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The Best Day

Well, for somebody.
This is what happens when the the song you are basing your artwork off of is completely useless in the radial-imagery department, and the badly-conceived-lines-that-can-be-twisted department, and is completely happy to boot.
This is also the next installment of art belonging to the Pigeons of the Apocalypse genre, and it probably won't be the last. Originally, there was to be a much more elaborate swirling vortex of pigeons but as they say, "Man's imagination exceeds Illustrator's memory." So anyway, I went with the Forerunner Pigeon Arc look, which denotes less of the unbridled, primal energy, and more of a clear avimorphic construct of dire function. One of these days I'll have to work out what it actually does.

2-D project the fourth.

Love in a Time of Breakfast

A chill breeze swooped through the grey morning, scattering the meager raindrops in its wake.

Sybil liked the cold and she liked the rain. They made everyone feel more uncomfortable than her, and that showed how she was completely superior to those around her.

At least that was what she told herself. In truth these cold, grey mornings made her fell lonely, alone in an indifferent world with no one to shield her from the chill gnawing of the wind. She secretly thought the wind only chewed on people because it was lonely too. She also secretly liked daisies while we’re on the subject.

Hefting her broom over her shoulder, Sybil climbed the steps of Blitzkerk’s town hall. She told herself that she liked being a cleaning lady, that she preferred the company of soaps and dustbins to that of other human beings. She told herself that cleaning products did what they were told all the time, as opposed to people who only did what they were told some of the time. She told herself that she liked living in a small town, everyone understood her well enough to be mildly frightened of her and stay out of her way. But really the fact that no one ever wanted to know her better or spend the lonely hours of the evening in deep soulful converse secretly hurt her immensely.

She paused on the threshold, a few watery shoe marks lay glimmering on the tiles of the entry hall, someone had neglected to wipe their feet properly that morning. Sybil bent low over the offending footprints for a moment and muttered something imperious under her breath. The water instantly coalesced into a single stream and slithered of in a thoroughly purposeful manner. A few moments later she chuckled quietly to herself as the muffled spluttering sounds of someone discovering an inexplicable ounce or so of water shooting up their nose made its way back down the corridors.

Sybil wandered off to sweep out the corners of the hall, whistling merrily to herself, which just went to show how deep-seated her depression really was.

As evening fell Sybil made her way back home, her broom held at a jaunty angle, she was probably the only person who knew how to do that but the effect was unmistakable. She told herself she was in a good mood and her fellow townsfolk noticed it as well, which was why only half of them crossed to the opposite side of the street as she approached. As she let herself into her small, and despondently empty house, she told herself that she had no interest in events of the dark and mysterious persuasion, otherwise she would have noticed the shadowy figure at the end of the street. As it was she overlooked the leather overcoat and the broad brimmed hat that composed the bulk of the gothic silhouette, nor did she perceive the two eyes that glinted from the shadowy countenance, watching her with an intensity she had never before witnessed. In fact, all Sybil did do was go inside and make a cup of tea.

The next day dawned just as grey and hopeless as the last. Sybil had had enough, it was time someone did something to improve the morning. She traced a series of runic equations on the surface of the enormous iron caldron that dominated her kitchen. The water within sprang instantly to a full and hearty boil. She waved her hand vaguely at the floor beneath said cauldron, there was a flash of eldritch light, and flames sprang into existence on the scorched bricks. As something of an after thought she tossed down some wood. Sybil then proceeded to flit about the room, flinging open cupboards and iceboxes, retrieving mysterious packages and containers and emptying their contents into the frothing water. When she cast the final ingredient (an outlandishly contorted root, rent from some far off earth) into the cauldron it let out a venomous hiss that nearly drowned out the sudden knock at her door.

As she went to the door she told her rapidly beating heart that it must be a mistake, “No one calls this early if they know what’s good for them,” she muttered.

Sybil flung the door open to reveal a mysterious man rapped in a leather overcoat, his face, etched with cares not all together worldly, was shadowed by the brim of his dark hat. When he spoke his voice was one of power beyond the mundane realms of time, yet dimmed by weariness vaster than the scope of mortal strength. “Sybil…you are…in danger!”

