Misplaced
I cannot for the life of me find my car. It’s not in its assigned space. There is a car I don’t recognise there already. I’ve never had that problem before: management are very clear about the parking spaces. Probably some new neighbour. I’ll have a word with them.
As I consider keying the blue paint, I realise that I don’t actually have my car keys either. So. I’m locked out of my apartment, looking for a car I wouldn’t be able to drive regardless of if I found it.
I am not a smart man.
I try to think hard about the last time I drove. It was raining, I’m sure of it. I remember running to the car, hunched over my bag to protect it from the droplets. I must have looked ridiculous: a shuffling figure in the darkness. My clothes are still damp and hear myself drip as I walk away from the carpark.
The sun is shining, but it doesn’t seem to do my clothes much good. I still leave wet footprints on the warm pavement. I notice two teenagers point at my footprints. I move faster before they can take a photo of my sorry state.
I pull at my collar. I wish I was wearing more casual clothes, but I suppose the last time I was driving, it was home from work. I don’t remember getting home, although I remember rushing towards it. I was late for something. Something that seems very unimportant now.
There is a puddle in the street, almost dried up by now. It hasn’t rained in days, after all. I look at my reflection, and look away quickly. I’m a bedraggled mess. It’s a miracle no one is staring at me.
As I walk along the street, I hear a car horn honk and it reminds me of something. A car honking for a long time, bright lights, impact…
I’m such an idiot – I remember where I left the keys! they’re still in the ignition of the car, at the bottom of the lake. Fortunately I don’t remember exactly where that was. Well, that’s probably for the best. I think I can only stay as long as I have unfinished business, and thanks to my poor memory, this little task will take a long, long time. As I said, I am not a smart man.
I continue walking down the street, into the bright sunshine, leaving wet footprints behind me.
Two Sentence Stories (Part 3)
There is definitely someone behind me, but whenever I look back I only see my shadow. It would be reassuring, but my shadow just keeps facing me.
My husband says that he’s sorry, that he loves me and that he’ll never hurt me again. I’d like to believe him and let him out, but it took so long to brick him up inside the wall, and I’m really proud of the patching I did.
I served the food in silence, and it was only when I placed the sixth plate that I realised I had plated one too many and nervous laughter erupted from the guests, soon replaced by hysterical tears and sobbing. How hilarious, serving Frank’s empty place after all he’d sacrificed to ensure we had this meal.
Siren
This was part of a series of monsters I drew. I asked my friends if anyone wanted themselves drawn as a monster. Becca got in first with “EVIL MERMAID SIREN THING”. I think it turned out pretty well
Progress from sketch, to ink, to very light colouring
Three Questions (Part 2)
Despite my success, my mother was still the target of my father’s anger. Every trip outside the house was scrutinised, every phone call monitored. On the rare occasions that he left the house, my father would often sneak back into our home quietly, trying to catch my mother in some act I didn’t yet understand. I know now that she stayed because she believed it was best for me. She couldn’t take me away until I knew fully how to use my power, and she couldn’t leave me alone with him.
I was eleven the night that I heard my parents’ arguing stop. Read More »
Three Questions (Part 1)
It took me decades to realise that my childhood wasn’t normal.
My father knew how to raise the dead. With words, wards and symbols he could cause the soul of any deceased person to appear before him. Rising from his spell, he could command the spirit to answer any three questions that he put to them, truthfully and completely. Answering the questions of the bereaved was his trade and he was paid richly for his services. A ceremony could only be carried out once with each spirit, and could only be asked by the person who summoned them, so the three answers were all that the client would ever receive from the deceased in this life.
He never operated in front of a direct audience, instead summoning the spirit behind a curtain. It was certainly the more pleasant option for clients. Spirits are always recognisable, but something about them is wrong. It’s something in their eyes. They have no desire to hide the truth, and appear completely dispassionate towards the living. No matter how loving the relationship, they have no interest in their former loved on any more. Some spirits were even outright hostile to my father, but they were always carefully bound inside the summoning circle. They could not escape, and had to remain within it until they answered the three questions my father put to them. I would observe from the side of the room, to make sure that the client was paying attention, and that they did not approach the curtain. My mother waited outside the locked door, waiting to unlock it and usher out the client once it was all over.
