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About Deviant JD McDonnellMale/United States Recent Activity
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Practice Art: Dragon's Lair by BarbecuedIguana Practice Art: Dragon's Lair :iconbarbecuediguana:BarbecuedIguana 2 4 Practice Art: Secret of Bone Hill by BarbecuedIguana Practice Art: Secret of Bone Hill :iconbarbecuediguana:BarbecuedIguana 1 2
From a distance it seemed like a nice place. A small burg nestled deep in the Catskills, trees ablaze with autumn fire, crystal blue skies hanging high above them. From the highway Jason and Eric spied the tall white steeple of a Presbyterian Church, looking like some cottage industry attempt at a rocket launch quietly awaiting lift-off.  
Up close?
Boarded up businesses. Abandoned cars. Gas stations touting prices many years out of date. Jason pulls his Ford Fiesta up to the main stoplight and sits there, checking his twitter feed, oblivious to an absence of power running to the light itself. Eric only notices this inbetween Instagram uploads. He snaps a picture of the dead light and then another of black cables dangling from a telephone pole, curled up like dead snakes in the street.
“Jeeze, what a dump,” exclaims Jason, tapping on the accelerator and gingerly moving forward through the empty intersection. He checks the mirrors for cops. There is no telling just what
:iconbarbecuediguana:BarbecuedIguana 4 10
Practice Art: Expedition to the Barrier Peaks by BarbecuedIguana Practice Art: Expedition to the Barrier Peaks :iconbarbecuediguana:BarbecuedIguana 3 4 The Golden Orb by BarbecuedIguana The Golden Orb :iconbarbecuediguana:BarbecuedIguana 3 8
Harbingers of Light
Worse than the unknown is the unknowing.
Lovecraft was not met in the gold gilt foyer of the Waldorph Hotel so much as intercepted, caught by a middle manager who knew from the man's scuffed brown oxfords and heavy tweed overcoat that he simply did not belong. How such a commoner ever managed to slip past the doorman would be a definite point of consternation once the day was through.
"I was invited to dine," said Howard, awkwardly holding up an invitation.
The manager snorted back of chuckle of disbelief as he flipped the card over for closer inspection. It was printed on formal stock, ivory white, embossed and signed by one of their most dignified patrons.
"Come with me Monsieur," said the manager and began to walk away.
Not sure if he was going to be shown to the restuarant or shoved out into a back alley, Lovecraft sheepishly followed along, meandering through countless halls, up one stairwell and down an elevator. Finally they arrived at a pair of tall double doors which lo
:iconbarbecuediguana:BarbecuedIguana 2 4
Don't look at me,” said Jill, “I don't know what to do with it!” The lobster lay on its back, head and tail rattling across the metal rim of the saucepan. My wife had done everything short of whacking him with a hammer to get him into the boiling water. For the lobster this was water ballet in a kiddie pool, and at one and a half pounds he - or “Po” as my daughter had dubbed him - was also the shrimpiest of the four.
“Maybe we should just buy a Dutch oven,” she shrugged.
A calculator lit up in my mind. “No, There's got to be some way to cook them without spending any more money.” I had just returned from a business trip to Maine where I bought these lobsters to make a good impression on my clients. They, being in the tourist trap business, felt obliged to take me to the most expensive market in Bangor. Whereas I, being in the travel agency business, felt obliged to effortlessly hand over large amounts of cash with unshaking hands, j
:iconbarbecuediguana:BarbecuedIguana 3 3
Mature content
Six Million Wasted :iconbarbecuediguana:BarbecuedIguana 5 11
Mature content
Taco Hell :iconbarbecuediguana:BarbecuedIguana 96 53
Supernova by BarbecuedIguana Supernova :iconbarbecuediguana:BarbecuedIguana 1 6
Over the course of time you have carefully adjusted the shape of the checker piece by scraping it on the concrete floor methodically, quietly, so as to not garner attention.
The evening meal arrives in your cell, with a message written on the salt packet: KING ME.
A jolt of adrenaline (KING ME) but you must calm your breathing and eat your dinner as normal. KING ME. You empty the salt packet and chew the paper.
KING ME. It's past midnight (you assume; no clocks) when you jam the slightly modified checker disc into the lens of the video camera. It fits as if made for it.
The wait is agony, but eventually your handler comes to investigate the dead video feed. Between the time he peeps in through the slot to the time his key scrapes in the lock you bolt from your fake-sleeping position and poke the checker piece with a finger. It pops out of the camera into your hand. KING ME.
When the door swings open you are ready for him. Routine has caused everyone to become slack; he does not expect
:iconbarbecuediguana:BarbecuedIguana 100 34
Lake of Fire by BarbecuedIguana Lake of Fire :iconbarbecuediguana:BarbecuedIguana 3 16
Mature content
And The Gods Made Love :iconbarbecuediguana:BarbecuedIguana 4 8
Snow Angel by BarbecuedIguana Snow Angel :iconbarbecuediguana:BarbecuedIguana 3 16 Just Like Heaven by BarbecuedIguana Just Like Heaven :iconbarbecuediguana:BarbecuedIguana 0 1


