Refracted Neurons

It was late in the day by the time they reached Thais. Midas picked a house at random and headed up the path to the door as Babe hung back, a suspicious squint in her eyes. He stood on the stoop knocking on the door until Babe called out to him and he turned. “Hey Townie, maybe you should-“ was the last thing heard before something heavy landed on the back of his head and everything went dark. The splitting pain in his crown and the sound of voices were the first things to come back to him. Next, he could feel the chill of a basement floor seeping into his back. Everything else returned like a sudden rainfall, and he sat up, immediately regretting it. While he was still groaning and cradling his head, a door opened above him. There was a creaking as someone descended the steps, the shaft of light from the solitary window falling on a pair of legs, then the man’s torso, and finally, his fearfully furry face. “Werewolf!” squeaked Midas. The man ignored Midas’ comment, grabbing him...

People always called Sorrell “Little Miss Red” for the calf-length cloak she wore outdoors.  The hooded garment was made with wool her grandmother gave her, dyed a red rivaled only by the autumn leaves swirling around her feet. Grandma was one of the few who lived out in the woods, her small cabin a reminder of a time when the town stretched up the river instead of clustering around the railroad tracks.  If she looked hard enough, Sorrell could make out the bricks of an old chimney in the underbrush and the glint of smashed windows sparkling in the branches of the young pines. So lost in thought was she, that she didn’t see the young man until he was directly in front of her.  “Where are you going, Sorrell?” he tipped his hat to her. “Just visiting Grandma,” she held up her basket of cookies.  He stepped off the path, a gesture that was as unnecessary as it was deferential.  Even after she passed him, she continued thinking about him.  Caleb was his ...

Guess what I have for you? No, not cookies, sorry.  Come over and I'll bake you a pie.  But in the meantime, here is the ebook version of Egregious: Download Egregious imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> To download, open in iBooks.  It will copy it to your shelf and you can read it.  If you don't have iBooks, and you really want an eBook copy that works with your device . . . I'm only gonna say this once, so lean in. I'm a pretty friendly person, so just ask.  For anyone who hasn't been following my serial fiction, Egregious, here is a brief summary of the story: In the city of Citadel, a curse is no laughing matter.  A simple angry word or mocking phrase from a friend or foe, and the changes begin. Meet Tate Harper.  He hasn't been fully human for ten years.  Cursed by a childhood friend, he is forced to live as a wolf man in Egregia, the wooded area surrounding ...

I still haven't got around to drawing the picture that I wanted to draw, but I did do a little five minute sharpie doodle and a painstaking sketch that I'm wholly unhappy with.  As soon as I was done, I had only one thought on my mind: PAINTSCHAINER!!! And speaking of Paintschainer , they have yet another filter out, and you know what that means.  Remember all those random sketches I found in my sketch book awhile ago?  Most of them didn't look so great when I ran them through Paintschainer.  But what would happen if I tried the Canna filter on them? Amazingness and random glow-balls. Apparently this new filter, which is so wonderful on soft pencil lines, has a weird fault.  If there's nothing in the bottom right hand corner, it puts a weird glowing rainbow ball there. And here is the new sketch, heavily inspired by the art of Kazuya Minekura (okay, so it's a sweaty Koumyou).  Even though I drew this on paper with pencil, I decided to try in...

It's 2018, and my New Year's resolution is to get rid of some of the unpublished drafts hanging out on my blog. Since I seem to be unable to simply delete them, I decided to throw them all into one post, which of course means things will be even less cohesive than usual.  So assume your bracing position and exit as soon as the vehicle has come to a complete stop. ---------<=========>--------- I was at the beach today, gazing at the smoky horizon while sinking my toes into the hot, white sand.  And . . . looking at the bright green bikes conveniently parked along the main pathway to Golden Gardens. Bikes like the beach too. For those who don't know Seattle's history with on-street bike rentals, this might seem unremarkable.  But here's the thing: we've watched on-street bike rentals crash  twice  in our city, and one of those times was using public funds.  As  this article  says about this whole situation and our ruling elite: ...

“I wish he’d quit with the damned shoe already,” Stella complained. “I know,” laughed Maggie, “He’s tried to put it on me three times already.” “Maybe he likes you,” Stella rolled her wheelchair forward a few inches so she could see better. Ash, unaware of their gossip, was trying to flag down another co-ed on her way to class. Stella watched amused, as Ash chased the woman, waving a stiletto heel in the air. “Riiiiight,” Maggie frowned, then sighed, “You really should have come, Stella. I’ve never been to a dance like that before. No one knew who anyone was.” “Yeah, yeah.” Stella usually went to all the dances, but this one had struck a sour note with her. A masquerade ball, with full face masks sounded like fun, unless you were the one person everyone would recognize anyway. Annoyed, she had told Maggie she wasn’t going; even while she was buying a ticket and shopping for a dress. The dress still hung in her closet, its blue sateen shimmering even in the darkness, a ...

It is too late in the season for that amber disk to do anything other than warm me. Past the days of blossoms, of seed, of attrition, you are a blackthorn spring, a sun, spotted with the nip of winter. It is too late for the stretch of shadows, for the buzz of honey   that fills your mouth when you breathe. Here are the days of blossoms, of seed, of regeneration. of you, of unripe blackberries, and the vines of my soul take root. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The weather has been unusual for this time of year. It's as cold as the hand of death reaching out of a grave, but the sky is that piercing blue we usually only get in the summer. None of the plants have been fooled by this, and I certainly haven't been fooled. Just a little precipitation and we'll have snow. Seattle, via airplane For the moment at least, it's got me thinking of summer instead of Christmas.