Clients were always instructed to have three questions. It didn’t matter if only one was what they needed. A man once very rudely insisted that he only needed to know where his mother’s will was, and that he didn’t give a damn what else my father wanted to ask the old bitch. As I sat to observe that ceremony, I wondered why my father didn’t insist on getting two more questions. I soon found out.
Three Sentence Stories (Part 2)
I sit perfectly still on my bed, cradling my infant son. It’s just me and him in this house, since his mother passed. From the baby monitor on my night-stand I hear a familiar woman’s voice, weeping and calling for her son, and I hear the floorboards creak in the hallway outside my door.
Everyone stopped talking three days ago. One morning I awoke from a dream of horribly twisted creatures hissing truths and, half dazed as I walked outside, I could see in my neighbours’ eyes that he had seen the same. It is a terrible secret we all bear now, and no one is willing to be the first to break the silence, to acknowledge it and to live in the world where we know that God has no love for us.
The walls in my house are moving in my sleep. Every time I wake up it takes me a little longer to figure out how to leave, and every time I fall asleep I awake in my bed again, wherever it has been put. It’s been days now, and I am tired beyond belief but I am sure I’ll find the front door soon, before the walls close in.
Body Horror Watercolours
These were done during my time at Lancaster, when I had quite a bit of trouble getting to sleep at night.
Dawn of the Birth Day
I made this for a friend’s birthday, and it was my first attempt at using fondant. It’s the moon from Majora’s Mask. Someday I’d like the make a version that was only the moon.
I used the claymation tools I got from the Aardman exhibition in Melbourne and I loved sculpting it.
First, I carved the cake, including adding the nose.
Then it was covered in jam for adhesion. Also AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Then the shroud of fondant. It was a very delicate process, and it did tear in some places as I moulded it to the cake
I painted the face using food dye and used black fondant to create the darkest spaces. I was very happy with the eyes.
Finally, it was placed on top of the base cake.
I figured that even if the moon didn’t work, there would still be a functional cake to devour. Ultimately it was tasty and horrifying and the birthday boy at the nose with gusto. It was very jam -y, apparently
The Last Locked Door
They’re almost through the door now.
I think they might actually be savouring this, which makes sense. They’re tired after killing all the others. And I’m the only one left alive.
The drugs were only meant to cause temporary effects: heightening the reflexes and strength of the participants. But the drugs also sped up their metabolism and caused a horrible form of pica: participants ate anything nearby. One choked to death on their own pillow stuffing. Another chewed their own limbs down to stumps. The strongest ones ate everything that moved slower than themselves.
I was moved to my room and strapped to the bed after the first “reactions”. I think most of us participants were. Which made the sounds of the other doors being broken much more horrifying.
The last person I saw alive was a nurse. She locked my door hurriedly, fumbling with the keys. I saw the panic on her face as the door closed, and then heard her start running down the hall. I didn’t cry to her for help. I heard her cry for it only seconds later.
There was a lot of screaming after that. And crashing. And running. And horrible wet noises.
It eventually quietened down, and I think they formed a hunting group. I could hear the doors down the hall being broken into, one by one.
The worst ones were the locked doors. When they’re unlocked, it’s over quickly. The locked doors aren’t impenetrable, but they hold for long enough to hear the… participants… getting louder and more enraged as food draws closer to them.
The last one was my next-door neighbour. I heard the door splinter, the inhuman screams increase. I heard the sound of something hard striking flesh, splintering bone, crushing tissue, and then hitting floorboards.
They’re almost through the door now.
I wish I could talk to them, make them understand me. I wish I’d never participated in this madness. But after my “reaction” I chewed off my own tongue and lips. I really wish I could tell them that they were right: the effects are temporary.
Sketched Text 