A Midsummer Night's Scream
    It started with a party crasher.
    Chip caught her out of the corner of his eye while he helped Brody stack the kegs at the drinking station. It was a girl, decently hot, but dressed all wrong for their party. Their theme was A Midsummer Night's Dream. This chick had on a short dress made of animal skins.  There were bone blades sticking out of her arms and her eyes were covered with latex makeup or something. Chip wondered how she managed to get around without running into every tree along the way.
    "Hey, bro. You know her?" He cocked his head at the girl. Brody brought his head up for a better view and shrugged.
    "Never seen her before. She looks lost, though. Where do you think she came from?"
    "I dunno, man." Chip jiggled the keg to make sure it was secure. "Maybe someone else is using the woods for a Halloween party."
    "Tch. Probably those Beta Sigma losers. They're into obscure shit like that."
:icontobaeus:Tobaeus 2 6
Rose issue 7 alternate cover by Loopydave Rose issue 7 alternate cover :iconloopydave:Loopydave 304 45
Mature content
Daughter :iconwill-reierson:Will-Reierson 7 6
Inktober 08 by jdeberge Inktober 08 :iconjdeberge:jdeberge 12 0 Inktober 1 to 11 by jollyjack Inktober 1 to 11 :iconjollyjack:jollyjack 837 62
last the night
look, those disappearing plumes
    wishing through the sky
withering whispers
blush and purple
gaunt and fearformed
    shaken in the wind
  are we not bodies of smoke,
fathers of ash,
 unspoken storms
    fragile things
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 18 12
Inktober #6 by nelsondaniel Inktober #6 :iconnelsondaniel:nelsondaniel 123 11
Not Today
It was time.
Between the serving periods. The shuffling lines thinned back to just a few stragglers, the older ones mostly. Sister Elene knew by their feet, mostly wrapped up in oilskin against the constant wet. She'd done the same, as much for the quiet as for keeping out the salted mud. She discarded her apron, grabbed her pack, a roughspun hooded robe and her lantern from their hiding place in the back of the storeroom. Under the robe, she belted on the knife. It pulled at the scars, her chest felt like strips of leather.
Elene wanted to look at the knife, say the prayer, but no time. It had to be now. She knew where he'd be, knew he'd be alone if that kid's information was right.
That kid. He went by Talent around here. Permanently-tousled brown hair, toes that pointed inward. A smile half sly and half shy. She'd lied to the kid, told him she wanted information on a lost straggler who never made bedcheck. She at least wanted to find the poor soul and bring him his rations.
Part of
:iconmemnalar:Memnalar 22 51
Interossicular Space
It wasn't that May's parents didn't love her, or wouldn't miss her.
She could no longer go to school, and every tutor and nanny they brought home just couldn't stop chewing or move slowly enough to do the job. And the breathing. May's parents went through training, used circular techniques, never did anything strenuous around May. Diet, house, everything was a cushion. Nothing clicked, knocked, groaned or collided with anything else. May's folks had the act down cold.
But anyone else, no matter the training, always that one time they'd forget and sigh, and May would clamp her hands to ears and make that face. Her silent scream. Then the shot and the pills and the worried faces over sign language. On and on. Years. Eighteen.
It was a blessing, almost, that day the Diplomatic Corps hovercraft arrived. They had contacted May's parents, done advance work. The craft rode in on a gentle cushion of air, and the Corps visitors disembarked wearing booties, gloves and bodysuits. No footsteps. Ta
:iconmemnalar:Memnalar 9 19
Hallow's Eve 2017 by Hartman by sideshowmonkey Hallow's Eve 2017 by Hartman :iconsideshowmonkey:sideshowmonkey 292 22 HALLOWEEN 2017 by Hartman by sideshowmonkey HALLOWEEN 2017 by Hartman :iconsideshowmonkey:sideshowmonkey 169 27 Drpg End Plate for Kickstarter by rattlesnapper Drpg End Plate for Kickstarter :iconrattlesnapper:rattlesnapper 179 9 Colors by tknk Colors :icontknk:tknk 5,084 185 Sin City's Nancy Callahan by J-Scott-Campbell
Mature content
Sin City's Nancy Callahan :iconj-scott-campbell:J-Scott-Campbell 6,871 372
Harvey, that asshole
So, there was a hurricane. We stayed put and rode it out. Harvey hit just across Corpus Christi Bay from us, so we didn't get the worst of it, but a lot of people got it in spades. Port Aransas and Rockport were all but destroyed. Austin and the Hill Country got a deluge. And Houston, well, you might have seen the news on that. Basically, this thing was a big shit sandwich.
We're on Day Six of no electricity and we've got a fence down, but otherwise we're just fine. Aside from that, a lot of people need a lot of help.
Texas Monthly, our magazine of record, put together a good guide if you want to lend a hand.
Much love, y'all. :icontexasplz:
Oh, and it would be really cool if you writer types would give this a look and a response if you've got anything helpful. Thanks!
:iconmemnalar:Memnalar 1 38
Chun Li VS Cammy web by sykosan Chun Li VS Cammy web :iconsykosan:sykosan 437 39