How could this be? Why would anyone wish her harm? Why would anyone bother, she was not important, and why would this care-worn traveler waste his time on the likes of her?

“I’ll just bet I am. Would you like to come in?”

Sybil’s heart beat rapidly as he crossed the threshold and surveyed the room about him with the wary eye of a hunting cat.

“Ah-ha!” he cried, pouncing upon the frothing cauldron, “and what is this exemplification of your mysterious yet innocent lifestyle which is the mark of your exciting heritage, that, while benign and, in fact, often benevolent towards your fellow countrymen, causes them to fear and abhor you in their secret hearts?”

“Breakfast.”

“What?” he demanded indicating the shriveled tuber, “with a mandrake?”

“That’s a potato, Herbert.”

“Fine, all the same, it is a testament to your inherit exoticness that you’ve opted to make up your…” he gave the frothing mixture a quick once-over, “left-overs in a caldron.”

“I wanted something hot and the microwave isn’t working.”

“I suppose that makes sense, but it really doesn’t have to if you don’t want it to.”

“And by ‘not working’ I mean someone came in yesterday while I was out and smashed it.”

“Ah, an indication of malevolent forces, yet unsuspected, circling round, drawing ever nearer, and yet also, of something else standing between you, doing battle with it in an attempt to protect you for some undisclosed reason. Interesting.”

“Did you kill my microwave?”

“You know, you’re really not taking this the right way.”

“What ever, I have to be going. I told the treasury department that if I found any food rappings on the desks I’d have their eyebrows, don’t want to be giving them more of chance than necessary.” She strode out the door. “We’ll finish this discussion later, and don’t break anything while I’m gone.”

Striding down the town’s chief avenue in the late morning mist, whistling cheerfully, Sybil could not help but feel distracted and oddly melancholy. Thinking about the strange man in her kitchen caused her to feel strangely hot and flustered, so much so, that she opted to keep her shawl on the rest of the day just to prove to herself that she was really quite chilly.

Sybil returned home that evening feeling well pleased with the day’s work, apart from being depressed and distracted and conflicted and fearful that is. She passed a small worried crowd gathered around some van or other and paused a moment in interest. The driver of said van seemed to be unconscious and sprawled on the pavement. It seemed someone had attacked him as he was attempting to enter his vehicle. This struck Sybil as slightly odd, usually when there were strange men lying strewn about the sidewalk, she was the first to know.

It was only when she had almost reached home that Sybil perceived the shadowy figure framed against the setting sun. Because his face was shrouded she could not be sure, but her heart told her that he had been watching her for some time. The desire to run and hide in her closet sprang upon her, yet she was somehow drown to him despite the fact that he frightened her terribly. She didn’t know what she should do.

“Herbert, what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m being significant!” he called back.

“How are you doing that?”

Herbert sighed, hopped off the stepladder upon which he had been standing, and plodded over. “Surely you were wondering about your thrillingly narrow escape and secretly doubting that mere chance save your life.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“I saved you form being hit by a careening van! Don’t tell me you missed it.”

“Very well, I shan’t.”

“That van parked at the curb in front of the drugstore! It was going to run you down!”

“It didn’t come anywhere near me. It wasn’t even turned on.”

“Of course not, because I saved you!”

Sybil’s heart gave an odd twitch and it was completely due to this that she began to glare. “Herbert, you are blithering.”

“Well what did you want me to do, jump in front of you while it was baring down on you and, I don’t know, stop it with my super strength? That wouldn’t work, even if I had super strength! I haven’t enough body mass to stop an on-coming van.”

“And so…”

“I used forethought. I simply clobbed the driver of said van over head before he had a chance to start up the engine, and thus managed to pull off the heroic with minimal bother to everyone involved.”

“Except that you had to accost me in the street to explain it.”

“Most heroines wouldn’t have had a moment’s trouble figuring this out.”

“What do heroines have to do with it? No, don’t answer that, as much as I enjoy explaining to you just how much of an imbecile you are, someone spilled an ashtray and I must come up with an appropriate response before I turn in. You may show up for breakfast if you have a mind.”

With that, Sybil hopped inside and began looking up nicotine-related curses; she refrained from sighing passionately through a massive expenditure of willpower.

