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I have to say - writing this latest story has been a mother FUCKER!
I'm probably about near halfway done - got the first two of five mini-stories finished.
May need a little editing or whatever but they're all there. And I've got the third one
pretty well in place as far as ideas/notes - just need to flesh out those ideas in story-form.
These are a LOT longer than I was shooting for! Averaging twelve or so PARAGRAPHS each!!
And that's keeping them at their fighting weight! No fluff or filler! I'm just hoping that there's
enough to inform the reader without leaving any important details out. I like allowing room
for the imagination but God forbid plot holes and ball-dropping.
I guess I should be glad - got a lot done the last two days! It's felt more like "old times"
in that the writing kinda flowed whereas up until yesterday I was struggling - it just felt like
I was swimming against the current. My salmon was getting fillet'd yo!
Anyway, I was gonna start the texture work on the first piece tonight but I'm not feeling it.
Haven't been sleeping well. So since I've got so much of the writing done now, I'll have more
time tomorrow to get that going. This is a big one.
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Day 1:
It is pleasantly cool and overcast - typical of an October autumn in the pacific northwest.
Evelyn sits reading in her favorite recliner. A light tapping burrows into her awareness.
She glances up from her book, scans the room then leaves the chair to investigate.
Out of the living room, through the hall, into the kitchen - then back down the hall into each
bedroom. Never getting any closer to the sound, but it continues.
Now a faint, high-pitched noise begins. She storms up the hall and out the front door - nothing.
Back inside, she enters the kitchen, looking out the window - again, nothing.
The tapping noise bleeds into the high-pitched sound - weaving together a fabric of fear and question.
She moves briskly to and out the back door - the sounds abruptly end. She returns to her chair, picks up
her book and immediately sets it back on the table. Her eyes catch an incongruity -
across the room, a mirror hangs crooked.
Day 2:
Evelyn dusts the generously-sized bookcase in the hall. She turns to enter the kitchen and is
frozen by a crashing sound. It was the small navy blue vase, now on the beautifully tiled floor, in pieces.
The air tweaks with a buzzing current and she notices the large hallway mirror - there’s no reflection.
It turns a clouded, sea-green color, warping and pushing itself backward into the wall. She’s paralyzed.
The front door swings open. Her body jolts - she yelps.
“What’s the matter?” Tom queries.
Evelyn’s breathing is quick and shallow, face flushed. She stares at her husband - mouth open, no words.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
She looks back into the mirror, her reflection replaces the hideous morphing.
Her breathing normalizes, panic dissolves.
“I’m fine. You gave me a start, is all.”
Tom closes the door and spots the ceramic shards at Evelyn’s feet. He touches her shoulder
and they walk into the kitchen.
Tiny black fissures, like squirming capillaries, form around the edges of the mirror - growing from the frame inward.
Day 3:
Tom and Evelyn return home after a day out. They sit in the car staring at the house, then at one another.
“What the Hell!?” Tom offers in disbelief.
“I have no idea.” Evelyn replies, equally bemused.
The paint was very badly cracked and peeling, windows covered in filth, litter strewn about -
an overall disheveled appearance. Then the lights inside flicker. They exchange looks of concern
and quickly exit the vehicle.
Tom bursts through the front door, hitting the lights - Evelyn close behind. All is quiet. They move
into the living room, a feral growling rises from underfoot. It fills the house, growing louder and more
monstrous by the tick.
“What is that? Where is it coming from??” Evelyn shouts.
Tom’s expression is one of muted terror. The beastly sound reaches its apex, then brickwalls into
silence. They stand beside each other, still as statues.
“Why is it so cold in here?” Evelyn mutters quietly, her breath a cloud of frost.
Exactly three seconds of calm - then the entire house begins shaking violently.
Windows shatter, curtains are shredded and torn down, furniture in flames, deep claw marks
rake over the hardwood floor, several inches of rusty water pools on the ceiling and cascades
down the walls. A sharp, deathly howl shoots through the room…
The lights go out.
https://imgur.com/a/z04DIqc
"Static in the Room" - First in the five-part series 'Unseen'.
