Mushroom Clouds

The hive was beautiful. A drop of sunlight twisting in lazy loops. It all but glowed with promise and Harry licked his lips in anticipation. He squinted up at the hive and his brain began to whorl. The hive was a good six meters from the ground, but that was hardly the problem. The real problem, the thing that gave Harry pause, was the Gigantus Fungalus.

Gigantus Fungalus were a rare species of giant mushroom and this hive, this beautiful font of sweet treasure, was nestled deeply within the black fronds of one such mushroom. Harry stroked his stubbled chin. Even within the Neglar Marshes, a veritable paradise for fungi, the Fungaluswere rare and Harry’s prime directive was to keep them safe.
Well, his actual job was harvesting honey, but it was his personal belief that one could do so without unnecessarily hurting the environment. The whole thing with the bees was unfortunate, but Harry had heard some interesting stories of keeping bees in boxes, almost like livestock and he was eager to try it out for himself. If all went to plan he would be able to secure the queen from this hive and…

“So can I cut it down yet?”

Barnaby.

Barnaby was… well, Barnaby carried enough size and weight to make up at least three extra people. His ego was of a complimentary size. Harry scowled at his partner. Of all the muscle in the village, why had he been paired with such an unconscionable jerk?

“No. You can’t cut it down. Ever. We have to preserve the ecosystem. Now shhh. I’m thinking.”

Harry circled the giant toadstool. It’s trunk was a musky off white, the cap a dull brown. The black fronds fluttered in the wind playing a taunting game of peek-a-boo with the hive. Harry pressed his hands against the trunk. It swayed slightly at his touch. They would never be able to climb it, but Harry already knew that. The giant mushrooms could not support the weight of a man. Yet, some of the other species could.
Harry squinted at the surrounding flora. He spied the telltale yellow of Agricarum Agricarum and hurried toward the outcropping. As was particular to this species, they grew in a kind of radiating spiral, each mushroom an offshoot from the one before it, creating a step-like effect. The tallest barely came to a third of the Gigantus Fungalus, but Agricarum were notorious for their springy quality. Harry clambered up onto the smallest one.

“Oh come on! Just let me hack at it!”

Harry ignored his partner and began a gentle bounce. If he could use the Agricarum as a spring board, perhaps he could launch himself high enough to grab the hive.

“You look like an idiot.”

Harry bounced a little higher. He smiled at how quickly he was gaining height and then he was falling. His feet sunk into yellow cap. Puffs of black spore shot out from under the Agricarum. Harry didn’t get a chance to react. Momentum pushed him into the air once more. When his feet found yellow again, the spore cloud erupted. Harry floundered inside the dark cloud, choking to find breath. Struggling to orient himself. He misjudged his footing, hit the cap side on and crashed roughly to the marsh floor.

Harry crawled into clean airspace and heaved. Barnaby stood a little off to the side, shielding his face with a bandanna. His voice was muffled, but Harry didn’t have any trouble deciphering the words.

“Genius plan, Mastermind.

Harry stood up, still hacking spore from his lungs. “Eh… I forgot… that… about Agricarum.”

Barnaby rolled his eyes at Harry and then he unhooked the Machete from his belt. “Right, my turn.”

“No wait!”

Barnaby paused and for a moment Harry thought that his partner had listened, but then he saw the play of rainbow light against the ground and heard the telltale hum of Anisop Pterras. Harry turned to face the large insectoid. It was hurtling straight toward them. Harry felt his chest tighten. The Pterras was as beautiful as it was deadly. All iridescent wings and gnashing mandibles. Man against beast. It shouldn’t have to be that way…

And it didn’t.

“Wait! Stop! Bandannas up. You don’t have to kill it!”

Harry didn’t wait to see if Barnaby had obeyed. He sprinted toward the yellow mushrooms, hoisting his bandanna over his mouth and nose as he went. He clambered up onto an Agricarumand he began to jump. His feet pounded into yellow and he rose into the air. Clouds of mushroom spore following him up. Black filled the air and soon Harry could not see a thing, but neither could the Pterras.

Lungs burning and body drenched in sweat, Harry finally stopped. He waited for the clouds to clear and then he made his descent. He smiled to himself. The spore clouds had been a great idea for the Pterras, but what of the hive?

Harry found Barnaby black with spore. Only his eyes shone out and they were red with anger.

“Are you done?”

“A thank-you for saving me from the Pterras would be nice.”

Barnaby gave Harry a cold stare. “I don’t need any saving.”

It was then that Harry noticed the machete still in Barnaby’s hands. Barnaby swung the blade with practiced ease.

“NO!”

The Machete sang through the air. There was a dull squelch and suck as it cut deep and severed flesh.

It felt like an eternity as the Gigantus Fungalus crashed to the floor.

Barnaby hoisted the machete over his shoulder and began walking toward the cap, toward the destruction and the prize. Harry followed after him, whimpering along the entire length of the trunk.

Beneath the fronds lay the few shattered remains of what had once been a hive. The honey had made a tasty meal for an undisturbed  Anisop Pterras.

“Why,” Barnaby muttered, “Out of all the brains in the village, did I have to get the dumbest one?”

