Moving to new website

I will begin transferring all of my original art and story content to my new personal blog and web page at Morbidtoybox.com
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!

www.morbidtoybox.com

News (April 2019)

Happy April!
I am working on a lengthy follow up to my short story #bassysbasilica 

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. 

Clinch (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...

Prompt: Matchmaker
from the Fiction War contest of Winter 2019

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. 

     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. 

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.”

The fighter grimaced as he scoffed, “Indecorous?”

“…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.”

Axel paused, rubbing his chin with pensive consideration. Then he sucked his teeth and said, “Man, 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.”

A surge of laughter rolled through his audience, as well as some more taunting mixed in. 

Andy quieted them and then picked another.

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. Are you?”

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?”

“A different fighter?”

The pale beast of a man glanced over at his boss. Andy set an unhappy glower on him in return, remembering.

     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. 

     Blithely, he said, “A mistake.”

     “A mistake?”Andy’s eyes were just about bulging out of his red face. “After everything you went through…why would you do it?”

     Mark dropped his heavy arms in his lap and asked, “Do what?”

     Andy could only gawk at him, nonplussed.

     “If I am not mistaken, the anti-doping agency is in your pocket, is it not?”

     “You expect me to just sweep this under the rug?”

     “Yes, 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. Youneed 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.”

     To this he could say nothing. He was absolutely right. There was no point denying it. Still, “Why then? Why come back?”

     Mark gave an insouciant shrug and said, “Because I like to hurt people. Here is the only place I can do it. Butcutting weight is hell. So, there’s your answer.”

     “So is prison, Stroeman.”

     The big man chortled and said, “Well then, best you make sure it all goes away well and good.

     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.  

     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.”

***

     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. 

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.    

Avrio (science fiction)

Genre: Science Fiction/fantasy

Age Restriction: Parental Discretion

Editor’s Note:

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: 

18 and older.

Happy Autumn (FALL AND ENJOY!)

Avrio

By Jeffrey Arce 

aka 

Jarce ArtThor

She was walking in the shadow of death, but she wasn’t afraid. Here, she was quite comfortable.

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. And from death sprang life. It was funny how some things evolved. 

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 barbaric ritual, denigrating them as blood lusting savages, but Avrio thought they were fascinating, gorgeous creatures.  

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. 

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.

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. Hypocrisy might one day prove to be the eternal plague destined to doom all forms of intellectual life. 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.

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.

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.

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.    

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 here, deep beneath the surface where The Ones Before had retreated in their final hour.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

#avrio

 

Wait For November

That’s what they all tell us now.

Just wait, wait until November. 

On one side of the country the fire spreads like a rampant virus out of control, on the other half it floods and there is no summer, in the middle everyone suffocates under oppressive heat. Prison camps are thrown up to cage babies. Adultery is made a biblical action. Mass murderers are praised by a leader. Free press is challenged. Law is twisted. Allies are pissed on. Enemies are praised. But just wait, the voters will make it better. They said something similar back in 2016. That already feels like a million years ago. They say, just wait until November, the promised one is coming. And she did not come. She failed the small people, ignored them almost entirely. She eclipsed an opponent with malicious tactic. Meanwhile as she catered to her richest of backers a snake slithered out from the fields and whispered sweet treachery. He called to the sick and ignored. He smiled, and he danced. They laughed and they offered their shoulders to carry him. He climbed their spines and took the throne. Sex, lies and scandal blocked a road to a new day, and a bridge of fantasy took the desperate dreamers up, and up on a cloud of nostalgia. The cloud obscured the drop. It won’t come back, it can’t come back, tomorrow is impossible to stop. 

Wait until November. 

They both are saying it now. The left, the right. Both are convinced that we are in trouble now, but both are stagnant entities in a roiling, raging, storm. Guns can kill the innocent, but cannot save you from a mad man. 

They wait, while the sinners play. The puppeteer dawdles his watchers. His show plays on: traitor, mischief, liar, divisive, divider. 

Wait!

Says the opposition, as they sit and watch, powerless to deflect anything.

Wait...

Whispers a man cowering behind his desk, distracting a lunatic with deception and trickery, asking us to trust in him that the situation is under control. 

Wait! 

Says this station, and that station, this camp, and that camp.

Wait, and vote.

So we wait for our turn to throw in to the suggestion box. But the box is on fire. Our ideologies are on fire. There is no truth—only his truth, or her truth, and any other truth is Fake News.

Until November we lock down our plastic bubbles and double down. But plastic veils won’t help us in a nuclear blast. 

