The Don

A studio project, illustrating Don Quixote. Please don't steal him! :)

...

Please don't steal or use for your own purposes, devious or otherwise. :) I am open to commissions! I will make you one of your very own!

The first picture is a merman holding a seahorse (in case that wasn't directly obvious) that I drew in Photoshop. Please don't steal him. Let him swim free through the seas...

The second is of Amaris, my brother's female protagonist. I colored her. Please don't take her. She belongs to Steve.

In Dreams

Mine, all mine. Please don't steal it. I would share, if you'd only ask...

Apparition

Severus Snape, apparating into Spinner's End.

Every word of that sentence, excepting "into", belongs to JK Rowling. Really, if I were that genius, I'd be rich. Filthy, filthy rich.

The drawing, however, belongs to me. Please don't steal it. It's all I have...

Circle of Light

Because I get bored, some days.

Wow. Photoshop layers are cool, huh?

Please, don't steal.

Dragon.

I love dragons. I drew this one a year ago, and added color in Photoshop. Yes, it looks like an eel. Or, should I say, eels look like aquatic dragons? Please don't steal it, I may actually make money with things like this someday...

One.

It began with one.
One night,
alone in the dark,
no tears left
on salty cheeks.
Sitting in silence,
drugged by our fears,
we looked
past each other
with cataract eyes,
waiting for morning.
It never arrived.
One by one,
in slow, hopeless line,
we rose to our feet,
and made for the sea.
The first one,
a man,
lost in his grief,
breached the first wave.
Left in his wake,
we followed the tide,
besieging the ocean,
one at a time.
We swam for the stars.
As we felt the cold
grow,
an ache
in our bodies,
a hymn
in our souls,
we joined hands
under water,
and chained to our brothers,
sank
singing,
as one,
serenading the deep.

Beggar's Wish

I created this image from a pencil sketch pulled from my notebook and overlaid with textures in Photoshop. Please don't take it, try to claim it, or use it for profit. Thank you so much!

Hope for Snow

I watch myself. Leaning against the railing, wisps of brown hair trailing across my cheek. Dull, brown eyes staring emptily into the gray, cloudy distance. I look down, at the endless run of railroad track that cracks the campus in two. I look up at the sky, where lonely birds circle in wide arcs of want, searching the frozen ground for life. There is none, but me.

I sigh, and watch the steam from my chapped lips drift away. I think maybe it will snow.

I watch. I bend my head, like an old leaf curling its brittle spine. My chin hollows my chest, my shoulders hood my ears, my stomach caves, my knees drop – curled and limp as a newborn, I tumble over the railing, off the side of the bridge, down onto the tracks below just as a black, smoking engine surges under the overpass, and wipes the world clean of me.

I hope it will snow.

I sigh again, and watch the train surge along the tracks under my feet. Boxcars, conflats and hoppers, in endless metal stream, rush into the fog and vanish. The railing is cold under my arms and the wind bites through my clothes, but I wait. My eyes trail listlessly toward the buildings to my right. My mind shutters, and I stare without comprehension at the lighted windows offering their warmth and protection, an iron fist clamped around my stomach. Nauseous, the heaviness that binds my waking thoughts does not ease until I return my gaze to the endless stream of boxcars and hoppers flying out of the mouth of the overpass.

I watch myself, considering. Thoughtfully, I lift a foot. My hands arch, fingertips pressed onto the frosted metal rail. I balance, in a moment thick with certainty. Frozen on the edge in the sere, winter twilight of my thoughts, I watch. The cars race by, and the lonely whistle blows. The bells in the tower begin to ring the hour. I rise, and the wind strikes my face. Stinging, small bits of ice bite my cheeks and melt into my eyes, blinding me. I drop, bent, and loose, to the train below, my arms spread like a lover’s. My feet hit the flat top of a boxcar. I scratch the air -- I bend, I balance! -- and catch a firm footing on the icy metal. I straighten, facing the distance as it presses toward me. I raise my fist, toss back my head, and howl, teeth bared.

Free.

I watch myself leave, straddling the train, strong and defiant, resolved.

I watch, as I stand on the bridge, leaning on the railing as the snow lightly descends, and finally curtains the tracks in a flurry of night.

Haiku and Ramble.