Mixed media on plywood. My 121st painting.
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Evelyn is jarred awake on the bed. She sits up, looks around, everything appears to be normal.
She calls out to Tom, her voice soaked in desperation. In seconds - he’s standing in the doorway.
She fires a frantic litany of questions at him, he walks over and sits on the bed. He allows her to
finish, wild-eyed with messy hair.
“We’re alright. The house is fine. Sounds like you’ve just had a bad dream.”
Her demeanor switches from displaced to livid.
“There’s no way in Hell that was a dream!” she barks, leaping from the bed.
Evelyn bolts into the hallway, then the living room, Tom following. Her eyes dart around, witnessing
the impossible. It was just as he said - everything was fine - them, the house, the furniture. She breaks
and tears run down her face.
“This can’t be! I know what I saw, what WE saw! I’m not crazy!”
Tom places his arms around her.
“Of course not. You’ve been under a lot of stress. We both have. My retirement, leaving Iowa, moving
across the country. It’s a lot of adjustments.”
Her emotion gradually relents. Tom offers to make some tea and they head to the kitchen. Passing the
bookcase in the hallway, Evelyn spots the small navy blue vase on the top shelf. Her mind spirals.
“What’s this? Where did it come from?”
“The vase? We’ve had that for years. Your mother gave it to you.”
“NO! I mean how is it back on the shelf? It fell and shattered yesterday as I was dusting! I swept it up
and put it in the trash!”
Tom is at a loss.
“Why don’t you go lay down, I’ll get the tea started.”
Tom proceeds to the kitchen - Evelyn remains in the hall.
LATER THAT NIGHT
Evelyn has trouble getting to sleep - tossing and turning. She finally gives in and gets out
of bed, leaving Tom in dreamland.
She staggers to the kitchen, gets a glass of water and makes a beeline to her recliner. Perhaps a little
reading will help.
She takes a drink, sets the glass down and grabs her book - a tepid, peer-reviewed collection of
notes on human consciousness. Praised by critics but Evelyn was finding it to be a bit dry and on
the boring side of academic. It did however lull her senses into compliance.
Several minutes in and she was easing into that comfortable drowsy warmth. Eyelids heavy, breathing
slowed to a crawl.
The book drops closed onto her lap - she’s succumbed to the nod. The dim yellow light from the
desk lamp on the table beside her flickers. And again. She’s none the wiser.
Rising from the dead quiet - a clicking sound - much like a metronome. It is soon accompanied
by a deep bellow of dissonance - the tone of a morose, detuned cello.
The clicking evolves into a vicious, cutting static while the bellow grows louder, angrier. Evelyn begins
levitating from the chair.
The cacophony of noise reaches full detriment - Evelyn now hovers several feet in the air. The sound
is roaring, other objects in the room lose hold of gravity - slipping into the same otherworldly space
that Evelyn currently occupies.
Then a break - silence re-establishes - Evelyn drops like an anvil onto the chair. She’s instantly awakened.
Heart racing, eyes wide.
“You do not belong here.”
She looks around, attempting to locate the source of those foreboding words.
“Wh… who are you?”
A low rumble answers back, vibrating the windows. Evelyn springs from the chair.
“You shouldn’t be here!”
The rumble returns, shaking the floor.
Evelyn stumbles back to her chair. Then a bright flash - the entire room has been sealed in some form of translucent resin.
“Tom! Tom!!” she screams.
“Submit.” snarled the voice.
Evelyn, in tears, falls onto her hands and knees.
“What are you?” she begs.
“God!” booms the discarnate entity.
Her sobbing is louder, harder but is drowned out by a gallery of maniacal laughter that
echoes - shrill and seething.
“SUBMIT!” the voice repeats.
Evelyn sits up, tries to gather herself.
