Encased in a coffin of exploded glass

Moans to bones of a mortal disaster

Frozen forever in shackling woe;

Although, once, unhinged by unrequited fire

~

It’s now December: the month of mayhem and madness.

Zāne huffs as It glares back and forth between two shades of gray. One is called Bone Marrow while the other is called Tooth Enamel. Both are very similar in color—or, rather, shade—and either would technically suffice for the bit of skeleton poking out of the broken glass casket…

But which should be used on the painting‽

Frustrated, the artist puts the messy palette down and covers it in a plastic dome, hoping to keep it from drying out. Glancing, again, at the zombie-like scene, Zāne contemplates calling Celia for her opinion.

That girl may not be an artist, but she definitely has an eye for beauty; it’s why they work so well.

“Well, that and our preexisting friendship.” Chuckling to Itself, the painter removes the smock It had been wearing and hangs it up on the back of the painting’s easel. A quick wash of the hands later, Zāne’s on the phone with aforementioned friend, “What color is your skeleton?”

Celia laughs, “What?”

“Your skeleton,” Zāne presses, small smile on Its lips. “What color is it? Bone marrow or tooth enamel?” Tiny bits of static burst out of the speaker as the blonde laughs again, breaking up slightly. The painter laughs with her, “Come on! Don’t leave your talent hanging!”

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with a painting?”

“Keep talking smart, manager lady, and see where it gets ya!” A fist is wagged in the air, scoldingly, although Celia absolutely cannot see it. Which is fine since she wouldn’t take it seriously anyway.

“Inside your latest masterpiece, for sure.”

Zāne snorts, nodding along. It’s one of the things that comes with being a macabre artist: all your art pieces end up being both pleasing to the eye and horrifying to the mind. But such is the art of death.

“Seriously, though: if you’re having so much trouble with the colors, why not go out and source it? Find some skeletons in those gorefests you love so much and note the colors.”

The painter raises a brown eyebrow, “… One: those are goth events, not gore. And two: good idea.” Celia laughs, saying you’re welcome, before the two hang up and Zāne changes clothes. After making sure there’s no paint on Its cheeks or in Its hair, the creator grabs a coat and braves the snowy weather.

The things one does for art!

By the time Zāne’s made it into Its favorite gothic café, It’s covered in a fine layer of ice and snow. The frozen water flakes off Its form as It removes Its coat and drapes it over a spare chair. It then sends a sheepish smile to the amused barista, “Sorry for the mess.”

RENEE waves the apology off and makes Zāne a large hot chocolate in a sweet skull mug.

The painter thanks her before settling down in a cubicle of horror and inspecting the décor. It takes pictures, rests the pseudo skeletons over and under a couple swatches, and debates for a few minutes before sending the photos to Its friend and asking the question again.

The response is yet another tongue-in-cheek joke about gorefest.

Zāne snorts; It then settles on the more fitting Bone Marrow.

~

It’s now December and Fhir is unbelievably nervous.

Halil stands beside him, suited this time in dark green, thoroughly amused. He guides his little brother through the throngs of people, keeping an eye out for the little Miss that the carver wants to meet, advising: “Relaxing, little brother. She will be hereing, soon.”

The younger man sighs, focusing on his frustration to avoid vomiting from nerves, “For the millionth time, Hal, the Miss is not a girl!”

The older brother shrugs the ire off, knowing well what his brother is doing. He plays along: “But the Miss is a Ms.” He grins as Fhir brushes him off, glad the younger is regaining his sense of self.

“The Miss is agender and it will do you well to be remembering this!”

Whispers break out amongst the crowd, as many worry this fight is real, and a security guard carefully approaches them. His hands are held up in a calming gesture but it’s clear to everyone around that Patrick will wallop a git. Halil holds up a hand, “Apologies, good officer. My brother is just nerves.”

“Nervous,” Fhir corrects, smiling sheepishly at Pat.

Pat understands. He nods, stating he has a little brother, too. He then leaves them be, ushering the crowd to calm themselves with a gentleness much appreciated.

The blue-eyed brother glares unheatedly at Halil, “Almost got me arrested!”

The green suited man laughs. Glad the tension is gone, both brothers settle down with some punch and await the arrival of the famed artist. This takes several minutes, during which Fhir gets restless.

“I am going for a walk.”

Halil nods and lets his brother be. He keeps an eye on him, however, as he makes his way around the room; forever the protective big brother. Many of the paintings hanging in the gallery are older ones from years previous. When asked last year, Zāne stated that It liked to display old works at the end of the year, rather than just new ones, because it felt fitting: honor the old before moving on.

He can respect that.

Fhir, of course, loves it. It means he can revisit his favorite pieces in person while also finding new ones. Often, he likes to bring pictures of his own works—the ones born of Its—and compare them. Usually, he is proud of what he sees; occasionally, he notices a flaw he needs to fix; always, he loves.

Today, he finds something new—something old.

He squints at it, confused. He knows he’s never seen this painting before—which can only mean that it’s new as he’s been to every showing—but… he knows he’s seen that moon before.

It’s in his pocket.

Surprised, Fhir pulls his key-chain from his trousers and holds it up to the painting. On one of the rings is a strange stone: flat and smooth on one side; round and etched on the other; a half-moon statute.

It’s almost a perfect match.

There’s screaming behind him as he steps forward, closer to the painting. He reaches up as Halil reaches for him and turns the stone so it better aligns with the half circle in Zāne’s work.

Then, Miss Foreboding is the one screaming.

“Don’t!”