unconstant

Okay, seems like that same ol' problem of not being able to continue something has happened again so I'll just update when I actually have a thought in my head, instead of starting with the blank slate and trying to make up something directly. I've been thinking all my entries have been sounding kinda the same anyway. *sigh*

done for

Thaph thrashed about desparately, as much as he could with his paw crunched between the iron jaws. Stupid stupid stupid! He should have smelled the trap, the metallic smell that is now mingled with his own blood. He glanced around quickly to see if any predators were around in the nearby grasses. He looked up to the sky to see if there were any raptors searching. The metal chain clanked as Thaph struggled some more, bleeding still but beginning to clot. He now became wise to the scent of man in this place. He had seen men before, even snuck into their gardens for a daring meal, but didn't think they came all the way out here!

The man came an hour and a half later, and found a very weak and tired brown rabbit. The man broke the animal's neck with a quick twist then removed the lockjaw along with its prize. He'll have to clean the blood off of it before he can use it again. Pesty rabbits. He'll keep putting his traps out until his garden is safe, or until he can make a nice rabbit fur coat for Charlene down at the diner.

Rock Painter

Everyday, Rock Painter would paint the rock outside his cave black.

The brush, made from hair and bundled together crudely, would have caked paint on it, from overnight. Rock Painter would pick up his brush and black morning paint, and while the sun slowly grew interested in the day, Rock Painter would paint his rock.

The rock was eight feet high by 6 feet girth, and already filled with many images, from animals to tribes to gods to elements, and Rock Painter would paint more and more details onto it. When the sun had reached the the top of the tallest tree near his cave, Rock Painter would stop, and go to the nearby creek to rinse his brush.

The rest of the day, Rock Painter gathered more binnberries to create more paint. Poisonous if ingested, the binnberries contained special enzymes that bonded with the rock make-up, giving Rock Painter a medium that withstood the weather and animal hunger. He would gather berries until the sun reached its zenith, and after quickly squishing them in his bowl and mixing the mashed binnberries with a small amount of water, he would go tend to his other needs.

After dinner, Rock Painter would return to his paint and mix up the paint some more before he went to sleep.

Then when he woke, he would paint again.

Dreary

It was a dreary day when young Bradley Grippot, 6 years old, returned home from his first day at school. Dreary not because of the weather so much (it WAS kind of cloudy) but because of his classmates. He sulked about it on the bus, even though he was still new to the whole riding-the-bus experience. Most of the other children went to the same preschool the year before so they talked to each other. What did you do this summer? they would ask. We went to camp, or we went to Disneyland, they crooned. Bradley had sat around and waited for someone to ask him or to invite him to play with them. Really, he didn't want to intrude, just as his mother had taught him, but tomorrow, toMORrow, he'll have to take things into his own hands. He'll start by asking THEM first, and when they asked him right back, well, he'll just say he went to Hawaii. Of course that's a lie, because who would really believe that he returned from training to be an interstellar spy for the Afwellian aliens?

Recycle

He picked up the empty can up from the sidewalk and was about to toss it into the overflowing trash can then thought twice about it. He held on to it and passed a mother chattering to her son before finding a recycling bin inside the doorway of a run-down Chinese restaurant. He suddenly felt mighty good for doing that, more than what most people would do without a thought, if they even bothered to pick up the can without muttering. Right on cue, a cloud shifted to reveal the sunlight shining down on him. He felt if he could hear a little better, he might hear cherubim singing hallelujah. With a little jaunt to his step now, he whistled as he continued down the street.

Leave

In spring, deciduous trees grow fresh foliage to welcome the growing day. In summer, photosynthesis goes on full blast, each chloroplast hungry for for more sunlight to produce more sugars. By fall, things have slowed down, so much that colors change and these trees lose their leaves, becoming skeletal. And in winter, they don't need so much energy for the upkeep of their canopies because there is none.

One leaf hung on stubbornly throughout the fall and winter. Anybody who passed it by after a hard blizzard would wonder why there was a leaf that has not fallen so late into the holiday season, but nobody noticed. Then, just as the next equinox rolled around, someone plucked it off the tree!

That's it! I'm sure there's a lesson in here somewhere, although fact being that I just made this all up kinda holds back the punch a bit, hmzzzt!