The next morning Sybil was bord. Actually she was an emotional basket case waiting for her visitor to arrive, but her turmoil was so intense that it came out the other side of the spectrum as boredom. In any case when the knock finally came, she opened the door a trifle listlessly. All the same, when he entered the room her breath seemed to stick in her throat. He seemed to radiate a palpable aura of strength and yet at the same time there was an unmistakable air of vulnerability about him. “That hat wouldn’t do a bit of good if someone took a broom handle to his skull,” she thought. All she could think to say was, “Why are you wearing a monocle?”

Herbert rolled his eyes, “this isn’t a monocle. Do you see any glass?”

“Fine, why are you wearing an empty frame around one eye?”

“It’s a mask.”

“Beg pardon?”

“A mask.”

Sybil was at a loss, “How?”

Herbert began marmalading some toast, “Well, masks are mysterious and romantic, so I thought I’d wear one, but, let’s face it, there is always the possibility that a mask is concealing some horrible disfigurement and no young lady really wants to deal with that issue. So I thought I’d go for a half mask to show that not only am I mysterious but also roguishly handsome.”

Sybil snorted. Actually she was acquiescing, but it sounded like a snort.

“But then there is the issue of symmetry, and besides, one might still be half-ugly, which also isn’t very useful.”

“So you went for a monocle.”

“If you’re going to insist on calling it that, than yes. Wearing this proves that although I am, in fact, remarkably attractive, I am also unconcerned with such trifles. You wouldn’t be able to get that if the mask actually covered my face.”

Sybil stared at her bread until it began to brown of its own accord, “Perhaps I’ve missed something, but why are you trying to be romantic?”

“Oh, because I am in a romance.”

“What, why?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Hmm, if it’s a long story coming from you, I probably don’t want to know, come to think of it.”

“True, I’m also a vampire.”

Sybil took a moment to remove some toast from her windpipe, “When did you die?”

“I haven’t died.”

“How can you possibly be a vampire without being dead? That’s what being a vampire is all about!”

Herbert looked affronted, “Goodness, no. Vampires are all about lost and lonely souls seducing young women.”

“Um, right. So you’re saying that being dead is optional for the living dead?”

“Well, think about it; falling in love with a corpse? That’s just gross. No, it’s more like a tragic curse that permeates our lives, making us noisesomly miserable, alone, and angsty.”

“But what’s the point of drinking blood if you don’t need it to sustain your unholy existence?”

“I don’t drink blood.”

“What?”

“But I could if I wanted to.”

“Well so could I!”

“But that’s not the point.”

“Is it too much to hope that you’re even some horrible manifestation evil?”

“Well, I certainly have an unquestionably vile nature that I’m always acting in spite of,” he supplied cheerfully.

“But,” Sybil cried, exasperated, “what is the point in being a vampire if everything that composes a vampire is mysteriously absent!?”

Herbert looked thoroughly bemused, “Vampires are edgy.”

She blinked a few times, “And that’s it?”

“I do not understand the question.”

“Were you even bitten by, oh I don’t know, anything?”

Herbert waved his hand airily, “Vampirism is more of a state of mind than an actual physical malady.”

“Fine,” Sybil felt a headache coming on, “So who is this poor sap you are trying to seduce, anyway?”

Herbert glanced over at the mangled microwave, “Oh, would you look at the time, must be vanishing mysteriously.”

And with that he was again gone from her life. Sybil’s first impulse was to throw herself prostrate across her couch and weep for no apparent reason, but her self control reasserted itself and led Sybil back out into the world to glare at toilets until they became uncomfortable enough to clean themselves.

That afternoon Herbert came upon her in someone’s momentarily disused office. She had strewn the contents of the filing cabinet in a rough circle on the floor. Said financial records were now emblazoned with intricate inscriptions in a flowing, slightly luminous script. Sybil was standing in the middle of it all, looking pensive and prodding a turbulent energy vortex with a rubber duck. “Er, Sybil, we need to talk.”

What was this all of a sudden? He had never spoken like this before, the earnest worry, the deadly seriousness. Could it be that his feelings had changed? The suspense was unbearable, she had to know yet feared the answer even as she looked into his eyes and found the courage to speak.

“Later, I’m busy,” she said without looking up.

“It’s important.”

