Fear and Loathing

“A drug person can learn to cope with things like seeing their dead grandmother crawling up their leg with a knife in her teeth, but nobody should be asked to handle this trip. Bazooko’s Circus is what the whole hep world would be doing every Saturday night if the Nazis had won the war. This was the Sixth Reich.”

-Raoul Duke, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998 film)

It’s was a long-er but busy weekend. I fell behind and had nothing to contribute for this blog/project.. so this morning I decided to draw two of my favorite characters from one of my favorite movies as well as include one of my favorite quotes. I am aware that this may only be humorous to those that have seen this film but if you haven’t, you should because you are missing out.

Also, please excuse my grammar and/or lack of appropriate punctuation..  Unfortunately, I am not a writer and I simply write the way I talk.. but don’t worry, Rory will be back soon.

🙂

-Wendy

Saturday Rejects – Lonely, Nature’s Vanity and Contemplation

Another week has snuck by and with it a few more of Wendy’s sketches almost managed to go unnoticed. Luckily for the betterment of humanity I have absolute access to all of her secret hiding places, which allows me to ensure these beautiful pieces of art don’t become lost to the sands of time.

I’ve dubbed this drawing “Lonely” since I can’t help but feel the acute pangs of loss when studying the lone figure and the fine lines that so simply illustrate the cold of solitude. This one was held onto longer than others since I really wanted to write about it, but Wendy’s just putting out too much good stuff for me to keep up with everything.

This piece is obviously special and has a lot to say, I just couldn’t understand it enough to bring the story to life. I hope you have better luck unraveling it than I did. Enjoy!

This is just a practice piece using a photo as reference which I’ve named “Contemplation”. I imagine a man sitting by himself at a chess board in the middle of a wind swept park. Playing against himself, he struggles with the defeat that he begins to realize is imminent. We all beat ourselves up about the decisions we make, sometimes backing ourselves into a corner of defeat – which I think Wendy captures here perfectly.

It’s been a great week for Fiction & Foibles. We’ve seen some amazing art out there and made some good friends. Can’t wait to see what the next week brings. Thanks for stopping by!

Friday With Friends – 7 Deadly Princesses, Wolves, Mazes and Sex Changes

It’s Friday and we’d like to share all the new friends we’ve made and the amazing things they provide for our enjoyment.

But first, I’d like to share one of Wendy’s pieces that I think is beautiful – The flow of the lines invoke a bit of tranquility for me. It reminded me of a shortfilm I saw recently called “The Butterfly Circus” (check it out here) which carries a message of hope, determination and family. I highly recommend you catch it.

CorinaWrites – 7 Deadly Sins of Disney Princess
Wendy stumbled across Corina’s site while browsing some new art content, which shefound in this post featuring our favorite Disney princesses represented as the 7 Deadly Sins. While there are a couple that seem a little off, the others make compelling statements. While Corina is not the artist (you can find them here), she obviously does value beautiful art and seems to take great pride and time to find some great works to share with the world. Cool site to watch.

Sparks In Shadow – Another Writers’ Dilemma?
Sparks In Shadows is a blog I found while flitting through writing content and the message I found definitely struck a chord with me. Every artist, regardless of medium, struggles at times with identifying with the voice inside and Sparks puts words to this dilemma so succinctly. What impressed me the most is, while her writing is undoubtedly for the benefit of her own growth, it’s very obviously intended for others as well. I think Sparks In Shadows has spent more time on Fiction & Foibles, providing feedback, than she probably has developing her own blog’s content – which is a credit to her true desire to grow with a community, instead of just within one. Very cool person.

maze a day – Maze 4
We found Maze while just browsing through art and really liked his beautiful, yet simple, idea of crafting a maze a day for the next year. The pieces are already beautiful, but I can’t wait to see what a year’s worth of practicing such precise art will do! These things are great and we have a lot of fun seeing the new directions he takes each day.

She Waited on the Couch to Die – Summer
I found Moof while looking for some light reading and was immediately blown away by her moleskine art projects. Her art style mirrors the tone of her writing perfectly, and she’s very talented at both. A good deal of angst and wit to be found at Moof’s blog – I’d definitely recommend stopping by to check it out.

The Literary Bandit – Hero A Day: Notorious W.O.L.V.I.E
As a long time nerd, The Literary Bandit has a special place in my heart. The artist and author behind the operation clearly has a deep rooted interest in all things nerdtastic and my hat is off to him for making me smile every morning with another quick drawing (under 5 minutes) of my favorite comic book heroes and villains.