Crushed

The flower

Still smells sweet

I was sitting at my desk, commiserating with myself about the infinitesimal hardships of my life, and saw a wilted flower. I had picked it earlier, admiring it's finespun beauty and honey scent, intending to draw it in my sketchbook. I had carried it in hand, juggling books, laptop case, coffee, and a sandwich to bring it back to studio. But by the time I arrived, clear, wet bruises already spotted the white film of the petals and I was late for my next class. I dropped it hurriedly on my desktop and ran. Four hours later, I sat down again to resume my studies, and could not. My chest ached under the weight of my thoughts, and my muse refused to budge. I stared gloomily at the hard light of my computer screen, browsing Deviantart enviously and chugging Diet Snapple. Then, I noticed the poor, forgotten flower limply clinging to the corner of the desktop. I picked it up sadly, and almost threw it toward the trashcan when the motion of my arm brought its still-fragrant petals under my nose, and I stopped. I caught the memory of sunshine and honey, and turned the flower over between my paint-stained fingers. I looked at it, and it looked at me. I replaced it on the desk, a little nearer than before, so as to have some company during the long hours ahead before I sleep. Every now and again, I lift the crumpled, browning petals to my face and inhale. It still smells sweet.

World's End

All the world ends round the corner

Rushing people passing by

Pulled like leaves in running gutters

Spinning past me are no more

Like a ferris-wheel slow-turning

Whirling on in painted jewels

Masquerading phantoms riding

Wooden horses racing nowhere

Disappearing round the bend

I would bring them back tomorrow

Or the next day, if I can

Back from empty, void horizons

Dancing, dancing in my head

Just to see their souless faces

Coldly staring, passing by

Just so I won't be the only

Plastic face and hollow eyes

Hungry for a voice, and lonely

In the world I see before me

Ending just around the corner

Tiny White Anchors

So small, so heavy

Rooted down

Standing still

my heels grow weary -

gravity chains me to the ground

Cords keep me from falling

Endless, falling down

I watch them flying, longing

But there is no flying now

All my wings, all ancient dreams

My brittle bones, bereaved

Crawling keeps me safe

No crash

no blaze of frantic flame

No burn out as the embers die

And yet

No leaping over mountains

No fire in my eyes

I cannot lose myself in darkness

I cannot see the light

I cannot fall through nothingness

But neither can I

fly

All the Afternoons

With my last remaining years

I dig a pit of nothingness

in which to bury me

I rock

in my wicker cradle

all the afternoons

watching

the sun go down

and down again

I hear

my mother singing

but the voice

is of my wife

and also of my daughters

in the wind

a lonely harmony

carries dust

into my bones

I cry -- I cry in silence

and cannot remember

why

I miss the dawn

I AM SO ANGRY

at the Incompetent

Idiots

Annoying

My Brain

Their stupid words

Breeding

Filling space

with empty air

"Uhhmmm..."

Please

Feel free to

Elaborate

Illustrate

Enumerate

THE OBVIOUS

Staring me in

the face

There's no way

I could

Get It

myself.

*sigh*

Some Excerpts from my Sketchbook

High brown grass

To catch the spark

We began

To spread alarm

We're all burnt out

The water's gone

Mmhm.

Thousands dead

The TV's on

We forgot, what it was

What they said

Took too long

for California,

Skyline blazed

Ashes

of our restless days

Mmhm.

High blue glass

Caught the sun

Until it crashed

The Hand of God

Smoky shroud

The sky was lost

Mmhm.

Thousands dead

My favorite song

Don't talk!

The music's on

We knew, they said

it all along

for California.

Mmhm.

Heart attacks

The deed is done

Looking back

What took so long?

We hid the matches

in our guns

Mmhm.

Thousands dead

Don't look at us

We learned it, back

When we were young

What they said

They told us wrong

So California

Skyline blazed

Ashes

of our restless days.

Mmhm.

*~*~*~*~*

I built myself a wall

Hidden in a bathroom stall

And I said I won't

Come out until you both

Learn how to talk

Instead,

They climbed the safety rail

I said, "You're headed straight to hell."

They laughed and danced upon their graves

and said, "It's just as well."

I joined them in their dance

I knew it was to death

But I resolved to fight,

Not follow

Until my dying breath.

Damn! the inner critic

Damn the inner critic I have living in my head

He smokes a cigarette and he wishes we were dead

He shouts above the static, ripping us to shreds

Drowning us in sarcasm and sharp derisive dread

Damn my inner critic! I believe in what he says

Worthless: every thought with every tear I've ever bled

My mirror has his eyes; the skeptic standing in my stead

Thin skin hung on bones toss restless bruising in my bed

I handed him a razor and he hung us by a thread

Breakdown in the nervous train wreck running on a tread

Damn this sick obsession and this masochistic bent, and

The gutter of my mind where my parasite was bred

I wish I did not love him. I would kill my twin insect

Too late; I put on silence and hope no one can detect

The thrice-damned inner critic behind my sneers and cigarettes