Here I Get To Be Strange

Don't Look Behind You

Seriously, don’t. Look ahead, keep looking ahead. At least you know what lies in front of you. Don’t make the mistake of looking behind. What is ahead, what you can see, is safe…

The House

Jack moved slowly through the abandoned house, making almost no sound, but listening intently to the silence that surrounded him. Up the stairs. He checked each room; nothing but rot and decay. Down the stairs. He rechecked the first floor, still, nothing.

Down the basement stairs. Again, each room as empty as the last. Jack opened the hatch leading into the subbasement, and descended the ladder.

He opened the door to the first room of that level. Empty. He moved to the second room. There it was, and Jack saw it —

Another interesting character from my fucked-up imagination

I don’t have a name for her, yet. But she needs to be drawn. More than that; I need to make a story for her. Potential nightmare fuel GOLD.

Girl, appearing 7-10 years old, in a neo-Victorian dress. Armed with a razor-whip powerful enough to slice through bone, and skilled with it enough to decapitate someone at range. A deep, almost masculine voice. Has a gray teddy bear she always holds on to; berzerks when it’s taken away. Dead eyes.

Whip is never seen or revealed except during an actual attack with it. Rarely talks, and laconic when she does. States she is replaceable, which she is: she is one of a series of clones telepathically linked together (although usually only one of them is off ice at any time).

Prefers decapitation of her enemies whenever possible; badass victory line “you are no longer in my way.”

Where she is from, her actual age, who controls her, etc.: UNKNOWN.

This is why I wish I could draw...

Had a very interesting character design fall into my brain this morning. Actually, several.

First is someone I’m currently calling “Zipper”. Female, white, about 5’4”. Wears tight leather clothing with zippers, each zipper patching up a spot where the leather (and the girl) has been cut in the past. Wears 4” stilettos with razor-sharp zipper teeth along the edge of the sole and down the back of the heels. Blonde, tied back hair going about half-way down her back.

She rarely ever speaks. She almost never looks at anyone directly. If it wasn’t for the getup, she’d seem like a girl who’s been beaten and abused all her life. When she gets freaked out, though, she becomes a murderous, mindless whirlwind.

Next, a character with no name. He’s short, bald at the front, but has a sizable mullet. He can also roll his head about 90 degrees either direction. That is, :-) in his case is literally :-) and not just a smiley on it’s side. Grins a lot; thin lips, often pulled back. Eyes are always darting in every direction, and as often as not, his eyes will point in different directions. Mumbles to himself.

To the sad woman who lives only in my imagination

I don’t know your name, but I see you walk by every day. I want to reach out to you, talk to you, get to know you. Where are you from, where are you going? Why are you so sad?

Perhaps it’s not you who is sad. Perhaps I am merely projecting my own thoughts and opinions onto you, ideas which you have no comprehension of. You have probably never seen me, staring out into the slow traffic as you walk by in the drizzling wet rain of spring. I can’t help but stare as you pass by the window, your body language inviting but guarded.

I would love to invite you in, make you some coffee, and find out everything there is to know about you. I want to make you happy, make you feel loved. I want you to know that despite all the sadness in the world, that you can still be happy. That would make me happy.

But I can’t. Because you don’t exist. Because that window through which I watch you is one in my own mind. And that’s the saddest thing about you.

A symphony of wonderous feeling

Image via Wikipedia

The flapping of wings, is all I hear. The city, all around me, is frozen. Silent. The cacophony of a million people stilled as if time itself were stopped. As if in a trance, I sit down at the table, but it’s as if someone else is moving my body. I am just here for the ride.

“You’re late,” she says.

I cannot deny her; I can’t see how any man could. She is not the prettiest, most attractive woman, no. But her eyes, her eyes and her voice, it is like witchcraft. Where she stares, I go, what she says, digs deep into the pit of my soul. I am but a vessel.

“You’re late,” she says.

It pierces me. She says it gently, softly, but it feels like I’ve been sliced deep across my chest. Her words, a whip with which to punish me, when she chooses, or a salve to heal my wounds. What weak will, mine.

“You’re late,” she says.

Hunter S. Thompson and Lester Bangs pontificate on the lack of gnosis

None of you have any sense. I don’t have sense. You have dollars and I have cents but that’s neither here nor there.

I heard the birds, whispering in my ears as I droned deep noises vibrating up from beneath the surface of the world. The core where I make my home. Where I sing my songs.

Do you understand what I’m saying here? There’s nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all, just what we think about but even that’s just a halucination. The Illuminati have swallowed their tongues and we create our own reality.

Angry angry angry. Nobody listens. They hear what they think but it’s just voices in their heads. Banging punching noise noise noise. I’ll hit you if you keep yelling, I’ll yell and yell and yell.

None of this makes sense. There is no sense here. Just words. No meaning. Where’s meaning? If you can find it show it to me. It’s not here. Bang bang.