We can’t be wrong, because if we are not right we lose. But if we are right we lose. Because we are broken, and the wheel is lost. Jesus be damned! The devil has got that shit. The storm is fierce, and it is inescapable. But we did this. We waited too long. 

Until November we will drink in our partisan conspiracies. The chasm grows. The ground sinks. The earth is opening. And the beast is hungry. 

On November we will be drunk on bullshit.

After November the tides may clash, the walls will close, the jaws clamp down, and the small people will be stuck with a choice they will not like.

In November we lose.

We let a wolf corner the nation. We let a foreign agent inject us with poison. 

No matter how it happens now,

One way or the other it will be over. 

And the Lodestar will fall like Wormwood.

And a third of the world will be sick, and inundated by woe. 

But wait for November. 

What the hell else can we do. 

Scrawl out your ballot in Blood. 

2018

I know I will. 

Started a Vblog

Created a vblog so I can start reaching out to the digital age, and promote my work. Too bad I don’t care enough to make it pretty! Whatever... I learn as I go. 

Home Alone: Drunk In New York

(((Disclaimer: always drink responsibly! Be safe out there, kids)))

One Dollar Pizza, Up in this BEATCH!

I didn’t so much exclaim it, as I was far too busy veraciously gorging myself, slamming that juicy, lushes piece of heaven on bread down the ol’ gullet. But somewhere my inner voice found a party horn and a disco ball, getting the house jump’n on the happy-train that was rolling blissfully across my pleasure sensors. Look, I’m not Michael Crichton; I don’t know all that fancy science jargon to tie your brain up with how it all works. I just know that pizza was damned good! It was a small Italian restaurant just around the bend from Washington Square. I spent a day bathing in the summer’s heat, watching this rich-kid, transient—who probably got tired of his dad telling him to put grandma’s oxy back in the cabinet and get a real job already—break dance around the central fountain. There were pot heads blithely sparking up in the open, there were homeless people, and there were art students pretending they were homeless people, panhandling the even richer students leaving NYU. It was wonderful! And then there I was, clad in a knock-off Insane Clown Posse concert t-shirt, threadbare Walmart purchased shorts, dirty old off-brand kicks, and probably brooding with resting fuck-off face trying to hustle street caricature draws for tips. I didn’t know my ass, from my easel back then, but I knew where the good Dollar Pizza was, and I knew where the beer was. When you are a working street artist in New York, that’s pretty much all you need to know. 

I remember I had just finished the day making $100 On tips. I was pretty excited, and the blistering sun was waning on its final hours, so I called it a day. Trucked my easel and chairs on a collapsible hand cart to the pizza shop. Hadn’t eaten all day so I had me about four slices. For a dollar a hit, that shit was a drug. Then I went a little further on my way to this quaint little bar, you had to go down into a sub level entry, kind of like where everyone got killed in Inglorious Bastards. They had sports on the tube, and they had live entertainment in the back room. It was an Irish pub so I thought I’d get started with a double shot of whiskey. That night was featuring stand up comedians. The one guy was pretty entertaining. I drew a quick cartoon of him while he was working the crowd. He told me it looked like a Jewish Obama. It always looks like Obama. I wonder if Obama ever got a caricature and said, “ha! It look like Obama!”

Anyway, I got another shot. Then another, and another. Putting them down harder than Blodeuwedd and Gronw Pebr... that was a Celtic joke... you see, because I was in an Irish Bar... forget it; you’ll laugh later after you google it.

So after wandering off on a reverie about something I couldn’t begin to tell you what, I was suddenly waking up on my friend’s couch. The world was gone in a snap, and a new one had fallen hard on my head. I sat up feeling like a sack of sand and horse shit. What the hell happened last night?

Like a smart detective I referred to my phone, to hunt for clues. My screen saver had a picture of a smiling turd I must have left somewhere languishing at the bottom of a stagnant toilet bowl. I winced and recoiled. Then I laughed. Poop is funny, whatever! Sometimes I like to play pranks with myself when I get wasted like that. 

I unlocked the screen and went to my photos. I catalogued it all in my photo album. Took the subway home: “A”train to Brooklyn. There I am with a crooked grin snapping selfies as a ninja turtle rat scurried on by in the background. 

Then I was at my friends apartment; they left it to me for the weekend and I must have been bored after drawing. I was taking shots from on top the roof where you can see the shimmering skyline of the city. It was pretty cool. What was not cool is that I was standing near the edge brandishing a bottle of sickness. Who ever decided time travel wasn’t possible never knocked back a full bottle of Evan Williams on the roof of a friend’s apartment in Bed Stuy Brooklyn—all theses ingredients are necessary to bend space and time. Take heed, scientists, so you can act all omniscient about it later on your Facebook page.