Wolves by Strangers – #57 “Wolf vs. T-Rex”
One of the first blogs I found when jumping around the interwebz and for obvious reasons (wolves rock) Wolves by Strangers is being included here today. WBS features pictures and writings about, you guessed it, wolves, as submitted by the viewing community. A lot of fun to see what people come up with, of which I’ve linked to my favorite so far.

LAFEMMEROAR – Man from Malutopia – Story of Genital Proportions
LaFemme Roar was another early writing blog I found with a particular pension for discussing the eternal struggle between man and woman – that might be putting it lightly. The first post I read was a finely crafted recounting of an experience with a potential suitor at a grocery store which guys all sorts of sideways. While the topic was a little out of my arena, the storytelling and writing craft was top notch. As Fiction & Foibles tries to maintain a fictional content theme, I was excited to see when LaFemme Roar opened a new page specifically dedicated to fiction. Her writing style and creativity makes for a great combo in her first fiction installment linked above.

Down the Rabbit Hole

 

‘It was much pleasanter at home,’ thought poor Alice, ‘when one wasn’t always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn’t gone down that rabbit-hole — and yet — and yet — it’s rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what can have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I’ll write one.’

-Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

Bloodied And Bashed – A D&D Disagreement

[This story is an excerpt converted from a screenplay I drafted for the 2010 ScriptFrenzy event.]

To set the scene, a beleaguered group of Renaissance Faire employees embark on an epic adventure, a la D&D, across a zombie infested waste-land in search of safe haven. The group consists of the traditional fighters (Ren Faire Knights), healer (EMT), rogue (protagonist’s trouble making teenage sister) and a “wizard” (pyro-chemist).

They are doggedly hounded by biker Boris and his scavenging lackeys – whom Rod, the leader of the medievally equipped and armored group, faces in mortal combat.]

Boris circled around Rod’s prone form.

As Rodney tried to rise to his knees, Boris landed a vicious kick to his jaw with a mud-crusted boot, flattening him back to the ground. A bright ribbon of blood flew from the knight’s mouth and he lost the grip on his mace, which spun away across the dirt.

Boris nonchalantly retrieved the weapon. He hefted it in his burly hands, testing the weight and balance.

“This’ll be the first time I ever killed a man with his own weapon,” Boris admitted.

Swinging a couple of lazy arcs, he advanced back on Rod, who was just now coming back to his wits.

Boris rolled the limp warrior onto his back with a boot. Using both hands, he raised the heavy mace high over his head for a killing stroke.

Boris smiled wickedly, “Goodbye, Sir Knight.”

Rodney closed his good eye, not wanting to see his final moments reflected in the giant biker’s sneer.

Boris grunted. Rodney tensed.

The blow never fell.

Rod opened his eye to see Alex clinging to Boris’ back, like a small dark rucksack. She used the hilts of her daggers to find purchase, arms hugging around him, one blade buried deep into the large man’s neck, the other lodged into the side of his gut.

Alex ripped them in opposite directions, opening a yawning gash across his throat and eviscerating him all at once.

Boris fell to his knees, the force jarring his steaming entrails loose to spill to the dirt, before he toppled face down with Alex riding him all the way to the ground.

All looked on in a mixture of horror and disbelief.

With a sucking sound, Alex slid her daggers from Boris’ twitching form. She rose slowly form her victim like a dark soul departing a body and turned to the remaining bikers. Crimson coated blades dripped at her sides.

Her dark eyes narrowed in a menacing glare as her soft hair floated in the breeze.

“Which one of you corpses is next?”

The Customer Ain’t Always Right…

[Please be advised this post contains strong language and graphic content – yes, more so than the usual. Reader discretion is advised.]

Dinah and Beth sat at the bar, reeking of Chanel No. 5 and sipping their chardonnays. The Devil’s Cup wasn’t their usual watering hole but they hadn’t had a drink in hours and all the shopping they’d done had left them parched.

The blue collar regulars that happened to have a weekday off sat in various alcoves around the dank establishment, staring on in open disdain. A burly bartender serving the friends sported a surly scowl, a bushy white beard and suspenders over his plaid flannel shirt.

Dinah and Beth barely noticed as they preened and squealed at one another.

