Artwork of the few weeks... and some writing

Artwork...

Alagos, my dragon. His name means 'Storm of wind' in Sindarin Elvish, and Lhug en Tinnu means dragon of night.

One of my Church ideas... the ones that often turn out brilliantly. Both above and below, one's using song lyrics and the other is just a picture with a li'l bit of text.

Shh... this is Emily's art exchange... I know, most of the doggies look lopsided, but whatever, eh.

And then here's my practice puppy for the drawing above... I like 'im a lot. And at least one person can tell he's a puppy... Nathan looked at it and said "Aw, it's a pup-dog!"

And then a kind of morbid/dark little thing I wrote... so far everyone's liked it, though. 'Tis called 'Bloody War.'

And so came war. Bloody, bloody war. All around him he saw comrades, friends, and enemies fall down, screaming in the agony of death. Bullets whizzed by his head, and the rain in the gutters was stained red with blood as he ran sloshed through the streets. This is what they had meant. This is what they had warned him about. This is what his parents had told him to watch out for. This was war, bloody war. It was terrifying, unlike anything else he had ever experienced. Fearing that any minute a bullet would hit you, sick to your stomach when you shot someone and watched them crumple to the ground, every time thinking it could be you who was next. Knowing it could be you who would feel the searing pain shooting through your body next. Around you the injured hobbling to safety through clouds of smoke and streets filled with dead, rotting bodies that no one bothered to clear away. This was so different from training. He was there, in the midst of war. In the middle of the fighting. Surrounded by people who knew the next instant they could die, pierced by a bullet from an enemy’s gun. His boots filled with bloody water. He knew the rest of him was stained with blood and he was covered from head to toe in grime.

So this is what war is. He shuddered .This is pain. This is life. This is reality. This is war. Bloody war.

And then he turned and ran. He ran into the ruins of a house. He found a corner, sat down, and cried. His tears mingled with the pouring rain, washing away some of the blood and grime. This isn’t what I thought war was. This isn’t what I wanted. This isn’t what I expected when I came. He licked his parched lips, and reached for his canteen. It was almost empty, and after he drank, he held it out to catch the rain. As he did, he glanced heavenward, and let the rain was his face. Putting the cap back on his canteen and placing it away, he glanced down at his hands. They, too, were stained with blood. This isn’t right. I didn’t come here to cower in a corner. I came here to fight, and to fight for freedom. Staggering to his feet, he stepped out of the house. And he was back. Back to the place he dreaded, back to the place he never wanted to return to.

Back to bloody war.

Over'n'out
Kilo-Yankee