48 deviations
Practice Art: Dragon's Lair

My attempt at repainting the castle from the video game Dragon's Lair. How animators manage to do all of this so well and so quickly amazes me. This one took forever and in the end - meh - I like the original better.

I did the castle first and left the surrounding mess of thorns for the end. Big mistake. Those thorn twists were - thorny - for lack of better term. I substituted in branches which weren't much better. Oh well, it's practice.

Here's the video link

Practice Art: Secret of Bone Hill
This week's bit of practice art is my take on Bill Willingham's cover art for L1 The Secret of Bone Hill. Or Boner Hill as we liked to call it back when I was 13.

This is actually my first time seriously painting something digitally. Usually I do line art and color beneath it.

It went well.

At times it felt like I just could not get what I wanted out of artRage. I knew what needed to be there I just couldn't get the program to paint it. Especially with the ground they're standing on. So simple and yet so stubborn. Very frustrating.

Willingham's original also has better poses. Especially the female magic user who is up in the air, a bundle of energy just looking to explode. My take seems well-grounded but kind of heavy. Winona Ryder with the body of Elvira. I swear it wasn't intentional it just came out that way :-). She's actually supposed to be Deqqie from a story I was writing a while back, and yes there is something to the metal plate attached to her boob. My green guy also turned up too short. What is that? A skeletal warlock gnome?

By being painted it all came together far faster than usual, 22 hours from start to finish. But I think that by making the jump so quickly from pencil sketch to color work, I missed things such as those pose problems which I normally would have caught.

Oh well, that's why it's called practice.