“Can you believe what a bitch Sarah is,” Dinah asked. “I totally saw Brad first.”

Beth agreed, “I know, huh!”

“He’s ugly anyways,” Dinah continued, “but totally loaded.”

Beth emphatically nodded as she gulped down another swallow of her cheap wine.

“Oh my god. This tastes like shit,” she complained before upending the last of the contents. The bartender looked up from where he dutifully polished the end of the bar.

Dinah wasn’t listening.

“She’d better get him to take us to Maui with them. She owes me that much for letting her have him,” she whined.

Finishing her chardonnay, a wet belch erupted from Beth’s gloss covered, artificially-inflated lips. She giggled obnoxiously.

“You gross bitch!”, Dinah laughed.

“Bartender, another glass of your shitty wine!”, Beth bellowed, awkwardly waving the empty glass above her head, just in case he hadn’t heard her screech.

The bartender, easily twice their size, uncorked the bottle to fill another glass. “Comin right up, ma’am.”

Beth and Dinah snorted and laughed, pawing each other with brightly painted acrylic fingernails. The barkeep delivered their next round in short order.

The women immediately resumed their keening discussion, only pausing to swallow mouthfuls of their bitter drink. They didn’t notice the rest of the patrons staring at them in contempt, or the furrowed brow of the bartender as he glared in deep concentration.

Dinah cut off whatever banal half-thought her counterpart was spewing, “We should totally go get a mani-pedi!”

Beth’s face lit up as if she’d just re-discovered botox. “You’re a GENIUS!”, she squealed in delight.

The bartenders face was covered in sweat as he continued to bore holes through his two loathsome customers. His thick frame shook slightly from exertion.

“Afterwards we should go get our tan on. Sarah is throwing a pool party at Brad’s this weekend and I need to look hot,” Beth planned aloud.

A vein clearly pulsed form the barkeeps forehead.

Dinah circled the rim of her glass with a perfectly manicured fingertip.

“I’m going to fuck Brad at the part–”

Just then Dinah burst into a raging ball of flame and wailed in agony. Beth joined the chorus as the sleeve of her blouse caught fire from the proximity.

The scent of charred flesh quickly replaced the scent of stale beer, as oily black tendrils of smoke billowed to the vaulted ceiling. Shrieks of agony echoed off the high walls and mixed with the soft twang of country music playing softly from a jukebox in the back.

Dinah toppled to the hardwood floor and flailed wildly in the center of the inferno. By this point, Beth’s extensions were aflame and she fell to the floor to roll about, inadvertently bumping into the writhing torch that was her friend and setting the rest of her clothing ablaze.

A wiry man in the corner grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall and approached the now charred circle of flailing limbs and melting jewelry. When a figure rolled too close to a table he would quickly kick them back to the ring of fire.

The rest of the men in the room gathered around the bartender, who hunched over the bar, panting from exhaustion. They roughly patted him on the back and offered their own variations of gruff attaboys.

Looking up, the barkeep appraised his handy work.

He caught his breath for a moment and said, “The customer ain’t always right,” another heaving intake of air, “because the customer is on fire.”

The crowd exploded into laughter as the lumps of charred socialite finally stilled.

An Unexpected Turn Of Events

Roger couldn’t fathom the depths of his luck, as he opened his front door to let his guest inside. He typically only took home the sloppiest drunk after hours of feeding her cosmopolitans until last call.

She usually didn’t even know her own name by the time he was through with her.

He’s not the guy that gets picked up by the most beautiful woman in the bar, he reminded himself. He’s not the guy that leaves early at her request, he kept thinking.

As the door swung open he stepped aside, playing the part of the gentleman host. Don’t fuck this up, he quietly repeated over and over again.

“Uhh… after you.”

His dark haired companion flashed a playful smile as she brushed past him. She smelled like some exotic flower he wasn’t nearly cultured enough to name. His heart quickened at the thought of drowning in the intoxicating aroma.

She gingerly walked into the small living room of his one-bedroom apartment, tracing delicate lines over his Crate & Barrel adornments, a set of coasters, a cheap desk lamp, a bronze statuette of a naked woman, all scattered neatly across his Ikea furniture set. After a brief inspection, the woman turned to Roger and stared expectantly.

Roger quickly closed the door and fumbled with the lock. Turning back he asked, “Can I, um, get you a drink?”

She shook her head, the slight movement causing her long tresses to swing in front of her lustful eyes.

