Liquid Ink

liquid ink

After her father died things had gotten worse. Her mother never let her out. Ever. She didn’t go to school. She didn’t have friends. Most of the time she was locked up in her room, like now. Her mother would unlock the door when she needed her.

Her only pleasure was to draw. To paint. The Ink. She wet the paper, as she always did. The contours of a tower took form in the glistening water. She dipped the brush in the ink bottle, took it down on the paper, moving it under the roof and down one wall where the darker areas would be. Then she let the ink flow.

She loved how it moved. It was like it had a life on it’s own, like if she was the spectator. It was magic. The tower came to life.

A girl appeared in the window. She hadn’t even planned for that. A face took form. It was her face. It was her.

Dark shadows floated around her. On the desk. In the air. It stained the walls. The ceiling.

She was sitting by a desk in a room of stone walls. There was nothing else in the room but an old chest. She was gone.

She heard someone crying. A weep of deep, bottomless sorrow, a cry of loss of loved ones and despair. The door was open.

There was a steep, winding stone staircase going down.

It was dark. She walked slowly, following the sound. She saw light coming out from under a door further down. She heard voices. Noises. Someone shouting. She knew that voice. Her mother. She couldn’t tell the words, but knew to whom ever she was shouting at, the words would be hurtful. She passed the door, down the dark staircase.

She kept following the stairs. Another door. This one was open. She saw her father, dead on the bed. Her mother standing besides him with a knife in her hand. Her back towards her. She turned. Looked right at her. She closed the door and ran.

On the bottom of the stairs there was darkness. She heard the crying clearly now. It was her father. She moved slowly, carefully. So much pain. So much sorrow.

Father? She said. Is that you?

Her eyes were adapting. Her father was sitting on the floor. Someone was lying beside him.

Why didn’t you leave, he said. Sadness. Despair.

A light came on. A small flame in an alcohol lamp. She saw herself lying there. She held a rose in her hands. Her throat was cut.

You have to go. Now! His back still towards her.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t move.

He turned. His face was twisted. Tortured.

Run!!! He screamed. She turned. Her mother was there. Floating, like liquid. Changing form. Dark, grey and black forms of evil. Laughing. The forms filled the room.

She ran. She ran down a long hall. The walls were changing. Twisting. She could hear her mother’s evil laughter. Behind her, in front of her. Everywhere. A light. She ran towards it. Another door. It was closing. She threw herself at it.

She fell into the daylight. Turned around, fast, as to defend herself. She saw their house. She was back in the real world, in their yard. The shadows were gone.

Jane? Her mother’s voice from inside the house, upstairs.. She was angry. Jane, where are? I told you to stay in your room! How did you get out, anyway?

She got up and ran without looking back. She never returned.

http://www.kongregate.com/games/TheGameKitchen/the-last-door-chapter-1-the-letter

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ink

Domestic Violence

A Norwegian Guy Living in Spain Writing in English

A Norwegian Guy Living in Spain Writing in English

My first years in Spain were a blast. I hitchhiked down in a few days with my friend Odd and we split up when we came to Barcelona. It wasn’t the first time I went traveling, but it was the first time I wasn’t planning on going home. Menorca became the place where the real adventure began. The events on Menorca has been crucial for my life since then, especially people I met there and people I’ve gotten to know because of them.

From there it was a lot of traveling, a lot of new people and experiences and a lot of plain old getting wasted. I visited most of Spain, stopped by Portugal and traveled around France several times on my way up and down from Norway. Granada became my base, and still is. I was always writing and drawing, but not like now, it wasn’t really in the center of attention. The adventure was more important.

When I first arrived I didn’t speak Spanish, but slowly you learn. In Spain Spanish is what takes you around, and some of my friends from the very beginning spoke no English at all. I had a good base for learning. People in other countries told me I had a Spanish accent on my English, I guess from adapting English for Spanish people to understand me better. Now I have the Spanish language under control, but there’s still lot to learn.

I think my Spanish helps my English a bit. Especially it’s given me more vocabulary, and a deeper understanding. English is quite a hybrid language, with a lot of words and influence both from Latin and Germanic, among other languages like Celtic and Greek. It’s one of the things I like the most about it. They say the vikings and the British understood each other more or less. I guess Scotland was closer than England, and today as well I think I can hear a resemblance to Norwegian accent in Scottish. Maybe it’s just me, but hey, it’s not so far away after all.

In Norway we learn a lot of English in school, and we don’t translate movies, so most Norwegians have some level of English. I’ve learned a lot from traveling and reading books as well. I manage English more or less, but I know I make a lot of mistakes. Please feel free to correct any errors I make in my posts and stories in my comment fields, it will be appreciated.

So I’m still in Spain, though there’s a lot less action in my life these days. It’s probably a good thing if I want to live for a while. Now most of the adventures goes from my head to the screen and from the screen to my head. Not that I’m not doing other things, but creating and absorbing other peoples creations is what i do the most. Which is a lot fun as well.

http://englishhistory.weebly.com/english-roots.html

https://fauxcroft.com/2017/04/17/random-variables-called-life/

Hitchhiking (Fear of the unknown)

Dreams and Reality

dreams-and-reality

I’ve always been writing and drawing and I’ve always been sceptical about editorial processes. Blogging is good that way. You can publish what ever you want and no one is going to tell you you can’t. A huge step for human kind.

I started this blog because I needed a change. My eternal graphic novel project did not seem to have an end, and until it’s finished very few people will read it. I was trying to make a living from artistic handicrafts. I’ll probably try again, but it’s complicated. Economically it worked out as long as I had my cave, but a major tragedy forced me to leave and threw me back into society. Having money at the moment made finding a rental flat the easy solution.

So here I am, writing and illustrating all the time. Cash is running out again, so I’ll have to figure things out. My dream has always been to make a living out of creating. Making a living working for some guy bossing me around so he or someone else can make a lot of money has not.

A middle road between dreams and reality might be a solution for now. Dreams will win eventually.

https://ewgreen72.wordpress.com/2017/01/23/my-book-cafe-dream/

https://fauxcroft.com/2017/02/15/freedom-2/

Fear of Strangers