tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63123609245249553062024-03-19T12:39:03.193-07:00The work of Jarce ArtThorJarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.comBlogger113125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-59177741971744122442019-10-24T14:46:00.000-07:002019-10-24T14:46:31.232-07:00It BeginsVisit my new website at www.morbidtoybox.com to read the continuation to my original #sciencefiction #horror #bassysbasilica<br />
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<br />Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-51228307345999809392019-10-06T13:46:00.001-07:002019-10-06T13:51:38.610-07:00Moving to new websiteI will begin transferring all of my original art and story content to my new personal blog and web page at Morbidtoybox.com<br />
My new blog series ParaVice will also be going there as well and I still plan to publish chapters later in October. See you there!<br />
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www.morbidtoybox.comJarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-39061165222958762002019-09-22T19:52:00.001-07:002019-09-22T19:52:53.666-07:00Super CaricaturesHad this awesome Father and Daughter who wanted to be #WonderWoman and #Deadpool combining the #dccomics and #marvelcomics Universe. This is what I came up with... #caricatures #art<br />
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Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-88135057711294271922019-09-22T14:24:00.000-07:002019-09-22T14:24:17.036-07:00Our booth at last year’s Scare-a-con <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-25910040987803683052019-09-22T12:15:00.001-07:002019-09-22T12:15:05.196-07:00Some Caricatures from 2019<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUvLHfiNw6IsnF0k-wzhdKltBmhDRcvY3KwiDqTt_8k3P7RR1hKsLQqA4eT8cArzjPDo3u__gdJzjneFBc81MJTB_aRszelRQreHFHkoPA6T_AV154HFzwMb-CidGQuO_TB-0I-BbeXQXL/s1600/74075A57-3E01-4A82-8BBA-7B1B249C8127.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1334" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUvLHfiNw6IsnF0k-wzhdKltBmhDRcvY3KwiDqTt_8k3P7RR1hKsLQqA4eT8cArzjPDo3u__gdJzjneFBc81MJTB_aRszelRQreHFHkoPA6T_AV154HFzwMb-CidGQuO_TB-0I-BbeXQXL/s320/74075A57-3E01-4A82-8BBA-7B1B249C8127.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-76008162014203268972019-09-11T22:43:00.001-07:002019-09-11T22:43:10.095-07:00ParaVice delayed.I’ve been a little too busy with work and had next to no time to work on this project are the artwork I had planned to share with each chapter. So I have no choice but to delay this project. Luckily I have no real deadline. I want to make the story as fun as possible, but I’ll need more time than I thought to do that. I’ll post more info as the project develops. My plan is to isolate myself and work on this all winter. Lots of artwork will accompany the final. If I lose you on this, I’m sorry. But art and artists is a capricious thing. I’d rather delay it than to throw it out on display half baked. Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-11292293574930300572019-08-10T09:33:00.001-07:002019-08-10T09:36:50.239-07:00No where else to run but to the canvasThe day we live in now is darker than ever before.<div>Our climate is the hottest it has been since before written history was ever invented. Out nations are ruled by narcissistic tyrants who are afraid of everything that exists outside of their self-absorbed bubbles. Mental illness is left untreated to reek havoc, because insurance carriers can’t figure out how to tax such a volatile issue to their benifit. Drug use is rampant, wiping out thousands in a heart beat, and destroying families, communities, even entire cities. Homeless populations are climbing, housing is declining. Desperate, vulnerable children are manipulated by evil, powerful forces and taken advantage of, sometimes made into slaves. We are at brink of war on all sides, even with ourselves. There is nowhere left to run, nowhere to hide but to the canvas. Now is the time for an artisans’ renaissance. We need to stop exploding on each other and throw that energy into art. We need to create, we need to vent, we need to express ourselves. Whether it be through writing, music, painting, drawing, or poetry it’s time to pick ourselves up and start a revolution of creativity. Get out the poison, get out the dark, or make a remedy of compassion, and love. Art is how we mend these broken wings and fly again. Whether it is only to vent, or to promote optimism, we have to do it. The canvas is only empty and forlorn before a great calamity of pent up energy and emotion erupts onto it. The canvas is our new frontier, our great escape, our sanctuary, our refuge, our unchartered waters, our unwritten future... our fertile earth waiting to be seeded by imagination. Go there and be rescued. Take a vacation from the fallout of a savage era and rebuild, and dream, and be free again. The canvas longs for your artful hand. We can find peace there. Or at the least we can find a punching bag there to get out the rage. Whatever medicine you need, the canvas will provide. Keep arting! And be healthy. Share, and reshape the world. </div>Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-49890718316225302802019-05-15T07:31:00.001-07:002019-05-15T08:08:32.810-07:00GOT season 8 reviewI absolutely love it, and can’t wait for the final episode! When the Dothraki were wiped out in ten seconds, after building up their fierceness for 8 seasons, I was literally pulled in with horror like “dear god, what are they gonna do?” <div>It was great.</div><div>And ARYA is a goddamn legend now. And so is the Lady of Bear Island.</div><div>When Khaleesi decided to burn up King’s Landing, I laughed sinisterly. That, to me, was a great turn for the better for this character. I always liked Khaleesi, but I never trusted her motives. Turning bad makes sense. <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Now she can finally be interesting again.</span></div><div>I also want to point out (though I am not entirely convinced that it was intentional) that Jamie and Cersei came into this world that they would soon destroy from the same womb together. And now they left it under a crumbling body; the fruits of their labor crushing them inside the womb of their keep, and the place where the game kind of began. </div><div><br></div><div>Now on the critical response to the season. </div><div><p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I knew everyone was going to hate this last season of GOT before it even started. Wouldn’t matter the outcome. There were too many possibilities, and too many stories to wrap up. Somebody was not going to be happy either way. Plus with a fan base of this magnitude you are destined to have critics who think they would have done something better, and activists who want more out of a fiction than can be delivered without sacrificing entertainment, or the shock value, which we all loved about the show in the first place. In the real world I want the hero to prevail, but in pretend world I just want the good guy to turn dark. We get so emotionally invested in these characters and their plights that sometimes we forget that in the end it’s just a fantasy that is known for breaking the rules. And as the great J.R.R Tolkien once said: “There is no allegory here! Now stop camping in my yard, hippies!”</span></p></div>Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-45966964387169408572019-05-03T14:41:00.001-07:002019-05-03T14:41:27.970-07:00Otherworld Caricatures Stories!True customer encounter today.<div><br></div><div><div>She kept asking "what character are you gonna make me?"</div><div><br></div><div>So I explained that it is a "caricature" like a cartoon depiction of you."</div><div><br></div><div>She says "I think I'll get head and shoulders so you can get more of me."</div><div><br></div><div>I draw it. I show her.</div><div><br></div><div>"I thought you were gonna make me a character, that's not a character."</div><div><br></div><div>I say, "no, ma'am, it's a CARICATURE of you."</div><div><br></div><div>She points at the theme examples.</div><div><br></div><div>"But all those there are characters, there's a princess"</div><div><br></div><div>I tell her, "those are theme drawings. You read the sign and said you'd rather have head and shoulders in color."</div><div><br></div><div>She says, "the sign says characters."</div><div><br></div><div>"It says caricatures, ma'am."</div><div><br></div><div>“Well, what’s a caricarter?”</div><div><br></div><div>“Caricature, ma’am. It’s what I do.” ;-)</div><div><br></div><div>She gives me a drawing and says, "well I wanted a character."</div></div>Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-20474568851329137402019-04-24T19:47:00.001-07:002019-04-24T20:00:02.028-07:00Moving on It’s been a full year now, since the journey began, still I’ve only just found my path. <div>Easter Sunday, 2018</div><div>I was slow to get up off my ass that morning. The night before I decided to stop by at my moms and just be lazy. I started my business, ordered all the tools I needed, they were on their way. Bought show insurance, had the truck, had the supplies, and my first official show on my own was only a week away. Life was good and promising, though, I hardly knew what I was doing or how things would ultimately pan out. Still, through Hell Fire and on I go. But for the moment, it was time to be lazy. Haven’t been home in months. Was just 40 min away from home for a few weeks but I felt like lounging out at my moms house. After a time scanning my Facebook wall for something interesting to laugh at besides Easter, and jesus memes, I finally decided to head home. First I accidentally bumped into the basketball net that was lost in my blind spot and I ripped out my turn signal light. That sucked, but Gorilla Tape and Me is the name of my Life Time movie. So I fixed it the best way a scrub possibly could. Then I was on my way. I was feeling good so I decided to swing by my landlord’s place and drop off my rent. But upon making my grandpa-slow move to park... SURPRISE! Here comes speed racer fresh out on a bright sunshine ride to throw his crochet rocket into my axel. He lost control, doing what best I could tell was a speed not recommended for a residential back country road. He jumped off and went tumbling. He was fine, thank god, and refused an ambulance. But I broke his toy, and it in turn broke my work horse. I was back to ground zero.</div><div>I scrambled. Had to find a new car fast, but now I was broke having put all in on my new business. Funny how I was out of funds trying to get funds, and now I was out of a truck to get me to the place where I needed to make my money. I got lucky and found a place to get me a loan on this old crummy cargo van. Fast forward to a full year later, I have a very successful caricature art company, a paid off van, and a brand new truck. And all my debt that has plagued me for years is flattened. I am very grateful for my strange luck and fortune. But the road has only just begun. Soon I’ll be publishing some writing here on my blog, perhaps even get some legitimate novels done, and I’ll be expanding my business within the next few weeks. Busy times, and great sacrifice, but it’s all worth it. </div><div>Wish it all could have come a different way, but accidents happen, and some times the worst accidents are the beginning workins of something good for you. Maybe that guy won’t go flying down a back road like Tom Cruise in a mission impossible movie anymore. And I will certainly take even longer than I had before to park my truck and switch lanes. </div>Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-63110182951722186342019-04-01T11:53:00.001-07:002019-04-01T13:38:52.433-07:00News (April 2019)Happy April!<br>