I kept flicking the screen to see what all came next. I left the apartment! It must have been like 1 am. Not a good idea. There was another snapshot of me on the subway again. Then there was the Empire State Building. Did you know there is an excellent comic book store there? I do now! Then I was at the shoreline near the new World Trade Center. Then I was at the World Trade Center. A gloomily nimbus fog snaked around the then not yet finished shinny new tower. Had to photograph it. I also took notice to how dark and very much Alone I was. Not smart. 

Then I was at a bar, remembering the abundant craft selection of beers they had. Then I was stumbling out again and on the subway. Brooklyn at that hour was not a safe place. But no one bothered me. No one hectored me, or even asked for money. 

My head hurt trying to figure out how I managed my field trip unscathed. I then noticed that I was still wearing my raggedy ICP shirt, with the two infamous painted rap villains smiling crazily on the front. I wondered maybe if everyone just thought I was the psycho homeless person who needed to be avoided. That’s called a revelation!

Never drinking again...

That’s called a lie. 

News February 9

Here in Lakeland Florida to draw live caricatures at a small church carnival. So far its been an up hill struggle. Was banking on landing a campsite at this park only 37 minutes away, but it is first come first serve, and haven't had any luck catching them with vacancy just yet. So first night I worked out at the gym until 1 am, and then I tried sleeping in the back of my truck at the walmart parking lot. Ended up sitting up all night watching some dude get his car ripped apart after the police were called on suspicion of drug abuse. They pulled an OD from the vehicle, and quite a hefty find of meth, and a bunch of other shit. I got a front row seat to an episode of Cops sipping on some juice and wondering how the fuck I always end up in these weird situations.  "I picked a hell of a day to quite drinking..." Actually I've been one month completely sober on that note.

Anyhow, I'm doing this gig Raw-dick style, because I'm low on funds, and it is a rung to a major festival that I can't wait to get to. Ill be busy working my way to that, and finishing up a couple of mixed media commissions I started for a few close clients. Got me back in love with Adobe Photoshop and everything I can do now in the digital art world. Will be doing much, MUCH more digital drawing once I get some new equipment, and some money to buy what I need. In the coming weeks ill share some of what I have been working on in that department.

The new story I am writing is taking on a life of its own. Every new piece I drop into the universe begins a seed and grows into something big all on its own. Drawing up the characters, and finishing up the rough draft of the first section of the project. I want to complete the first quarter before the end of the year at least. Would be awesome If I could have a nice scary excerpt for y'all to read by Halloween, but I'm not yet holding my breath on that. What I have learned about writing is that it is an art that changes fast, and is as complicated sometimes as the human genome—thats an inside joke that only I really get, my bad. I have also began putting together a treatment for my historical fiction, and I am planning on going back and perhaps rebuilding that one. The original draft just got way too complex for the sort of story I had initially wanted to tell. I basically just have to rewrite it more simply, and more focused on the core characters and their emotional trials.

Ill be keeping the old blog regularly updated where ever I can catch a breath to spare on it, so hopefully I will have more material to throw up on here very soon. Take care, and stay Artsy, and Stop Hating, And... Pretend I wrote a clever revelation here at the end.

News (Jan 29 2018)

Today I spent some time working on an untitled science fiction/fantasy project. Put in about 1000 words covering a suspencful sequence that I am quite proud of. With my busy schedule traveling and drawing, it’s hard to squeeze in the time for my writing, so I’m very thankful I stole a moment to sacrifice on my new story. Wasted five years on a previous project that just slumped into a boggy, dark forest of complexity, and I’m trying very hard not to make the same mistakes this time through. As I said before, I have gone back to my original love which is science fiction/fantasy, and for the moment I’m just having fun. If anything will come of it in the end only time will tell. I am currently at a word count of 21000 and I’m only maybe a third of the way through my core idea, so I’m going to have to take care not to over do it as I continue into this world. All of this is a learning process, and I am a slow learner. My end goal is to create the foundation for an episodic like story where we can explore as much of as we want in the future, but first I’ve got to lay down the floor plans for a sellable base. It’s harder than it may seem when we get lost in our romantic perceptions about what crafting an original story means. The basics always turn out to be your best course in action to begin with. Pave a pretty path with guide posts here and there  to set a reader on a familiar path so not to lose them, but then, after they are at last committed to the adventure unleash the dangerous, exciting, and new wild twists, making it all the more fun. That’s what I’m doing. The beginning of the adventure is always the hardest part. I will share more as I can. Hope you all love what I am building so far. 