“What do you want?”
“Kill him.”
“Kill who?”
“The man.”
Her whimpering ceases. She wipes her face - those words slowly sink in.
“I will NOT!”
“Kill him!” the voice commands.
“Fuck you!”
The small desk lamp blinks, the bulb pops - Evelyn screeches. The room is bathed in darkness.
“You both will die.”
Evelyn collapses back onto the floor - alone in the pitch black.
https://imgur.com/a/gNveM7L
"Figments" - Second in the five-part series 'Unseen'.
Mixed media on plywood. My 122nd painting.
06-28-2023, 03:34 AM
All have said their prayers.
Invade their nightmares.
To see into my eyes.
You'll find where murder lies.
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That is one of my most favorite songs ever.
\m/METALLICA\m/
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Day 4:
Evelyn comes to on the couch. It’s morning. She rubs her eyes and takes stock of the room -
everything in its place. Panic strikes and she runs through the house calling out for Tom. He’s not home.
She stops at the threshold of the kitchen, leaning against the outer wall - pressing her fingers
against her temples. She squints her eyes and moans. The pain passes and she runs down the
hall into a spare bedroom - rifles through a few drawers and comes out with a pen and small
stack of paper.
She rushes to a chair in the dining room and begins scribbling madly on one of the sheets,
then another, and another. This goes on until all the sheets are filled - eleven pages in total.
They fan out before her on the table, she stares down at them, breathless.
Then another dose of the searing pain. She clamps her hands on either side of her head, slides
from the chair onto the floor and lays beneath the table making harsh guttural sounds.
An hour later, Tom finds her sleeping in the same spot. He sees the mess of papers scattered
across the table. Crouching down, he gently nudges her shoulder.
“Lyn? Lyn!”
Evelyn turns over, sees Tom and begins crawling out. Bloodshot eyes and lost expression - she takes
a seat and tries piecing together the events of the last two hours.
She gathers her papers into a loose pile - Tom looking on cautiously.
“I think I know what’s going on.” she says.
“OK.” Tom replies.
“I woke up, things were fuzzy - but then, my thoughts started racing! All these ideas, this information
came flooding in.”
Tom sits quietly.
“I don’t know where it all came from - but it makes perfect sense.”
“OK.” he says once more.
“I’ve been jumping timelines.”
Tom takes a deep breath and exhales.
“I know it sounds - "
“Evelyn?” he interrupts.
She picks up the stack of papers and taps them onto the table three times and sets them back down.
“Things have been out of sorts lately, for both of us.”
Evelyn fidgets in her chair.
“A lot has happened in a short amount of time.”
She sighs, then glances out a window.
“Hey.” he says.
She turns back to face him.
“I think it would be good for you to see someone, to talk to about things.”
She locks eyes with him.
“So it’s not enough for you to dismiss me, I need a stranger to call me crazy too?”
“I’m not - "
“You’re not listening, you’re also not even allowing me to explain any of this!” she says slapping her
hand down on the stack of papers.
“I skimmed over those before waking you.”
“And?”
“And it looks like the busy-work of an unwell person.”
Evelyn glares at him for several seconds before picking up her papers and walking from the room.
https://imgur.com/7NLhfAq
"They Speak" - Third in the five-part series 'Unseen'.
Mixed media on plywood. My 123rd painting.
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You know how it is when you're just cruising around on Google Maps
and you swoop down on a random location - like Nogales, Sonora and
some dude behind a building is caught by the Google Mobile taking a piss.
https://imgur.com/FJTDhrQ
Also, ya boy playing lookout is slippin'.
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Dude that is fucking LEGENNNDDDARRRYYYYYYYYYYUH.
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Here's the link I forgot to add.
Nogales Pisser
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Day 5:
Evelyn woke early in the guest room. She hadn’t spoken to Tom since their dining room
interaction the day before. She goes to the kitchen, makes herself some coffee, then proceeds
to the hobby room and seats herself on a folding wooden chair.