I am working on a lengthy follow up to my short story #bassysbasilica <div>Season 1 will be presented with a wicked noire themed title that is just the longest title ever. I was inspired by Rob Zombie to make these ridiculously long titles to break up part 1,2, and 3. They all have meaning, and they are all like twisted riddles that I hope will engage the quriosity of my audience before the stories are posted. Kinda like a puzzle for everyone to try and decipher before show time. The universe I am building is called ParaVice, which is the nickname of my fictional city where these events will come into play. My ultimate goal is to have a chapter ready every Thursday starting in the month of October. I want the segments to be short enough to enjoy by reading from digital tablets and phones, leaving every installment with a cliffhanger that will hopefully inspire my friends and followers to continue coming back to see what happens next. I am really having fun creating this world and these characters. But it is a challenge. This is the first time I am trying out world building, and I'm moving through the project as quickly as I can with my free time. So this is my Toy Box. These are my kickass action figures. And come Fall it’s time to play. </div>Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-11546518944138124862019-03-15T21:30:00.001-07:002019-03-15T23:29:57.480-07:00Movie Review: Green Book<p style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Well, Green Book was an enjoyable movie. But Best Movie of the year is a lot of a bit much. There were too many scenes with really bad acting in it that bothered the hell out of me. And the movie moves through them a bit fast too. Also the movie was produced and co written by the son of a very successful “bull-shit artist” (his words, not mine) making it hard to trust. Also again, that same writer stresses that Don Shirley wanted him to wait until he was passed away before sharing this story, which seems suspicious to me. Plus that guy put himself in the movie, so it’s all shades kind of shady. Still, the movie is fun to watch. It reminds me of a few things. I stayed at very bad hotels for one. It reminds you how rough that time was. And it makes me realize how goddamn lonely I am in my career. So does it remind us that there is a big gap between poor, and the idealism of class. But it also shows us how we still have a lot of work to do as a nation, as there are still parts and people that are like that. I’ve been all over the country as a carnival patron, I’ve seen many different walks of life. The fact that some of this movie seems familiar to me still in 2019 is concerning. I get the time period, and the racism was thick in it, yet sadly, some of that is still around. A lot of it is so ubiquitous in some areas that folks don’t even bat an eye when such a slur or statement is uttered. I’ve been guilty of ignoring it in my early years as I was too dumb to know better. Took traveling to get it clear in my head. And still I’m learning. I recommend this film as a must see, but still a rental. Not a buy, but a rental is good enough. Don’t shit on this one completely. Maybe just a poof and a squirt, but not a full shit. This message brought to you tonight by Redbox and Crown Royal, the Rye kind... it’s on sale for Saint Patricks Day... it’s a damn deal. I should stop this review now... right! Sorry! Till next time!</span></p> Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-42112409020899129242019-03-09T07:34:00.001-08:002019-03-09T07:35:13.261-08:00News (March 9)March has been good for me. Was struggling to find a some gigs out here in this cold season. We stumbled upon this company that brought us to a lot in Florida that appeared frighteningly penurious. But the weekend came and it was a blessing. We are making lots of money drawing caricatures which will help me to invest in my business, and my love: writing fiction. The new story is a possession. I plan to share it on my blog as soon as possible. A nice, sexy, scary, cool, and just plain fun horror series. I’m building a world strictly for my blog, and to explore strange demensions in my morbid fantasy. My goal is to break all of the rules. The project is inspired by all the things I loved about 90’s action, suspense, horror growing up. If you are a movie goer, you will enjoy what I’m making here. The project is a direct sequel to my short, Bassy’s Basilica, so be sure to check out that piece when you can, though you won’t need to in the long run. More details coming soon. Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-54660032456598192022019-03-01T09:35:00.000-08:002019-03-01T09:35:10.457-08:00Clinch (Sports Fiction)This story came from a 1000 word "prompt" challenge that I participated in a couple weeks ago. I have since added some words, and changed a few things. I had a lot of fun writing this one, especially being that when I first heard the prompt I was immediately inspired as I knew exactly what I wanted to write, which doesn't normally happen so easily. Usually it takes me a few hours, sometimes even days to land a solid idea. But the beauty about this challenge is that you only get three days to think it up and write it down. Makes you use parts of your cold brain that you normally don't. A great exercise. Well here is my story...<br />
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Prompt: Matchmaker<br />
from the Fiction War contest of Winter 2019<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Hecklers jeered raucously in the back. Another adrenaline-fueled fan taunted them, and a barbaric contest of unruly language erupted in the audience. Andy Brooks went to the podium that separated his featured fighters to staunch their bleeding passions. Spectators of combative sport were always the most spirited sort. More often than not a simple press conference could just as soon become a sugar-frenzied day care center in desperate need of a tranquilizer gun. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> Their balding host was a robust man with a flat nose and a rich taste for foppish attire. His broad shoulders came high around his thick neck—lingering features that hung on to him from a time when he was a boxer and weightlifting enthusiast. But now he looked like a pretentious Humpty Dumpty that let a few too many jabs slip past his guard. Andy whispered to the muscled athlete seated stoically to his right. He was dark of complexion, sporting black sun glasses that were beyond gratuitous in this low-lit setting, a spongy black beard trimmed neatly, and a black shirt emblazoned with the logo of his training camp. He listened closely and chortled at what was shared, apparently enjoying whatever quiet jest his boss had to share. More likely he didn’t give a fuck, but good business is often sold with good humor and amiable relations. Andy then returned his attention to his guests and selected one to share a question for his fighters. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">A vivacious young journalist stood up with a jolt of alacrity and said, “Kendra Felix, Clinch-Zone.Net. My question is for Axel.” The burly black man on Andy’s right reached lazily for his microphone to ready himself. “You are called the Bad Boy of MMA for your witty commentary and indecorous disposition.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">The fighter grimaced as he scoffed, “<i>Indecorous?”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">“…Now that you have earned a title shot, I wonder: will you be more inclined to act as a better role model for the young kids that may look up to you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Axel paused, rubbing his chin with pensive consideration. Then he sucked his teeth and said, “<i>Man</i>, who letting these kids up so late to watch cage fighting? I ain’t no role model, ya know what I mean? I’m just a dude from the street tryna get paid.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">A surge of laughter rolled through his audience, as well as some more taunting mixed in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Andy quieted them and then picked another.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">A tall, lanky gentleman wearing business-casual denim pants and a loosely worn plaid shirt took the microphone. Adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, he said to the challenger and star guest left of Andy, “Fight News Media, Ryan Holt. There are some who seem to believe that you have returned to the cage, a different fighter from your golden days. <i>Are </i>you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">The wrestler opposite from Axel and Andy glared at him darkly. He had a blond goatee, close-cropped hair, and cruelly callused cauliflower ears, and protruding brow marked with indelible scars. He offered the reporter a long thoughtful gaze. It was a bone chilling gesture. Then the muscles in his square jaw flinched anxiously, as he seethed through his gnashed teeth, “Am I what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">“A different fighter?