Life After Dark

Another weekend of nothing written to post. Lots of drawing going on though. I went to the zoo, but nothing worth posting.

Scot Drawings

One thing I learned from a year of living with illustrators was the importance of having your work on a blog. I’m far from the level of showing off, but since I’m posting my writing practice, I might as well post my drawing practice. Mainly it’s because I finish drawing things so much faster than writing and I don’t want to let the blog go languid.

Scot Drawings

A tremor filled the house as Jeremy slammed the door behind him on his way to work. A spare set of keys jingled on a nail hanging from the wall. He always kept a few rings scattered around the apartment in case of last minute emergencies. Ever since he’d moved into his new place, he’d lost the ability to keep track of any of his possessions.

A tiny lasso whipped up and closed around one of the empty nails, pulling itself tight. After that came several minutes of tiny huffing and puffing. Then a tiny hat rose up the wall, followed by the tiny body attached to it.

Pep, house sprite and keeper of the Hearth, heaved himself onto the the nail for a quick break. He wiped his brow, satisfied in a rope well climbed. He readied up and hopped to the neighboring keychain. Bracing his back against the wall, he managed to shimmy the keys up and over the nail’s head and down to the floor below.

“Incoming!” he called to whomever might be out for a stroll along the wall. He listened for the impact. Nobody screamed, so he was fine.

The trip down went much quicker than the climb up. Rappelling down the rope was exhilarating, but doing it so often was burning holes through his gloves. Only so many pairs could be requisitioned before he’d have to pay a replacement fee. When he reached the ground, Pep gave the rope a flick of his wrist and it fell into a perfect coil at his feet. He reattached it to the hook on his belt.

With no small amount of effort, Pep waddled his way to the kitchen jingling all the way. The ring was almost as big as he was, but somehow it slung comfortably over his shoulders.

A couple heads covered in moppy red hair popped over the island counter top and followed his journey to the back wall. The boy called out to him, “Ahoy, Pep! What’re you doing down there?”

Pep was in no mood for the twins’ shenanigans and answered them curtly. “What does it look like?”

Kristofer, the girl, squeaked excitedly, “Mischief? We can make mischief now? Fredrick! Did you hear? Mischief!” She grabbed a hold of her brother and shook vigorously. Read more…

Scot Short Stories

The snow had already begun its descent by the time we reached the Oregon border. Giant flakes careened into the windshield of my ‘85 Ford Taurus. They did little to no visible damage. I couldn’t believe it was already snowing so hard in November. The Northwest sucks.

Mitch let out a sigh from the passenger seat. Fifth one since our last potty break. I’d kept count. I gave him my best reassuring smile. “Doing OK? You look bored.”

He glanced over, but I could tell he was looking right through me. “Nah, I’m fine.”

“You sure? You can drive if you want. I wouldn’t mind the break.”

He shook his head, “Better if I didn’t. Lately it’s been hard to… you know, keep it together.” He clenched his hand, inspecting the grip. “I could lose control and you’d end up frozen to death in some ditch. Mom would be pissed.”

He smiled weakly, obviously concerned about seeing the family for the first time since the accident. He asked me to keep it a secret, so I wasn’t sure if anybody else knew. I had no idea what to say to him. Brotherly acts of concern and affection are weird enough when you’re not behind the wheel. What was I supposed to do? Call him slugger and punch him in the arm? It would just pass right through him and I’d look like an idiot.

I flipped the windshield wipers up to the next setting. “If we do this right, we’ll get in before dinner, stuff ourselves stupid, drink a couple bottles of wine, and pass out on the floor. Then we can sneak out in the morning while everybody else is out Black Friday shopping. No mess, no explanations. Easy as apple pie.”

Mitch raised an eyebrow, “You ever bake an apple pie?

“No, why? Are they hard?” Read more…

Scot Short Stories

“I wish you would shave that hideous thing. It’s taking over your face. I can’t stand it!”

Karen had been nothing but vocal about Hank’s new mustache and the conflict was finally coming to its climax. He didn’t want to fight about this anymore. It was his face, why couldn’t he decorate it as he pleased? The whole thing was ridiculous. A nice handlebar mustache is more than attractive. It’s classy, borderline regal. How could she not understand?

“Why can’t you understand?” He pleaded, “This is who I am now.”

“A coal miner? No. I didn’t marry Dapper Dan, and I have no intention of letting that horrible mess near my face. Cut it off or I cut you off.”

An ultimatum. He hadn’t prepared for this. The assumption was several more weeks of bickering followed by begrudging acceptance. That plan was right out the window. The choice was between his mustache and his wife.

“I’ll have to think about this.” With that he sulked out of the room, leaving his wife alone with her gaping mouth.

Later that night, at the bar, Hank’s friend Tim was sympathetic to his cause. “Hey man, that’s rough. You look good in that thing, like… real good,” he said mainly to his beer. “If you were single like me, it would net you all kinds of trim. Ladies love a well groomed face. Shows principle.”

Hank shrugged as he pinched one of the curls as he’d grown accustomed to when he was thinking. The mustache wasn’t something he had planned. It had grown in over a single night. When Hank discovered it in the morning, he was resistant to the idea. But after some grooming and waxing and combing and just a little bit off Allspice, he had before him a work of art. It curled just right at the very ends. When pulled it sprang right back into shape. If God had a mustache, surely this is what it must have been like. He decided to keep it. Read more…

Scot Short Stories