Inktober, week 3

Okay, this is really late and some are only sketches — shit got busy.

#NaNoWriMo is so damn close and I found another book on the Wellington disaster at a book sale. So, I’m spending all my prep time researching a tiny element of the story and falling behind on frigging everything as I tend to do.

I’ll be posting week 4 within the next couple of days.

October 15, Legend

Show me a bigger legend than the samsquantch

Consider this moment 
as an artifact, studied 
in & out of existence;
find out what makes it
tick or scream, dissected
& splayed, pinned
to black cardboard,
all to be considered.

October 16, Wild

Portlantic City is located on the banks of the Miskalamette River & that shit is WILD!

They sway out of the cold place — out of nonesuch dimension — & it stirs them, those who are many & are one, a consciousness blinking & yawning & ever so gently waking.
The green fringe, warming by the sun asks, “Where are we and where have we been?”
To the sloth, this is non-talk — an enjoyable sighing of terrestrial breezes it missed while visiting the cold place, the nonesuch — & so it makes no effort to assign meaning to the sounds.
In its coat, the consciousness waits. Hours accumulate & feel more like minutes. Before a day-year can pass, the things that strain to hear — always sure their answer is coming — plunge with the creature back into the darkness of the nonesuch dimension, the cold place. In the void, the green things sink into dormancy.
The sloth knows the non-talk — the warm breeze-song — will return someday but does not busy himself with wondering when.

October 17, Ornament

Some ornamental lines, technically not ink, but sorta composed.

Imagine light like this,
seven stars in the ankle
of the archer, the center
sucking the edges in
while the whole time
he’s dancing & unaware
that the plug was yanked
& all the light is shifting,
compacting, being pulled
inward. Blink & you’ll miss
it — so beautiful & so brief.

October 18, Misfit

A sketch of a secondary character I did for Oct. 18, though I had Oct. 15’s subject in mind when I wrote.

You’ll give me a wide berth if you know a thing about things like me. 
Lotsa people have an instinct, a feeling that gnaws at them from their insides. They trust their guts & I’m not the type to begrudge it. Let yer lizard brain do the talking, fuckstick.
It’s the ones that know better, ya know? The ones that call themselves “light workers,” or “witches,” or even “cryptozoologists.” They’re likely to give me as much trouble as I got for them. & though it’s a bother, it ain’t no skin off my ass to skin an ass.
Seems them types — the hedge goblins & earth mommas — would send us wildlife a good vibe & get on their way as to not be late to worship some trees.
Perhaps they’ll be late to the grove, but I’m plenty willing to give them a refresher — really teach them about the claws & the teeth — so they remember to steer clear of a thing like me.

October 19, Sling

A quick sketch of a character from my dark fantasy series. The accompanying poem is written from the pov of his romantic interest.

Verse isn’t my dance
& dance isn’t either;
I charm in empty threat
& send my wantings
to the belly of the sky,
empty & blinkless
as a study of his face
in repose, waiting
for an answer, never
thinking he’d have to
tear it from the stars
& be damned if he ever
found a word, stupid
& meaningless, dangling
from the mean crook
of his lips.

October 20, Tread

H.D. looks stupid in this skating action sketch, but to be fair, he is stupid.

“You can’t sell that,” Gordy slapped a pale hand solidly on the top of the foul smelling cookie jar. “We’ll be arrested.”
All H.D. had to do was raise an eyebrow in his general direction to provoke him to jump in on his behalf. 
“Well now, Gordy old chap, let’s not be so hasty,” Mel said, his eyes in lock-step with his manipulator. “Surely, there’s no harm in selling the concoction if we clearly advertise what it is we’re selling.”
“Sure sure,” Gordy’s hand came up in a flourish, the lace of his sleeve flouncing with the movement. “We’re selling them a festering mug of pine needles, mud, & slime mold. My my, the takers we’ll have!”
“You know so little of craft kombucha,” H.D. finally spoke in his usual dry, toneless way. “Surely, you’ve heard all of our neighbors ask me —”
He heard Mel sigh & felt the breaking of their eye contact as he lowered his head.
Gordy laughed, “This again? What neighbors, H.D.? The old pervs that run the tea shop around the corner? The witches in the fortune-telling shack?”
“Actually, the esteemed philosophers & survivalists that own the lands abutting my Troutdale property.”
Mel seemed to melt into the ground as Gordy continued his hellish heckling. The laughter breaking like waves on the backs of those over-white, over-straight teeth — the same monstrosities of bone and gum that H.D. often vividly fantasized himself breaking.
But he would not crumble, no. He held the Jar Jar Binks cookie jar to his flannel-covered breast proudly, the Gungan’s erect visage cuddling into the fringe of his wide, wiry neckbeard.
“Oh, so you mean Jake Huntsman? The guy that has worked at every gas station in Portland? Or are you talking about crusty old Mrs. Tarasco? I suppose it’s some sort of survivalism if you make it to 110 and you still have a full lady beard.”
“You are too cruel, Gordy!” Mel had balled his fists up to propel his words, but quickly shrunk under the edgy glances that came from both of his counterparts. He seemed to melt backwards, slipping into an alcove created by a shelf of men’s magazines.
Once his glare soured, H.D. turned his head back to his nemesis, the cookie jar feeling hot in his hands. “Say what you will, you only reveal how crude & uncultured you are.”
Gordy’s mocking laughter continued, his lace sleeves waving as he wiped black tears running from his tightly-lined eyes. “As you wish, but I will not put forth a half-cent if you are fined.”
H.D. nodded, laying the cookie jar down on the counter. “Nor will you share in the bounty of my profits.”

October 21, Treasure

My head was feeling a little Twilight Zone-y as I made an attempt at sketching buried treasure.

You’re not going to see it,
but things are coming for you;
predictable as the seasons
& borderless, one thing
melting into another thing
makes another thing
& I think you get what it is
I’m saying, my love. No excuse 
not to stop & smell the flowers
be them dirt or bud or rot, same
as one thing becoming another thing.

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