News (Jan 13 2018

Back in Florida again. Had one day in the sun before the cold found where I was hiding. Now it’s been slated skies, and fuck-your-comfort kind of weather since. So my 2018 has become a positive set of goals thus far. Been working out every day, even in this 9th circle of hell winter blast sent by someone dead that hates me climate endeavor. Also focused on writing a book; praying I can get something finished before the end of the year, but that is a up-hill battle through a jersey rush hour traffic kinda venture... in short: writing is hard as fuck. Out here drawing caricatures with icescicles hanging like polar bear Jack, but I’m enjoying life. Going to be sharing some new art soon and hopefully some more writing shorts, and essays. Take care, y’all 

NEWS (Nov 29 2017)

On our way to December. Finished a Dragon Themed Caricature drawing for a new customer, and got scheduled in for two drawing gigs for the holiday season. Its fun having time to do your own thing during the winter, but my favorite part about this time of year is having the availability to write, and study. The new project I am working on takes on conflicts involving the many social struggles that which we are battling now in our real world today. I was always told to write what I know, and in doing that I am mirroring the insane circumstances unraveling in the news: the many plights, and slimy scandals taking over every facet in our societies. Art is watching, art remembers, and perhaps this story will give us a bitter taste of our own humility when it is said in done... But it takes place in another world, so if its too much, you can just pretend that its all fantasy. Im trying to force myself to write as much as possible without my brain over heating, while I still have the time to do so. Yesterday it was a 1000 words, today I hope to do more. I will also update my blog more often, trying to do that adult stuff, you know. We shall see what tomorrow brings. Until then, back to work. Write, Study, Workout, Draw, Highfive each other. Happy Holidays!

News (Nov 25 2017)

I have to put aside my historical fiction to work on something new. Been studying for over five years now trying to sculpt that project and it is still nowhere near ready. Now I'm exhausted. Started writing a science fiction thriller and it is a breath of fresh air to be working on something that doesn't have so many rules to abide by. I have so much yet to learn in this art. Reading every day, and learning new techniques. Now I am trying to apply what I have learned. Science fiction was my original love. However much I so enjoy history, any dramatic telling can get tangled up in the details of what was happening then very quickly if one tries to pursue it too carelessly. So I am taking my time with that. Might even salvage elements from the projects I was working on in the past, and work them into other pieces to come. Nothing is a waste of time; everything we do in the pursuit of our goals is worth it. Every now and then one must plant new seeds and watch it grow from all of the rich ingredients one has collected over the years. That is what I am doing now. Time builds strength. Nothing is a waste of time. Keep studying, keep writing, lay down the story, shine it up later, and worry about the business of it all when the time comes to burn stress on that. For the moment, just have fun. If you lose the joy, you lose the heart, and your story will begin to fall apart quite quickly.

News (Oct 10 2017)

I had wanted to publish one story per week for the month of October, but my working schedule interfered with those plans, sadly. however, I have finished one hell of a solid short story that I will be sharing before halloween. It is a 4,300 word story in the horror/suspense category, but I added a few elements of fantasy because that is truly my genre by nature. I don't want to give away too much about it, but it will be fun, sexy, and dark. I wanted to step away from my very serious Historical Fiction to write something completely different,  something with fewer restrictions—I really needed the break. So I went and created a world that we could explore ever deeper should we be interested in such a journey in the future. Short stories are exciting for me, but my demanding lifestyle and all-consuming primary projects make it a difficult task to complete, and to polish a single story in a short window of free-time. As some of you may know (those of you who are probably actually taking the time to read this, and I thank you for it) I travel the country for a living. My big road trips are a full-time job all on their own, but then I spend much of my life on this planet sitting at an easel drawing caricatures, and however I do love the job, between it and travel, and writing, and studying, I get a tad bit inundated. My ambitions are hungrier than I can even handle half the time, but I will keep trying to produce and share new work wherever I can break away from my life to do so. My next live drawing event will be in Georgia, and then I get to go back home to finish some drawing commissions, and polish up some stories. After, I will finish my work season in Jacksonville Florida, and begin a grueling month of writing in November: attempting to complete the first draft of a new novel in thirty days. This Halloween I will be sharing my last short story until I finish all of that. If you guys like it, give me some feedback and perhaps we will develop that universe further. Some interesting side facts about the upcoming short: it was inspired by a song by one of my favorite rock bands, In This Moment, and the book by Laurell K. Hamilton Guilty Pleasures. Hope you all enjoy it. Thanks again, Blessed Be!

Sincerely:
Jarce ArtThor (author)
Jeffrey Arce