My parents are on a timer, and they’ve both led amazing lives…especially my mom. This week she’s in the hospital and it kind of struck me that, while she’s pretty damn indestructible, she isn’t immortal.
It’s time to get those stories of theirs down, to capture them and archive them, so they’re not lost in the rain.
Riding white water through tunnels in a mountain.
Standing on the beach, watching the cloud rise as the Bikini Atoll was incinerated by a Hydrogen Bomb.
I need a douche hat…and a shitty car with a soup-can muffler.
While you’re giving me gifts, why not some mid ’90’s economy sedan with plenty of space under the hood for superchargers, turbos, cold air intakes and enough trunk space to stuff a few bass cannons so I might make my brain hemorrhage.
The Diluvian Mountains were a bitter set of black and grey teeth jutting from a flood plain that was sparsely populated. Steep, tall, prone to releasing torrents of glacial flood waters at a whim, not many cities had seen a desire to set roots close by, so there were few who called the place home. The residents who did were seasonal farmers and hunters who would risk the plains during warm weather, growing fast, high-yield crops they could harvest quickly for market then return to the higher valleys to wait out winters, hunting, until the next cycle began.
While waiting for my new glasses to arrive, I decided it was time to work on the prototype cover art for the new Mr. Rain piece. I had a base to start the cover from and an idea of where I wanted the cover to end…
Tristan’s crawler stopped on a worn ridge with a view of bones. They had been a metropolis, once, before civilization retreated and the weather went mad; though it was the retreat of civilization, more than weather, that had destroyed this particular city. Elemental forces, time–they’d stripped the skin, though Tristan hardly gave it more attention than a convenient waypoint. It’s former status, the ghosts or history it may have held didn’t matter. Warning chimes sounded, reminding her that this was not the best time to stop and that was it. She silenced them with the push of a button that crunched as it ground particulates into finer substance and sat, listening to the sound of her own breath through a respirator.