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The Dress

The dress was torture. Lace dug into flesh. Satin coiled, a slow compression from waist to throat. Below, swaths of pallid pink crested atop roiling waves. Raega was drowning. She tried to remain steady, eyes fixed on the mirrored wall before her, but she was drowning and today she could not hide it.
Atop the fitting box she stood, hands fisted by her sides. She’d force her fingers into a more natural pose, but each time they would slowly curl back and betray her anger. Her eyes weren’t any help either: large and red rimmed within a face tensed from holding back rage. Two tailor’s assistants working below her didn’t care to notice, but Haimler did. He was a man nearing sixty, but still in the prime of health. A strong presence in this room full of fluff. Raega watched his reflection as he watched her. She waited for her Master of Wardrobe to speak.
“Is the dress not to your satisfaction, Lady?”
“No, Haimler. It is not.”
The assistants paused in their work. Raega felt the air thicken. It was as if someone had placed a wad of cotton over the room, muting all of her senses. Raega wanted to scream. She wanted to claw at the lace on her neck and gasp for air. Instead, she maintained her stiff posture. She studied the emotion unraveling across her face. Haimler stepped forward. She could not bring herself to meet his gaze.
“This was your mother’s top choice, but I do have other samples for you to consider.”
Haimler clicked his fingers, and the assistants all but sprinted from the room. Raega fought the urge to scramble after them. She kept her eyes fixed to the mirror and the bloated pile of fluff she had been transformed into. She knew this had been her mother’s choice. Her mother’s choices were as suffocating as the dress Raega now wore. Raega didn’t want to go to The Club, and she didn’t want to liaise with the other young nobles. Yet, she had been going, if only to please her mother and to keep the peace. She was willing to sacrifice one evening each month to uncomfortable dresses and even less comfortable company, but she was not willing to sacrifice herself.
“You need to be more approachable.”
“Excuse me?”
“The young men find you difficult to talk to. You glare too much. Smile. Be more… feminine.”
Haimler cleared his throat, startling Raega out of her remembered conversation. He motioned toward a rack of dresses and held out his hand to help her from the fitting box. She lifted her skirts and stepped down, but before she could make her way toward the rack, Hailmer leaned in close.
“Lady Raegalynn, in my personal opinion, it would not be a bad thing for you to take a more decisive role in your choice of clothing. I am, after all, your Master of Wardrobe.”
And then he stepped back, leaving Raega to wonder if his words had been true, or only imagined.
The dresses Raega’s mother insisted she wear, the dresses all the noble ladies wore, existed in the realm of washed-out pinks and blues, sickly things that had been drained of their life. The dresses on this rack were different, the fabrics dipped into a much darker colour range. One of the dresses was a deep plum; another, a soft forest green. The necklines varied in their placement, and not all of them were as heavy in the skirt. Raega trailed her fingers down the sleeve of the deep plum gown. She followed the bumps and grooves as the floral design swirled down the arm. These dresses would no doubt cause a stir at The Club, but they still existed within that realm of fluff and lace. It still felt like they had been designed to smooth over the sharp edges. They would still render the wearer soft and approachable.
Haimler stepped forward, “Are these dresses more to your liking, Lady?”
Raega trailed her fingers down the curve of one of the lower necklines. “They’re very pretty Haimler.”
“But?”
“But I don’t want to look pretty.”
“And how is it, that you would like to look?”
Raega turned to her Master of Wardrobe. A smile twitched across her lips.
“Deadly.”

Break

Chantal pushed up from the padded gym floor and sucked deeply against her mouth guard. She ran her tongue against the front of it. The plastic device was smooth, but bulky. It pushed on her upper lip and forced it into a pout. No you can’t pout with your top lip. This was an overbite. Chantal sucked at it again, swallowing the excess saliva it was so great at provoking.

I am never going to get used to wearing this thing… any of this stuff.

Chantal tilted her head back and rolled, shoulder to shoulder. The helmet wasn’t heavy, but the extra weight was enough that she could feel the shift in balance. The thick foam pads squashed her cheeks and turned her into a puffed up, sweaty mess. Chantal shook out her gloved hands and thickly padded shins and feet, took a deep breath, and steadied herself. She raised her gloves to head height, one slightly in front of the other, and looked toward her opponent. He was watching her, hands always at the ready, his stance steady. Getting used to the gear was hardly her biggest worry.

Chantal gave a short nod. Her muscles tensed.

Devon moved in. He closed the gap and struck, one fiery punch after the next. Chantal barely managed to block the first few, but she quickly recovered and was soon moving in a familiar rhythm, blocking and ducking and shifting away from danger. And that was a problem. As long as Chantal didn’t counter, didn’t land any blows of her own, Devon had the advantage. All he had to do was keep coming, keep moving with her, and eventually her guard would falter, eventually he would find ribs or stomach or one of a thousand other soft spots the body housed. And when he did, Chantal would find the floor. Again.

It happened quickly this time. Chantal misstepped, putting herself off balance. Devon saw it the moment it happened. He swept low, aiming his kick at Chantal’s faltering foot. Her leg buckled, and there was nothing she could do but tuck into the fall and brace for impact. Chantal’s forearm hit the ground first, swiftly followed by the rest of her. The contact reverberated through her bones.

“Bleh!”

Chantal rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Devon stood in the blurry periphery of her view. A giant from where she lay. A testosterone filled, muscly giant who had no issues with hitting anybody. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t she hit anybody? Why couldn’t she hit him?

“Do you need a break?”

