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Most painters don't give their canvas a second thought. They purchase them. They paint upon them. They sell, or try to sell, their works, thinking of the canvas as nothing more than a container for their art. I, on the other hand, believe finding the right canvas, constructing it, creating it, is as important as the image upon it. I think, in time, this will truly set me apart from other great artists. Hmm? Oh, no. I'm not that arrogant. I don't believe I'm in the same realm as Dahli, or Da Vinci. No, I'm too experimental to compare even to Salvadore. It's my medium, you see. The canvas. God provides me canvas. I provide God art.

An artist discusses his relationship with God, and the works of art he created in His name.

 

"The Meal" is sort of a prose poem. It's another one of those cases where "the voices made me do it." I like its simplicity, but I've been too lazy thus far to explore this character. But I wouldn't discount its appearance in a future tale.

A stiff breeze blew sand across the road. The wind was rising now. Upon the hill. The ancient Victorian, its wood white with recent paint, hedges trimmed, windows clean and sparkling, path immaculately mowed, driveway raked lovingly with gravel, stood silently on the hill. Nothing was out of place. Yet the palm trees were swishing back and forth in the wind, and the sun had long since been covered. The clouds were moving fast now, the air heavy with sea water and the promise of rain. The Victorian seemed to groan to itself in the gathering wind. Its street was empty of life, save for the field mice resting fitfully in the attic of the house across the street. That house was newer. Built in the 60's after Carla ravaged Galveston. The Victorian hated the house. Hated its more modern styling, the way its owners had let it run to ruin. It was already beginning to rot and stink up the Victorian's block. The Victorian was incensed it was even allowed to exist. With the breeze coming stronger now, thunder in the distance, the Victorian knew it was time. It could feel water moving across the ground some distance away, hear the breaking of waves against the seawall. Yes, it was time.

During the worst hurricane since 1900, an old house settles scores… Download Episode Epub

 

Momma was a college term paper for my ethics class. Yup, that's right, a term paper. Hard to believe, I know, but after a serious argument with my professor regarding Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics and the ramifications of living by one's own understanding of "what is right for man," I cleared writing this tale with him. I got an A in the class and he couldn't stop talking about it… Download Episode