If you want to see it all coming together...
From a distance it seemed like a nice place. A small burg nestled deep in the Catskills, trees ablaze with autumn fire, crystal blue skies hanging high above them. From the highway Jason and Eric spied the tall white steeple of a Presbyterian Church, looking like some cottage industry attempt at a rocket launch quietly awaiting lift-off.  

Up close?

Boarded up businesses. Abandoned cars. Gas stations touting prices many years out of date. Jason pulls his Ford Fiesta up to the main stoplight and sits there, checking his twitter feed, oblivious to an absence of power running to the light itself. Eric only notices this inbetween Instagram uploads. He snaps a picture of the dead light and then another of black cables dangling from a telephone pole, curled up like dead snakes in the street.

“Jeeze, what a dump,” exclaims Jason, tapping on the accelerator and gingerly moving forward through the empty intersection. He checks the mirrors for cops. There is no telling just what kind of vultures the police are out here, but given the ramshackle look of everything else, handing out tickets might just be the only business left in town.

Another mile and some relief is found in a billboard whose rain-warped sign announces Sabloff’s Luxurious Mountain Resort - Skiing, Golfing, Dancing, Sailing! Turn Left! 1.5 miles!

And that is what they do, turning onto a frost broken road leading up into the hills. Once upon a time, back when Dirty Dancing was a hit, Sabloff’s had been all the sign promised and more. A premiere destination in the Borscht Belt for New Yorkers seeking some escape from the noise and pollution of the city.


Mmmmmm. Not so much.

The road winds past one gutted building after another, a space baring little resemblence to the brightly colored maps on their smartphones. In an empty lot they park and hike the rest of the way, following GPS coordinates to a Yōkaimon-Go hotspot situated near the edge of an olympic sized pool.

Or at least the remains of one.

The amount of graffitti covering the place is astounding. The marble patio. The hanger-high enclosure. The drained basin. Not an inch of it has gone uncovered by one tagger or another. Some names have been sprayed in crude block letters while others are more urban, strange illegible squiggles with crowded turns and arrows and angles. The place is a riot of initials in love and cartoon faces bulging with anger. Oriental characters that do not mean what somebody thinks they mean. Makeshift fire pits. Smashed glass. Empty pill bottles. Spent needles. Piles of crushed and rusting krylon cans. Three large diving platforms devoid of boards and ladders lean out over the deep end, looking as alien and inexplicable as Easter Island Moai, the lords of a party long since over.

Yōkaimon-Go has taken the pair to some pretty outlandish places in the past - dead shopping malls, abandoned bowling alleys, empty warehouses, closed schools - but this takes the cake.

“We should leave,” says Eric, ”this place feels like gangland.”

“Relax,” says Jason as he searches with his zenPhone, peering behind some broken bleachers, “This place is a ghost town. No one’s living within a hundred miles of here.”

“Feels more like a thousand.”

“Hang on. Wait a minute… I’ve got leaves!”

On the zenPhone’s screen three small bright digital leaves kick up off the floor. It’s a sign they are closing in on their prey. Eric scans the perimeter to catch a small golden blur of pixels leaping out of a kickboard bin and sprinting towards the shallow end of the pool. Jason turns to glimpse it, heart racing as the Yōkaimon vaults down the steps and into the empty basin. Jason’s hefty midsection rolls like an ocean as he struggles to keep up.

“I’ve got you now you little summabitch,” he cries, chugging down the steps.

On screen, Jason readies a blue capture ball, fingers it and pauses. His mind flits through what he knows of the creatures in the Yōkaidex, which is nearly everything. The Yōkai skittering before him is a super-rare Konaki-Jiji. It may not look like much, just a little old man with a molar shaped head and Fu-Manchu-stache, but according to the Yōkaidex the Konaki-Jiji has stats out the wazoo and a CP of over 1,000. Anywhere else it could easily have dodged him, but unlike previous incarnations of the game, the new Yōkaimon-Go paid close attention to its surroundings. It treated walls and doors and stairwells as if they were real. Without ladders leading up out of the pool, they effectively had the little devil trapped.