Chantal shook her head. No. She didn’t need a break. She needed to break. That was the whole damn point of this exercise. They had tried the gentle approach. They had tried to ease into it, but that hadn’t worked. Chantal had learned the techniques: how to move, how to block, how to punch. But she still couldn’t hit people. Every time it came to actually striking another living, breathing human being, Chantal faltered. She seized up and held back. That’s why they were doing this. If Devon pushed her, she would push back. That was theory.

In practice, it wasn’t working.

Chantal let her frustration out in a low growl. She should want to hurt Devon, but the only aggression she felt was to herself. Why could she not break past this barrier? Had generations of patriarchal rule lodged so firmly in her mind that nothing could shake it? She was a feminist. She didn’t believe all that bullshit about women being passive and soft and needing men for protection. Hell, women needed protection from men. That was why she was here. That was why she had picked up that martial arts flier and called the number. She had had enough of girls’ night being interrupted by over entitle- jerks. Enough of smiling at them for fear that outright rejection would make them aggressive.

And then there was that Tinder date… why had she ever thought to go on a Tinder date?

Men were horrible. In so many different ways, and yet, there was this wall telling her that hitting someone was wrong, regardless of what that person was doing to her.

Turn the other cheek.

That was her church upbringing talking, but the church wouldn’t serve her here. It was as entangled with the patriarchy as any other institution. Chantal didn’t need the church. She needed a new God.

“Oh praise be to the feminine power,” she muttered under her breath.

“What was that?”

Chantal stood up and settled into her fighting stance, “I said, fuck the patriarchy.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Chantal didn’t wait for Devon to attack. She stepped in, feinted and landed a low jab to his side. The punch wasn’t hard, and she had hesitated slightly before impact, but it was a start.

Devon laughed as he countered her cross.

“Better!”

And then they were caught up in the dance once more. Devon pushed faster and Chantal kept up, this time adding her own attacks through the onslaught. Chantal lost herself to the rhythm. Lost herself to the idea that Devon would block any punch she threw at him. Her mind switched to autopilot and in one swift motion, she swept Devon’s attack aside and countered with a punch to the gut.

Devon’s stomach folded in as air rushed from his lungs. Chantal froze. She stared, wide eyed, as the “oomph” left Devon’s lips. Her mind screamed at her.

What have I done?

The punch came from nowhere. Chantal felt it like a distant echo in her ear, and she staggered back. Her brain fogged over, and she forgot to keep her guard up, forgot, for a moment what she was supposed to be doing. Devon came in fast, three shots to the abdomen and then a sneaky sweep that knocked her off her feet and back down to the floor once more.

Chantal blinked back the shock.

“Why did you stop?”

“What?”

“Why did you stop? That was good. But if you want to land my ass on the floor you can’t hes-”

Chantal lunged toward Devon’s ankle. She had his toes, for just a brief moment, and then he bounced out of harm’s way. He was smiling when Chantal got to her feet. She wasn’t. His last attack had been sneaky, low. It had quivered through her body and snagged against something important. Somewhere in the aftershock a part of her had come undone. Before, it had just been training. It had just been Devon doing his job, but the punch felt dirty. Chantal raised her gloves and began to circle. Devon mirrored her actions. He was grinning like an idiot. Chantal wanted to wipe that smirk off of his stupid, dirty face. She moved in.

“Yes! Playtime!” Devon cheered.

Chantal narrowed her eyes at him. “No,” she said. “Playtime is over.”

The blows came thick and fast. Each grunt a promise of the bruise to come. Chantal found her moment. She struck. Devon’s excited “Whoop!” echoed through the room as his body crashed to the floor.

Return

Dust lay thick on the furniture. Spots of sun leaked through the worn curtains. Somewhere, a rodent skittered away on clawed feet. Kayla stood in the middle of the living room and sighed. She wasn’t sure why she had come. She had given so many years to this place, to the waiting. It hadn’t given back, yet she couldn’t help but feel guilty for having abandoned it.
Kayla stepped around the couch and into the kitchen. Her breath caught in her throat as her hand grabbed toward the nearest wall. She swayed on the spot, fighting against what her eyes saw but her brain refused to believe. Standing beside the antique stove was her sister. Her twin sister. Gone was the unsure teenager who Kayla remembered. In her place stood a confident woman with beaded dreadlocks gathered atop her head and a hand resting easy on a solid fighting staff. The strangeness was still there. That haunting way she tilted her head as if listening to something a million miles away. The way her eyes looked glossed over yet swam with swirling clouds. And the voice, as if speaking from another place:
“Kayla. I have been waiting for you.”
Kayla didn’t know if she should laugh or cry or scream.
“Waiting for me? You’ve been waiting for me?” She shook her head. “I waited for you. For six years, Ruta, I waited.”
Ruta closed her eyes and lifted her chin, catching a breeze that wasn’t there. No, that wasn’t here. How easy it was to watch her sister drift between two worlds and feel that anger rise again, anger at not being given the same gifts as her twin.
Anger at being normal.
Kayla thought she had moved past all of that, but this shock and storm of emotions thrust her back into childhood. She knew how hard it had been on Ruta -she had watched her sister struggle with even the most mundane of tasks- and still Kayla had wanted to be the one that was different.
Ruta came back to the room. Her eyes focused on Kayla. Ruta didn’t look like she struggled with things anymore. Ruta didn’t look like someone who saw her gifts as a disability anymore.
“Why did you stop waiting?”
It wasn’t an accusation; just curiosity. Kayla let her body slide down the wall. Her eyes stared at nothing.
“I lost hope. I started to believe mom was right. You had to be dead.”
“I was dead. I will be dead again. We are all trapped in the cycle of life and death. Living is just unbecoming and reconstructing. Death and rebirth. You die too. We all do.”
Kayla looked long and hard at her twin. Ruta was right. Kayla could not find even a spark of the teenage rebel she had once been: a young girl willing to take any risk just to be different, to feel different. That girl had died.
Kayla could feel herself dying again. A cycle of unbecoming and becoming again.