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">The pale beast of a man glanced over at his boss. Andy set an unhappy glower on him in return, remembering.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> Mark Stroeman was only five minutes alone in his locker room at the end of a rigorous judo session when Andy Brooks stormed in. He snarled at his prized heavyweight contender—newly redeemed after serving a yearlong suspension that had marred his once perfect reign over the division. Andy hurled a file of papers at his wide chest. The haughty fighter spared only a perfunctory glance through its contents. Recognizing exactly what it was and knowing all too well what devil was in those details, he tossed it aside and went back to disentangling his wrist raps. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> Blithely, he said, “A mistake.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> “A <i>mistake?”</i>Andy’s eyes were just about bulging out of his red face. “After everything you went through…why would you do it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> Mark dropped his heavy arms in his lap and asked, “Do what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> Andy could only gawk at him, nonplussed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> “If I am not mistaken, the anti-doping agency is in your pocket, is it not?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> “You expect me to just sweep this under the rug?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> “<i>Yes</i>, I do,” Mark said coldly, peeling his gi-top off his stout shoulders. “You can’t afford another blow like this. You are praised as the king of money matches. You know exactly who should fight who and when. That is your talent. Yet somehow, your brand is fading. <i>You</i>need this fight. You need me. I made well enough to live out three lifetimes even with my lofty penalties. And I have no doubt this admonition is only for show, as I am sure you’ve already paid the right people to make this unfortunate setback go away.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> To this he could say nothing. He was absolutely right. There was no point denying it. Still, “Why then? <i>Why </i>come back?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> Mark gave an insouciant shrug and said, “Because I like to hurt people. Here is the only place I can do it. <i>But</i>cutting weight is hell. So, there’s your answer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> “So is prison, Stroeman.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> The big man chortled and said, “Well then, best you make sure it all goes away well and good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> The next three weeks before competition were spent smiling on television with Andy’s top man at the Anti-Doping agency assuring the world that their fighters were clean, healthy, and ready to battle with no qualms. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> The champion wrestler sneered at this reporter in the denim pants and loosely worn plaid shirt as he answered him at last, “You’ll have to wait and see.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"> What they would see in time is a record-breaking attendance, with spectators fired up to see the most popular martial artist in the world reclaim his long lost title. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Five grueling rounds of merciless punishment feasted their primal hunger. Axel evaded near certain defeat three times early in the contest, but Stroeman was unstoppable. Every moment that Axel had him well out of gas, he unchambered another burst of tainted energy. He frustrated the kickboxer in a tight clinch before slipping under and suplexing him as though he were weightless. In the third round Axel caught the dexterous wrestler in a corner, seemingly depleted of vigor, and undone. He snuck in a gorgeous combination that sent his wayward opponent careening. Stroeman was beaten bloody and panting heavy. But he survived. Somehow, he always survived. The next two rounds he was like a man possessed with rage. Slam! Trip! Slam! Axel was good at getting back to his feet in bad situations, but mortality was in him. He saw the light drain from his eyes when Stroeman trapped his back and snaked an arm firmly beneath the chin. He held on until the man in his clutch went limp. Then the referee intervened. But Stroeman would not let go. He squeezed on, gnashing his teeth like a feral creature possessed by a species of wild anger. The referee tried to separate them by force but could not break them apart. Hard muscles vied for control. When he at last loosened the hold, it was too late. They pulled the thrashing monster away from the still body of his opponent. The ravenous spectators were no longer cheering but fell silent with disillusion. Then a trumpet of boos filled the air. Cups and balled up cards were hurled into the cage. Stroeman writhed violently on the canvas floor, as officials poured in to restrain him. Axel was dead, and Andy Brooks was on his feet staring with stunned eyes. The color had gone from his face. He was finished—the matchmaker made his last match and gambled away his life for one final money fight that would cost him everything. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-32303760162675649372019-02-09T10:15:00.002-08:002019-02-09T13:42:21.639-08:00Unraveling (short fantasy)<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 36.66666793823242px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 40px;">In a world of strings there is a story I know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 40px;">Trixy was a simple doll, who liked simple things. She was woven together with a rich ball of yarn, threaded with values; threaded with love and care. But her brother Mischief, he was a troublesome thing. Neglected by his forbearers, but fat with ego. He was made of material from a dusty drawer; a very old and forgotten drawer. Petulant and querulous, he was as rotten as the yarn that forged him, stuffed with hatred, and hemmed by impetuous hands. Hard times would draw him apart. Trixy tried to keep him together. She wrapped him up, and she closed his wounds. But no matter how hard she worked, Mischief would pull apart again and again. After some time, Trixy left him. He needed too much, and she could give no more. All of the needles and yarn in the world would not satisfy. But Trixy was convinced that her brother was fine. He was just how he was, and that should not be her problem. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He came undone. And Trixy could only watch in despair. His strings spilled out, and he caught others in the tangle of his mess. He pulled them along and they went with him subserviently. He ripped the fabric of their kingdom and drank their souls. Trixy couldn’t bear to look at what he became, and so she turned away. She went about her days blissfully ignorant to the disaster closing in around her. Mischief rolled and rolled and grew and grew. Before long, all the dolls in all the world were trapped in his web of loathing and grasping indignation. The bad yarn, from the old, dusty drawer, forgotten long ago had strung up everything they once loved as Mischief continued to unravel. Soon there was nowhere Trixy could go to pretend that her brother was just how he was and that was his problem. Soon she was caught too, stuck in an impossible knot no one could ever undo.</span></span>Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-62899096919972173812019-02-05T18:04:00.000-08:002019-02-05T18:04:41.675-08:00News (February 2019)Back from my hiatus!<br />
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The past few months have been a challenge. I finished my season (in case you don't know, I draw caricatures for a living) and scrambled to find a job to cover me as I attempt once again to survive the always grueling winter season. I landed on a maintenance job thanks to a good friend, where I was employed primarily to handle snow removal duties. Needless to say, that job got hard quick. The hours went from too short, to too long in a heart beat, and my old knees just weren't cooperating with me. Throwing 50LBS bags of salt rock all day for fourteen hours starts to breakdown any immortal fantasy I might have had about my age and abilities real fast. I went from being excited to have a regular job, to finding out just how much work is required when the snow does finally come down, to somehow dismantling a snow blower (which I never used before in my life), to getting a golf cart stuck in the mud, to trying to give my job away to some random guy, to quitting, to feeling bad about quitting, to getting back at it, to not liking it again, to discovering I can make more in two days drawing cartoons, and to quitting again. It was quite a trial. So unfortunately I had to move on from that business. Good job, but one for the young, and not me anymore. However I did score a couple of pet expos, and dog shows to draw at, and that was a lot of fun. I hope to do more of those soon.<br />
