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I drew an updated token of my fellow d&d mate’s character token. I’m not sure if I posted the original token here, but I’m really pleased at my progress. I’ve definitely gotten more comfortable with digital.

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I AM THE FURY

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a man of constant sorrow

He remembered the day he buried his parents. Mother was first, buried with yellow daisies and marigolds so she’d never have another blue day. Their father stood stone faced with a stiff upper lip--he mourned her pauper’s grave, instead the seat that now sat empty at the table.

When it came time to bother their father, neither he nor Al shed a tear. There were no flowers or kind words--instead they left a deck of cards and an empty PBR--it was the only thing the old man understood.

Grief was a complicated thing, the love and the pain wrapped up in one like thorns to a rose, unable to exist without one another.

But it was one thing for a child to bury a parent--death comes for all. No parent bears a child, expecting to bury them.

And Wayne?

He didn’t even have a body to bury.

The phone rang; he had half a mind to leave it off the hook. He’d heard enough bullshit about his nephew while he breathed much less… after. Now.

But he made a promise, and the only thing Wayne had left was his word. So he hobbled off the ground on aching knees with a rag in hand, away from the latest bit of graffiti to tag the trailer.

He snatched the phone off the cradle, ready to slam it right back down, when a robotic voice caused him to still.

“...All calls are logged and recorded and may be listened to by a member of Prison staff. If you do not wish to accept this call, please hang up now.”

More ringing, and then finally: “Is it true, what the papers are sayin’? Ed really kill that girl?”

He’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“That ain’t ever been Eddie, and you know it, Al.” Wayne grit his teeth--his brother was a glorified sperm donor; he had no right to claim fatherhood in any capacity. Eddie was Wayne’s through and through. He may not of held him when he was born, but he held him through every scraped knee and broken heart, and dammit, if that wasn’t parenthood what was the fucking point?

“Yeah…yeah, I know it. He’s never been much of a fighter.” A heavy silence crackled over the line, precious seconds ticking by. “...Say, do you think they’ll come callin’ for an interview from his old man? I’m sure there’s a pretty penny in it for--”

Wayne slammed the receiver down. And then again. And again.

Al didn’t know. He didn’t know that about Eddie and the empty grave. He didn’t know--

The black lacquer of an acoustic guitar caught his eye, leaned against the door like it had been set down but for a moment, it’s owner just around the corner.

He picked the instrument up with trembling hands. Eddie had fixed the old girl up, restringing her and polishing her until she gleamed. Wayne may have had her first, but she only really belonged to Eddie.

Callous fingers plucked at the strings, plucking at an unsung song. Nothing would come, and soon his vision blurred and hands shook too much to hold the guitar any longer.

He set her down back into her gentle reverie, like a casket into the earth, and hung his head and cried.

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Happy very late birthday @sereinpetrichor

I started this concept a YEAR AGO and just now finished it…late -facepalm-. Boy howdy did this one go on a journey.

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Cherished

It’s been almost a year to the date since I started my first D&D campaign. It’s bitter sweet, but all things must come to an end, and I couldn’t be happier about how it has gone.

I might post some funny or moving bits from the campaign, but I’ll miss my sweet himbo paladin.

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What little light remained was eclipsed by the writhing mass of flying creatures hurdling towards them, the sky going dark, the last of the sun's rays sputtering like the dying embers.

The shadows devoured the land below it, engulfing the tiny figure down far below, below of the swarm headed his way, or of their shreiks trumpeting the beginning of the end.

"Steve…" Dustin croaked, watching the scene unfold before him. This was no fantastic last stand against evil in battle where good prevailed--there were no heroes.

We're no heroes.

"STEVE! YOU HAVE TO RUN!"

He didn't care if he screamed himself hoarse--he had to let him know, he had to warn him, had to let him know just what was coming.

"RUUUUUUN!"

There's no shame in running.

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Eddie Munson: now at peace.

The words on the stone slab blurred in his vision--he wanted to scream, wanted to fight, kick, and bite--anything, because Dustin Henderson wasn’t at fucking peace.

He knew the process, the ‘five stages of grief’, as the counselor had called it. She’d said with a calm voice and pitying eyes that it would “take some time”, and it was “natural to feel lost” and “you should really go to the earthquake survivor support group”. But how could she know? There was nothing fucking natural about what had happened to them. It wasn’t Hawkins that split in two, but Dustin’s whole fucking world.

