I’m trying something a little different today. Some of you may recall the first version of this from a few months back on the blog, it existed only as a pencil drawing in my sketchbook. But today I bring it to you in full color with sound and motion. Or at least the illusion of motion. I hope you enjoy!
Butch coughed up the last of his tobacco smoke as the screams escaped the mouth of the mine.
“You hear that?” he looked at Red. The bug-eyed man gripped his rusty pickaxe tight across his chest.
A low vibration started in their boots; an explosion deep in the tunnel. Hot air and dust erupted, knocking them to the ground. Through the cloud, Young-Johnny came running, face bloodied, and a fine rope trailing behind.
As he reached daylight, the rope glinted then snapped taut, pulling him backward off his feet. Arms flailing, trying to grab ahold of anything, Johnny shrieked, “Spiders!”
Forgive me if you’ve seen it already, but I nearly forgot to mention this here on my own blog. I have a new book available! Below is the description from Amazon:
” It Came from the Basement is an illustrated, inky homage to monsters and monster movies accompanied by a collection of thirty-one ridiculous rhymes to make you laugh uncomfortably in the night.
Darkly humorous, M. R. Kessell’s It Came from the Basement lies somewhere between Edward Gorey’s The Gashleycrumb Tinies and Tim Burton’s The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy.
Intended for the monster kid in all of us.”
Available in print and Kindle format on Amazon.com
You may have seen here on my blog that I published a new creepy illustration and rhyme each day of October 2017 in celebration of my love of Halloween. I’ve spent the past few months cleaning up and compiling all of it into this weird little book.
I am self-published and totally independent. Please check it out or pass it along if you or someone you know is a Monster Kid too!
His empty hands dripped with sweat as he approached the altar on his knees. The creature with a million dead eyes was waiting, its many orifices watering, towering over the small human.
“I know that you crave constant stimulation,” he said, “and you demand new content continuously,” he put his hands up, “but as an artist, I just can’t do it. I have nothing of value to offer today.”
The beast reared back and howled, pulling taut the thousands of cables running from its body. It thrashed. It shrieked. Drops of saliva rained down. The artist shielded his head and vital organs, anticipating a swift yet painful execution.
But the beast turned away, laughing and gurgling, distracted by another’s offering; something loud, flashy, and viral. That would buy the artist some more time.
He crawled into a dark corner of the temple, where, being enveloped by the whirring of giant cooling fans, he could have a moment to just be human and think.