Buhle Process Videos

Hey guys!

Here are the process videos for my Buhle Painting. Still a bit skwonky and all over the place, but I am starting to feel more at home in Photoshop. Huzzah!

The first Video is the initial sketch. I took a pretty long time figuring out how to place her arms. This video is mostly me drawing arms and then erasing arms and then drawing arms and then erasing arms… you get the idea. 😛

The second starts with a few quick colour comps before diving into the final piece.

Disclaimer: Yes, I know I shouldn’t do backgrounds last. 😛

Buhle

Buhle dipped her oar into the Lagoon. Ripples spread out across the surface, distorting the once prosperous city that lay beneath the water. It had been called Cape Town, but that was before the ocean invaded the land, before the world went mad and before humankind changed. Now it was simply the Lagoon: a place where life flourished above the water and memories twisted in the currents far below. It was those memories Buhle sought. It was those memories that all Salvagers sought. At least, it was that curiosity and desire for something more that first drove them to join the salvaging crews. But time and failure weathered the spirit. Many gave up. They returned to their homes, ready to forget, to become respectable members of society once more. Others simply salvaged for the raw materials their people could use and forgot the dream. They stopped believing that technology could be recovered. It had drowned along with their ancestors.

Water swirled and pressed against the wood of Buhle’s oar. She pulled back, feeling the pressure of the oar’s passage. She felt it through her skin, muscle, bone. She felt it pressing against her spirit, that pushing, suffocating sense that the water had nothing to give. The water could not answer her dreams. It was a terrifying feeling, but the more time she spent below the surface, the more time she spent staring at the strange lines of circuitry, unable to decipher their secrets, unable to bring them back to life, the more it felt like truth. The Lagoon could not answer her dreams.

But it had not crushed them.

Buhle’s gaze drifted toward the distant foothills and the flat-top mountain that rose from them. Even from this distance, she could see the pristine white walls stretching across the summit. The people that lived atop the mountain -the Table- had secrets. At night the mountain glowed with yellow dots, like stars dropped from the sky. The lights did not flicker or dance. They remained chained in place, perfectly still and obedient. The lights on the Table did not burn like fire.
The Table did not share its secrets. Because secrets were power.

To leave the Lagoon, to step onto dry land and enter those foothills meant slavery. It meant torture. Death. Children were taught from a young age never to leave the water, but The Table had secrets, and as far as Buhle could see, the Lagoon had only ghosts.

A soft croak pulled Buhle from her thoughts. She gently rested her cheek against the toad perched on her shoulder and smiled faintly.

“Ah Buddy. You’re right of course, one battle at a time.”

They sat like that for a moment, the toad croaking a soft, almost purring melody and Buhle breathing in the contact like it was a drug. Then her village came into view, and the spell broke.

Thick concrete squares pushed up and out of The Lagoon. They were the last surviving remnants of Cape Town: the top-most stories of high-rise buildings standing defiant against the water. Coloured cloth fluttered on balconies, and everywhere was the activity of people. Men and women gutting fish, children running about and playing in the water. Still others pushing off in canoes to go hunt or fish. Floating walkways had been constructed between the buildings, and the rooftops served as common areas for people to gather. The high-rises made for easy homes -many villages such as this one existed across the Lagoon. Buhle took in a deep breath as she steered toward the docks. This visit was a farewell. She couldn’t tell her family that, wouldn’t tell them her plans, but she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving without one last chance to be with them. One more day of laughter with her brothers, one last chance to be wrapped tight within Goggo’s warm embrace…

But they would have to forgive Buhle first.

“Molo Buhle!”

Buhle looked up and smiled, the tension easing slightly as she marveled at the ridiculous enthusiasm Wezi could muster for waving. Nathi did not show the same outward excitement, but he was smiling broadly.

“Molweni, my brothers!”

Wezi leaned over to grab the canoe, mooring rope already in hand. He spoke as he worked, every action a vibrant release of energy, “Goggo will be so happy to see you! She has been asking, -and when will that little one that makes all the trouble be coming again?- Goggo makes like life is boring with just me and Nathi at home.”

Wezi’s words should have felt soft, a laughter in the breeze, but they burrowed into Buhle’s chest and held fast. She stood up, her muscles feeling as if they had been replaced with solid stone, and heaved herself onto the jetty. Wezi bounded forward, arms wide to hug his little sister, but then he paused. He stared at the toad on Buhle’s shoulder.

“You have been making trouble.”

Buhle curled into herself. Her eyes stung with the promise of tears.

“Yeah… but… I can still get a hug, can’t I?”