“If its about that whole ‘in danger’ thing, tell them to wait outside, I’ll smither them presently.”

“Actually, I never found anyone who would be willing to try and kill you, so we’re kind of working with hypotheticals at the moment. Anyway, the point is-“

“Do you think I should have used blank paper? All these typed summaries could be interfering with the containment field, I’m not that good at inscription, to tell the truth.”

“You’re not listening, are you?”

“Hmm?”

“Look, there is a reason I’m spending most of my time hanging around you while trying to concoct a romance.”

“I mean, it’s supposed to take all the disused food rappings and switch them with single-minded swarms of mosquitoes, but all that came out was this sundry bath toy, and every last roll of toilet paper in the building has vanished.”

“The point is, it’s you I’m supposed to be seducing.”

“Anyone who thinks that rifts in the space-time continuum are good time-saving devices is clearly off their rocker.”

“You know, most people inscribe on the floor itself. You’re supposed to be madly in love with me at this point.”

“What and get it dirty? That would be a bit counterproductive, don’t you think? The entire point is- wait, what!?”

“So I’m sure you’ll understand when I say that, so far, you have been less than helpful.”

Sybil’s heart leaped into her throat, this was it, the declaration. All her life had seemed to be leading up to this one moment. And yet, now that it was come, it seemed like it would end here too. Was this the beginning of something new, or the death of safe and familiar? Her mind was a swirling vortex of conflicting emotions; she didn’t now what to say first.

“I’m one hundred and twenty-seven!”

“And I’m immortal. Don’t you understand, it’s perfect; not only will you be incorrigibly soppy about me; you will also respect me deeply as a much wiser and higher being. Where as I, despite my feelings, will worry constantly that the gap in our ages denotes that we are unsuitable for each other. It will provide this wonderful tension in our relationship.”

“How can you possibly expect me to be party to this, and with you of all people? I spent twenty years being invisible just so I wouldn’t have to deal with the landlord, for Pete’s sake!”

“See, you have body-image issues. Tell me that’s not the mark of a good romantic heroine.”

“I’d love to. In point of fact, you have no clue what makes a good, romantic anything, except for, perhaps, premise. Your notion of the romantic hero is, if anything, worse than that of the heroine. All you’ve really managed to pull off is a sense of vague creepiness, and that’s with the improvised narration, don’t think I haven’t noticed. I mean, ‘power beyond the mundane realms of time?’ What does that even mean?”

“Fine, so this sort of thing is antithetical to my nature, but at least I’m trying.”

“Really? Well if I am a proto-version of you, than it’s antithetical to my nature as well!”

“I thought you said you were going to forget I said that.”

“We all lie to ourselves from time to time. And the question still stands, why are you picking on me of all people?”

“Actually, you were the only female character available.”

“Well, now that we can see how silly this is, we can drop this whole romance thing and go back to our own affairs, can’t we?”

“Um, no. The universe is a romance now, and it won’t stop until it gets some closure.”

“But the only interaction I’ve ever really had with men was to send them on shopping errands.”

“I brought you some chocolate.”

“Yes a very robust variety I see, I don’t think a bowl of Hershey's bars is quite of the amorous archetype, do you?”

“I don’t understand.”

“My point exactly.”

Herbert sighed, “Look, if you want out all you have to do is get to the finale.”

“And that being…”

“How about you fling yourself into my arms and kiss me passionately.”

“How about I run you through with my broom?”

“I don’t think that will work, we’d have to go back and lay down way more subtext.”

“Oh, come on, can’t we try?”

“No.”

“Than I want a new hero.”

“Ha, have fun trying to find someone else who deals in pure emotion, because you’ll need one if you pull him in this far along in the plot.”

“Else? Herbert, you don’t deal in pure emotion. You deal in paranoia and adrenalin.”

“It doesn’t matter, no one is going to fall for this genre unless they do it on purpose. So just fling yourself already, there’s nothing else you can do.”