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As for writing, I have been working very hard on that. Been studying and practicing my craft every day. I have some stories set aside, made specifically for my blog, which I do plan to share in the very near future after some touch ups are made. I also have a continuation to my Bassy's Basilica sketched out. That will go up probably closer to Halloween, though, as it is a horror and I want everyone to be in that sort of morbid mood when reading it. I have also begun to write some stories I want to send in to competitions, and started a new fantasy that I will be taking very seriously. I am 34 now, and I have been writing since I was thirteen years old. It is well past time I had a book listed in my achievements, so that is my main focus right now. Getting one done, and doing it right. But writing well is a learning process and I have a lot to learn. My biggest revelation this year is finding out that I was never doing enough to get better at it. Now I am, and already I see big changes. For now, Its just going to be a lot of senseless babble until I have the story I was born to write in an agent's hands. Until then, Just got to keep on working at it. Write every day, and don't quit.Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-90178696112128749402018-11-14T17:37:00.003-08:002018-11-15T12:14:45.358-08:00Tarot Moon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLjGmfQDXtBIhrNj8Udrp1B6Mf2iyft2wi7nbU32TPKKn31QWI6suQXIvlsAy11oygtpkPifoy8yU-FDIqJQjPbdzEPIdcVnTYVHX1n7FQgMmRMgNWoniEMvAfPjUfrB4pG49DTqHqZh3/s1600/moon.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLjGmfQDXtBIhrNj8Udrp1B6Mf2iyft2wi7nbU32TPKKn31QWI6suQXIvlsAy11oygtpkPifoy8yU-FDIqJQjPbdzEPIdcVnTYVHX1n7FQgMmRMgNWoniEMvAfPjUfrB4pG49DTqHqZh3/s320/moon.png" width="239" /></a></div>
#tarot<br />
#themoonJarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-27848998837819454442018-11-06T17:49:00.000-08:002018-11-06T18:12:54.637-08:00Cauldron of Forever (a fantasy)<div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_662f_f3fe_d232_710f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-e8YgYNwQcLo/W-JKJH0ureI/AAAAAAAAAeQ/oe4hKXF00Lkt9bEFKPmwxSfCFdHgqfbcQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;">
a Fantasy</div>
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for ages 17 and older</div>
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Inspired by Celtic Welsh, and Irish mythology.</div>
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3470 words</div>
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#amwritingfantasy</div>
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#celtic</div>
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for my Pagan friends</div>
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<u>Cauldron of Forever</u></div>
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<u><br></u></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">Long ago before even time its self, there was a cauldron of power. It fell from the sky and stirred the heavens, its potion brewing on the fires of the firmament. A golden tail flagged in its wake like that of a spirited stallion, charging across the clouds. Sent by the Gods, the cauldron traversed the vast reaches of a great Sunless Sea from the shores of Avalon for a year and one day. The waves carried it, filled it, and delivered it to a world called Annwyn, where a war was soon to come. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> Fire and ice clashed beneath the shadow of the tumbling cauldron. Smoke and steam whorled, dancing like lovers—like warriors. A sword of light pierced a great stone, sending a wail of sorrow across the earth, lacerating her icy flesh, drawing forth massive pools of smoldering blood. Her crystalline lands turned to ponds, lakes, and oceans, encapsulated by great hills, and peaks. Soon the abyss mounted a titan of wind that called a challenge, and so lead in a joust with the fury of Earth’s fire. The impact of her great lance struck hard and true, sending a splash of crimson-rock and water high, just as the cauldron whisked by. The blood cooled, and a mountain was born, then another, and another. As sure as the potion in the cauldron brewed on the heat of the battle, the oceans of the earth boiled, cooking life into her crest. A new dance began upon the alps and lands: a wrestling of elements. They summoned new partners, who too brought with them lovers, and singers, and other patrons of dance. They would forever revel around a hearth that would forever feed the cauldron with living flame. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">Once long ago there was a race of Men born on war, as so was the life before them born in an endless tangle of limbs, caught in an endless dance at the call of a cauldron said to be the source of eternity. Undry, it was named by the ancients, and it would turn hearts to stone, as so it had once summoned life from ice. And it would begin under a cloak of darkness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> A comely young man sat alone in the night. His hair was black, his eyes bright and kind. He had a heavy jaw with a thick beard, and lips that sang with a voice as sweet as they tasted in the mouths of the many women he had bedded in his young years. Promiscuous he was; for as a warrior of Men there was no end to battle quite as lovely than that which came from a woman’s touch. Stripped of his armor he relaxed in the warmth of the fire, wearing only his tunic, boots and breeches. His sword was set aside with his pack, as he played a gentle song on a wooden harp. Somewhere off in the distance a raven cawed from the trees. He answered the bird’s song with a sly grin that curled at the corner of his mouth as he played on. He knew who was coming. He wanted her to come. He was summoning her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> Before long more birds were squawked and crooned, they liked his playing. A rustling came from the woods all around him—a tumult of woodland creatures in frenzy. His smile widened as he quickened the tempo. The forest became garrulous, talking louder and louder. Branches trembled, bushes stirred, the green canopy that enveloped him was wild with activity. Then suddenly it all came to a still. The forest fell silent, and a soft loving sigh floated on the wind. He knew that sound well. It was one he heard many times before, but never from a goddess. A curious, feminine voice then chimed, “<i>That song</i>—what is it, dare I ask?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> His deft fingers finished the song. Then he peered intensely through the whipping flames. There he saw the light of the fire reflecting from a pair of big, wonderous eyes floating weightless over the shadowy silhouette of the trees before him. Intrigued, he laid the harp aside and answered, “My dear sweet stranger of the night, forgive me for my impertinence, but I am forced to answer your inquiry with a question of my own—<i>that is</i>, does it truly matter?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> The mysterious eyes shifted from he to the magical harp, and then she answered dolefully, “I suppose not. Tell me then, how is it <i>you—</i>a foreigner from the Southern realm—come in hand with this ethereal gift of The Gods?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> He turned to admire it a moment. Then, with a coaxing, handsome smile he answered, “<i>The Uaithne</i>—it was called by its previous owner… He paused a moment, as to consider how to put his next words. “’Twas given to me as a reward in a tourney when we first arrived here some years ago. I was chosen to battle with a great warrior of the Fomorians. That was long ago. I have long since forgotten his name.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> “The Dagda, I know you,” there was suddenly contempt on the stranger’s lovely voice, the way she said it. The glowing eyes set a stark glower on him. “The Fomorians are <i>my </i>people. You would do well to remember that, Sir Dagda of The Worlds Beyond.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> “I am known by the title of <i>The Protector </i>by my own,” he said arrogantly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> The woman then stepped into the light. She was so very striking with her long and silky black hair, creamy pink skin that was almost blue under the moonlight, and her piercing blue eyes. She wore a long garb of black lace threaded into the shape of flowers; they moved as she did, like they were nodding in the breeze. The gauzy dress formed to her hourglass body, only covering some parts from the wan light, but not all. Her petite frame accentuated her sinuous curves and made her a mouthwatering feast for the eyes. The dress she wore fell down the length of her body like a close-fitting gown, bearing most of her womanly glory. Her scowl darkened on the knight called, Dagda, she offered, “A protector <i>of</i>your own—as am I.” Boldly she sauntered around the hearth, closing in slow with her bewitching hips swaying seductively. “Why have you summoned me here, O’ knight of the peoples of Tuatha Dé Danann?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> “<i>Why</i>,” he said with a pause that only seemed to entice her even more. “To know you, my sweet Lady Morrígan. I have heard the stories. I lust to know your truth. For I am yours; since the first I heard of your claim from the lips of my fallen enemies, I have always been. They call you their shield; they call you their<i>‘goddess of war.’ </i>And so, I am naught but a man of war taken by love.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> “You are naught but a man of lust taken by desire.” She spat in return.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> Suddenly he was standing, wrapping his arm around her full hips. A startled gasp slipped from her lips in his presence, a task not easily achieved from her by any mortal man. But in his touch, she knew then: this was no mere mortal. His sangfroid composure cooled the fire in her wrath, and fueled the fires of her passion. His mouth only moments from hers, he breathed a tantalizing whisper that said, “My desire only takes what it needs. <i>And I need you.</i>” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> He went for a kiss but paused, testing her. She shuttered, but did not pull away; her wanting lips parting ever so slightly. When he pressed himself against her, his strong hands seizing her at the small of her back, she told herself to turn and flee, but her legs only opened more, and more. And then when he kissed her, she told herself something else, though she couldn’t quite recall what it was her conscience had said—something of treachery; something of a lie, but it mattered not. She was lost. Caught in his lover’s tryst like a fly in the tangle of a web he ensnared her, and that night he took her. He gave her his seed. In turn, she gave him her love, and on the morrow she would give him his victory.