Eluréd, one of the twins sons of Dior Eluchíl (Elurin being the other twin), and grandson of Beren and Lúthien, + some forest creatures. The story of Eluréd and Elurin has always drawn me; though they were left to die after the Sack Menegroth, I’ve always liked to think that they survived, and lived on, forestbound.

More art to come of the twins soon.



First, new art:


Want more art? Click here.

Then, writing:

I have a short story up at Shimmer: “The Seaweed and the Wormhole.” It’s about a swamp monster and his boyfriend. If you want more about Ebb and Peregrine, the main characters, I’ve posted a couple of fragments from Ebb’s diary. They can be read here.

Shimmer also has an interview with me.

The second chapter of Skyglass is now up, and free to read for a limited time. Here’s chapter one if you need to catch up. Also, Sparkler posted a cast picture for Skyglass. Can’t wait for the last three character designs; it’ll be pretty excellent to see all seven of them lined up together. Art by Mookie, who is amazing.

Other things:

I spent the last couple days going to (death) metal and non-metal shows, running around the Oregon Country Fair, sketching people, eating good food, and just generally getting up to benign mischief. I’ll post the sketches + maybe some video soon.

Fragments from the Diary of Ebb Cederstrom

Fragments from the Diary of Ebb Cederstrom


Me (retrospective—in part)

179 lbs. 5’11″. That’s one small wheelbarrow of fresh seaweed, and about half a thallus of bladderwrack. Once, the sea knew me best. Then, many knew me best from the waist down. Now, a man knows me best. He knows me like the others knew me. But also, he knows me from the inside because I think we share a soul. Which explains a lot. The constant hunger, for one.



Dinner #1

Him: Snails, butter, dill. Three game hens, oranges (zest and juice), mint, sherry, butter.

Me: Salmon, salt, fennel. Fingerlings, olive oil, peppercorns. Chocolate mousse—eggs, sugar, vanilla, cream, chocolate. Wine-soaked cherries. Whipped cream.



The Dead Terrarium

This project took Peregrine two weeks. Before he started, he put a case of bottled water in our room, plus a couple boxes of Kleenex, and a twenty-five lb sack of trail mix (chocolate, raisins, whole dates, almonds, dried habanero). There was also a wooden box I wasn’t allowed to see inside of, and after he shut the door to our room I wasn’t allowed in. He didn’t lock it because he knew I wouldn’t try to get in. After two weeks, he opened the door and waited for me to come. The first thing I saw was him, sitting in his boxers with his hair alluring and chaotic around his face and eyes bruised by sleepless nights. There was an ocean of stiff tissues, empty water bottles, and raisins all around him. Raisins because he’d picked them out. He hated raisins. His feet were pressed together at the soles and he gripped them with his hands as he looked up at me, not sheepish in the least. He tilted his head at my desk, which I hadn’t seen in 14 days. It was large and made out of a door. It had to be large, because half of it was reserved for the trinkets and other things Peregrine brought home or made me. Among the artifacts, stood a large glass jar. Inside the glass jar was a rat skeleton, bones joined by bits of grass. Inside its ribcage were the skeletons of 17 baby rats. The jar had no lid. Instead, he’d taken the rat hides, sewn them together and rubber-banded them to the mouth.




It’s beautiful out. I’d like to go to the ocean—and not gather seaweed, for once, but Peregrine’s turned the living room into a giant blanket fort and has about ten heat lamps in there and I’m worried he’s going to burn down the house if I go out. I guess dinner’ll be boiled pasta again, with a can from ‘grin’s giant stockpile of cream of mushroom soup.




Wasn’t there a time you wanted to be a poet? I ask myself, as if I failed in that regard. I am a poet. I distill humanity with my cock.




Am I okay with self-annihilation? I choose—repeatedly—to ruin myself, but I wonder: is it a choice or a cycle? For instance, this man—Peregrine—who’s just started living with me. He pays to live with me. Is he here because I’m already in love with him (because I think I’m already in love with him), because we have great sex, because he’s familiar and comfortable (because he’s familiar and makes me comfortable with his money), because he’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted before—because really, how can you taste yourself?




Tonight is my first night without him since he moved in. I’m eating pizza and watching The Cosmos. To celebrate? To fill his absence? I have no idea where he is or why he left or if he’ll come back. I do know I’m afraid.




Ive been drinking tooo much lately. Like now I gotta a liter of coke alot of rum. In me. Soon just be vomit and me wishing for




She was the best friend I ever had and I don’t even know what the hell she was. She had skin the color of black antlers and sandy hair, oddly long fingers and dirt-colored nails. She always gave me ice when I got my black eyes, even though she lived in a cob-and-cacti-house five miles into the desert. Everything else, all my other memories of her, I’ve successfully drowned in oceans and lakes and occasionally, when I’m feeling especially tristful, rum-and-coke. I saw her every day that summer and never loved anything more, until…

Can you imagine what losing someone like that would do to you?