“Oh, yes? Just watch me,” she gave the ring of papers on the floor a vicious kick, scattering them to the four corners of the room. There was an odd snapping noise and the wormhole began to distort and expand like a jagged tumor in the fabric of space, which, to be perfectly frank, it sort of was. The sound of rushing wind filled the room and spilled out into the hallway. Sybil plunged both arms up to the elbow into the writhing vortex as bits of carpet began to tear themselves off the floor and vanish into oblivion. “I manipulate people into saving the world, that’s my nature. It’s why this was a stupid idea to begin with, but it’s also why I am going to save this bloody, stupid romance of yours. I am going to find a suitable heroine, there has got to be one in the nether somewhere!”

There was a deafening bang, a blinding flash, and a huge, billowing wave of dust. Sybil stepped out of the swirling cloud holding something in her arms. She set it down on the half destroyed desk with an audible clunk. “This is Florence,” she said.

The bowl of Chocolate had never seen anything so beautiful in its life, the brilliant white, and alluring, pink floral pattern, the way the light glinted off the charming curves. It was the perfect melding of form and function. And since it dealt with the opposite side of the digestive track, together they formed the perfect single unit of being.

Herbert blinked, “A chamber pot?”

Sybil shrugged, “Help me find the vacuum cleaner, will you?”

Abstractions

Let's all pretend that this did not turn out looking like what we all know this looks like. I hate abstract.

Still 2-D, still pen and ink.

Lines, Focal Points, and Disgruntled Corvids

First 2-D project with pen and ink.

Notebook Dragon

Josiah's fault, and I had nothing better to do.

By Request

A Speech of Persuasion


C. S. Lewis once said, “Peanut butter is inherently demonic and every person who eats it should be painted orange, repeatedly”

While prevailing opinion demands that all the statements you present in your orations must carry the integrity of fact for said orations to be of any consequence, I am going to show you that it is, in fact, a better lookout for you and your audience if you fabricate all of your facts.

While plagiarism can get you expelled and you still have to do all the work of finding stuff to plagiarize, Rampant lying is easy to do, only gives you bad grades, and improves the environment.

It is true that without an arduous and consistent eye for accuracy no one in their right mind will believe whatever it is that you are asking them at that moment to believe, but I beg the question: is it not better that way?

Abraham Lincoln, the first of three sentient apricots to achieve the title of U.S. president, wrote in a letter to his family taxidermist, “A suspicious man is a credit to his lawn-mower, but a trustful man eats far too many pancakes.”

Too much trust within the confines of a public speaking class is not healthy, with all the emphasis on studious, insightful research and academic integrity; pure truth inevitably abounds, and with it comes complacency. Your audience becomes used to being fed high-quality information and thus comes to expect it. Because it is vastly easier to sit back and let someone else do all the work of verifying factuality than to worry about it yourself, your audience will simply assume that everything you tell them is completely true. While this situation dose have an up side, particularly if you need money, it is only for the moment.

There is several serious side effects inherit in becoming a wellspring of all knowledge that can be detrimental to your health.

The first is a loss of perspective. Even though you are considered a wellspring of all knowledge by you classmates, (and that only when you are in front of them, speaking) no one else thinks of you in this manner. No less than twenty-six students were expelled from APU in the last ten years as a direct result to their kidnapping Dr. Wallace and expounding at great length on the subject of “Why scantrons are evil and how I actually passed that test.”

The second is the becoming of a “self believer.” This is where you truly believe that you are the wellspring of all knowledge, to the point that you lose interest in actuality composing speeches and collecting data and so forth. You just sort of loaf about truthing at people, which isn’t a verb for the very sensible reason that you are not actually doing anything besides standing around, and maybe drooling a bit. It is not the most practical use of your time and people invariably get sick of wiping up after you and simply toss you in a dumpster somewhere.

The third is the event of wellspring rivalry and the tactical use of the liner flow of truthfulness. After awhile some individuals notice that the term “wellspring of all truth” is singular, and yet they end up sharing it with the entire class. While it is true that each student takes the platform equally, it is a sad truth that some omnisentient beings don’t like to share.

Suppose you were up here and had just finished delivering this wonderful in-depth look at the nature of permafrost. And after the throngs had finished applauding and throwing roses and curing their head aches with you, the next person comes to the podium and says, “Statistics show that the person who comes before me in the speech queue is a werewolf and has to be killed immediately.” While you would probably agree with this person at the time, it would still be markedly unpleasant to be stabbed to death by an angry mob wielding silver earrings. And I’m not just talking to the two werewolves who are in this class, I am talking to everyone. You do not want this to happen to you. Statistics show that one hundred percent of all murder victims die.

