October Leah Ferguson
I write and art for my own amusement, more hobby than vocation.
I post my writing to the Interwebs because I like to believe billions of people access my musings. I know the reality, which doesn’t matter. Like with my stories, all true and real, some of which have actually happened. The reality doesn’t matter as I travel the mindscape of imagination crafting events creating a universe sitting on top the world I live in, a survival skill I developed as a child.
Some of my stories are composite stories, a meld of similar stories I’ve listened to over the years mixed with my own experiences. We, as a species, share a common thread, which makes these writings not only social commentary, but archetypal, even allegorical.
Reader advisory: language, violence, sexual content.
Lindsey is taken by a serial killer. When he dumps her, she’s still alive – barely. As the people around her fall apart, she must find a way to stand as tall as her broken body will allow.
The manuscript is posted complete.
I never set out to be an artist. I don’t do it for money, so I can say I’m not a professional artist. Over the years, I’ve taken six commissions, four turning quickly into nightmares.
I won’t do commission work. Ever. Again. My art is too important to me.
Art, for me, is mediation. I get lost, lose hours in a work. That, and my art is about ownership. I see something out there and must own it. I create it anew. My art, then, is derivative. Yet, I don’t capture the subject. I render, recreate. I make it my own, something new.
My work is done using Adobe Photoshop CC as a paint program, building color on color with a 40% oil brush. or alsousing Adobe Photoshop CC, create vector-like artwork.