A rather big blog, with pictures, and story...

In order to update a whole load of stuff I've been doing (amidst uni and work) I have decided to do a really big blog, so apologies for anyone for whom it took ages to load.

Firstly - Pictures. Here is one of a tree that I did one day to see if it would turn out crap. I think it's ok...



This next one is the product of boring lectures. Doug is a cantankerous teddybear who is a 3-pack-a-day smoker, and caffeine addict. Frank is a small devil (I tend to think that devils are small mischief-makers, while demons are bigger and more malicious.




Secondly - Story: This is the intro (has seen a bit of revision) to the story that will be I think the third one for The Witching Hour. Its about an orphanage, and one child in particular who lives there. It revolves around the same idea as the much earlier version ('snapshot') of the same tale. Remember that the time peroid is somewhere in the 1800s, hence the kicking out of kids. I have to alter part of it to have mention of sweatshop labour. I will be changing parts of it, such as the education. I am thinking that they are funded by some benefactor who wants to see the children get a basic education, or something to that effect... Anyway, here it is currently, as the intro story:

St. Jacinta's Orphanage perches menacingly at the top of a tall hill, overlooking the town that lies to the East, a little way off. An old converted convent, St. Jacinta's is all brown archaic brick and grey slate; it has been on the hill before the first foundations were laid in the little town below. It was run by two old sisters, black-clad and spiderlike and they lorded over the children with an iron fist. Aiding them in their tyranny was an equally-old groundskeeper (who was cantankerous at the best of times, and worse when his arthritis took hold), and a rough stick they affectionately called "the Tickler". Surrounding the actual building, which itself is very large and contains multiple wings, are rather extensive grounds that encompass a small part of the forest to the west, and a graveyard just to the south. The grounds were kept impeccably tidy and the children were never, under any circumstances, to leave the grounds.

Toby had lived at the orphanage all his life. He had been deposited with minimal ceremony at the gates of the orphahge some 11 years ago, in a size 8 ladies shoe box, wrapped in the remnants of a tattered raincoat. Other children came periodically, usually due to the death of their parents and the absence of any living (or willing) relatives. In this respect, Toby thought that he had some luck; he had never known his parents, and told himself frequently, only half-believing, that you couldn't miss something you never had. Despite this, he often found himself wondering at night, while slivers of moonlight crept across the sleeping forms of the other children, about what his parents were like and whether or not they were still alive.

It was generally unpleasant at the orphanage, although Toby had little enough to complain about, because he had never known any other life. The rudiments of education were doled out by the sisters, who seemed to loathe children almost as much as the rest of the world, and they gave them rigorous amounts of work to do, which was never checked. Toby taught himself to read in the great library during free time on weekends, or after lessons. There wasn't a lot to do, really. Television was something he had heard of from some of the other students, and he had seen it, once, on an errand to the groundskeepers shed, a faint glimmer of wonder through the crack in the door. The children were forbidden to play in the graveyard and the forest, and the run-down sections of the old wings were out of bounds; with no toys and few real friends, Toby consoled himself in books. In books he found out about love and adventure and monsters and heroes. He wanted it all, anything that was different to the humdrum of the orphanage.

Now, it was customary that on the twelfth birthday of each child, if they had not been adopted, they would be sent out onto the streets to fend for themselves. This became over time a chief concern for Toby, who had (to the best of his reckoning) about five months or so before he was going to be out on his ear. While the wide world was something he was fascinated and tantalised by, he also knew that it wasn't always a nice place, especially to unaccompanied youngsters.


So there you have it. A fair bit of random stuff there, to show that I have in fact been doing something, rather than just being a lazypoo (which I have also been doing...).

Adieu, Blake.