“Spread out,” barks Jason at Eric, “even space with the walls. Don’t let him run between us.”

“I don’t know Jase. I’m not really digging this.”

Eyes on the phone bro! Do you want to be a champion? One more monster and we are 151-ers! No one has ever gotten this far before!”


“But what!?”

“I thought…. I thought I just heard something. It sounded like-”

“Like what?”

“Jase. It sounded like a baby crying.”

Jason stops, not taking his phone from his face but shooting a glance off at Eric. He hears nothing but the pounding of blood in his ears.

“Don’t you worry bro,” says Jason, “it’s just you me, and the Konaki-jiji. Everything else is the game messing with you.”

Reluctantly, Eric focuses his phone forward and fingers a capture ball. Ahead of them the Jiji trundles left and right, backing away, arms outspread to ward them off, wierdly shaped head peeking back over its shoulder for effect.

Jason and Eric close in. The capture ring grows tighter and stronger around the Yōkai as he comes to a halt, freezing against the back wall of the deep end.

“And now I’ve got you,” says Jason, finger flicking a ball at the Jiji. With barely a hint of effort the Yōkai leaps over the ball while spinning in mid air. It lands with its back to them, moons them with a flick of its robes and jumps into the graffitti, disappearing into the wall.

Phones drop from their faces.

“What the fuck!?!”

“Did you see that!”

Jason and Eric splash through the sleech-filled deep-end to examine the wall. It had to be a glitch in the programming. Yōkai were specifically prohibitted from jumping through material objects, but on closer inspection, right in the center of the basin, right where countless tags have accumulated to form a vomit colored splotch of dinge they find a break in the cement, a hole with its edges painted black to hide it.

“Fuck. He’s in there,” trembles Eric.

“He’s trapped,” says Jason, turning sideways and sucking in his gut to fit through the crack.

“But, really, it’s dark in there-”

“Just come on, you wuss. Flip your phone around for light and I’ll capture the little fucker myself.”

But, thinks Eric, staring into the hole, not wanting to say it aloud yet unable to stop thinking it in his head - I don’t want to go in there. Jason, I’m scared.

Jason reaches back through the fissure, grabs Eric by the collar and drags him in.

Inside, their phones shed a cold light on dripping iron pipes criss-crossing the cieling, stacks of wet cardboard boxes busting at the seams. Eric’s foot tangles around a rotting streamer reading Happy New Year 1998! He kicks it free and rats go squeaking and skittering through the shadows. Eric’s nose catches a scent, something warm and out of place admist all the stank, something he hasn’t smelled since his college days, something itinerant hawkers used to sell to stoners in the college union on Saturdays.

Is that incense?

“I’VE GOT HIM!” shouts Jason, now farther off in the darkness. “I’VE GOT THE LITTLE FUCKER, I’M A 151-ER!”

Eric hurries after him, turns a corner and stumbles into a pumpkin orange glow.

There are lit candles.


“Who lit the candles?”

“Who? What? Who cares! I caught the little bastard! I’m a 151-er!”

Jason holds up his phone so Eric can witness him. Sure enough, on screen is the brightly colored sprite of the Konaki-Jiji, trapped in spinning capture rings, pulling on the ends of his mustache and bawling his eyes out.

Eric is impressed but not by the catch. Looming over them in the darkness is a larger than life statue of the Buddha. Not the fat happy Buddha of countless Chinese menus but the cold, emaciated Buddha-Rupa, spray-painted candy-flake gold and sparkling black, heaps of dead flowers piled up in the cross of his stick thin legs.  

“We should leave. Now,” says Eric.

“Did you feel that?”

“Feel what?”

“My phone.”


On the zenPhone’s screen the Konaki-Jiji jumps in a fit of rage. When it lands the phone itself bounces in Jason’s hands.