The more Peregrine clings, the more I feel alone. Why? Because the closer you are to something the harder it is to see all of it. I think we’ve lost sight of each other. I hope this trip won’t be our last. We have something, I really feel we do.



It’s impossible to know yourself, I think. You, a single speck in the everything that’s also you.

I don’t understand anything I’ve ever done.

Twice, I thought I found something different. But I wonder now if they ever were.







Clean boxers?





If you want more of Ebb and Peregrine, if you want to try to decipher these fragments, or find out their brutal end, wade over to Shimmer and read my story The Seaweed and the Wormhole. The pieces above were culled from the piece during a much-needed bout of editing; they diluted the story, but I still liked them well enough on their own to post them here.

There’s also an interview with me, if you’re into the whole process and brain-picking thing. : ) (I know I am.)

dire me 4

dire me 4

(This was written a week or two back, so if you’ve been hanging out with me and time seems warped in what follows, my tenses wrong–it’s because I’m posting this late.)

1 (leaving Montana)

Our last days among the Rockies were spent at Miscon–Missoula’s local SF/F con–and shoveling our junk into boxes, cramming those boxes into the Uhaul. When we find an extended home for our meat to rest in, I think a drastic culling will occur. We aren’t shiny-hungry magpies squatting in a nest of glitter-skinned corporate offal. We like books, and musical equipment just sort of appears ’round us (usually with the help of money, but sometimes not. Eg: the garage dwelling drum recently forced into our possession), and don’t own much of the useless trinketry that other semi-affluent Americans drag behind them in a smear of materialism. But what we do own is more than enough to make me twitchy.

After packing, we headed to Portland. I blasted our first album, SEED, all the way through the Cascades, because we were finally finally going home. Knowing that we’re back west for good, that we don’t have to return to Montana, was a shock of relief, a slough of heavy dry heat, the fading crackle of pines, the clearing of August smoke I won’t have to swallow this year.

2 (home)

I’m writing this as we head to Eugene from Western Washington, to claim the apartment me were just offered, and it feels purely right to be blasting the guttural doomy beauty of Insomnium while hemmed in all around by low-bellied skies and leaning coniferous biomass. Big sky country always felt so much more choking to me than the greenthick of the PNW. I am bigger here, and closer. My potential is expansive.

3 (inward and back)

Though we have a place to sleep in Eugene now, after we sign papers and give people money, we’ll be heading north again to spend time in the Puget Sound for reasons: a birthday, father’s day, a wedding, music, sewing projects. Also sushi. Also Bucky Barnes and Loki.

The past few days have been strange, and warm, and slightly creepy–watching home videos always seems to be that way. Seeing how I’m still very much myself no matter where in time I am. Mostly, I was looking for glimpses of Tinker (the dog I grew up with)–hunting bees, stealing sandwiches, gnawing on off-limits Christmas presents. But still, it was amusing to see smaller, jumpier versions of my sister and I scuttling about on-screen.

4 (music)

March 2012: SEED released
June 2013: Winterwheel released.

Going by the above, Moss of Moonlight is due for another album release. Bittersweet truth: it’s gonna be awhile. And while there is one brewing, it’s slow in the making (we’ve had a name for it for more than a year now)–but only because it’s bigger, and spells expansion and evolution.

Meanwhile, we’re working on two other projects–the first is a Cascadian black metal collaboration called Old Man of the Lake. We’re working with an ex-housemate of ours to make something dirty and raw, and sharp. (I just heard one of the last tracks–despite the catapulting squirrels I was watching out the window while listening, it was a massive song, and haunting, and I cannot wait for it to be given to other ears.)

The other project is doomier, and apparently features me on lead vocals (ugh. nervewracking.)–it has a name, and an album title, both of which are safely skull-locked for the moment. But as we get established in Eugene, those two works should come together quickly; we hope to have fresh-birthed music to share by the end of 2014, or early-early 2015.


Just a list to end on:

back forth

Sex, Elves, and Rock ‘n’ Roll (Skyglass Ch1 is alive!)

Sex, Elves, and Rock ‘n’ Roll (Skyglass Ch1 is alive!)

Read chapter 1 of my novel Skyglass right this very sweet moment. Really. There are elf-powered plant cities, and fire-cats, and gun chases, and disgruntled drummers.

Have a (sexy) prologue! It’s not necessary for understanding the main story, but utterly worth a read for the multiple kinds of fuckery, interrogation of humanity, female agency, and space-battles (naked newborn vs. space ship!).

Alternatively: hop straight into chapter 1.

Also: check out the series page. And the character bios/designs! And this sweet magazine cover. Be sure to read/listen to everything mentioned thereon (Awake, as per usual, is my go-to. Ugh, so good.)–plus the bits not on the cover (personally, I’m looking forward to devouring the second part of Dinner Ditz [divorced dad destroys dinner!]):