Long Time, No Postie

So, it seems that this blog is beginning to be a little hard to handle...As I find with most blogs. I'll still post from time to time, as I'm doing, but probably even more infrequently. As a cry for forgiveness, here's a piece of artwork I just finished. Cheerio!

- M

School and Settling In

Well, I've moved into Windsor, settled in, and I'm feeling at home. Definitely enjoying myself here, maintaining a decent balance between partying and focusing on my studies, but we shall see if I can keep it up. I'll try to update at least 3-4 times a week with new quips, comments and discussion topics, not to mention some more writing work.

Ta for now!

WIP, among other things.

Again, no posts in a while...Busy life, busy day. Art update - WIP for a character model I'm working on.


In other news, I've been hacking around with a movie script for a production a friend wants to do, so forgive me for the lack of updates in the near future, at least until September.

In addition, as of September this blog will be almost strictly writing, and I'll post bits from my assignments, as well as a running commentary about life at Windsor. Yeah, if you didn't know already (as I'm sure most of you do know), I'm entering my first year of university (not first year of post-secondary) at the University of Windsor. English & Creative Writing, who'da thunk it?

Oh, and all you webcomic lovers out there, read Bitter Comics, a webcomic about bitterness. Also, if you like it, post in the forums, we need more members.

Sorry 'bout the lack of posts for the past li'l while...working on getting ready for school.

Also, tomorrow I'll be spending the morning helping my grandpa chop wood, so don't expect to hear from me until about Wednesday.

Trust me, I'll make it up to you.

- M

Desk of Wonders Pre-Edit

The cold, dry, musty air swirls about as the single fan blade turns on its central axle, making large, lazy sweeps through the clouds of dust. Broken light filters through the cracks between the blinds in the window, casting rays of light that silhouette the desk.

The desk stands out as being rather odd in this room. Whereas the room’s styling is rather bare and spartan, with empty walls painted in a cream colour, a stuccoed ceiling, and linoleum-tiled floors, the desk itself is ornate - carved out of a single piece of wood, with naught a single seam, the desktop smooth and polished to a mirror. Its legs seem to be unfinished; unpolished facets roughly defining the four legs, each terminating in large stumps, with four talon-like protrusions emerging from its broken surface. Upon a closer perusal, however, each individual surface on the legs and the feet is its own work of art – an image of a tree, detailed to the finest degree, which evokes the most extraordinary sense of calm. In fact, the most peculiar thing about this desk is that each face had its own unique tree, each as individual and unique as a snowflake, crafted with the most amazing sense of artifice.

As the time passes and the sun lowers in the sky, the shifting shadows and highlights catch different leaves, giving the illusion that a breeze is swaying through the air, causing the leaves to flutter. The most awesome effect is that forest animals have appeared in the carvings, such as birds flying through the air above the tree, and squirrels and other creatures chasing each other around the tree. This bizarre activity within the wood has an almost subtle life to it, a magic that could not possibly exist. Yet as one bird flies past the tree and opens its beak, you expect it to call out to you.

Waiting for the ultimate moment, the beak finishes opening, and KNOCK! The illusion of life shatters with that rapport from the door, the mesmerizing effect lost. KNOCK! Another clatter at the door. KNOCK! For a third time, the door resounds with the sound of knuckles striking wood, and it swings open a bit, allowing fresh air to seep into the musty room, clearing the air.

“Professor? Professor McArthur?” a young voice rings out. “Are you in, Professor?”
A creak occurs as the door swings open even more, revealing a silhouette of short-stature framed by the pale yellow lamplight from the hall.

“Professor?” The silhouette enters the room, walking in with awkward steps. Looking around, the dimly-lit child sees no Professor McArthur in the room, and completely overlooks the desk. As the boy turns to leave, he stops, and spins to face the desk. Tilting his head in curiosity, he takes one-two-three gangly steps towards the desk, and collapses to his knees, looking intently upon one of the etchings. The lad reaches out to brush his fingers across the engraving, his arm seeming to lengthen from a trick of the light as he raised it. He bends closer, and becomes entranced by the magnificent carvings.

A beam of fading light slips past the blinds and alights upon the spellbound eyes of a Caucasian boy, naught but the age of 12, still innocent to the vagaries of the world.

As the boy sits on floor watching the world unfold on the image, time, being the elusive creature it is, ran by quickly and without notice, until the sun had set. Since those last few rays of light hit the child’s face, strange events had been unfolding in the room around him: a breeze drifted through, bringing along the fresh scent of a dappled grove and you could swear that there is chirping in the distance, if only you were in the room with the child. As awesome and peculiar as these events are, the wonder was lost on the boy, who had long since fallen asleep.