“Here feel this. This is so awesome! It’s like. It’s like the Konaki-Jiji is really in there!”

Eric takes the phone. The Konaki-Jiji jumps and he feels it. Not only does the zenPhone bounce but it also seems to gain weight on the rebound. The Konaki-Jiji jumps again and the phone is left as heavy as a brick in Eric’s hands.

Jason grabs it back from him.

“This is so fucking trippy! I think I read something about it somewhere online. The zenPhone uses a wierd Star Trek anti-grav device that makes it feather-light and the Konaki-Jiji unlocks it to mess with you. Is that awesome or what?”

“It’s bullshit,” says Eric just as the phone jumps again, visibly jerking Jason off balance.

Wailing, the Konaki-Jiji pounds its feet, this time knocking the phone through Jason’s fingers. It hits the floor with the whump of a dropped bowling ball.

“You call that bullshit?”

“I call it a good reason to get the fuck out of here! Shut that thing down and let’s go!”

On his knees, Jason swipes a finger over the screen. Nothing is responding. There is just the Konaki-Jiji, looking like a fat man-baby, pulling on his mustache and wailing until his eyes bleed. Jason manages to mute the sound but nothing else wants to work.

“It’s not shutting down! It’s not switching apps!”

“THEN LEAVE IT,” snaps Eric, surprised by the harshness of his own voice, as well as the stark silence that follows.

“But…. It’s my zenPhone, man,” says Jason, almost pleading, “It’s like - my - zenPhone.”

Eric drops to his knees. Together they grimace to push their fingers under the phone’s edge, now swearing at the ultra-thin design they once praised.

“This thing weighs like a fucking piano!”

The phone unsteadily pulls left and right with weight rolling around its surface like loose waves of water. On screen the Konaki-Jiji is hopping mad. He slams against the capture rings and the phone flips off Eric’s finger tips, rolling him backwards with the sudden release of pressure.

GAH-iIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEE, screams Jason, now flat on his back, arms splayed out, zenPhone in hand and hand smashed flat against the concrete.


Eric jumps on the phone, this time it is quite easy to grab but impossible to budge, as heavy as a car tripped off a jack. A dark pool of blood spills out around Jason’s fingers as the Konaki-Jiji begins a little dance, grinding the phone and his knuckles against the cement.

“Hang on,” says Eric, standing up, “AND STOP SCREAMING! YOU SCREAM LIKE A GIRL!!! Just! GOD! STOP! PLEASE! Let me think. Lemme just…”

Eric kicks through the rubbish surrounding them and sees things he doesn’t want to see. Dozens if not hundreds of abandoned smartphones with shattered screens, hundreds if not thousands of small white bones, most of them broken, splintered, some with joints and tendons still attached.

Leaning beside the hole leading back to the pool he finds a sledgehammer. Its head is covered in rust, its handle slick with mildew.

“Oh no,” he says to himself, one idea knocking into another, “no no no no no no no. I can’t go for that. I’m not going to-”

Then he hears it.

A howl.

Cold and distant, followed by the clatter of claws scraping across porcelain tiles, pant heavy breathing, the echoing jingle of chain collars. Eric peers out through the cavity. The sky above the pool has turned as purple as a bruise and all along the rim stand thin canine silouhettes with sharp muzzles, pointed ears and stilt-like legs. Some are snarling. All are staring down at him.

“GOD GET ME OUT OF HERE,” he hears Jason scream from back in the basement.

Eric grabs the sledgehammer.

“WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG,” Jason shouts at him.

“There are dogs out there.”

“Dogs? What dogs?”

“Big dogs. Angry dogs. I think I heard them before. I think. I think they’ve been trailing us the whole time. Ever since we left the car.”

Eric lifts up the sledgehammer. It’s not nearly as heavy as the zenPhone, but he feels it carrying a whole separate weight all of its own, one that weighs on him like an anvil.

“Eric. Where’d you get the hammer?”

