Graphic Novels Blue Iris c.2001 a new 2001 Postel/Butcher collaboration with writer Jess Butcher, a.k.a. Blinkt, one of The New York Times Internet Forums favorite writers. if the fonts appear jumbled on your screen (some are larger) set them to 12  The Texas Clipper Written by Jess Butcher (Blinkt) illustrated by B.F. Postel   The Texas Clipper ... (blinkt) The Interstate serpentined gently through the West Texas dawn and time released him, loosening its relentless grip, allowing him a ration of uninterrupted peace. His pain suspended, Kyle drifted with the ebb and flow of the concrete thread undulating through the low, purple hills.  He checked his gauges. "Okay, partner," he whispered to his delivery van. "Everything is lookin' good ... how 'bout a little music?" Relying on music to drown out the steady drone of the diesel engine, he turned a dial and the tape he'd compiled from his favorite vinyl treasures sprang to life. Well it winds from Chicago to L.A. ... two thousand miles goin' away... get your kicks on Route 66 ...  Van Morrison whined the familiar lyrics as THEM delivered a primitive, mid-sixties version of one of Kyle Moore's favorites.   Since his accident, this daily round-trip from Lubbock to Las Cruces was Kyle's only source of income. He couldn't handle a big rig any more; just a Ford van with 'Texas Clipper Service' stenciled on the door, hauling tractor parts West, produce East, six days a week.  Kyle had lost much more than his leg two years earlier when a hitchhiker stepped in front of his Kenworth. Without medical insurance, his truck was first to go, then his house, finally his wife.   The Georgia State Patrol never found any sign of a pedestrian.  "Well, well," he said to the van, "what do we have here?"In the dim light, he saw two silhouettes walking west along the Interstate. One listless thumb went up but neither head turned toward Kyle as he rumbled by.  "That's right, boys. Don't bother to look my way." Kyle's thoughts turned blood-black. He watched the hitchhikers in his side-view mirror as a low, Texas hill silently swallowed them. "Another mile," he said, pressing a button to advance the tape.  We went walkin' ... down by the graveyard ... when I looked ... into your eyes ... Van crooned the obscure lyrics as Kyle looked for a side road where he could turn around. Heads bowed, the hitchhikers didn't look up as the van passed them going the opposite direction. "That's right," Kyle snarled, "keep your heads up your asses you little shits!" As an earthen wave devoured the van, Kyle looked for another side road. The sun would be up soon. He could feel his pulse pounding where his left leg joined the prosthesis.  into ... your eyes ... mystic eyes ... The five foot, hardened-steel edge had once served to reinforce the blade of a Caterpillar dozer. Like Kyle, it had been discarded, used up and thrown on the scrap heap. He'd found it there and painstakingly sharpened its blunted edge before welding it to the hinge he'd fabricated beneath his van. Jamming the Ford into first gear, Kyle began accelerating. His right hand reached for the toggle switch on the van floor, the switch which operated the electric motor.  your eyes ... mystic eyes ... "That's it, dummies. Just keep walkin'. Don't pay any attention to me. I don't count for nothin'. " Third gear now, the steel was fully extended on the right side of the van. Its razor edge hissed through the damp air, following the landscape eighteen inches above the shoulder of the Texas highway. He could see them now, fifty yards down the highway, heads down, sleepwalking in the dawn mist. Sixty miles an hour now, blade fully extended. "Just above the knees, boys!" Kyle screamed as he swerved to the right.  mystic eyeeees ..."Hey, Kyle!" the young man on the loading dock hollered good-naturedly, waking him from an uneasy slumber. "How's it hangin' today, ol' buddy?" he added. Kyle squinted up at his friend. He thought the lenses in Leon's horn-rims looked as thick as inverted Coke bottles. "Shit, man," Kyle muttered, numb from his oft-visited nightmare. Leon moved away as Kyle sat behind the wheel, gazing at the hands of the battery-powered clock Velcroed to the dash, not hearing the music still coming from the tape deck.  "Good trip this mornin'?" Leon asked, moving toward the rear of the Ford with a hand-truck. "Yeah, okay I guess," Kyle mumbled. Kyle's eyes moved to the side mirror as he watched Leon pause, stooping, head tilting oddly as he peered under the van. mystic eyeeees ... mys ... tic ... eyeeees ... We would appreciate some feedback on this new 2001 venture of a writer and an artist. Please mail comments on the stories to Jess Butcher and comments on the graphics and layout to Barbara Postel to view paintings, sculpture, and other artworks of B.F. Postel click here B. Postel's Art  1/1/2001 This is an experimental work in progress that will change almost daily, combining different visual mediums (including some of my landscape painting, electronically warped). Without a drawing pad, visual manipulations are done with a mouse which lends a certain crudeness that is appealing to me. Thank you all for the e-mail, feedback, expert advise and critiques, please keep them coming, they help to improve this Website. Have a wonderful New Millennium. all graphics and illustrations by B.F Postel copyright c. 2001 story written by Jess Butcher c. 2001   Contact Us art@artistexpo.com  Pyramid Studios Art Gallery - Home Page artistexpo.com © 1999 PyramidStudios All rights reserved. February 2001 - this will be the next short story to be illustrated by Barbara Postel  THE HIBERNACULUM written by Jess Butcher Cruel illness had taken her that first year, the year they had purchased their dream. Just west of the main Houston ship channel; three slips, one covered dry-dock, and a small workshop tucked beneath a modest elevated cottage. His winter had passed slowly, spanning many seasons. The protection he had constructed was piecemeal, improvised from the ordinary -- alcohol, television, work, junk food, sleep, these were his armor. His dockside universe spiraled flat, distant echoes drifting past numb senses, a world tilted ever so slightly, so imperceptibly, yet he had learned to maintain a fragile equilibrium there. "No, this is Pfister's Engine Repair. Gough sold this building to me three years ago," Frank said, speaking into the telephone wedged between his shoulder and stubble-covered chin. "Nope, Gough went out of the import business and moved back to Australia," Frank continued. "Last I heard, he was living north of Perth. Works for some sort of zoo or something. I've got a telephone number for him there if you want." Frank Pfister gazed out the kitchen window as a battered tug passed by, diesel engine clattering, bludgeoning its way toward the setting sun with steady, brute force. As usual, Frank was a little drunk; several moments passed before he found the postcard with the phone number and returned to the line. "No problem," he finally said. "Tell Gough 'hello' for me if you reach him." With that final comment, Frank placed the phone in the cradle and sat heavily at the kitchen table, his fingertips absently following the contours of the nearly empty Jack Daniels bottle resting in front of him. "No ice on the pier this morning," Frank said to the bottle. "The weather's getting better and Daugherty's bringing in his sport fisher tomorrow; twin 3208's, that'll be a good job. Four good working days and we'll be in the money," he smiled faintly, pouring the last of the bourbon into a plastic glass. ***** Her third winter there had passed slowly, spanning the frigid months as she waited patiently for spring's arrival. This year she'd quietly relocated to the second floor, seldom venturing from her modest comforts. She'd grown accustomed to this new place. The activities of her neighbors seldom disturbed her; she was content, peaceful. ***** "March 15, 'Beware the ides,'" Frank smiled to himself as he readied breakfast. The weather was warming but the kerosene heater in the kitchen had run out of fuel during the night. Frank could see his vaporous breath as he busied about the kitchen, stepping lightly over the steel grating of the dormant furnace. "Wish you were in working order on a morning like this," he said to the furnace as he stood atop the grate, looking down into the darkness. He could feel deep grooves, rectangles forming on the bottom of his stockinged feet as he paused there, pouring his first long draft of Jack Black for the day. "Where are you, Chester?" Frank called. From the bedroom, Chester responded with a hearty meow. "Here's your breakfast, your highness," Frank smiled, carrying a bowl of fishy-smelling something toward the bedroom door. "I'm not serving breakfast in bed this morning, big boy. I gotta get to work." Frank was concerned about his old tomcat, he hoped