Buhle choked on the silence that followed. Out of all of them, she had told herself, at least Wezi would understand. Now she stood before him, broken and exposed, as he contemplated her with a deep intensity he rarely allowed people to see. Buhle turned back toward her canoe.

“If you… If you think I should go…”

“Oh no… no, Boo, of course you can still get a hug. Hey, it’s okay. You’re still my little sister.”

Wezi wrapped his arms around Buhle and pulled her in tight, switching effortlessly from manic playmate to protective big brother. Buhle nestled into his warmth and allowed a few tears to escape. The hug was over too soon, but when Buhle pulled back, she saw Nathi was already on his way to the apartment. A whimper escaped her.

Wezi wrapped an arm around Buhle’s shoulder.

“It will be better if Goggo has a few moments to prepare. This won’t be easy for her.”

“I know.”

And Buhle did know, but it still stung. Nathi didn’t wait to say hello. He didn’t even give her a chance, he just… left.

“C’mon, let me take your bag.”

Buhle handed her belongings to Wezi and started walking. Her muscles were twitching. This was hard. This was so much harder than she had ever imagined it to be.

“Hey,” Wezi said gently. “It’s going to be alright, you’ll see. Goggo will find a way to blame me and Nathi. You know how it is.”

Wezi’s voice suddenly erupted into a terrible imitation of Goggo. “You call yourself big brothers? Hai! You let my granddaughter run off with a Salvaging Crew! My granddaughter! Of course something like this would happen! You are a disgrace as brothers! Disgrace!”

Buhle couldn’t help but let a smile cross her lips, “You let me run away, huh?”

“Of course. You couldn’t possibly do anything without first obtaining our brotherly approval.”

“And do you approve?”

There were several beats of silence. Then Wezi said, “I understand.”

Buhle grabbed onto those words, simple yet layered with so much meaning, and held tight. No matter what happened, Wezi would always be waiting on the other side of it. Wezi would be her beacon in the darkness.

“Buhle…”

Buhle blinked and found herself barely an arm’s length from Goggo. She wanted to throw her arms around the old woman. She wanted to confess and cry and have all her sins washed away in soothing lullabies, but that look on Goggo’s face…

“Goggo?”

Goggo stretched her hand out toward Buhle, but jerked it back with a cry. She brought both hands up to her chest, fisting them in her clothing. Tears gathered in her eyes, and her voice broke on a single word,

“Why?”

Buhle looked at her grandmother. There was no pride shining in her eyes, no warmth, no love. Only the hurt and the shock and confusion that Buhle had caused. Buhle didn’t know how to process it. Goggo, her Goggo, in so much pain because of her.

“I… it.. it was an accident. I didn’t mean for…”

Buhle hadn’t meant to lie, but the look in Goggo’s eyes broke her, and the words tumbled out. There was always talk of spontaneous bondings. No one could actually confirm the phenomenon existed, but the first familiar pairs could not have been deliberate, and so the theory remained valid. Her lie was plausible.

“How?”

Buhle took a deep breath. It had taken months of careful study and planning. She had spent hours talking to the Bonded, finding out the strengths and weaknesses of their familiars. She had been exhaustive in her quest to know how the bond was formed and all the nuances that came with being Bonded. And then she had made her decision and gone out to find her toad. What she hadn’t spent enough time considering was the impact it would have on Goggo. Truth be told, no amount of time spent considering her family would have changed her mind. Even now, standing in the midst of the pain, she knew she would not hesitate to make the same decision. And so Buhle told them a story as close to the truth as she could allow.

“I was salvaging near the marshes. My mind was elsewhere. I wasn’t concentrating on what my hands were doing… I… I touched a toad and it just… it felt warm. I fell into the warmth… I didn’t think to pull back. I hadn’t realised… and then… ”

“No!”

Goggo was shaking.

“No! I can’t do this. I can’t… Buhle? Buhle! No!”

Goggo turned away from Buhle and stormed into the apartment block. Nathi ran after her. Buhle stumbled back. She stared at the door. Just a few weeks back, that door had offered her sanctuary and a place to belong. Now they were barriers keeping her out. Now she was the one her family needed sanctuary from.

“I’m going to go sit on the roof,” she told Wezi. “Go to Goggo. She needs you.”

“Are you sure, Buhle? I can stay with you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Wezi nodded once. “I’ll come find you once she’s calmed down.” And then he disappeared behind that now impenetrable barrier.

#

It was Nathi who found Buhle perched on the edge of the roof. The sun was setting across the Lagoon, and the chorus of night bugs just beginning. He took a seat beside Buhle. The two of them sat there, legs dangling off the side, watching the world turn orange. When he finally spoke, his words misted over with emotion.

“Mom used to have a toad. It was a leopard like yours. She called him Spudge.”

“Mom… mom’s familiar was a leopard toad?”

Nathi nodded.

“Ah Boo, the picture you painted today. You look so much like her and then… and then you have this toad on your shoulder…”

“No wonder Goggo freaked out as much as she did…”

“Yeah.”

Buhle wiped away a tear. She had been young when their parents had died-barely walking. Goggo had spun fairy tales of their lives, but she had avoided talking about their deaths. Familiars were to blame, that was all Buhle was told.

“How did they die?”