More "green"

John was feeling adventurous tonight. Foolishly adventurous. A good part of his common sense was still reeling from being dumped by that ungrateful bitch. After a bad day of work (still not concentrating), he found himself in a bar he never noticed before.

"What is it with women!", he complained to the barkeep. "Suck your wallet dry, give 'em food and shelter, then they kick ya down!" He sloshed his beer around. "They get all the .. they .. they just get it all!"

Bob, the barkeeper, eyed John warily. Then, his right eyebrow went up with a gleam in his eye. "I got somethin' for ya. Mebbe it'll do y'somethin'." He reached up to a high shelf and brought down a bottle with a clear green liquid inside. "Uh.. left over from yesterday. St. Patrick's, y'know?"

"Fine, fine," John said, and downed the rest of his beer. He let the barkeep fill up his mug and then peered at it while Bob put the empty bottle away. "So.. green."

"Yep." Bob said. "You don't want it, let me know," and he went to go tend to his other patrons.

John took a small sip. Is this beer? He couldn't tell. Then he drank some more and felt kind of tingly when he reached bottom. It wasn't too bad, he thought, but geez, I'm tired. He left the money on the counter for the drink and walked home, his mind still replaying yesterday's break up.

The next morning, he had grown to a 36C.

Diane (& the gapot)

Once upon a time (again), maybe around a century ago, there lived a girl named Diane. Diane lived in a small cabin in a rural area, surrounded by sparse trees that were slowly decimated by her artisan father but they proliferated into battalions after a quarter mile or so from the home. She spent most lazy afternoons weaving in and out of trees, trying to count squirrels.

Her father was a respected wood sculptor. Diane's younger sister died shortly after childbirth and was buried near a tree stump, her father deciding to use the stump as the grave marker instead of a granite headstone. Every year, he would clean off the stump and redefine its features to resemble a relief lamb and the inscription "Too soon, too soon". He also sold some of the wood on his property to other local residents. He often gave a small complimentary sculpture to those buyers he favored, usually of various squirrels Diane had decided to give names to. You'd think he wouldn't be able to tell the difference between one squirrel and the next, but he could, as could Diane. Diane's mother just shook her head at it all. He also tried making a violin after finding the odd book at general store (odd that a violin crafting book should end up in this place!) and it was not a bad first attempt, but after Diane scratched its strings with the bow a few times, gave up any idea that she had musical ability and set off once again to count squirrels.

At the age of 12, Diane happened upon a skunk, and the surprised skunk naturally sprayed Diane with what you and I would only wish upon our worser enemies. However, Diane discovered she could not smell a thing. But she did feel upset that her clothes were now of an unfit state so after dispatching the skunk (she felt quite vengeful and she had her trusty knife with her), she shed her clothes and tried to wash out what she could in a nearby creek. Mildly successful, she let her clothes dry while she stayed motionless and tried to see if any other forest creatures felt like paying her a visit.

Not too far away, a gapot was tromping around, waylaying people taking the shortcut through the forest to the next town. Gapots are actually half the size of a human, look like trolls, but enjoy home-cooked meals often carried by these sort of travelers, hence the waylaying. Gapots also happen to be quite stinky if you get within a certain distance of them, but are very quick.

By the time her clothes had dried enough, Diane could her the gapot thrashing about in a distance. Feeling curious still while the day was not done, she threw on her clothes and skitted off toward the noise. Upon spying the gapot running away with an old lady's meal, Diane stalked the gapot quietly at a safe distance. When it was sure that it could eat its prize in peace, the gapot settled down at the edge of a clearing and commenced devouring. What a juicy turkey sandwich! Cooked last night! It slowed down and chewed to savor the food.

Diane spotted the creature and, emboldened by her earlier bout with the skunk, stealthily approached the gapot from behind. She figured her lack of olfactory sense at the time would be an advantage. However, she forgot that her own clothes still bore some skunk smell so the gapot, odiferous as it was, was able to smell Diane coming. He turned around and saw the girl approaching with ther knife, and surprise widened her eyes at being discovered.