None of these things can come to pass if you keep you speeches riddled with flaws and untruths.

But it isn’t just you, the speaker that can suffer from unbridled accuracy, the audience is always damaged. When you the speaker do all the work of checking your facts and assessing your arguments, the audience receives absolutely no incentive to listen with a critical ear. Those who go over the information in the many and varied speeches and actually look in to them for themselves, become fewer and fewer. There is no need for their vigil if you do your own fact checking. They know that there are strict guidelines to determine the quality of the speeches they are ingesting and so they loose interest in finding information for themselves. If you make it so your audience can simply sit back and enjoy your monologs without having to worry about weather or not they are true, you have done your fellow students a disservice. The very nature of the University is that of people coming together to discover for themselves the many and varied facets of the universe, not to be simply spoon-fed on the truths that you already chewed for them. They would grow dependent on the outside world to tell what is true and they would be left to believe that the outside world knew what it was talking about.

Not only that, but society as a whole would suffer. This policy of strict truthfulness will spread, infecting the entire world as small groups of people, trained in universities like this one come together to form larger groups of people all with the same understanding of public speaking.

What happens when the masses are confronted with a speaker who dose not actually check his own facts, well rely, nothing everyone will merely assume that this person like the hundreds of individuals before him, is speaking the truth. Thus the nations of the world will spend a sorry couple decades believing that toads are a form of pillowcase or something.

Or worse yet, suppose someone begins to purposefully mislead people, probably only as a hobby, seeing as there would be little challenge in it. But think what it could do to the world if all the earth was subject to the whims of some unscrupulous person. You could wake up one day to find that science has proven the existence of levitating mushrooms or a sugar substitute that doesn’t actually kill you faster than the original sugar.

For those of you that would not actually mind believing the world is more interesting than we have been lead to believe, all I can say is: I understand and I am glad that in the coming months of chaos and whatnot I am glad you will be happy.

But you need to understand that the world outside these walls is very dangerous to those who have been taught to trust. Most of them will not survive the harsh climate caused by telemarketers, radio adds, and the backs of cereal boxes.

All this can be prevented, though. If you, the speaker, fabricated all your facts, if you lead your rapt audience on a merry goose chase through untruth and mired logic, the world would not only fail to die an extremely odd death, but would become better than ever before.

If you tell outrageous lies to you classmates through the medium of this public speaking class, you will force them to exercise their minds. If they can no longer assume anything about you presentations, they will have to resort to analyzing them with pitiless detail. They will have to scrounge through libraries and suchlike places for the evidence that you should have given them, and come to the conclusions that you shamelessly butchered.

Not to mention, you would not have to look anything up for your self. If you fail to actually take down poignant quotes to stimulate you audience, and you fail to consult authorities on the subjects you are discussing. Your audience will find the quotes themselves whilst they search for what on earth you were not telling them, and they will be stimulated all the more for having discovered them themselves. They will become intimately acquainted with the works of authority on any dozen of subjects and will retain the information all the more readily for have searched it out themselves.

What it all comes down to is that if you lie in your speeches, you will have to do less work and your audience will be blessed for it.

When they go out into the world after their sojourn here, they will be the most suspicious and untrusting people the world has ever seen. But because of this inability to see the truth for themselves that you, the speaker, secreted within their cold cynical bosoms, they will spur the world onto the path of personal discovery. If every individual on earth cannot trust the truth from anyone but them selves, every individual on earth will be forced to each become a great physicist, theologian, philosopher, mathematician, gardener, cook, television repair man, and house painter. Granted the highest level of human achievement, as a whole will descend, without the sharing of knowledge great progress cannot occur to society, but the net knowledge and experience of the human race will skyrocket; and all because you were too lazy to look up your sources.

This is why it is imperative that instead of handing the truth to our audience of a proverbial silver platter, we should do our utmost to hide it, to misinform, to misquote, and misdirect. In this way the human race will become stronger and more self-­¬reliant, and will also do all the work for you. Changing the world has never been easier. Besides, statistics show that eighty-seven percent of people only use real facts in their public speech class die young from clam bites.