Nathi shuddered. “It was a lake gull. It came out of nowhere and snatched Spudge. Dad had a gull as his familiar, and he sent it after the one that had got Spudge, but something went wrong. They flew into this huge flock, and soon all the gulls where snatching for Spudge. Dad’s gull didn’t stand a chance, but he tried to fight them all. Mom was screaming on the floor and then dad was crashing down beside her and… well… Uncle Themb, he -he always said that was no normal gull, that someone sent a familiar to snatch Spudge… but…”

“Why would someone want mom dead?”

“Yeah.”

Their deaths had been brutal. No wonder Goggo didn’t want to talk about it. Buhle had come home with a toad and dredged up all of those memories. A toad, just like her mother’s. Goggo had looked at Buhle and seen the ghost of her deceased daughter. Maybe if they had told Buhle… maybe if they had been more open…

No. Buhle would still have chosen to take a familiar. Her parents’ story was not the first she had heard. It was not new information. It happened, it was a risk, but it was rare. And that was the thing about being bonded. It was a two way street. The creature to whom you bonded gave you powers, but in return you gave it your life. You were forever tied and, anything that happened to your familiar happened to you too.

“I’m sorry,” Buhle whispered.

Nathi shook his head. “I always thought that one day you would come home like this. Deep down, I think Goggo has always known too. You’re restless. Always searching for something more. It was always going to happen.”

“Will she forgive me?”

“I don’t know. But she will feed you. Are you ready to go down?”

Buhle nodded. She would eat, and she would sleep, and maybe she would catch a glimpse of light in Goggo’s eyes.

#

The oar felt heavy in the water now. Buhle let it drag as tears fell freely down her cheeks. The village was behind her, nothing more than a few smudged blocks on the horizon. Before her, a cluster of canoes waited. Buhle felt broken. Broken and stupid and entirely unprepared. One last day to spend with her family, she had thought, one last day to recharge, and then she would be ready. But the day had left her broken. Dinner had been suffocating. Every time Buhle had tried to explain herself or talk about familiars, Goggo would look toward her. Goggo’s eyes would bore into her and tear little pieces of her heart until it felt like only ribbons remained. You hurt me, those eyes said. You knew that this would hurt me, and yet you did it.

Buhle had not been able to sleep. In the morning, she had chosen to pack her canoe and be on her way, forgoing her original plan to stay for lunch. Wezi and Nathi had hugged her fiercely, making sure she promised to stay longer next time. Goggo had watched it all and finally, when it was all done, she had approached her granddaughter. Buhle had stepped forward, she had tried to embrace Goggo, but Goggo had stepped back, her head shaking.

“I will always love you Buhle, but I need time. Your choice brings out my darkest memories, and you lied when I asked you why. I’m sorry, Buhle. I need time.”

The words sunk into Buhle. She was leaving the water, but her ghosts would be coming too.

Donna Painting Time Lapse

Another painting Process Video!

You will notice that this one, I keep the reference up for most of it. It is a big crutch to lean on while I slowly work at getting more comfortable in Photoshop. I wasn’t really going for likeness. I wanted the general structure and expression so you will notice that the painting does deviate considerably when it comes to exact features. It really was there to keep me grounded while I fight with a bunch of tools I’m still learning to use.

All in all I am pretty happy with how it came out and am eager to jump into the next painting and level up!

Side note: This music was chosen because it is titled “Final Battle of the Dark Wizards.” Like… how could I NOT use it?

Park Date

Donna curled her fingers over the handle bar and pushed, her knuckles white against wrinkled skin. She heaved with all the strength her eighty-three-year-old body could muster. The shopping trolley groaned, but it remained rooted to the sidewalk.


“Oh bugger that!”


Donna kicked at the back wheel lodged in a crack. A crack that was proving itself a worthy opponent in an unsanctioned duel. Donna huffed ,and with hands on bony hips, she scanned her surroundings.


The hazy noise of traffic swam through the air, and everywhere she looked, people moved. This one hurrying to a meeting, his briefcase swinging in a dangerous rhythm. That one talking on her phone as if every word coming from her mouth was the most pressing. All of them milling about like busy ants. All of them the same and none of them willing to stop and help an old lady out.


“Not this old lady.”


Donna surveyed her trolley again. Thick blankets bulged out of the top, her worldly possessions tucked safely beneath them. She had some freshly scavenged groceries in one corner, and an assortment of pots and pans were tied securely to the trolley’s sides. They clanged as she went about her day. Donna liked that. She called it her music. By all accounts it was a lot more pleasant than that drivel people listened to these days. But until Donna could get her trolley free, she would not be listening to her music.


Donna squatted beside the trolley and wrapped her hands around the frame. If she wanted the trolley free, she would have to lift it. The trolley was heavy and Donna old, but she couldn’t see any other way. She, like the people flowing around her, had a very busy and very important day ahead of her. Donna flexed her fingers, tightened her grip and lifted. That is to say, she tried to lift the trolley. There was a brief moment where the wheel hovered above the crack, but then the trolley thunked back down and Donna’s breathe wheezed out.


“Excuse me, ma’am, let me help you with that.”




Donna looked up at one of those “Tech” people. They were easy to spot in a sea of suits and ties. Their casual clothing stood out like one great big middle finger to the status quo. Donna had no idea what they actually did, but the world was changing faster than she could keep up, and they had something to do with it.


The Tech guy shuffled to the front of the trolley, and Donna got out of his way. In a matter of seconds, he had the trolley free and standing on smooth sidewalk once more.