Eric looks up at the skeletal Buddha-Rupa, the Buddha who could feel the bones of his spine through his stomach, who survived a thousand days in the wilderness eating nothing but a single grain of rice a day. Beyond the statue lies a shadowy passageway leading deeper into the basement, possibly up and out and back onto the land. He is going to go there, but not if it means leaving his only real friend behind.

“I’m so sorry,” says Eric, weakly hoisting the hammer onto his shoulder.

“What are you doing, man. What are You FuCKING CRAZY?”

“I’m so so sorry,” says Eric.

In a flash of thought the zenPhone’s ad campaign shoots through his mind. Featherlight and bulletproof! Waterproof up to 10 meters! Absolutely unbreakable! The new zenPhone 10!  

For the commercial they paid Taylor Swift quite handsomely to shoot a .44 Magnum at one. The razor thin side of the phone cut the bullet in half. Everyone online agreed that the shot had to be a fake, but right now Eric isn’t interested busting any myths. He’s never swung a hammer in his life, but he has played enough World of Warcraft to understand how one works. He doesn’t need to break the phone, just the weakest link in the chain.

Taking aim on the pale flesh of Jason’s wrist Eric stretches back and swings. As the iron head careens through the air, feeling like a locomotive leaving its rails, another thought squeaks through his mind.

A question.

Who did light all these candles, anyways?

Outside, around the edge of the pool, the dogs gather to stare down into it.

Feeding time.

Happy day.

Food is on the way.

Pant. Pant. Pant.

They don’t know why people come here to spill blood and scream and squeal, but as time slips by and their hunger only grows the dogs care less and less about man.

Which is not to call them Bad Dogs.

They will always be Good Dogs at heart. There will always be something in them wanting to fetch the stick or chase the ball or sit when asked. But they did not bring the screens into the world. Humans did. Evil slates of plastic filled with bright lights, loud noises and flashing colors. Man’s new best friend. The screens stole time from the dogs, caused water bowls to run dry and kibble to grow stale. Walk time became an exercise in dragging a dead weight around at the end of leash, one constantly transfixed to a screen. The dogs hate the screens, worse than vacuum cleaners. Not even cats are as evil as the screens, but there was nothing they could do to stop them.

One after another the screens told the humans to pack up their belongings and leave. The humans obeyed. As much as they sometimes hated the screens and shouted at them the humans did not leave their screens behind, unlike their dogs. They shouted at their dogs to go away, to sit and stay, to stop running behind the damn car as they drove out towards the highway.

Stupid mutts.

And that was when mankind left their world.

Packs formed in the desolate streets. Battles raged across weed choked lawns. The dogs discovered just how rare meat was and devoured those too weak to hold onto their own. From their ranks a leader emerged, a German Sheppard named Maximillian. Max had belonged to the groundskeeper before the groundskeeper left and been the first to catch the scent of fresh blood wafting up from the hole. Max had been the first to dare eat it. Man meat. Forbidden meat. A taste of the hand which once fed them.

Maximillian strides up to the side of the pool. Lesser dogs scurry aside to make room for him. Stray humans have come again, driven by their evil screens. Fresh blood has been spilt, rich and coppery in the hole. Maximillian gazes down into the empty pool, hears the cries and the screaming, the thump thump thump of someone swinging a hammer with no sense of control. And he waits. He waits until he hears it.


Wimpering silence.

Close enough.

Max has no idea why they keep coming here or who lights the candles in the pit, but he has learned the value of letting his prey wear themselves out before charging in for the kill.

Unable to stay the pack any longer, Maximillian leaps forward, fangs barred, saliva frothing. Without question the rest of the pack joins him, cascading over the edge of the pool, charging towards the hole like a tidal wave of mange.