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> Long after, as they lay together naked under the stars, he told her what it was that he truly wanted, and with his sure victory to come she knew she would give it willingly. There were many treasures that the old peoples possessed; treasures like The Uaithne. Some were of great power. Others were for wisdom. But there was only one that could fill a cup as empty as Dagda’s: The Cauldron of Forever. And his was a covetous need to lay claim over it. He will have it all, or he will destroy it all. The notion left her with a fear that would swell in her heart. But her love was once a powerful thing, as so often did it dabble in the affairs of Men and War. It blinded her from what he truly was: a deceiver. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> The war ended with a mighty blow to the aboriginal forces of the Fir Bolg: the Old Tribe of the Fomorian peoples. Dagda took them by storm, leading a host of thousands into their camps while they slept. It was a slaughter. Indeed, they invited the masters of their adversaries to inspect their arms for a fair battle only a fortnight ago. However, the manner of their attack would never be unveiled until their blood was long spilt from their wounds. With The Morrígan at their side, she summoned a great fog by which blinded the watchers of the Fir Bolg, thus availing Dagda’s advance into their lands. She sang a song to call on the wind, filling his sails and bringing his ships to mast on the beaches of Ireland where the war had began. Before long he and his brothers followed their King into a malicious onslaught that the Morrígan was not sure to forget. She had betrayed her own for love, and as she watched her lover put the sword to her kin, she was taken by despair. Her guilt brought tears to her eyes—tears that rained from the sky to cleanse Dagda’s armor of her people’s blood. And the rain lasted for days and nights. And it filled the banks. And begot her an offspring—a rival paramour. The Dagda looked upon Boann as she stepped out from the swollen rivers of the land and was seduced. The Morrígan soon fell scornfully from his favor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> His King Nuada fell victim as well, but he took up the crown and finished the deed, driving his enemies into the river to drown. He razed their kingdom and stole it all for his Tuatha Dé Danann. At the weeks end he claimed all of Ireland his own by conquest, and so he decreed that all men and women of the land show him fealty or perish. Boann drank the blood of the defeated greedily, and fat with her meal she made the country fertile again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">They who would not bow down to their new king were left for Boann to feast upon. The many nights to follow were soon filled with dreadful screams, as no man, nor woman of the Fir Bolg were so craven to submit to his demands. They were a strong, and proud race; even until their end. Morrígan would watch sorrowfully as the last of her people were whist away by The Dagda’s latest love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> Soon a celebration was had. To honor Dagda’s ascension as King of Ireland his men seized the Fomorian cauldron, and of its magic they summoned a great feast of soup and wine, lamb and mead, boar and ale; the generous cauldron never failing to answer their ravenous needs. For days and nights the revelry carried on as lively as ever. The King indulged in a surfeit of food and drink until his gluttony became him, and he was so fat he could scarcely fit into his own breeches. Drunk and mad with lust he took Boann against her wanting. She thrashed, and roiled, but in the end, she could not deny him. He would lay with her and bear a son, and he would lay with others and bring forth bastards. His men joined him. Without a sense for humility they took harlots and robbed the innocent young of their maidenhood right there in the open before the Great Hearth. The Morrígan watched it all, weeping until she could cry no more. She had herself become well with child, but the father had abandoned her. Her god of Men betrayed her, and his deception turned her heart to stone, as was the nature of those who lust for the Cauldron of Forever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> One day in the forest where she had first met him, her Dagda, The Morrígan was lying alone on her back, writhing in agony. She tore away at her garb of flowers, allowing the tattered pieces to hang from her waist like the branches of a willow, flapping in the frigid gales. She heaved a scream in the grating voice of a banshee, arching her back skyward. Suddenly a mass of heavy chains sluiced out from her womb and whipped wildly about her like the slithering arms of a squid. A storm gathered above, and lightning streaked across the sky, as her once beautiful blue eyes faded into nothingness. Again she wailed, spitting up blood, black as tar. Then she heard the cry of a babe and she suddenly fell silent. Her lip quavered as her jaw hung in awe. She was screaming, but without a voice. The only sound being that of the keening song of a newborn infant. Then there was no pain, nor sadness—only hatred. A flock of ravens gathered around her, alighting on her, covering her, and then they took to the air, The Morrígan gone with them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;"> Dagda and his men tarried for a time at the Great Hearth, their carousal never ending. He quaffed a tankard full of ale when a queer sound came bubbling up from the cauldron. He sent his exhausted bride from his side and went swooning his way after it. Something like boiling pitch was gurgling sickly inside. His haggard face turned ashen at the acrid stench of it, a putrid smell that wafted densely at him. He drew back just as a loud pop came from within, and two black feathers floated out. All eyes were on the hearth—curious and terrified. For a moment, all of the cheers and joyous laughter came to a sudden end. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">Then a creature rose from the cauldron, the black liquid lathering her long, stringy black hair. The woman stood with a mass of black feathers hugging her body. She opened her wings, and the expanse stretched over all in attendance. Men and women stirred with fear, cowering away from the hearth; their king joined them. The woman was clad in black armor, and dripping mail, with rusty chains snaking out of the cauldron, possessed with terrible life. Resting soundly in her arms she bore a new born babe, ensconced by her coiling chains and tattered lace: it was a girl. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">Her canopy of feathers then broke apart, transforming into many thousands of screaming ravens that dove for the patrons, chasing them from Dagda’s royal camp. The king gave a startled look to his Boann, but she paid him little mind as she went scurrying off with their son cradled to her breast. Standing before the nightmarish faerie he went for his sword. However, before he could draw the blade from its scabbard a deafening voice boomed, “<i>You dare take your greatsword to your own?</i>”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">A mysterious force sent the bulbous man tumbling, his golden crown skittering across the dirt. Fear unmanned him as he stared up at the beast with widened eyes and his pleading hands trembling before him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">The Morrígan glared down at him through the strands of dripping hair that fell over her face. Black blood ran down the length of her neck from her sliced lips—scarred by his traitor’s kiss. Her glowing eyes flashed as she said, “You are a <i>fool</i>, King Dagda of The Worlds Beyond. You are no <i>protector!</i>You are a liar and a fraud. You slay your own to gain your prize. You spoil the fruits of Undry to poison your soul. You are a blind fool. Do you not see this Cauldron of Forever as the gift that is Annwyn—your generous mother earth? Do you not see how you take from her as you have taken from my land? Verily, you do not!” She looked down at the sweet child in her arms. The babe awoke, yawning innocently. She smiled her way. Broken, her mother spoke sadly, “As so, you do not know the like of your own flesh and blood: your daughter and all that was once my love.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">The king looked to the girl in her arms. She was beautiful. She was Light—the very same Light he had once seen in The Morrígan on that first night. The Light that had been extinguished from her now steely eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">“She is the exalted one!” The Morrígan decried, her voice booming again, echoing across the heavens. “She is the fire of dreams, and she is the bridge betwixt the Fomorians and the Tuatha Dé Danann that will return the strays of Men back to The Light. She is the hearth, which burns through the night, and the forger to mend all things broken. She is the banshee that will keen for the fallen. She is the milk from the breast of goodness; the honey to sweeten the sour hearts of the exiled. She is life, love, sorrow, and joy. Behold, she is Brigid, and the sun stands still in her name.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">The king crawled to his knees. In the sky, the curtain of the heavens parted to show down upon them the brilliance of a lost sun. Its loving warmth upon him, its swimming light igniting a glow of shimmer in the tears that filled his eyes. His voice cracked with emotion as he prayed, “Dark Queen, forgive me. I shall take her, and rear her as only a good father can. I shall show her the love and care, I wish only I could have shown you. For she is all I could ever dream a princess of my own blood. My daughter. My sweet. My Brigid. Forgive me…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">He reached out his arms to accept his child, but The Morrígan hesitated, staring at the girl with her cold eyes. She was all that was once human in her, and soon she would be forever gone from her touch. Though the shell of The Morrígan was to never again know sadness, nor joy, nor love, somehow, she felt the last flicker of her humanity inside as it faded. She gave him the child. An icy tear broke from her rigid lashes, but it soon turned to steam against her fiery white skin. Then without another word, she vanished into a black shroud of retreating ravens, leaving Brigid and Dagda alone for the rest of their living days. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">Many moons after, a desolate Morrígan found herself wandering a beach at the edge of the world. A curious song on the southern winds had called her there—a beguiling song. She soon found herself at the break of the ocean where the waves plumed like warring clouds. A faint shadow was moving abreast the shore under the waters. It swam with the elegance of a porpoise, but she could see it was a woman. The submerged stranger had long green hair and a scaly body marked with dancing streaks of light from the sun’s rays. The creature came to the surface but did not peer out. Instead, she launched her silky, lissome arms out from the water, her clawed hands closed around the golden hilt of a longsword with a crystal pommel. The droplets ran off of its perfectly crafted blade like glittering diamonds falling from a beaming silvery steel. The Morrígan marveled at it for some time, her breath stolen by its beauty. She knew well what this sign marked, and so she saw the coming of a great war on the horizon: a war to shatter lands and mend them as one—a war that would call forth a new King—a child king. The Cauldron’s work was far from done, its ever-turning waters driving an ebb and flow through the waves of life toward. Pushing them all toward another chapter waiting anxiously to be read. A chapter to come. A song to sing… a Dream yet to be dreamt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">The End<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-15928822611300589272018-10-18T08:02:00.001-07:002018-10-18T08:02:17.151-07:00Scare-A-Con Caricatures<img id="id_629f_cb19_445_2107" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-iHgEVZhLWhc/W8igZnlb1wI/AAAAAAAAAdc/zD4EIrRoWoIDe2bs9wr30uBeUy8rB_pywCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"><br>I will be vending at this year’s Horror convention in Verona New York. I will be there to promote my story blog, and drawing some Zombie/monster caricatures to cover the bill for the event. I will also be selling my all new character stickers and Tarot art. Hope to see you there. Here are some samples of my work!<div><img id="id_849c_436f_78a5_e366" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-dnV4b04jCqE/W8igaF0XEkI/AAAAAAAAAdg/D_gmMLy3adUpsI1UQIJGe-WqNhaDGIhMACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"><br><br><img id="id_6c4c_ef12_abc6_b021" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-WpTRJhMc3SE/W8igdFzmSSI/AAAAAAAAAdo/uK_v7bhDBTYzzhLdgHwucBxUMdu9BMMBACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"><br><br><img id="id_46d4_f98d_a9b0_b449" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-U8md2M1x5Ak/W8igdwOmG_I/AAAAAAAAAds/E4Trj5Mz8csv_43n4LVNiGKBr1O0JKwYwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"><br><br><img id="id_bdb_3b42_d164_ec2d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-X2ZeZwPXcwo/W8igdGlRH3I/AAAAAAAAAdk/qZiOGsh_yowGeQ-VUegsPyNHSSDFJG0ZQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div>Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-24508090816918156192018-10-14T16:48:00.001-07:002018-10-15T12:00:01.610-07:00It's Called Horrorcore?<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">#MNE</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">#TWIZTID</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">#HORRORCORE</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">#ICP</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One
question was about to change my life forever…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You never heard of the Insane
Clown Posse?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The question came suddenly and
caught me unprepared. I would not know then that it was a question that would move
my world into a new horizon for years to come. I was young, and just starting to
understand that I enjoyed music, especially rap. If you asked me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why</i> now, I’d tell you that I was
attracted to the rambunctious culture, and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fuck-you-I’ll-say-what-the-hell-I-want </i>attitude that stained my
soul over the years. But the truth is, it was trendy. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thug Life</i> era was just coming to a close, ushering in the age of
Dr. Dre’s Aftermath, Missy Elliott’s weird fish-eyed-lens music videos, and
Busta Rhymes’s apocalyptic fast word-play. I didn’t know what I liked as far as
music went, but I was impressionable, and I was at a fertile age that was ready
to root some new seeds. Eminem’s first mainstream album had just exploded into our
not-quite-ready-for-that-nasty eardrums. I couldn’t possibly know at the time
that he had flung open a dirty door that would send in an inundating flood of
potty-mouth art to mold an entire generation. All I knew for certain was that I
liked it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The only albums I owned then were
the Blade Motion Picture Soundtrack, the Bullworth Motion Picture soundtrack,
and something else, who knows. I was still asking for action figures for my
birthday then. So when I met my buddy James and he introduced me to the world
of time-to-get-into-your-teens-now I was not ready for this question. As far as
music went, I only listened to what my sister liked. She was older, she was an
influence, and she taught me about Rap. Eventually I would get to appreciate
the Gods that came before, such as 2pac, Biggie, and the Wu-Tang Clan, but I
did not know shit back then. I understood that a new paradigm shift in music
had been born. I remember the impact when 2pac was killed. I did not get why
his fatality was so important, but I remember vividly when mom told us like it
was some life changing political news. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But this question, I was not ready
for. It was such an alien thing then. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rapping
clowns? What!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Ummmm… Who?” That was all I could
manage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">James rolled his eyes, like I was
some sheltered creature hidden away from the sunlight all of his life. He told
me about the wrestling, he told me about the Disney conspiracies that had been
blown way out of proportion from hearsay. But it all sounded stupid, because it
was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“That sound’s wack.” It came with a
disparaging laugh I hadn’t meant to slip out. I also did not know that it was
pretty much the general consensus on this particular topic. Still, I never
meant to offend. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Indignant, James huffed and puffed
and made me listen to a track called Piggy Pie from their album The Great
Milenko. I was actually very impressed after the first listen; however, I’d
like to add one note: It really is not fair to start a fresh palette on a new
flavor by playing only one of their best pieces off one of their most
critically acclaimed albums. But I digress.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I wasn’t quite hooked just yet.
James was cool, wild, and very much a bad influence. He would fade from my life
forever, and faster than Thanos can snap his fingers. But that song stuck with
me. I held on to that experience for a long time. It was like my first taste of
a drug, and it had that very same effect. Your first high was always the
strongest, and then you hunt desperately to maintain that same high. And will
fail. But with the Clowns, I needed time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My mom loved comics. She took us
out to the comic book store to check out the new releases almost every month. I
only just started getting attached to one publication. I loved Image Comics. It
was mostly for Todd McFarlane’s Spawn, but still, I enjoyed everything they put
out. It was like a dark take on superheroes and antiheroes, and beyond. I
always loved the bad-guy story, and Image delivered. This time at the shop I
stumbled on a new release from Chaos: The Insane Clown Posse and their Comic
book debut Raze The Desertz of Glass. Now they crossed into my territory of
interest. I bought both versions of that special issue. I remember they came
with a special Pendulum album track on cd for every issue. Collecting all the
issues got the entire secret album which would later be released gradually on
their Forgotten Freshness cds. I thought it was a neat promo grab to get people
to buy. But I actually really liked the artwork as well. I enjoy that visceral,
gritty, ugly look in illustrations like that. It was why I always loved Todd
McFarlane’s work. The grimy details were always fresh as fuck. Chaos Comics did
a hell of a job bringing to life their free rolling mythology too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I remember coming back home all
excited because finally I got it. But I didn’t. I was a noob, in a sense. And I
only made it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not cool, </i>if that can
even be a thing considering. But these were the building blocks toward a
foundation that would eventually shape everything I would grow to be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">James fell out of it, and I stuck
to it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My next cds were the Riddle Box,
and The Amazing Jeckel Brothers, which was their new release at the time. On
that album I saw an advertisement in all comic-book glory fashion for Twiztid’s
first mainstream release: a remake of their street classic Mostasteless. That
fucking cassette ended up becoming one of my most cherished possessions for a
long time. Then, hearing what they were saying like “blow up the white house”
and using <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the word </i>without a care for
consequence was both shocking and crudely inspiring for me. My mom didn’t care,
she got me them for Christmas, (though Twiztid I had to discover on my own).