Her art supplies take up most of the space in one corner. She sits and stares out a window
for the better part of half an hour before she hears stirrings from up the hall.
The coffee gone, she sets her cup down on a small end table and walks over to the easel.
A fresh blank canvas. She picks up a brush and allows her mind to wander. Moments later, she
senses him standing in the doorway.
“How are you feeling today?” Tom asks quietly.
Evelyn stands with her back to him, rolls her eyes and makes him wait several seconds for a reply.
“Fine.”
He takes a few steps into the room, maintaining a generous distance. She’s looking through her
collection of acrylic paints.
“It’s good to see you getting back to your art.”
Evelyn sets a handful of tubes aside and picks up her palette - still facing away from Tom.
“Can we talk about this?” he asks.
She dips her brush into some bright red paint, ignoring him.
“Hey!” he fires at her.
Evelyn lays rich streaks of color onto the canvas. Tom storms over and grabs the brush from her hand.
“I need you to talk to me!” he shouts.
She whips around in a fury.
“Why? You won’t like anything I have to say!”
They stand facing each other without a connecting bridge.
“You’re crumbling. You need help.”
“I need my brush back.”
Tom deflates. His eyes worried and weary. Hers - angered and unapologetic. He throws her
paintbrush across the room and almost in the same motion is throttled backwards several
steps - but not by Evelyn’s hand.
He looks around, turns to leave when she takes hold of his throat and lifts him off the ground.
His eyes now bulge with fright and confusion. Hers - darkened, possessed.
A low hum envelopes the room, Tom struggles to breathe. Evelyn overtaken by something unseen -
her face twisted into a grotesque manifestation of otherness. She drops him to the floor.
She thrashes about - ripping things from the walls, tearing down furnishings. Tom tries to grab
hold of her but she swipes at him with her arm - sending him across the room. Windows shatter
in unison with shards hurtling through the air.
The room is pulsing with rage.
After those frenzied few minutes, a calm washes over - Tom sitting on the floor, leaning against
the wall. Evelyn crumpled in the corner, sobbing.
Tom crawls to her and places his hand on her shoulder - she screams. He lays down and puts
his arms around her.
https://imgur.com/THxywUL
"A Most Violent Turn" - Fourth in the five-part series 'Unseen'.
Mixed media on plywood. My 124th painting.
(07-04-2023, 06:41 PM)somethingelseishere Wrote: You know how it is when you're just cruising around on Google Maps
and you swoop down on a random location - like Nogales, Sonora and
some dude behind a building is caught by the Google Mobile taking a piss.
https://imgur.com/FJTDhrQ
Also, ya boy playing lookout is slippin'.
I was caught by former classmates peeing in public
I also pulled my pants and underwear down on a very busy streetcorner( hundreds watched me )
I scream in my sleep and scared many people including at boarding school
I am kind of obsessed with these type of relationships
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/artic...e-gap.html
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Tom drops a brown leather overnight bag onto the passenger seat, closes the door
and rounds the front of the car to the other side. He drives away from the house - a different
house - it’s smaller and in a more residential area.
Across town, he pulls into a parking lot - EVERGREEN PSYCHIATRIC FACILTY. It’s about
half filled with various makes and models of new and older vehicles. Tom exits the 1990 Volvo
with Iowa plates. Bag in hand, he crosses the parking lot and enters the building.
He waits in the front corridor at the check-in point. Seconds later, he’s met by a pretty
brunette in her late twenties.
“Evelyn Pierce?” he requests politely.
She smiles through the half-inch of protective glass and buzzes him in. Once past the large
double doors, Tom walks the long, brightly-lit hallway that goes on for what feels like a city
block before reaching the sitting room at the end.
He stands at the opening, a lump forms in his throat - he watches for a moment. She’s facing
a window but is staring blankly off into nothing. Despondent. A squeeze of pain on his
heart - a hopeless sorrow.