The gapot, a coward by nature, quickly dashed off, later regretting to remember to pick up its meal. Diane, disappointed at her failure to sneak up on the gapot, scooped up the remaining food and brought it back to where she had seen the old lady. She was only up the path a short distance and brightened up when she saw Diane returning with her food. The lady figured Diane had battled the gapot, so she thought nothing of Diane's own aroma. She thanked the young girl profusely even when Diane didn't want to give out her name (Shy girl, she was. Comes from having few people living around where she did and only squirrels that chirrup at you) and when she arrived in town, she spoke to her friends and family there about the girl who retrieved her food from that horrid gapot.

Diane returned home and was scolded by her mother for being quite careless to have stumbled upon a skunk. Diane couldn't really refute that, so she sat quietly while her mother used industrial strength soap (made with goat fat) on Diane's hair. And that ends the story of Diane and the gapot.

AX Badge Art

There. I've added all the badge art I've ever done up to today to the art tab. I'm lying - I know I've done linework for some of Hamusutaa's badges but he wanted to color them so I did not include those. I also didn't include Niko's 'cuz I had used another guy's photo of the Cal campus as the background but I forgot where I got it. And the badge I actually used for AXNY was some hack job 'cuz my real image was messed up through no fault of my own. And maybe some other ones I've forgotten.. but this is pretty much it!

Statistics (just for fun)

# of badges done by year:
2003: 2
2002 (AXNY): 2
2002 (AX): 5
2001: 3
2000: 5
1999: 4
1998: 5
1997: 2 (1 did not get used)

# of badges done by person:
Amy: 1
CatsMeow: 1
curse: 7
Hamusutaa: 1
Hydrant: 1 (Didn't get used)
Mr. Ishiguro: 2
kor: 1
meowa: 2
Outis: 6
PacoPaco: 5
thndr: 1

Total: 28 badges

Procedure: Drawn, scanned, worked with in Photoshop, all while getting approval from each respective client.

I wonder what to use as my own badge art this year...

Not really gingerbread

"Would you like another box?"

Theresa looked at her co-worker again. Another box? I shouldn't eat THAT many, she thought.

"Really, you can have another- Give it to someone else if you like. And let me know what you think," she said and pushed the box at Theresa. She stood there, holding the two boxes of cookies. They were shaped like gingerbread men, but the coloring was off.

"Um, tell me again why your daughter can't sell these cookies?" Theresa asked.

"Oh, these are kind of like an experiment, you know? Try it in some market areas to see if they should go ahead and make more to really sell it," she replied. She paused, then hesitated before asking, "Speaking of experiment, do you like that sci-fi stuff?"

Theresa sniffed disdainfully. "No, it's all just fluff. A waste of time, that type of fiction," and she thought fondly of her own growing collection of romance novels at home.

"Oh yes, same here," her co-worker lied, and she thought instead of that last ingredient listed on the box side: soylent green.

Waiting

It stood at attention in the dark for over a week now, paying no attention to the slivers of light. After two weeks, its stomach's contents had not gone down any but it thought it was hungry nonetheless. Another week went by and finally the sliver expanded to an opening twice its width and it was freed from its prison. It was taken to a more expansive location, with familiar furniture and shag carpet. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams as the thin curtain undulated with the wind. Its tail suddenly filled it with interminable energy and the vacuum cleaner roared to life.

Microfission

On the way back home from dim sum with meowa, Pawtee & PsychoStrm, Outis had left the radio on KALW 91.7 FM and we listened to Invisible Ink for a while. The topic today was microfiction, or "tiny lit", as described on littleelegy.com. After listening to a few pieces being read on the air, we mused, 'hey, we could do that and put it in a blog'. So, I would like to try this out: putting out a small amount of words of fiction (or maybe anything) daily into this blog. So, here goes something:

- - - - - - - - - -
There she was, abandoned in the middle of nothing, midpoint of a line segment connecting any two opposing stars. Nothing to provide an opposing force to start along a vector, or even rotate. She's stuck, staring at Orion's skimpy belt almost forever. The darkness of space obscured her own extremities from her sight when she turned her head. They had rendered her motionless and had long gone back to the home star system. She had screamed at them to come back but who can hear anything in space? Her coordinates will be kept top secret, or forgotten. It sure sucks being agoraphobic.
- - - - - - - - - -

Okay, that wasn't all that great, but this'll prolly be the "just churn out what you can and who cares about quality" kinda project, hee hee.