She heard a rumor from some party spoiler at her work that admonished her for
buying me them, and mom delivered that warning to me. I took it the same way a
smoker acknowledged their surgeon general’s warning that they were going to
become creatures if they kept being a chainsmoker. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thanks mom! Well, going to my room to listen to my jams.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The poison was in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I grew up. The last joker’s card
came out and I was confused by the grand finale. James went on to become a cult
leader or whatever. I went on to jump in and out of the following. Then I
graduated, got a job, and I forgot. But my dad brought it back. One day on our
way to work he played the fuck off song on Jeckel Brothers. From that day on we
used that song as our coffee to start the morning. I rediscovered my taste for
it. I went back to my old cds and threw them in to the old disk jammer. It was
late, but I rekindled the candle for that dark wicked-shit horror themed
hiphop, and I wanted more. So I got more. Picked up ICP’s Bizzar, Bizaar.
Bought merch at Hot Topic. And I repped that shit proudly. Most people never
cared about it because they did not know. Eventually that would become
problematic, but not yet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Soon I would learn about ABK, Blaze
Ya Dead Homie, Boondox… Boondox was a funny one. I scoffed the
infamous Scarecrow and his shoddy gimmick, until I saw him in concert and
finally shut the fuck up. Now he is one of my favorite acts. My first concert
was The Tempest tour featuring main acts Twiztid, and Insane Clown Posse. In
that show my homie Brandon made us do it. At first, I was nervous. Never been
to a Psychopathic Records show, and I heard nasty stories. And when we got
there, we went straight for the barricade and stayed there until the war was
done. And I mean <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">War. </i>Everything was
chill until Twiztid took the stage. When the lights went out moments before
their opening song the ocean of people behind us began roiling. They pressed us
against that barricade until our ribs felt as though they might burst. When the
lights hit, the base filled our lungs, and the mist flew out, they materialized
under a veil of swirling fog. Then they hit that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Axe murderaz! WE DON’T DIE!” </i>That’s when we felt the full force of
the mob behind us. They crowd surfed, and we got kicked in the face, but it was
awesome. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We have gone to a thousand shows
since then. There was this one Twiztid show in Philadelphia Pa where a chubby,
but haughty security guard wanted to talk bad about everyone that was set to
perform that night. Brandon and I caught him punching audience members at the barricade.
We caught ahold of one crowd surfer and together we launched his ass at that
security guard. The next moment, the guy we threw was back on his feet Whoop-Whoop’n
unbothered, and Big-Mouth security guard was being walked out with tears in his
eyes. Apparently we shattered his arm. At the Gathering of The Juggalos we got
a brutal first-hand taste of global warming as the sun beat the shit out of us
and saw Tila Tequila get bags of piss to the face. Actually, we only heard
about that the next morning. Whatever, the point is: It happened and she
deserved it. Hate if you want; that woman dissed the Fam and took the stage anyway
when clearly nobody wanted her there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I used to be very proud and vocal
about the culture that I would later learn was known as Horrorcore. The legendary
Esham the Unholy began it. ICP emulated him with their clown faces and murder
themes, Eminem exposed them to a broader audience, and they collectively paved
the way for horror rappers of all walks of life. Soon there would be too many experiences
and acts to count, but I enjoy a good bit of them. I think these days the
legendary Tech N9ne and Twiztid are my favorites in this category. But I feel
like a new face (forever face, rather) is about to revitalize the industry. They’re
like a true honest to god Horror Movie if it was transformed into rap. I am referring
to a new phenomenon called Alla Xul Elu. There is also G-Mo Skee (who adds a
nice Eminem like flavor to his work), Gorilla Voltage, Lex The Hex, Hopsin, Lo
Key, Scum, and as I said, too many more to mention. Alla Xul have a massive
following already, and now that Majik Ninja Entertainment (Twiztid’s new rap label)
have provided them a hot spot light to show off their work I think they are
destined to become equal entities to their founders, and the high-rise
foundation they have made.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I have met everyone from the old
Psychopathic roster except for one act. So I bought the VIP pass for Frightfest
2018, and at last I got to talk to Twiztid in person. Drew them a couple of
caricatures, and they were just like two excited, grateful kids to have it
done. And I was greatful for that reaction as I just kind of figured they have gotten better art before. But they seemed genuinely impressed by my technique, and the small time it took to complete. They invited me to consider drawing at their convention early next year, and it was
an all around great experience. I am 33 years old now. Been listening to these
guys since 1999, and now, everything has become like a new chapter turning from
a novel that had begun with a single question. Thanks James. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Happy Halloween! Stay wicked, stay
true to you. Think for yourself dude, and don’t do what they do. Just do what
you want to do. The haters are going to hate anyway, so you might as well just
have fun with it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
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Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-56494522839225940762018-10-07T12:04:00.001-07:002018-10-07T12:04:22.554-07:00Stickers!!!!My first batch of limited promo stickers just came in the mail today! Getting supplied up for my horror convention.<div><img id="id_85ef_f604_68c0_4ede" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-F3Bvxd2tEXw/W7pYtAsWv6I/AAAAAAAAAck/3h5lakZhwXkSmOLpTM6dLjL77O60N7bmwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div>Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-76980892503573766392018-10-05T14:50:00.001-07:002018-10-05T14:50:08.279-07:00High PriestessHere is my first Tarot card original art for 2018. The High Priestess.<div>#tarot</div><div><br></div><div><img id="id_e447_d4eb_a18b_78be" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-yzV69FVvDTA/W7fcjqghWBI/AAAAAAAAAcM/tB0h3x1-oQce8-O3wrZXhV_DBWnkY73SgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div>Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-77080929304834830922018-10-01T10:30:00.000-07:002018-10-15T09:55:39.443-07:00Avrio (science fiction)<div style="text-align: center;">
Genre: Science Fiction/fantasy</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Age Restriction: Parental Discretion</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Editor’s Note:</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
This story features a dark theme, and contains imagery that may be psychologically disturbing for some audiences. This particular story was intended for all ages to enjoy, though it may require a level of parental discretion concerning some elements presented by the author whose primary audience are of a mature age: </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
18 and older.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Happy Autumn (FALL AND ENJOY!)</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Avrio</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
By Jeffrey Arce </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
aka </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Jarce ArtThor</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 250%;">She was
walking in the shadow of death, but she wasn’t afraid. Here, she was quite
comfortable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 250%;">The docent prated
solemnly on, but Avrio could barely listen. He expounded some drivel about how
their excessive output of greenhouse gasses will have ultimately
short-circuited their environment, thus searing a path for the inevitable rise
of The Sentients. What once devastated the world—paralyzing her organic
ecosystems—was eventually recycled into an essential resource for continued
sustenance. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And from death sprang life. </i>It
was funny how some things evolved. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 250%;">The panoply
before them was so strange, yet so intriguing. Inside the writhing
electromagnetic barrier were items from that extraordinary world long before, carefully
arranged. Avrio melted in with the crowd, wanting to have a better look. The
ethereal group closed around her in the exhibit hall of the museum, coalescing
densely at the display window. It always tickled her how the swell of wonder could
quicken in the minds of even her most stringent of peers. They scrutinized the
curious items with bewildered astonishment. Together they imagined a primitive
world where complex life still needed to kill lesser organisms for their
nourishment, pulling stores of solar energy forged deep within the threading of
immanent proteins. The elders named it a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">barbaric
ritual, </i>denigrating them as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">blood
lusting savages, </i>but Avrio thought they were fascinating, gorgeous
creatures. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 250%;">Their tools
were so far removed from the modern mind it was hard to accept the raw truth that
they were made from this world at all. They had crafted such things as ladles,
knives, bowls, chalices, and weaponry—terribly dreamed and abundantly supplied.
They made things from flesh, bone, and wood, from rock and ore. They designed tools
to make other tools. It was by these special instruments they would establish a
power to grow their race exponentially. But such vain self-preservation to this
degree by which they had achieved would prove in time quite fatal. Their sins enervated
the ecosystem, and drove their people toward a swift and complete extermination.
