It is a ritual she is forbidden to refuse, as generations of tradition dictate it so. Biologically, she is adept. Socially, she is required. However, mentally, this ritual irks her.

The child is in the bath; it talks incessantly, as they are wont to do. She nods and murmurs, hearing, not listening. The sponge laves away small layers of dirt. Left arm, right arm, stomach, chest. The child dirties; she cleans.

She dips the sponge, continues the routine. The child splashes her arm with warm water, carols about something trivial. Carries on loudly. She washes behind its ears, sullying her fingers with the grime of the day. The water is gray, the child’s throat is vibrating with some complaint.

Next will come the face, the hair- rinse, repeat. She will dry it, and it will go out once again, to become dirty. The ritual is vicious, but it is not inescapable.

The bath sloshes and she pushes down, under the water’s surface, holding the small neck, fingers kneading away grime as the does. She must lean over the basin to keep her grip. Water sprays up around her, soaking her shirt, her apron: one last mess to clean up.

Long moments pass this way. She will need to mop when this is through. The movement lessens, the bubbles become less frequent.

Soon, the water lays still: the last ripples dying against the porcelain rim, eddies dissipating in a lethargic motion as all turbulence comes to a stop. She withdraws her hand from the bath, letting the droplets flick from her fingertips. As she towels off her arm, a wonderful calm washes over her; the house is silent now. The house is clean. This is how it will remain.

The ritual is broken.

My dog died- she was aprox. 93 in dog years, so needless to say, she lived a full and loved life. It was quick, she was not alone and at home in comfort. I could not ask for a better thing for her.

Death is not a punishment, and it is not an end. Still, I have lost my oldest, most loving companion.

I cannot help but feel a sudden void.





Goodbye, Maggie- you were a very good girl.

So a paragraph(+) from each. Because I want to. I have been writing an obscene amount.

"Mamut" (A childrens' adventure book... with mammoths)

In the north, in the east, there is a land called the taiga. In this land of mossrock, pine and snow the humans once wandered in a herd. These nomads traveled from camp to camp, to the places where the water flowed and the yak and elk and mammoth walked.
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"Boneheart" (Alternately called: "Gabe, Gail, Shade and Shale" - A children's horror story)

As Gabriel made to move forward, his sister's hand snared him at the back of the neck, holding fast. He opened his mouth in indignation, but it fell further in surprise. The way before him had changed drastically- the gray-green leaves and dirt road had shriveled and blackened. Split wagon wheels and shattered carts littered the pathway, while skeletal corpses hung among rope festooned between ghoulish branches, bodies picked over by passing birds.

He recoiled in horror, grasping at her arm for support. "How can it?" Gabriel gasped, pulling them back from the way of desolation he had embarked upon. "How could I not see it?" He turned to Abigail, from behind her the boy named Shale stared in wonder at his surprise. "What else have I been unable to see?"
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"Empath" (A very fucked up short story about torture)

There was a buzzing, the sound of electricity racing. A snake hissing in the ceiling, through the thin panels of Styrofoam, wriggling into the lights. Illuminating. That ceiling with its white, pocked surface and that sound of living wires were the first two tangibles that came to his attention.

An itch followed suit, tingling against his brow.

It was by then he became aware that his hands were anchored behind his back, constricted with a biting wire that cut halfway up his arms.

The hissing in the lights and the irritation on his brow suddenly seemed less significant.
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"The Poles: Those Missing" (Chapter 11)

Near the edge of town there was a small commotion. Several people were in a flurry about a small thatch-roofed house. Its door was swung wide, the light from the inside casting a long rectangle of radiance across their path.

Mixed in with the hurried words, exclamations of stressed furniture and disturbed kitchenware was a high keen of someone in pain.
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"The Poles: Gob Business" (Chapter 7)

Voan napped on horseback often, but woke when Harlon made a growl of alarm. Dusk had crept up on her, pressing a cool mist on her eyes. There was no color to the sunset, and that was the first thing she noticed, the other was that there was a raucous of thunder behind them.

The steed turned without being asked and Voan peered to the road she had just traveled down, seeing a tumultuous thunderhead spreading its dark fingers from down the way. It was a distance off, and that worried her.
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"The Poles: To the Ocean" (Chapter 20?)

There was a sudden touch upon his arm, a cool sinking feeling in his flesh. Next to him a beast of silver and sapphire turned its gaze into his, eyes wet jewels and hair that were tendrils of the moon. Quith did not know whether or not Faristaad had changed on him, or what he was seeing was a trick of the mind, but he was aware that this was Death, and its eyes were not filled with wickedness.


Workworkworkworkwork. I love it.

Are really fun.

I have three weeks alone in my house- as my parents are in Alaska. Then, it's off to school. The only think I have for company is my old, old dog, who chatters her teeth when excited and licks my eye when I am alseep.

ANYWAY. I turned my sunroom into a studio. I have three commissions to do and a shitload of tiny paintings on all of the scrap illustration board I have collected over the years.


If interested in commissioning me, let me know.


ALSO: [link]
This DA portfolio option is BITCHIN.

I spent this whole week busting my ass on a sumi-e painting that I express shipped to Madison last night. Hopefully it gets accepted for year two of the competition. (I will post an image of it as soon as I can)

Other than that- I keep painting small images of boars. For the life of me, I can not tell you why. You might also see those later, if I make enough to compile.


A summer without a job. All I do is draw, write, read and garden.
It's not so bad!