where they came from, and they never ask. 

The population of this country gets smaller each passing year. Less prospective parents line up outside the church on the last and darkest night. They are beginning to forget everything about their past, and God is beginning to forget them. 

A Little Experimentation

I'm already feeling the effects of class and work in my huge lack of time! Even now, this is just a fast post before I have to go to work in a half hour (update: I didn't actually get this finished before I had to leave). But I wanted to share something I'm working on that I think could be a little of a new direction for me artistically.

I don't have a title for it; this was literally just an exercise ~ put on some music, grab some of my old photos and make something new out of them. It was truly therapeutic. Just an hour to myself in the morning with some tea and sunshine at the dining room table. 

I want to become a better narrator and go beyond the past year and a half of work I've been doing. I don't want my characters to become limited by my own world. I want to make them homes that are theirs. I'm really enjoying using my old work to practice on and shifting my work habits toward a more organic and less rigid flow, both in terms of my thought process and how I actually put a piece's component parts together. I like the experience of evolution, even as little as it may be. 

I think I'm beginning to feel more positive, truly and at last. 

Death Collections

Even at the height of summer, the trees are dead in Winterland. It's a ghost continent, lost somewhere at the North Pole, erased from maps and memory, where the cold preserves almost everything, where people rarely die.

Death likes to vacation there, get away from the rest of the world where his services are constantly needed. The people of Winterland treat him differently: they invite him in for coffee and black jack, include him in their home movies. The children carry around his little effigies and play with them in the snow.

The people of Winterland give alms to Death, tithes paid in blades and black silk, polar bear hides if it's been a prosperous season. All their exports go to him, and before his return to the daily grind of taking souls, he makes his way through the towns of Winterland, stopping at gates and doors to receive his appreciation. "We'll see you next year, Mister," she said, bowing her head in quiet respect.

Death gently took her gift and turned away, the fog curling around the edges of his cloak, and shadows settling where he once laid his feet.