Tools gave them life and took it all away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 250%;">Sentients
did not require any of these things. They drew energy from the carbon dioxide and
methane that was in the air. They manifested power from the fierce winds, which
gusted vigorously across the plains. They constructed subterranean hives to
avoid conflict with the wicked jet propulsions naturally produced by a recovering
planet. They had no need for towering edifices, save for the fields of massive
windmills they had erected from salvaged material. There was no good reason for
war, or for monetary trade, or government. They lived only for knowledge. They
built communities on all corners of the globe to feed their study, and advance
their race. A Sentient could explore the acidy oceans, and the starry abyss of
space without a vessel to take them there. Beyond the firmament of their carbon
rich environment, their cells were made to create fusion by pulling from the
sun’s eternal radiance. There was no reach that a Sentient could not explore—no
boundaries. They could manifest anything that was requisite for their survival,
and they could adapt to even the most virulent of conditions. They did not need
carnal faculties for reproduction, though, at times two Sentients could become
one, and one could become many. They snowballed from motes and particles and
transmuted like living molds of clay. They were formless and beautiful. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 250%;">A
mysterious river of consciousness had seeded their race—an enigmatic nursery,
burgeoning out from a cavernous chasm like a great womb of blue fire. No
scholar could agree on the make of its origin. Most have simply placed it as a
kind of nursery with divine roots, though, none of them truly believed in a
higher entity forged by way of intelligent design. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hypocrisy </i>might one day prove to be the eternal plague destined to
doom all forms of intellectual life.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>Sentients
were an ascetic culture—stolid, analytical, and meticulous. They eschewed
overindulgence of emotion almost to the point of overindulging in apathy, but
they did lust for some things, such as learning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 250%;">Avrio was
different. She was compassionate, and she loved the past, where most only
anguished for the future. She frequented all of the geological institutes
established throughout the solar system, trying to decipher how and why The
Ones Before lived as they did. There were fragments of them spread out
everywhere, as if they had exploded like some fertile flower attempting to seed
the heavens. But they did not go too far. They could not even pierce the
threshold of their own system with all their impressive technology.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 250%;">It has been
estimated that their global population peaked at an astronomical rate of ten
billion souls before at last came a definitive purge. How anything could
survive so many ravenous mouths was far beyond Avrio’s understanding, as clever
as she was in nature. Yet still, she admired them, even at their worst. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 250%;">Researchers
studying samples from orbital debris have reconstructed their final decline.
They have surmised that fifteen hundred thousand divisive sovereigns had
abandoned their kingdoms, leaving an inundated civilization to implode behind.
They stole refuge onboard a secret vessel with a callow space colony for a
time. But like a cell separated from its host, these impetuous refugees and
their under-prepared bodies rejected the malign effects of an artificial
environment, and they deteriorated. None were immune to extinction. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 250%;">Theirs was
a story of poignant demise. Avrio often wept for them when she learned more. Is
it so fair this erudite species could be reduced to the moldering scraps
excavated from their vast landfills of waste, which had failed to dissolve? She
couldn’t know for certain. Scholars had only conjecture beyond what could be studied
from their leavings. Nothing they had ever wrought in their time was indelible.
The earth took it all back, but for plastic—an exceptionally perennial artifact. Everything
else was erased.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 250%;">Once a lush
and verdant world brimming with life, the Sentients have come to know it as a
sweltering, toxic wasteland, though it was still home for them. The planet
could spare only a meager palette of tenuous biology as she convalesced from
her geological wounds. But Sentients were an auspicious people. They have
transcended the archaic fauna and flora feeding rituals, providing much needed
respite for an exhausted environment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 250%;">Avrio followed
their guide absently, wishing she could know more, and why they destroyed themselves.
They were warned, but they persisted with their rotten habits nevertheless. It
was so strange.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 250%;">They were
her favorite obsession. She even tried to form her walk in a way to imitate how
experts have determined they might have ambulated. According to Avrio, they
were the most inspiring creatures to ever have lived on the planet, and they
were all gone. A wistfully tragic end to a great species. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 250%;">As her
group sauntered on with equanimity, they descended toward the final exhibit on the
tour. She made sure to put herself in front of the crowd before they got there.
The underground museum was one that she adored most. It was special. Here,
every tour ended with a grand finale. It was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">here</i>, deep beneath the surface where The Ones Before had retreated
in their final hour. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 250%;">The light
opened brilliantly in the capacious hall, and a pitted rocky sepulcher
materialized. Through the electric transparent veil they found a mass grave. Primitive
skeletons were clambering at an ancient device that still loomed from rigid, centuries-old
stone. Hollowed, dejected eyes gazed up at it, reaching for it with arachnid
fingers. The fossils depicted a vast mural of bones vying to gain passage. Some
were tangled together, caught in an eternal struggle for refuge, and others
were folded over their knees, frozen forever in prayer. Their faces were melded
into the dirt, and their arching spinal columns were suffused with igneous clay.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 250%;">Avrio was ensorcelled
by it, her translucent crown churning with incandescent azure like stirring
embers as she marveled at the exhibit. Transfixed on the spectacle, she
wondered what they were fighting for. In this place where the last of their
species would recede from existence, after all they had achieved, what great
mystery could have drawn them down like an inescapable eddy whirling over the
drain of annihilation. At an axis in the protruding relic of stone there were two
intersecting arms, outstretched like a man poised to enfold a lover into his
final embrace. It was a massive cross, and it marked ground zero, where the former
world past away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 250%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 250%;">Afterward,
they were bustled out through the lobby, each one of them receiving a customary
souvenir to enjoy as they went. Avrio glowed upon taking hers: an artificial
replica of a Human skull. She stared lovingly at the gift for a time that felt
like an eternity. Avrio envied their mortality, but Avrio was a Sentient, and
Sentients could not die so easily. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cradling the skull in
her amorphous grasp, she cherished her prize with grateful bliss. She ensconced
herself inside the empty chamber of its brain cavity. There she would study and
sleep, wanting to peer through its eyes, and feel with its hands, and sample
flavors with its tongue. She wanted to be human… She wanted to know how they
knew, how simple and poetic they made all things that they did not know. But
most of all, she wanted to taste mortality. She wanted to know death. There
wasn’t anything in the world Avrio wanted more. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">#avrio</span></div>
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Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-29925819387207990942018-09-16T16:32:00.001-07:002018-09-17T17:08:14.565-07:00Fright Fest 2018A little known fact about me: I am a huge rap fan. I’m headed out to see Twiztid, one of my favorite acts in the horrorcore-rap scene, and I can’t wait. I have been following their work since 1998 when they were first showing up on the Psychpathic Records team, and since then they have made quite the following for themselves. Not to mention a new label with great music, and acts such as Last American Rockstars, and G-Mo Skee. I’ll be at the Pittsburg Event. If you are a juggalo, and you’re going, hit me up. We can talk history. I’ve seen a million concerts, and these guys were always up on the top shelf as some of the best live performances I’ve ever had the honor to peep with my own two eyeballs. MAJIK MAJIK WHAAAAT! <div><br></div><div><img id="id_75da_76c8_82e9_8a84" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8YTMGpoO2Jg/W57oBj06f6I/AAAAAAAAAa8/i2_zm98ffz0f10SlF3kupfbdNxFa_eQIgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div>Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6312360924524955306.post-18590139888371726342018-09-13T17:01:00.001-07:002018-09-13T17:01:08.986-07:00Wicked Shorts StoryWrote as a guest blogger for Wicked Shorts! My featured story was made from a prompt that asked for a tale under 1000 words based on: Lone Survivor on a Deserted Island. And as is my nature I had to twist the rules some. Here’s the link:<div><a href="http://www.wickedshortsblog.com/2018/09/something-got-out-jarce-artthor.html" id="id_4799_510b_eb2c_65a0">http://www.wickedshortsblog.com/2018/09/something-got-out-jarce-artthor.html</a><br></div>Jarce ArtThorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12963803004544402864noreply@blogger.com0