Sleepy Blue Stars and Fiddler

Recently, I was asked to write a winter’s tale for the artist group of which I’m proud to be a member: Halloween Artist Bazaar. I decided to write a twist(ed) on ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas and titled my piece “‘Twas the Eve Before Fiddler-The-Cat.”

Fiddler is Halloween Artist Bazaar’s mascot and his image is our leader, Twilight Faerie’s creation. The perfect mascot for our group, Fiddler is dark and mysterious, playful, and oh-let’s-just-say-it: adorable. Fiddler came to life through Twilight’s fair hand, and as soon as she told me his name it seems that he has had much to impart. This tale may only be the beginning…

I enjoyed writing this short story so much that it inspired me to create the following piece “Three Sleepy Blue Stars.”

“Blue stars,” you ask?

Yep. Blue.

Three Sleepy Blue StarsIK

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Best of luck to you and whatever holidays you celebrate may you thoroughly enjoy yourself!

Lady Bosh Nonscents

Hanging on the walls of the narrow passageway hung row after row of paintings: portraits of saps, fools, and those who in-general carried large rocks in their tiny heads.

 

Continuing along the corridor the King and the Page were drawn to a very curious painting of nothing. Beneath the painting of nothing hung a small brass plaque inscribed with the name Lady Bosh Nonscents. The Castle’s Registry and written histories are quite muddled about her. Some records clearly indicate that no such person ever existed. Other records note that she did exist, but she was quite transparent. So transparent that people bumped into her or sat down on her all of the time. Apparently she had weathered many a bruise, but no matter how loudly she might complain no one could see her injuries, because they simply could not see her.

Lady Bosh appointed herself The Land of Regret’s Royal Traffic Director, presumably in an effort to be noticed: an effort that wasn’t worth the bother. On merely the second minute of the third hour of Lady Bosh’s traffic directing, she was struck by a rambling, sloth-driven, potato wagon. Thumped rather hard, both she and the potatoes flew many feet up in the air. This created quite a stir and potatoes scattered everywhere after having bounced off on many people’s heads. Of course, the entire incident is conjecture, because no one actually saw Lady Bosh fly anywhere; however, in addition to the shrill scream heard, witnesses did spot the stop sign that she had carried shoot up into the sky.

Lady Bosh Nonscents was never found, but happily all of the injured potatoes were recovered and made into an excellent side dish.

~An Excerpt from A Tarryfail, by Intricate Knot

A Painting of Nothing. Actually quite rare, even by today’s standards.

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Crooked Elf

 There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile.

He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile.

He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,

And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

~ English Nursery Rhyme, There was a Crooked Man 

There once was a Crooked Elf who went by the name Kwissp E. Ceen. Not crooked in mind or deed, but in the spirit of the Bent, Slightly Twisted and Extremely Strange. He enjoyed many activities: walking crooked miles; finding crooked pennies to spend on smooshed glazed doughnuts or other irregular sweets; cataloging, archiving, and photographing all things crooked, bizarre and outlandish; getting lost in gardens and hothouses; and most especially playing hide-and-go-seek with his honorable friend, the most crooked and fluffy cat, Mimsy Poole.

Being a great appreciator of gardens, of course Kwissp tended to get lost in them. While rambling down some road or another he’d come across someone’s garden or hothouse and would be so enchanted by the sights and scents that he’d forget everything else. It always fell to Mimsy to find and bring him back home in order that he could get her supper and on occasion, a bit of catnap. This arrangement suited both of them. On one such day of rambles, Kwissp happened upon the garden belonging to Quentin the Vampire Botanist. And of course, he had never seen the like!

Magnificent flowers burst out of the ground in such a variety and a multitude of colors that Kwissp eyes crossed with delight. And what interesting flowers these were! Many of them had tiny vampire teeth or tiny vampire claws and some had both. How completely unexpected! How wonderfully, amazingly peculiar! And oh! He spotted a large conservatory. Imagine what might be growing in there! Like cream to pudding, he found himself deliciously drawn to the structure. Though he knew it was horribly impolite, he couldn’t help pressing his face to the glass and peering inside. Luckily Mimsy came to his rescue, for although she did share Kwissp’s admiration for gardens (what better place to take a well-deserved nap than under a lavender bush?), she couldn’t bear to see such an egregious breach of courtesy. Doing her cat best (which is infinitely better than a human’s), she urged him to knock on the owner’s door and gain permission to photograph, document, and classify each wondrous flora.

This could have turned out badly and may have even been the end of Kwissp. Quentin isn’t a social vampire, by any means. At best, he’s a recluse. At worse? Well, at worst let’s just say one should count themselves lucky indeed should they manage to even crawl away (with most body parts intact) from an encounter with Quentin. The only company he enjoys is that of his plants. Anyone or anything else is merely a nuisance…or lunch. Most fortunate for our crooked elf friend, it turned out that Quentin took a liking to him. This might be explained by their mutual affection and respect for plants. However, it didn’t hurt that the elf’s complexion was green as the leaves on the medicinal herb Groomwell. This could also mean that the Vampire Botanist may have devious (are there any other kind?) plans for Kwissp’s future.

I met Kwissp while sitting on a bench daydreaming in Quentin’s garden (I too, am allowed entry. Long story). He startled (nearly) the life out of me popping his little green face out of the orange, pink and golden tangle of some licorice vines (a new experiment of Quentin’s and exceptionally pretty). After I managed to get my heart out of my throat and back into my chest where it belongs, I asked if he minded that I sketch him. “Not a problem,” he says, “just so long as I can continue documenting these plants.” Since this bothered me not in the least, I sketched away. I think I captured his creepily soulful eyes quite well.