Cod Market.

“I See You, Kusanagi.”

Fan art for CD Projekt Red’s forthcoming Cyberpunk 2077... if it was an anime film. The cyber-psycho-turned-cop from the trailer, looking for trouble in Night City.

“Stellar System.” (AKA “Crying Wolf.”)

Taking the expoart idea and doing it bigger.

ROOK. Favorite. Done.

Simple Circle Shadow Another one I really like...

Night Sky

Have you ever seen the Milky Way...

The Milky Way with naked eye?

Where all these other Earthly lights

Don't push and pull to cloud the sky?

The dusty trail

Like speckled paint...

In barren places

All but faint.

From nothing--Life.

From life--Nothing.

Yesterday, I took delivery of the first printing of my novel, COLOR OF A MIRROR. It’s hard to believe that I wrote a book, that it’s finally a real thing… even more surreal that people are beginning to read this story in so many different places.

Books are in stock now on my website, including the brutalist “ArtificeLux Edition” deluxe hardcover (shown below). Be sure to check it out if you want an unconventional, dark cyberpunk novel to keep you company this winter!

(And listen to the dark ambient soundtrack while you read! Available on Spotify and other streaming services, or on vinyl in limited quantities on my site.)

A personal favorite of mine. Elevate.

Part Two.

Beginning of a Totally Unrelated-to-Anything Scene

The place was called “Executive Hotel”—it took a conscious effort to keep from thinking what sort of low-life executive would choose to stay in such a pisspot.  It looked more like a prison compound than the “Most Comfortable Stay,” as the sign out front bragged.  Sleeping beneath an overpass might have been better.

White paint peeled from the exterior walls, streaking the dingy surface with scars of brown.  Either it was the paint peeling to reveal half-rotted wood beneath, or it was mildew caused by some awful roof runoff.  I was certain to stay far enough away so the distinction couldn’t be made.  And the cars parked in the lot were in much the same condition, nearly every one of them a beater joint fit to throw a piston and clatter to a stop at any moment.  Paint jobs all dull tans, beiges, and sickly olive greens—or at least they had been, before the rust had begun to corrode the old steel frames—did nothing to improve my already low opinion of this fine establishment.

It was enough to make a man rethink the choices he had made in his life.  And as the shoddy suspension of my loaner car—only earlier that day, I had saved it from the scrapper with a quick exchange of five, crisp one hundred dollar bills—bounced over the broken cracks of the uneven lot, rolling like a drunken mule into the space outlined by two non-existent yellow stripes, I found myself doing exactly that...

Water's Edge. First time using something other than ink.