I know I haven’t been utilizing this blog to it’s fullest capacity, however, I hardly believe that you all want to read posts were I complain about my life. Also, I’ve been uploading a lot to DA so there hardly seems to be a point of posting here at all. I thought that I would do this blog as a way to do tutorials, but I hardly have time to breathe, let alone put together so much information every week. It seems a waste not to use webspace though.

I actually have to do work for school (time is running out as we speak (well as you read and I type.)) and I don’t have time to do a decent entry. Here, however, is my drawing of Coraline.

And since I have so much writing on my computer (I get bored so often) I’ll give you a writing sample from Skeleton Key:

I lean close to the clay floor–a slate of ice against my skin. I can see through the crack between the door and the floor, which is all that matters. With my ear against the clay, I can hear the heartbeat of the house, and with my nose so close to the floor, my breath blows dust into the air. The light bleeding from the crack is steady. I don’t even hear bare feet merging with my shallow breaths.

Time to leave.

In the dark, you can only go by sound. There’s touch and taste and smell, but the smell of beef and okra stew has seeped into every inch of the house. When the house breathes, you know it has eaten this all it’s life. Touch and taste are useless. By the time you are close enough to use either, it is far too late.

I run my hands over the keyhole, and pick the lock. I stick the rod in, letting it catch, and then slide the second rod in to turn. There is no hesitation. This lock knows me. It knows I have broken it time and time before, and it gives, opening as easily as if I had used a key.

Click.

The door doesn’t squeak open. It slides, smooth as butter.

My  feet touch the floor with knowledge. They know the subtle slopes, the hills and valleys. They know where I’m going. They know how to get there.

Familiar sounds of metal on metal, the glow of hot iron, and the sudden rush of warm air settle my heart. The master is at work. His heart, his soul, and his mind are with the rhythm of his hands beating metal. There are no apprentices on his mind. No boys out of bed in the night.

I let my feet guide me down the steps, and I almost pause to watch the old man, but I have my own work. The doors, the locks, the keys are calling me, begging for my presence, and I slip out of the light and fall into the shadows.

The world is quiet here, cold and still. Time doesn’t stir, and many nights, I’ve wandered through the worlds beneath the earth, losing hours and days, and when I surface again, the night is still as inky black, my master is still beating metal steady as a heart, and the house still smells of okra.

At least  you  have something to work with now. I hope to update more tomorrow. But, alas, who knows if I shall.