Recent watercolor

There is a serenity inherent in English cottages. I try to capture it.

Micky

It started as a shadow moving along the floors in the dim of night or a sound rustling in the stillness of walls or nightstands. A ghostly presence? A manifestation of discord and longing? After months of prayers and introspection, I saw the tail appear. The playful, dislocated field mouse scurried across the carpeted floor, banishing the spectral and spiritual. Harmlessness had been residing within the home, upsetting nothing but deepest insecurities. How often our narratives are wrong. How often darkness is projected onto innocence. Micky, I called him. Why not? He was captured humanely. He sat silently as he was transported to a vast park where he would be safe among grass and trees. Free. When I released him from the plastic trap, in which he had sat quietly during the trip, he burst forth like a star going nova across the graveled parking lot. Not at all towards the safety I intended. How often our narratives are wrong.

Musing at 10:20 pm on a Friday Evening

A neighborhood can be like a campground. As night descends, lights are doused and all that remains are the sounds of crickets, the stars in the sky, and the embers at the end of a cigarette as the smoke ascends to heaven. And all is well with the world.

Fantasy Novel WIP

Here are a couple images I intend to use for a fantasy novel/rpg world that is in progress. The images are partly AI generated, which is fine for my purposes. Images are copyrighted.

100-Word Be-lated Story for Halloween

Alison ran thief-like among the looming cornstalks waving in the cool October evening breeze. She was late for dinner. The school counselor had kept her, concerned with Alison’s fears of being followed by a malevolent entity. Alison had started the long walk home with a light heart, the smell of chimney smoke floating under her nose. Then she entered the cornfield. Footsteps soon filled her ears. Getting closer and louder. For a moment, relief. She entered a clearing. Where was the scarecrow? Alison panicked, her lungs close to bursting. The footsteps came closer. Then rough straw hands grabbed her neck. 

Photo by Jesse Gardner