Time passes, and the cold grey light of the morning begins to fill the room, awakening the boy from his slumber. Rubbing the Sandman’s gift from his eyes, he winces as the light grows greater and greater, blinding him utterly to the contents of the room. His hearing, unaffected by the light, picks up on the light pitter-patter of rain hitting the window outside. Expecting the light to dim, the child shields his eyes and waited patiently for his eyes to adjust, however, they never did, nor did the light ever dim; in fact, the light seemed to do the exact opposite, as the room brightened up more and more until it reached a nearly pure white.

The most extraordinary thing about the light, however, is that the desk never seems to vanish into the light, it actually seemed to become more substantial, as if it is real now, and before it was just a shadow of itself. In fact, the desk seems to be the source of the light, its dark-grained wood coming alive, spreading life throughout the room.

A large, blinding flash occurs, and the boy looks towards the desk & sees a wooden visage emerging from one of the facets, shaped rather remarkably like Professor McArthur’s face, stretching and screaming out to the boy.

Horrified, the boy recoils in terror as the beauty of the desk twists into this dark and malevolent form. Stumbling backwards, the child falls to the ground and tries to crawl away as the desk comes to life, twisting and turning, shifting and squirming around. In his scramble, one of his feet fly out and connect with one of the otherworldly-impressions, depressing it and another flash of light envelops the room, swallowing the child and the desk in the blaze.

The whiteness of non-existence fades away, leaving the spartan room empty, save for a naked woman lying on the cold, tiled floor, clawing at the air, sobbing.

“Oh no, what have I done?!”

Poetry Reading

This poet is dreadful,
He cannot rhyme,
For he is terrible at it,
This sad, lonely poet.

He sits in his basement,
Eating porridge and drinking brew,
Thinking up new ways,
to sit there and stew.

His rhymes are terrible,
His rhythm in decline,
For he is a sad, lonely poet,
And doesn't even know it.

40K Vignette

The scream of an artillery shell is heard in the distance, followed by a blossom of fire illuminating the battlefield. A black tank, a white fleur-de-lys emblazoned on its side, rolls over a sandbagged wall, the pilot-lights on its flamethrowers flickering in the near-dark.

From beyond the distant hill, two screaming Land Speeders scorched across the sky, the chin-mounted assault cannons spit shells toward the enemy emplacement behind the tower, the screams of the fallen resounded as the bullets found their mark. Space Marines, encased in their power armour, ran across the battlefield, the plasma-guns in their hands glowing with a dangerous light. Twin flares burst from the 'guns, slamming into the side of the flame-tank, detonating the fuel-storage within, sending shrapnel across the landscape. Oily smoke poured from the destroyed tank while long flames flickered past the metal.

From the hill, Lucius Gabriel, master and commander of the 3rd Company of Storm Ravens, grins ferally, the distant firelight reflected in his dark eyes.

++ SIR. TARGET IMMOLATOR IS DESTROYED. YOUR ORDERS? ++

Gabriel looks towards the emplacement, and nods. Assault the emplacement. Beware of heavy weapons, he subvocalized.

++ UNDERSTOOD. ++

++ COMMANDER GABRIEL'S LOG ++

DATE: 3246002.M42
THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: Success is measured in blood; yours or your enemy's.

++ TRANSMISSION BEGINS ++

My company and I have just arrived in orbit around Colcha Prime. Revolt has sparked here, the result of several years of raids by 'demons that strike under cover of darkness'. Currently within it's ecliptic period, the planet is shrouded in darkness, which allowed the raids to grow in frequency and the panic spreading. The government, in an attempt to quell the widespread fear, contacted the Adeptus Administratum and Adeptus Ministorum to aid the darkened planet, and after several months with no respite or sign of progress, felt it necessary to call in the Space Marines.

We were called in after finishing our tour of duty against the Chaos forces within the Sabbat Worlds. The raiders on the planet have been identified as eldar pirates, and have been using a slave legion of humans, equipped to match the local PDF. My company, the 3rd Battle Company, colloquially known as 'Gabriel's Angels', were assigned to free this planet from the damned xenos. Assigned a small contingent from the 1st Battle Company, comprised of a squad of Terminators and the Venerable Brother Markus, we jumped towards the Colcha system.

We drop tomorrow, just after morning prayer, which will be led by our reverent Reclusiarch Xerxes. I hear it shall be truly rousing.

++ END TRANSMISSION ++