Tom approaches and waits - she’s a million miles away. He gently taps her shoulder, bringing
her back to this world.
“Oh, hey. I was just thinking about you.”
He leans down, kisses her cheek and places the leather bag on her lap. Thirty-two years
married and she was still the most beautiful girl in any room. Tom sits in a chair beside her,
that lump in his throat tightening.
Evelyn sets the bag on the floor, looks around the room and then back at Tom. It was hard
seeing her like this - eyes dulled with the wear of medication and too much sleep.
They back & forth with the usual - bland food, strange people, the staff are nice but distant,
nights are pleasantly quiet except for that one older gentleman who struggles with fitful
dreams and cramping legs.
And, like with every other visit - Evelyn wants to leave. Tom then has to explain that her doctor
hasn’t cleared her for that yet.
“I don’t care. I want to go Home, Tom. Home.”
That lump, the size of a grapefruit now.
“But we most certainly have to move, we can’t stay in that house.” she says in a whisper,
scanning the room suspiciously.
Tom fights hard to remain composed but a few tears find their way to freedom. Evelyn touches
his hand in consolation. He knows he has to tell her.
“Lyn?”
Her eyes brighten, she locks onto his every word.
“You’ve been here two weeks now.”
His loving smile offset by eyes welling up - her hand clutching his.
“You remember why you’re in here, don’t you?” he asks with a quiver in his voice.
“Oh God yes, it was the house! It was terrible! All the things that were going on, it nearly killed
us! Something evil was there, I could feel it!”
Tom wipes his face and clears his throat. Hanging by a tether.
“That day, when I came home from work, I found you in the garage.”
Evelyn stares intently.
“You had cut yourself, all over - your arms - legs.”
She glances down and rubs her right forearm, feeling the stitches through her sweatshirt.
“Blood was everywhere. Your canvases were soaked and ripped to shreds.”
Now tears run down her face.
“I know, but it was that house, it made terrible things happen!”
Tom’s body fills with a writhing anguish.
“We’ll just go back home to Davenport, that’s where we belong.” she declares.
“Evelyn!” he snaps, her head perks.
“There’s something I need to say - and I need you to listen.”
She leans slightly forward, full eye contact.
“We’re in Davenport. We never moved to Oregon.”
Her expression sours with confusion.
“It didn’t work out. The house we were interested in sold so we decided to wait until next year.”
She wipes her face and shakes her head.
“No, no, no…”
“Evelyn, yes, you have to accept this! All of these stories about a - haunted house -
they’re not real.”
“They’re not stories! It happened!” she screams, shooting up from her chair.
Everyone on the floor turns to look. Evelyn stands, shaking. Tom hugs her and sits
her back down.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner - but you were in no shape before.”
Evelyn sobs quietly, covering her face. Tom sits opposite - hands on her knees.
“It’s going to be okay, Lyn.”
She gathers herself and clears her throat.
“I want to go home. I can’t be here anymore. I want to go home, Tom.”
“Soon. I promise you.” he says, voice cracking.
Visiting hours have ended. Tom kisses Evelyn on the cheek and embraces her for
several moments. They break and Tom notices her eyes have fallen empty again.
His heart wrenches.
“Don’t forget your bag.” he says, lightly brushing her cheek. She looks up at him with
such desperation, forcing a very thin and reluctant smile.
Tom walks from the sitting room - every step driving another spike into his heart.
Evelyn watches him slowly grow smaller up the long, brightly-lit hallway.
https://imgur.com/Zb28vAs
"We Must Leave Here" - Final in the five-part series 'Unseen'.
Mixed media on plywood. My 125th painting.
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I've been working on my next storied-painting series for about a week now.
Lesson learned from this last one - no more teaser posts until AFTER the story
has been written and is DONE!
Having to conceptualize a painting, lay down the texture work, let it dry for 48 - 72 hours,
THEN paint it - all doable in a one-painting-per-week framework. But having to flesh out
and finalize the story AS WELL?? Made things a little more difficult than I thought it would
be so I won't be doing it that way again.