“Thank-you,” Donna said. “I don’t know what I would have done without you. It’s my anniversary today. I’m going to the park to have lunch with my husband.”


The words gushed out of Donna. They always did when someone looked at her like she was a real person. Donna was so used to being glanced over, or stared at like she was some kind of incurable disease, that when someone showed her a thread of dignity, she grappled for a connection. She wanted to feel seen, and she would do anything to hold onto that feeling for just a little bit longer.


“Well congratulations,” the Tech guy said. He reached into his wallet and drew out a five-dollar note. “Here. Its not much, but happy anniversary. Get something good for dessert.”


Donna could feel the tears gathering as she took the money and hugged it close. “Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you. John likes those cookies with the jam in the middle. I’ll get some of those.”


“That’s a great choice.” The Tech guy smiled. “Well, enjoy your meal. Your husband is a lucky man.”


Donna smiled, and the Tech guy left. Just like that, she was invisible again, but her heart was lighter than it had been moments before.



Donna got behind her trolley and pushed it down the street. The park John loved best was not far. There were lots of trees and a beautiful pond where people would come to feed the ducks. John liked ducks. Aa messy kind of elegant, he’d say. Not show-offy like the swans or scavenging rats like the pigeons. They got the balance right. They reminded him of Donna. Donna wasn’t so sure she liked being thought of as a duck, but she liked the idea of messy elegance, and so she let John tell her she was like a duck and married him all the same. It wasn’t a fault that John chose such strange ways to compare things. He tried, Donna knew what he meant. That  was all that really mattered.


Donna could see the park now, but first, she needed to stop and get the cookies. She turned down a side street and made her way toward a petrol station. Petrol stations were usually more expensive than grocery stores, but they would let Donna buy stuff without hassling her. Grocery store staff got real antsy when she walked in. They would try to usher her out quick as possible, using their bodies as shields to hide her scruffy form from other shoppers. It didn’t matter to them that she had money. She lived a different kind of life, an unacceptable kind of life, and for that she couldn’t be trusted. It was ridiculous. Donna had never stolen or done any sort of dishonest thing in her life. She certainly couldn’t say the same for some of those fancy rich folk that got to do whatever they damn well pleased. Donna shook her head. It was better to pay a little extra for the cookies.


True to form, the petrol station cashier barely gave Donna a second glance. The cookies were bought and paid for, and Donna left the store happy to have been treated like a regular person. She pointed her trolley toward the park and clanged her way down the sidewalk.



Donna had set up her picnic blanket beside the pond. Ducks waddled about the perimeter, their beady little eyes on the meager spread. Donna’s excitable chatter rose above their quacking, “The bread buns are a little stale, but they’re still good. And you have to try the apples. They’re only a little bit bruised, but so very sweet.”


She smiled at her husband. “I met a nice young man today. He helped me when my trolley got stuck. And he gave me money to buy the cookies. They’re the ones with the jam in the middle. He said you’re a very lucky man to have me.”


Donna leaned over. She brushed her fingers against the faded photograph that sat opposite to her. The man in the picture was a much younger John than Donna could truly recall, but when she propped the picture up against a rock like that, it still felt like John was looking at her.


“I think I’m the lucky one,” Donna whispered. “With you by my side, I was never invisible.”  

Behind the Scenes

I’m just in with a quick update on the things I’ve been busy with, primarily in the vein of “how not to do things!”

I am excitably working toward a tutorial series on concrete sculpture, but to do that, I first need to remember how to do it properly.  Aha! Also, I need to work out the intricacies of recording process. I’m having some success on that front, but also plently of failures. I’m learning how to edit video. Next on the list will be audio.

In the meantime, I am getting plenty of “What not to do” footage and it will totally add to the  completeness of the series so we can pretend I did it on purpose. 😉

A quick, visual journey of my activities:

 

Let us begin with a snapshot from the art of plaster moulds:

 

 

Hark! A tub of curing concrete scuplts! Note all the bugs and leaves that have fallen in. Also the strange surface floaty bits that I have, without any scientific backing whatsoever, decided must be related to the petroleum jelly used as a release agent. I am probably wrong.

cof

 

This, a small concrete sculpture that broke on demoulding because I got the cement to aggregate ratio wrong.  Ah, relearning you old fiend!

 

cof

 

And this, a giant pile of clay scraped from the depths of this one piece mould that really would work better as a two piece mould, but here we are!

 

cof

 

And Finally, a lovely demonstration of myself working on the part of the sculpture that’s facing AWAY from the camera. Also see: Wobble because I’m hitting the charging cable.

 

Another MerMay! Another Video!

 

Here is MerMay number 6! I went with a barnacle and seaweed look for this Mermaid. I rather like the barnacles and think I will explore them further throughout Mermay.

Video wise I have mostly removed the wobble. Except for that time I hit my phone with my shoulder… 😛 There is a small bit of sketch lost on the top of the screen which I do need to address, but otherwise I am pretty happy with my “making videos for YouTube” progress.

I hope you enjoy and Let me know what you think! 🙂

 

 

 

I have a YouTube Channel!

 

I have very recently been diving head first into recording process videos for my art and dun dun dun… Here is the very first video up on YouTube!