(He understood why Max rolled her eyes at the therapists now, and that was a whole other regret on its own.)

So here he stood, in front of an empty grave for a boy who would never grow older. For a brother who would never see Dustin graduate (and wasn’t that the kicker? Dustin would get to do the one thing Eddie wanted most), never get to see his own dreams manifest, never, never, never--

The sting of nails against his palms was grounding. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.

There was new graffiti on the grave marker, and with a sigh, he began his weekly ritual, his self appointed penance for being the one to walk away. It is easy to be dead.

Each step he took sent soapy water over the rim of the metal pail. The doctor told him to rest and to be careful, but why should he? Everyone else was always pushing themselves past their breaking points, taking the hits for the sake of the Party, because someone had to ‘think of the children’.

A flash of bloody teeth in the underworld. A chair in a metal room, blood stained knee high socks.

He wasn’t a child anymore.

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Pssst I’m still alive! Just artblocked and going Through It TM

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This feeling is raw and angry

It comes at me white knuckled

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Baby’s first digital art

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Remind me why I like to torture myself with realism again? -rocks back and forth-

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Chrissy wake up (you want to live)

It wasn’t a surprise--there was always something, deep down, that was a little bit broken---Vecna was just the first to show her the truth.

She’d just wanted to be perfect, the perfect girlfriend, the epitome of sweetness and beauty--the portrait of the girl next door. If she could just make herself a little smaller, maybe she would be more palatable to her mother, less for her to cut with her barbed words. 

Instead, she found herself consumed, swallowed whole--nothing more than a bite to eat.

Do you ever feel like you’re losing your mind?

---

Text is from the rough draft of chapter five of @sp0o0kylights fic Illustrated

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There has always been

A sharp point

On prom-night heels,

The cut of metal

Along a ribcage of lace,

The taste of girlhood dreams

Turn bitter on my tongue.

They don’t tell you

That growing requires pain,

That sixteen ain’t so sweet.

That kindness has teeth,

And their smiles are cutting.

First love,

first loss.

—-

(I buried you in a hollow casket,

But it was not empty,

For I lie with you.)

—

Afternoon coffee

I will not be sipped at

Swallowed whole

Consumed

—

I traded the softness of satin for the security of steel

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Just a silly little doodle inspired by the daily tinfoil ramblings with @sp0o0kylights

Love the idea of drag queen Steve being able to explore and express femininity and gender in a safe place with a drag mother.

But did I fit three puns in her stage name? Absolutely!

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The words blurred in his vision, unable to read the words before him.

They were gone.

They were gone, and he was alone.

Again.

The warehouse felt even emptier than he remembered, no longer filled with Dottie and Axel’s maddened giggles, Funshine’s radio, and Mick’s gentle conversation. All that remained of the trio were kicked out chairs and folding tables, forgotten utensils and stained mattresses. Items that were inconsequential and of little value.

Just like him.

The crinkle of the paper in his hands echoed in the silence--there was nothing there to soak it up. Kali’s explanation for leaving made sense. Everything that had gone down in Hawkins, and their return trip to Pittsburgh had put too much heat on them. It wasn’t safe to stay any longer, wasn’t smart to  remain in one place any longer than they had to.

Steve understood---really, he did.

But why didn’t they wait for me?

His hands began to tremble, vision swimming with the threat of unshed tears.

It was stupid--they’d clearly been long gone when he got back. The stained mattress on the floor reeked of mildew and the damp, and Axel’s favorite mug had grown it’s own science experiment. It didn’t matter if he’d gotten back a day, a week, a month before.

When Steve didn’t leave with them, when he decided to linger in Hawkins, that had been the line drawn in the sand. They were never going to wait for him, and he would always end up here.

He belonged to nobody.

Sound ricocheted off the metal walls, of flesh against stone, anguish and grief stitched together in one agonized sob. 

It was only until he felt something wet hit his hands, did he realize the full force of his grief. For the first time in years, he was crying.

Big fat tears were soaking his cheeks, burning his scraped and bloodied knuckles as they landed.  And he couldn’t stop.

A dam had burst, and he was sitting in a dirty warehouse, cradling his head and on his knees like a child. 

I’m nobody.