I've got all five plywood panels water sealed with two coats each side and two coats
of black paint on the backsides so they're ready for primer and texture - very glad that
part is done. As far as the writing part goes - I've got the story nearly mapped out to the finish,
I just need to figure out how the ending ends.
Of the five mini-stories, I've got the first four titles in place with a one or two-liner description
of each story segment and one of them is several paragraphs longs. All in, as a PDF I've got
2 1/3 pages of info, ideas and potential action scenes/dialogue. I just need to start piecing it
together with story. I'm hoping I can be a bit more thrifty with my word count this time, since
they are after all: micro-stories.
I do want to expand on this one, write in out in full short-story format. That'll be later
on though.
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(07-26-2023, 01:53 PM)somethingelseishere Wrote: But having to flesh out and finalize the story AS WELL?? Made things a little more difficult than I thought it would be so I won't be doing it that way again.
I can relate to that.
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It works fine when they're only blurbs - a couple or three paragraphs. But when there's
upwards of a dozen paragraphs of story PER PAINTING - that's too much jelly for the toast.
Plus with Orville - my one-year old orange tabby - I have very little time [or PEACE & QUIET!]
to get much done these days. He's 16 months old and I hope he's soon to grow out of this
very bad kittie stage of his life. Some days aren't as bad as others but he's a mess for sure.
I love him though. He's my precious little boogerbear!! 
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Waterloo, Iowa - 1995
I hate this fucking world. Everything is wrong. People are fake. Institutions are corrupt.
The law is for sale and even the idea of God has been made a mockery.
Billions of selfish, entitled invalids roaming free - ruining all they come into contact with.
Oblivious to anything real or meaningful. Clutching tooth and nail to the soothsayers of modern
technology and popular opinion. Fuck them! It’s time they got their dose of reality.
My name is Mariel - and I’m about to do some things.
Embers
Stillness in the Trees
Cursed is the Ground
Take This, My Very Blood
Perversion on the Land
A new four-part painting series. Settling in the ashes, soon.
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“It is thought that we enter the public school system for an education. To learn and socialize
in order to become well-adjusted, productive members of society. BULLSHIT!
We’re forced into these indoctrination centers to be manipulated and mindfucked into
believing absolute nonsense and are only rewarded when we can regurgitate the accepted
answers, jump through the right hoops and clap like a fucking seal for a pat on the head.
Only so they can then push us out into the world to maintain the slave-level of blindness
that keeps the wicked in high places. They can all rot!”
She’d been watching the place all week. Right down to when the last teacher leaves and the
first security patrol moves through. There was a sweet spot between 9:15 - 10:30pm. More than
enough time to get in and out.
It wasn’t a huge building but she’d still do a walk-thru, after all, she was no murderer - more
an orchestrator of controlled demolition. Ridding the landscape of unseemly eyesores.
Especially those who chose to go against the principles of intellectual integrity and the honest
forward movement of all mankind.
Her watch reads 9:16pm. Time to get to work. Mariel had a school to burn down.
https://imgur.com/2Gf2QQ3
"Stillness in the Trees" - First in the four-part series 'Embers'.
Mixed media on plywood. My 127th painting.
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I'm Wayne Brady, bitch!!
Wayne receives a call from Gary, his agent. This is how that conversation went. Probably.
[Wayne Brady will be WB. Gary the agent will be GTA]
It’s a marvelous sunny day - but Wayne is feeling a bit of the blues. His career has hit
a stagnant point and he’s not sure of a way forward. He lays on an over-sized sectional
in his opulent great room when the phone rings. Reluctantly, he answers.
WB: "Hello." *in a deflated manner*
GTA: "Wayne! What’s cookin’ my man?"
WB: "Who is this?"
GTA: "It’s me, Gary. Your agent."
WB: "Ooh, hey. What’s up?"
