Hey! I’ve been moving around a lot in the past few weeks — I flew back from the UK on May 2nd, then spent a week with a friend in Boston, then came out to central Massachusetts to work on a farm for a while. The end result being a drop-off in posts and work in general.

However! The podcast continues! This week’s story is “Censorship.” You can listen to it on libsyn or iTunes, or you can read the original story here.

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Story no. 45. I have been working with wool a LOT in the last week.

As always, illustration to follow. UPDATE ON July 8th, 2018: Not only is there now an illustration, you can purchase a print on my Society6 page.

A reminder: if you’d like to support this project, I have a Patreon! $1/month gets you art process posts; $3/month gets you extra stories and illustrations.


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The woman was tall, rawboned, with striking red-brown hair pulled into a thick plait. She wore a dress of the spectacular cloth Dominguez had come to the mountains looking for. It glowed in the sunlight glancing down the tiles of the roof, with the same deep sheen and subtle patterns as the delicate shawl which had made its way to the court. Unlike the shawl, it was tattered around the seams and hems, clearly a garment that had been worn long and often.

She stood with her back to Dominguez. Every other minute she threw her right arm up into the air, letting a spindle of dark wood drop from her fingertips, whirling. The thread that kept it from hitting the ground was so fine it was barely visible in the late sun. Before his eyes could do more than trace the glimmer of fiber, she snatched the spindle out of the air and wound thread around it furiously.

Here, then, was the master artisan he sought.

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Story no. 44. RIGHT OKAY. I went to the Victoria & Albert Museum today, and I took ALL THE PICTURES of decorative motifs, so hopefully I am inspired to catch up on illustrations SOON.


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There were only three of them left now. Isaac had, presumably, encountered a police patrol during his last foraging mission. He’d gone out, but he had not come back. The military police had been shooting anyone they found in the quarantine zone on sight for weeks now. They’d seen Obie get shot; he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time when they military had done one of their first clean-up operations. Cilian had a wound go septic, and Megs—well, they were less sure about what had happened to Meg, but it hadn’t been good.

Harry’s death had been the worst. He’d gone out on the river in the night. Someone had seen some fish, and none of them had eaten anything fresh for months. He’d been desperate, greedy, and no one could blame him. Whatever contagion spread the fever must had gotten to him out there. Maybe it was a mosquito, or some sort of amoeba in the water. They couldn’t take the body out of the apartment building, either, once he’d thrashed himself into a cortical hemorrhage. Some of the other bands had taken to burning apartment buildings if they had suspicions that someone infected was hiding inside.

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