Chester wasn't dying. The old cat had been behaving strangely for months now, seldom leaving his nest on the bed at Frank's feet, steadfastly refusing to venture into the kitchen. Out the window, Frank saw Daugherty's big sport slowing at mid-channel. He piled breakfast dishes in the sink and hurried downstairs to direct the boat into his center slip. Standing on the pier, Frank felt alive. He knew the Caterpillar engines by heart and could easily roll bearings in both by the end of the week. With any luck, he'd clear five hundred dollars on the job. Throughout the morning, Frank's spirits soared with the temperature. By noon, in spite of the blustery March wind, the rusting thermometer on the dock piling reached eighty degrees. Below deck, Frank was warm and content in his solitude. He glanced at his watch. Time for a sandwich ... and a drink, he thought. ***** Instinctively, she knew she was unique, a survivor. There were no others like her here in this foreign place. Yet the weather and the surroundings pleased her, living a simple existence in this alien world. In her second floor refuge, she yawned, cream-colored lips parting, lithe body stretching. Today, winter's deep chill had been replaced by precious warmth, signaling her to begin anew. Her dark eyes surveyed the space around her before looking toward the barred sky. ***** Frank stood at the counter whistling merrily as he constructed a mighty sandwich. "Chester, you old devil," he called toward the bedroom, "come join me for lunch!" Frank's glass was already empty, he poured himself another and carried sandwich and drink to the kitchen table. "Chester?" he called again as he sat on a kitchen chair and began removing his boots. "C'mon out, old buddy," he said softly, absently massaging his stockinged feet across the rough grating of the furnace. ***** Hours earlier, twelve thousand miles away a telephone had rung. "Blair Gough, here," a distinctly Australian voice answered. "Houston? Yes, I'm afraid we're a bit ahead of you here in Perth." Gough's ruddy brow had furrowed as he listened intently to the caller. "No," he lied cautiously, "I'm afraid it's illegal to export the Inland Taipan, he's a rather nasty sort of fellow, you know." For years, Gough had made a living selling rare, endangered Taipan's all over the world. "Anti-venom research, you say?" Gough had chosen his words carefully. Since the caller's name was unfamiliar to him, Gough was suspicious, fearing a possible trap by U.S. Customs. "Well, the Inland WOULD be the fellow for that I suppose," Gough continued, "venom fifty times more potent than the Indian Cobra. Very abrupt and ferocious little bugger. Multiple-striker, you know." A few moments later, Gough had rung off after referring the caller to the office of the Australian Wildlife Ministry in Melbourne. The Aussie smuggler had walked to his porch and paused, watching the sun as it disappeared into the vastness of the Indian Ocean. Just before he'd sold his place to Pfister, a lone Inland Taipan had escaped from a crate hidden in his Houston workshop. "Surely she's done for by now," he'd whispered. ***** Fully grown now, the Taipan measured nearly two meters in length. Suddenly, the bones in her lower jaw vibrated in response to a low frequency sound. She jerked her head upward, the intruder's infrared radiation registering as her black eyes searched the steel grid for danger. "Chester?" Frank called again, turning on his chair between oversize bites of his sandwich, his shoeless feet still tapping the furnace grating. The big yellow cat appeared, cowering in the bedroom doorway. "What's the matter with you?" the man asked, shaking his head, feeling better than he'd felt in months. At the very edge of his peripheral vision, Frank saw the snake as it materialized at his feet. The enlarged scales covering the Inland Taipan's eyes projected a cold, scowling countenance. Frank turned to stone, breathless, motionless stone. The coppery-brown serpent was still, confident, it uncoiled only when the cat bolted for the front door. As was its custom, the Taipan struck viciously, again and again, five times in all. As Chester sought trembling refuge on the prow of Daugherty's boat, Frank's life seeped away, his uncomprehending eyes peering down into the serpent's furnace lair.      Contact Us art@artistexpo.com  Pyramid Studios Art Gallery - Home Page artistexpo.com © 1999 PyramidStudios All rights reserved.