His mouth was dry while his palms cried sweat. He took a step forward, closing the distance between them.

“Did you want to put a movie on or something?”

Again a slight shake of her head.

Another step. He stood in front of her.

Even though Roger wasn’t the largest man, he towered over the petite frame of the mysterious woman. His breathing seemed labored as he tried to maintain control of his composure. A bead of sweat rolled down from his receding hairline, betraying the attempt.

Heat radiated from his body as she lithely walked her fingers up his front to the top button of his shirt. With a practiced hand, she easily unbuttoned each until his undershirt was completely exposed.

Her eyes widened hungrily at the sight. She ripped the dress shirt back and away from him with strength her slender arms should not have contained. Roger’s face screwed up in bewilderment as his mind tried to keep up.

She feverishly grappled with the bottom of his slightly damp undershirt, pulling the hem from his pant line. Roger was unaccustomed to such deliberate action from his women. By this point they’d be passed out and he’d be figuring out the best way to disrobe them – not the other way around.

He wasn’t about to mention the turn of his fortune and let the beautiful woman work.

She tore the undershirt up and over his head revealing his hairy chest and protruding gut. He would have been bashful about it all had she not immediately buried her face into the sweat stained fabric of the garment to inhale deeply.

“Uhh… wha-”

Before he could finish, the shirt fell away from her face, which had been replaced by a mask of pure desire. Still clutching her soiled prize, she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him into a passionate embrace. Her tongue forced its way into his mouth and he welcomed it – time for the real fun to begin.

As his hands begin to grope over her backside, his mind jumped ahead to the pleasures of the night ahead.

Roger became lost in the potential ways he could defile his latest victim. Perhaps he’d begin by tying her to the bed. Revel in his dominant power as she squirmed under his–

A loud crack echoed in Roger’s head, followed by an eruption of sharp pain from his temple.

An explosion of lights blinded him. Gravity seemed to realign itself and he couldn’t quite perceive which way was up anymore and he toppled to the floor with a colossal crash.

The lights began to fade, though his vision was still blurry. He tried to get his hands under him but couldn’t find the strength to support himself yet.

“You bitsth”, he stammered through the disorienting anguish.

Another crack and flash of pain flattened him once more to the floor. He couldn’t really remember how he’d ended up there.

As he pondered his current position a small bronze statue of a naked woman was dropped into his field of vision. It lay there looking at him as he stared back. Before long a slowly creeping pool of viscous crimson rolled up from the bottom of his periphery to surround his new friend.

Roger’s sight was beginning to fade to black when movement distracted him from his swim in the red lack with the naked lady. Beyond, he could just make out a figure with long black hair walk through a door holding a white bundle of fabric in her hand.

Before darkness swallowed him, he thought about all the devious things he would do to her if he could just get her to come home with him.

Saturday Rejects – Nymphs, Mother-Daughter Drama and Weeping Flowers

Well, as I expected Wendy has really been outproducing me in content and she’s just got more art than I can keep up with (help with stories!). Since I’m unable to create the fiction to publish it, and it’s just too beautiful not to share, I’ll be posting a handful of sketches each Saturday that didn’t make the grade for story time. Without further ado…

Wendy hates this piece but I think it’s bold and stunning. (Pencil, Ink and Acrylic)

Wendy calls this one “Mother, You’re Over-Reacting”. While I’m sure most writers would be able to drum up some fiction for this piece, I just couldn’t do it. Call me crazy, but it’s hard for me to relate with drama between mother and daughter. Maybe I’ll come back to it some day to exercise empathetic writing. (Pencil, Ink, Acrylic and Sharpie)

I really should write something for this piece but there is just way too many others that are even better and filling up my backlog. Some are just going to need to be cut even though they’re beautiful. (Pencil, Ink and Acrylic)

The Silence Of Moths

It’s dark.  Quiet now.

I can hardly stand the silence.  It only amplifies the sound of my thoughts.  They’re like a million moths relentlessly throwing themselves at the porch light we used to sit under on warm summer nights.  They used to seem so errantly peaceful in their pursuit for warmth.  I’m beginning to understand their desire.  Unfortunately, that light is out now.

The ground is cold.  Unforgiving.

Somewhere I know I’m beginning to ache from sitting in the same spot for so long.  My arms burn as they hold my knees tight to my chest.  I would release them but for the bars around me.  Intangible barriers of cold flesh I can only thank myself for erecting.