I do still have a bunch of kinks to iron out. Mostly this is related to just getting the camera angle right/minimising wobble etc.  And should be relatively easy fixes… should be…

But for now, here is the video, wobble and weird angles included, of a charcoal sketch for MerMay2018!

Please let me know what you think, and if you have any advice for recording large, easel based works, I am all eyes!

 

A New Life

Lucy lived her life on gut feel and a creative budget. She was no stranger to unusual rental arrangements, old buildings and dirt, but this? This was a new low. She ran a finger against the wall, pushing grime aside to reveal a small trace of the faded wallpaper below. It might have been roses once, Lucy wasn’t sure. Lucy wasn’t sure about much when it came to the cottage. What she did know was that this building was old-an ancient-the Crone reincarnate as a dwelling.

Lucy stared at her dirty finger and let out a sigh, part contentment and part apprehension. The cottage was going to be a lot of work, and she wasn’t even sure why she had come. Well, she knew why. The ad had called out to her just like so many others before. The landlord had been brutally honest about the state of the cottage, and Lucy had been just as brutally adamant that she needed to live there.

But she didn’t know why. And that was the thing about Lucy, each place, each new home, it always had a purpose, some reason for Lucy to be there, and she always knew. Seconds after stepping across the threshold, she felt right, but now she stood in this cottage and felt nothing. The Crone was silent, guarding her secrets deep below her creaky floorboards.

“Home sweet home.”

The lack of direction nagged at Lucy. Had she been wrong this time? In the aftermath of the breakup, she had wanted to get away. She had scoured site after site, desperate for something, anything to call out; nothing had. Weeks passed before Lucy stumbled across that scrap of newspaper on the bus. Had she imagined the pull? Fabricated the connection so that she could run away?

No.

A Mewl broke through Lucy’s thoughts. She smiled and turned toward the front door. Her whole life in a glance: two large travel bags, a big toolbox of art supplies, and three cat carriers.

“Patience, Hades, Mama is coming.”

The cat made a low grumble in his throat. He was done with patience.

Lucy knelt beside the cat carrier and released the hatch. Hades was a muscular cat, full black and built for the hunt. He glared at Lucy, then gave her an affectionate headbutt before slinking off to explore. Lucy opened the second carrier. An orange ball burst out and buried himself in her stomach.

Lucy laughed, “It’s okay Maggie! Silly boy. Come off now, let me get your sister out.”

The ginger allowed himself to be set on the floor, but he stayed glued to Lucy’s leg.

The final cat was pressing against the bars of her carrier and purring deeply. Lucy opened the door. A gray tabby stepped out, sat down and began licking her paw.

“Ah, Blue, ever the lady.”

Lucy gave Blue a little scratch before standing up and dusting her knees off. “Right, lets get to it then.”

The kitchen was off to the left. Lucy stepped through the arch and was greeted with a bounty of cleaning equipment and detergents. The rental agreement had been a simple one. Lucy could stay in the cottage rent free, as long as she cleaned and fixed the place up. The landlord would supply everything that was needed.

“Well Magma, we’re kitted out. That’s for sure.”

The ginger gave a little purr and pressed close. Lucy knelt down to give the scaredy cat some love.

“It will be a good place Maggie, You’ll see.”

Magma looked up at Lucy. His eyes were big and pleading.

“No? I’m not doing a great job of convincing myself either. But we’re here now. Best make the most of it.”

The vacuum cleaner was a sturdy looking thing, and Lucy almost died hauling it up the stairs. Magma insisted on circling Lucy’s legs. The stairs were narrow and required an unnaturally high gait. By sheer force of will, she arrived at the top with only a few scrapes and bruises.
Lucy wheeled the vacuum into the bedroom. The bed was iron frame, but at least the mattress looked new. New-ish?

Modern?

Lucy plugged the vacuum into the socket. Her first thought was that electricity seemed entirely out of place in the cottage. Her second thought, relief that the cottage had electricity. Magma hopped up onto the bed.

“Lets see if this works, huh?”

“Mew,” he said.

“It’s going to be noisy.”

“Mew.”

Lucy gripped the pipe with one hand and compressed the power button with the other. The vacuum screamed to life. Magma twitched, but remained glued to the bed. Lucy pushed the vacuum forward. Dust billowed up in its wake. Magma sneezed.
Lucy sneezed.

Magma sneezed again.

Lucy turned the vacuum off.

“We need better gear.”

Lucy (and Magma) headed back downstairs. They passed Hades on his way up.

“Hunting?”

“Mrrp!”

“Not yet clean, Blue?”

The tabby twitched an ear toward Lucy, but remained fixed to her task.

Lucy crouched down in front of her art box and clipped it open. Magma hopped in.

“Outta the way, boy,” Lucy said as she pushed the ginger aside. With just a little bit of rummaging, she found what she was looking for: a dust mask and goggles. She was about to head back upstairs when she heard Hades’ deep meowl. Her skin prickled. She turned. Hades stood before her, his eyes blazing.

“You found something?”

Her voice was hushed. The house had called her. Hades had found the why.

Hades meowed again and then led Lucy upstairs. They passed the bedroom and entered the study. An old closet stood ajar. Hades sat before it. Lucy steeled herself for what she was about to find, and then peeked inside. Three pairs of round kitten eyes stared up at her. The emancipated form of their mother twitched, but she could not stand.

“Hush,” said Lucy. “I’m here now.”