GTA: "Remember what we talked about last time? Getting you back in the spotlight?"
WB: "I guess."
GTA: "Well here it is! THIS is how we do it!"
WB: "How?"
GTA: "You’re gonna love it! Listen - we put it out on the wire… that you are now - pan-sexual."
WB: "Pan? What? I’m fuckin’ pans now?? I got a cookware fetish??"
GTA: "NO! Nothing like that, it means you’re fluid, that you’re attracted to everything!"
WB: "Man, how you gonna call me with some shit like this?"
GTA: "Wayne, baby, trust me! This is your John Travolta comeback!!"
WB: "Ain’t nobody tryin’ to be that fruity, borderline-rapist, creepy muthafucka!"
GTA: "Uh, Pulp Fiction? Tarantino??"
WB: "And he’s another one! Man, I gotta go!"
GTA: "Wayne! Wait!! This will get you street-cred with the younger generation! You wanna
be big with the kids, don’t ya?"
WB: "Appeal to children? There’s a word for that. And I damn sure don’t want it associated with me!"
GTA: "NO, you’ll be hip, in, everyone will love you!!"
WB: *thinks for a moment*
GTA: "You there?"
WB: "If we do this, we gotta do that other thing I mentioned."
GTA: "Of course! Anything you want! *pauses* What was the other thing?"
WB: "I want a harem."
GTA: "YES! YESS!! THIS is the Wayne Brady I know!!"
WB: "White girls. Twenty-one to twenty-five years old. I want thirty of them bitches."
GTA: "Absolutely!! Baby, you’ll be in more young white pussy than clit rings!!"
WB: "And… a talk show. I want you to Oprah me up."
GTA: "You wanna go on Oprah? SURE! I can make that happen!"
WB: No, I want my own talk show. Tongue Hour with Wayne Brady."
GTA: "Uuhh…"
WB: "You know, cuz I’ll be talking. To guests. "
GTA: "Oooh. K." *shaky voice*
WB: "Alright Gary, let’s make a move. Put your headline out. I’m ready for this!"
GTA: "Wayne, you will not be sorry! You’re gonna blow up like a warehouse full of sex dolls!!"
WB: *winces* "Just get it done." *hangs up*
: )
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The church had always been a sore point with Mariel. Being forcibly baptized at the age
of nine went a long way towards cementing her hatred of cult behavior. But it was the
overall presence of such a dangerous entity that hit her where she lived. One on every
corner. Reducing people to herd animals - the Lord’s flock. Lining up for their weekly fleecing.
A fool and their money…
“The poison peddled here, it’s truly an abomination to all things sacred. Religion - the surest
path away from God. And these motherfuckers are cashing in on every aspect of the brainwash.
Get ‘em when they’re young and they’re yours forever. Sick fucks. Lies are their weapons.
Guilt, shame and fear is the ammo - with the innocent and gullible in the cross-hairs.
If I could, I’d burn this whorehouse down twice.”
https://imgur.com/jORnZii
"Cursed is the Ground" - Second in the four-part series 'Embers'.
Mixed media on plywood. My 128th painting.
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Joined: May 2017
“A cancer upon the Earth. The very foundation of banking is to hold the people hostage.
To ransom their lives, their futures for the greed and lust for power of a small percentage
of dishonorable men. Leveraging decent, hard-working people into servitude and eventual
ruin with a single keystroke. Foreclosing on the existence of millions. Nothing more than
government-sanctioned organized crime.
It’s time somebody hit back.”
This job called for more than her usual matches and gasoline, so Mariel had to reach out
to a couple friends in interesting places. There were two objectives: First - to send a message.
Second - to not leave one brick standing. Which explains the need for a few packs of C-4.
Bank vaults don’t just blow themselves up.
This was the big leagues.
https://imgur.com/jJrz5m7
"Take This, My Very Blood" - Third in the four-part series 'Embers'.
Mixed media on plywood. My 129th painting.
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