My foot slips and brushes against her cold skin. The sensation sends a jolt up my leg and I yank it back in, pushing myself against the wall as best I can. Even in death she wouldn’t let me go.

The impregnable silence of the moths is broken by the low rumble deep in my gut.  Hunger is no longer my body’s way of reminding me to nourish itself.  It now serves as a measurement of time.  The last whimper was longer than the one before.  The pain even sharper.  They say a man can survive for weeks without eating.  Jesus, how long have I been here?

Time is the only thing I have left. The time between this moment and someone finally coming to find out where we have been or what that smell is.

The time I’ll spend locked away for what I’ve done. Oh God, what have I done?

I probe the floor for the knife I know is there. It had skittered across the hardwood a ways when I’d dropped it. My fingers find a cold sticky puddle first. Pushing through the lump quickly swelling in my throat I reached further and there it was – the implement of both our destinies.

Your’s; face down in a puddle of your own lifeblood. Mine; Eternal damnation.

I grasped the handle and the blade scratched across the floor as I brought it to my chest. Clutching it there as if a crucifix, I rose to my knees to say a prayer to anyone still listening.

Before I’d finished or knew what I was doing, I felt the blade slide easily into the soft flesh of my neck. I could immediately feel my heartbeat quicken as it began pumping my blood through the gaping wound in my throat. As that same beat began to slow, I crawled forward towards my captor. One final act of defiance.

Even though I couldn’t see it, I pictured my lifeblood falling onto her. She would have never stood for such a mess had she been alive.

I couldn’t hold myself upright any longer. The pain was leaving my body and I fell to the floor atop her.

I smiled as my final thought coalesced, at least I ended up on top.

[Art inspired by Story]

Shadows Of The Heart

All men have shadows. Not all men know their shadows by first name.

Hank did.

It had been three years since Hank’s love, Norma, had passed. He’d been by her side since her eighteenth birthday when he had made her his wife. Every day since, up to her death, her touch made his cheeks flush a deep red and his stomach tie up in knots.

For the next fifty-two years they shared everything, from a bowl of cereal every morning to the very thoughts in their heads. There were no filters. To them, they truly were a union of body and soul.

When she died, something at the very core of him died with her. It curled in on itself, dry and brittle like a dead leaf, and snapped off. It rattled around in his left foot for awhile before finally falling out one night while he trimmed his toenails.

Watching the tiny dried up flakes, the last remnants of his love, float to the floor to be silently swallowed by the sea of maroon shag carpeting, Hank felt as if a gorilla had just mounted his shoulders. They slumped down and in, like he was being squeezed between the fingers of a giant invisible fist.

Three painful years had passed since her death. And finally the last of her had slipped away.

This was the night he met his shadow.

Typically, shadows are nasty little buggers when left unattended. They deceptively play the part of your faithful little buddy, but they’re really just protecting themselves from the damaging affects of direct light.

This particular shadow had ulterior motives however.

At the time, Hank didn’t know any of this, nor did he care. All he could think about was Norma. All he could feel was the emptiness inside. To the visitor lurking in the corner, this was a blinking vacancy sign a hundred feet tall.

The shadow moved quickly, silently weaving its way through the wiry white hairs crawling their way out of Hank’s ear. He was instantly wise to the intrusion and it wasn’t because of the sensation of someone funneling ice cold water into his head.

The cold snaked its way to the very center of Hank’s empty heart.

His droopy red eyes watered as he felt something other than the sinister bite of solitude that had gnawed at him for so long. Confusion whispered in one ear, jubilation led a marching band past the other. He had no clue that at that very moment a shadow was making a home of his damaged husk.

The shadow sent a chill pulsing through his veins, in time with the beat of his heart, which was now fluttering with bittersweet memories. It filled every crack and crevice of Hank’s shattered core with oily darkness, all the way down to his neatly trimmed toes.

Though, what he felt most keenly was the presence snugly nestled next to his heart, the same spot his wife’s soul used to affectionately nuzzle.

A familiar tingle played across his cheeks, which were slowly turning a dusky grey and felt cold to the touch. As if on cue, his stomach spasmed and began twisting itself into those uncomfortable knots he hadn’t felt in years. Oh, how he’d missed those knots.

Ink black tears creased his cheeks as he wept.

Not all men know their shadows by first name.

Hank did.

[Story inspired by Art]