Starling Rat

Starling Rat

Exhibit A: The ever-elusive and cheeky Starling Rat chooses to perch on a local’s hand after being lured in with promises of mouse babies and circus peanuts. It displays for the camera.

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All The Better to Bite You With

I.

His name is Kondra, but he is called Ghost.

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“Those” People

Random observation time.

Throughout school, I have found I do not know what to do with those people. You all probably know one. They don’t deserve to be bullied, but they usually are, and you feel bad about it. But neither do you want to be their friend, because you just don’t like them. They are bland and clingy. In a conversation, they add nothing of worth. Their laugh sounds fake and shallow and it nags you momentarily.

They never hurt anyone, but neither do they help anyone. They are not ugly in any way, but they are not pretty, and they never stick out. They have friends, but not too many; enough to not be considered alone. They occasionally create something, but it rarely possesses soul or too much effort; it just is. Their amount of effort can not be considered too lazy, but nor is it enthusiastic; it is enough to finish something acceptably and nothing more or less. They have likes or dislikes. They do not have passions or hates.

You can picture their whole life laid out in front of them: grow older, pick a college, graduate, get married to a decent someone like them, maybe have a few children, and take a job of medium lower income, perhaps in an office or business.They put their children through school, get grandchildren, grow older and die, their offspring grieve, and they are forgotten; just another name on the public record. They have their problems and bright times and hard ones in life, and they’re not perfect— because they’re people— but there is nothing intense about it. Everything occurs in the same bland tone with occasional spikes of emotion. There is nothing remarkable at all.

They baffle and slightly terrify me, those people, because nothing seems to light up their lives for better or worse, and they don’t mind. And I don’t begrudge them for that, but I don’t understand. How do you live like that? This is not quite normalcy; it’s normalcy existing on an emotionally dulled level.

I may be judging wrong and perhaps they live more exciting and dimensional lives than I see. If so, then they can go ahead and pin the joke on me like I’m a donkey; everyone can laugh about what truly occurs and I’ll be none the wiser. That’d be okay. I like that thought better than knowing I guessed right.

For now, I will continue to be puzzled and quietly horrified.

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Dakra Time

Dakra Time

A sketch page of a rather slow-minded and unusually pleasant rakn dakra, who spends less time eating his neighbors than others do. This is not normal. He is also less aggressive than others. This is taken advantage of mercilessly.

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Root For the Mongoose

Root For the Mongoose

So I just finished Fragment by Warren Fahy. You are a filthy liar if you say you didn’t want that mongoose to survive or go down in a blaze of glory.

The best thing about Fragment– besides the insane ecosystem– is that whenever an idiotic douchenozzle who is practically begging for a Darwin award appears, you know Hender’s Island is going to eat them from the inside out in a matter of pages.

Of course, you could also be an innocent crew member that a Hender’s Rat is eviscerating, but every story has sacrifices. (I’m usually alright with most stories ending “hey, let’s keep this ecosystem nice and hidden and leave it alone to thrive on an island!” but this is the one time where I was in fully in the “oh god KILL EVERYTHING WITH FIRE” camp.)

Basically, go read this book before I’m on you like a Disk Ant.

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Bloody Nose

Bloody Nose

When a conversation devolves, blood tends to appear.

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Oko-San

Oko-San

And so I complete my minimum effort costume for an upcoming con in May, and get every last dignity and costume privilege revoked in the wake of it. Whether or not I will also have wings in the future is still a mystery.

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The Trickster

aka An Old Short Revived from the Dead By Writing Camp / The Result of a Neil Gaiman Kick

xxx

They parked the old Chevrolet in a tiny, cramped lot that had faded yellow lines and more gravel in it than pavement. A large log-cabin-esque building lay at the other end of the parking lot, flanked by two chipped wooden moose statues. Worn picnic tables were set off to the side of it in a square of green attempting to be a camping spot. Olivia and Jean were the only ones there. MOUNT AIRY’S HISTORIC MUSEUM, the aged sign on the cabin read. TAXIDERMY, GIFT SHOP, AND PICNIC SITE. VISITORS WELCOME.

Jean and Olivia got out of the car, the former marching up to the museum’s stairs with the latter drifting in tow behind her guardian, the little girl pulling at her dyed hair with displeasure. As Jean ushered her through the door, a faint bell chiming above their heads, Olivia didn’t think the moose statues looked friendly.

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Opossum Jumble

026

027

Old pictures from 2012 of some stray possum bones.

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Macy (Adventures in Writing Camp, Part I)

Beginning sentence given by another writer; the following supplied by me:

My sister’s fingers brush against the base of the man’s throat with all the sensuality of a lover’s caress, and come away stained in rich scarlet, encurled like the claws of some leonine predator.

And all I can think the whole time is, ‘would hurt to get another hobby?’

“For fuck’s sake, Macy!”

She blinks and looks up from the man gurgling in front of her. His throat is now just slick gash of blood, but he’s still making a few faint noises as his eyes roll up, and softly thuds on the floor. Macy blinks at me owlishly.

“What?”

“Not on the carpet!”

I groan at seeing the red patch of blood growing beneath the man’s throat once he’s gone face down and rolled over. Too late. Our yellow carpet is turning a splotched orange and red. Again. “Oh great, now we have to bleach it out. You know how long that takes. And mom and dad are going to be home in a few hours; what are we supposed to tell them?”

“‘Macy’s hobby leaked onto the floor after it ran out of the kitchen’?” Macy suggests. I give her a withering look.

“No.” I cross my arm, taking a deep breath to keep myself in check, and Macy hangs back, seeing the look on my face. This is the third carpet she’s ruined. The third. “I… you know, I should just tell them that you were trying to drink red wine. Just to get you in trouble and pay you back for this.”

That gives Macy some pause. Mom and dad would kill her if they thought she was drinking underage, and she knows it. I have her over a barrel for a moment before the man gives a final muffled groan, his fingers twitching like the last compulsory movement of a dying bird’s claws. We both freeze for a moment, and Macy glances down at him before she automatically levitates towards the kitchen, hand outreached towards the stovetop. I move to block her before she goes.

“Oh no you don’t; you’re not getting out the frying pan. I guarantee you that he’s good and dead. I’m not going to pick bone shards out of the carpet with tweezers, either. Ruins the vacuum and my day.”

“But sis, dead isn’t the same as dying,” Macy patiently explains. “There’s an –ing. And a different prison sentence. And a pulse. Which, he has.”

“Don’t sass me.”

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The Pen Wench

The hysterical, lyrical & oft nonsensical

HarsH ReaLiTy

My goal with this blog is to offend everyone in the world at least once with my words… so no one has a reason to have a heightened sense of themselves. We are all ignorant, we are all found wanting, we are all bad people sometimes.

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