MONSTER < MONSTER < MONSTER

[10.08.2023]

“Put it between your teeth.”
“. . . What?” 
“I said hold it between your teeth. Like this,” (he had to elaborate his weird insanity).
Ursur frowned, but. He did, between his teeth. Like that.
Crotalus smiled just a little bit. He took his match back from his mouth and he struck it, put it back like a cigarette, like he had done it many times before. Still smiling, just a little bit. Gentle flame burning as he was closing the distance between them. He leaned in, and he touched his match against Ursur’s–he almost flinched back, but he just grimaced and thought. And the spark was lit, transferrable. He hesitated, but that did not matter.
Now, “Do it, spit it out,” Crotalus removed his match and was gesturing again, to the entirety of everything spilled out in front of them.
Ursur pulled the match from his teeth, sheltered the small flame on instinct, whatever terrified it might fade out, wisp away, turn to ashes in his fingers. One shot to blaze out and fade forever.
“Do it. Pretty please?” Crotalus was staring far too intently.
But.
“I said do it.”
Ursur shut his eyes, just for a few seconds, pressing down, maybe it would disappear. He opened them, bat innocent lashes, and he leaned over and dropped the match–flinched. And the flame caught. And it burned.
“Thank you, my dear,” Crotalus was smiling, and he blew out his match and dropped it in the fire too.

Crotalus was ecstatic. Ursur was confused. Whatever. What then.

So, he had arranged the funeral pyre on the balcony, and he held the match out. It would be done, soon. Pages and photographs, whatever it was, it was adrift at sea. Whatever it was, too far away now. Ursur closed his eyes.
“Why these?” Crotalus was there, suddenly, he had not heard the door open, he had not heard the click of his heels, nothing. And he stepped in, shoving him back from the middle of that balcony, past the chair, off back toward the building, and knelt down. Began to pick through the pile of photographs, through the still air and sun setting behind him, all ones that he had taken. All of them, he had taken. And Ursur stared at his hands, fists, the blood pouring through them in weird fake channels, but not enough to feel it. They might have been numb, but his face was flushed. The dust barely stirred.
“t-they’re awful,” reason enough. Reason, and enough.
“No they’re not, silly,” Crotalus didn’t turn to face him, still picking through them with that inflection, but he did shrug. “If you’d like to, then. Get rid of them,” he swept his arm again, he held out his hand, he invited him in.
Ursur stared at that pile he had scrapped together, sort of cold-faced, burning already, holding that match far too tight. Why was he there, he had not heard the door.
Crotalus just standing, waiting. Looking at him the way it was obvious.
“Well, in that case . . . here, let me do it, just for you. . . . Return the favor, or something like that.”
Ursur said nothing, then, holding the match almost enough to snap, desperately. Staring out in front of him, right there in front of him, he could strike it. He could–Crotalus grabbed it out of his fingers, he pushed him back, he was going to do it, wasn’t he, sound of match against box, he w–

“WAIT!”

[10.09.2023]

(A MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN)

Oh boy.

I’ve been particularly excited about this one from the start. Nothing better than Cro with a match, you might think. But no, there is something better than Cro with a match: Both Cro and Ursur with matches, of course.

I have been trying to harness a certain carefree chaos when it comes to all steps of my art process, maybe trying to learn something from my writing style. It seems to go well until I hit this specific threshold at which my computer begins to rebel, lag, and whine excessively. And so, it has been a bit difficult to indulge in the experimental. I might have to scale down a bit to try some wacky new things with larger brush sizes and more layers. But I might simply put up with my laptop nearly bursting into flames, unable to keep up with my madness with annoying amounts of lag. Anything for my boys.

Either way, I do love how this came out, both in sketch and vignette.

(Just between you and me,)
Koel out.