Smile brazen monster

I discovered this image by stumbling over a dead rat. I was in my attic searching through old boxes of toys and books. Apparently either the cats had killed it, or it had just crawled into my domain to die a dignified death amongst stacks of great works of western literature and MUSCLES (a delightful little collection of Japanese toys from the 80s, if you didn’t know). Regardless of how it got there, in the dim lighting I didn’t see it and suddenly found myself cheek down on the floor. This was a fortuitous occurrence as I was peering through an accidental tunnel between boxes at a discarded sheet of paper. I reached in and it was embellished with the mysterious image you are now seeing before you. The words “GURGLE ANTIQUITY ANASTASIA” were inscribed on the back.

I know that I must have drawn this, as it is executed in my own hand, but I cannot remember doing it. If anyone has any interpretations please let them be known.

The Rat was given an honorable burial.

The quest continues

The Egyptians were the first to map the skies through time. It was they with the depth of vision and the clarity of perception to make universe shifting predictions millennia into the future. But they could show me nothing. My quest was one of abysmal proportions. A titan-quaking earth-shattering beast-god would be my guide. Power courses through its veins. Its veins snake through its insides like the hair of Medusa hissing and spitting and steaming bloody power. Let us dance.

The Return

After hurricane Katrina Gracey Kallifracks returned to his ancestral homeland in the Boggy Swamp of Swampy Bogginess, on the outskirts of Thursday City in the Valley of Keene—hopes, ambitions, and bank account annihilated by nature and the powers that be. Gracey can shred his git-fiddle like a rabid feral cat on the arm of a cheap second-hand couch tossed into the dumpster to be reclaimed by mother landfill. Though the critics loved him—they all said he was either way too far ahead of the times or way too far behind—he never caught on with the people of New Orleans and was already on his last dime before Katrina’s landfall. Now that he’s back in the Valley of Keene he is continuing with his family’s rice farm, his main source of subsistence, and he continues to hone his craft on his back porch and in any local dive that will have him. You can catch him for free most nights out in the boggy swamps or on the cheap at bars like Gunther’s, 3 Sisters Pub, or the Devil’s Outhouse.

Imagine the sound of a chorus of bullfrogs, tree frogs, crickets, owls, and cougars all wailing in harmonious lament to the tune of a shared nightmare of mother earth dying then twist that around a crying angel and you might come close to approximating Gracey’s sound. And don’t even get us started on the haunting performances he enacts (words can’t do it justice, but be warned you will not soon forget it). He is a one man force of nature. We here at Thursday City News just hope that one day he finds an audience outside the swamp and the critics.