It’s feeding time.
Wow. Normally stories take some time to percolate but this one came together in an instant. I recieved a message from Jay saying that my monster would be a Japanese ghost, a Yōkai called the Konaki-Jiji. According to lore it is a little old man who wails like a baby and tricks people into picking it up. Once in your arms it blossoms in size, turns to stone and crushes people beneath it. I wrote him back asking him something along the lines of, “is Pokemon-Go still a thing?” and before I could click Send I knew it would be - for this story at least. I originally called it Tokemon-No! But then I discovered the term Yōkai and it was all just too good to let go.

The Konaki-Jii does not have any great tales attached to it that I could find. It is simply the spirit of an abandoned thing, thought to be the ghost of an unwanted child left to perish in a forest. The setting - Sabloffs - is based on a real Catskills resort which has fallen into decay. One I used live near during the late 70’s / early 80’s.…

That pool? I use to swim in that pool back when it still held water. So yeah, sometimes you can’t help but write about what’s in your head. However. The story is not really about the fall of the Borsht-Belt (which actually was brought down by low airfare) but what I’ve come to call net-rot. A tendency for things to go to seed because people are caring far too much about what is happening on the internet and far too little about the world outside of it.

Not that there’s anything wrong with spending - some - time on the internet :-), but yeah, that’s what the section with the dogs is all about.
Jealousy can be a real bitch.

Anyways. It clocks in at exactly 3,000 words and this is the first time I have not had to chunk out a few thousand words to make it fit - so yeah - I’m really quite happy with this one. Still not so happy about how inexplicably hard it is to get a story into DA with its original formatting in tact, but whaddyagonnado?

Happy Halloween Ghouls and Girls!


JD McDonnell
United States


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Will-Reierson Featured By Owner 4 days ago   Writer
Thank you for the watch, good sir!

I think I'll return the favor. Your writing/art is quite good <("<)
Memnalar Featured By Owner Oct 4, 2017
You've probably seen the plot, know.…
BarbecuedIguana Featured By Owner Oct 4, 2017
Is this all just not going to stop until I buy a fidget spinner?
I admit, I've been holding out, but if it will keep the storms from coming I might consider it.
Memnalar Featured By Owner Oct 4, 2017
Hell, I'll try it.
BarbecuedIguana Featured By Owner Oct 5, 2017
Back when I was in the Boy Scouts we had this inexplicable tradition where if the smoke of a camp fire blows over you you would proclaim, "I like bunnies!" and the smoke would move off of you.

Well, yesterday I dug out my old uniform (it still fits, somewhat) went up on the roof (it's flat) and danced around shouting, "I LIKE BUNNIES" for all the world to hear. Sure enough, tropical storm Nate has now changed its course and is moving west, aiming for New Orleans. 

Even better, the neighbors also seem to be packing up their stuff and moving west.

Two birds with one shot!
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Memnalar Featured By Owner Sep 11, 2017
What's the word?
BarbecuedIguana Featured By Owner Sep 11, 2017
Exactly what I just posted on your journal about Harvey.

Everything's fine for this part of the state at least, and the exception of my back and legs which are killing me from all the work I put into prepping the house this past weekend.

In a way it's a bit like game mastering. The more prep work you put into an adventure the less likely you will be to use it, but if you don't prepare anything you're gonna get clobbered. 
Memnalar Featured By Owner Sep 11, 2017
But I had 5d10 sahuagin ready to jump out of the flood water and everything!

Again, good to hear. Overprepping is a good problem to have.
Memnalar Featured By Owner Sep 4, 2017
So now the NHC has Irma going into the Gulf. I really hope you and I aren't taking turns with this shit.
BarbecuedIguana Featured By Owner Sep 4, 2017


Actually, I was thinking, we have had an astoundingly wet summer this year (in general :D ). Remember when that ice sheet the size of Delaware collapsed in Antartica? It didn't effect sea levels, but fresh water does evaporate with less heat than salt water. Fresh water is also less dense than salt water so it has a tendency to float on top of it, where it is more likely to hit sunlight and evaporate.

You really got to wonder if the two are connected.
Antartica will have its Revenge!

Or hopefully not.
Enough already.
:o (Eek) 
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