Invader By Trace

The light.  Just easing over the edge

of the window sill and pouring down, into the room, like a waterfall, moments before the flash flood engulfs the entire river bed.

The photon missile sent from the exploding orb, 93 million — and some-odd-change-miles — out in space, slammed into my over-used, alcohol abused, ocular orb, otherwise known as my left eye… with barbaric insensitivity.

One moment, bliss-filled comfort: it was dark: OFF. The next nanosecond it was ON! Bright! Fusing vision and pain in one gigantic, violent movement to get away. But I, did not move. It was only my mind perceiving the desire to movement, not the sensation of noted neurological response. It was far too early, into a recovering Sunday morning, after a most unfortunate liquid-driven, sleep-deprived, Saturday night. Despite the neurons records of firing, the only loads going off — were blanks.

Nothing was getting through.

Then the orbiting ball of nuclear fission, out there in deep space, decided to ramp up the wager. The clouds of favorable diffusion decided to part, just enough to allow for an Orwellian blast of trauma, piercing the geothermal crack in the ocular orb’s covering. Sending a searing column of excited photons screaming across the cornea to plunge head-long into the depths of the retinal zone. The result was an explosion of pain that shot through both ocular orbs, blowing both coverings open.

Now I was, wide … well, OK. Blindly lying there with one eye; barely open.

It was then that I saw it.

AD Maddox,  Ashlin Hellraisers, flie series, ©2015
AD Maddox ©2015 Ashlin Hellraisers, flies series

Looming, not a foot away from my left eyeball. A gigantic alien form. Growing with each second that ticked off the atomic clock. Its outer shield of armor expanding upon the march of the photon beam of nuclear fissile energy. Marching across the table. Heading straight for my eye. And I could not move. I was still immobilized by the self-induced comatic remedy sent to us from the far away shores of Brigadoon. I was helpless! I was going to have my eye impaled by a senseless, heartless, brain-devouring alien monster. I had to do something.

Sweat began to form on my upper lip. I began to chill. My heart raced; so much so that it began to thump in my ears like an old John Deer tractor. Increasing with each second’s passing, I just knew it would Alien right out of my chest. Landing on the floor to forever Tell Tale Heart my demise to the world.

The world tilted toward disaster as the alien invader crept, ever closer, toward my delicate and unprotected eye.

It had eyes, too. Big ones. They were bright. Shiny. Heartless. Soulless. Orbs of evil reflection. Reflection of its evil intentions. Nothing inside. Stealing the brief point of reflection – that which it encountered – into a fauchard of raped reality. It looked upon me as nothing more than a piece of meat on its way to domination. I meant nothing to this soulless creature from deep space.

How did it get here? Where did it come from? What the heck is it, anyway??

As the sun continued to rise, the alien’s pace quickened. Closer. Closer. Closer, it marched. A river of sweat was now pouring down my back, across my brow, over my lip and onto the pillow. Mingling with the pool of pillowed nocturnal spittle deposition. Oh, I was a sitting-duck. Ripe for the picking, plucking, mucking. What a dupe. If I could only move. I’d get my gun and blast it straight to Hell! But I can’t! Hell! I don’t even know if I am really awake!

I am a pathetic mess.

Then suddenly there was a warm, fetid, yet cold, and definitely wet sensation exploding all over my face. I can no longer see the alien. It must have blasted me with some sort of chemical bomb. It’s blinding me with some concoction of alien toxins… well in advance of its final pounce!

I am Doomed!

“Max! Max! MAX!!!! Get off the bed and stop licking A.d.’s face. You know she doesn’t like that. C’mon. Let’s go get you a walk in. I’m sure you need to get ‘outside’ to ‘green-up-the-grass!”

“Hey A.d., time to get up. You’ve got paintings to get done. And you really need to stop leaving those flies all over the house. One of those things could end up in bed with you. I bet that thing would put your eye out! That would be all you need. C’mon! Get up! Before that fly on the side table gets you.”

Ahhh.. So that’s your angle. Alien mind-control! You beguiling evil alien beast! Make me think you’re harmless. OK! You crafty creature of doom. I may still be paralyzed by alcohol-induced neuron-impairment, but you will NEVER succeed. I will NEVER give in.

This is WAARRRRRRRR!!!!!

A.D. Maddox Studios –

Written by Arthur O’fieldstream | Image by A.D. Maddox


CXC is busy


This little pooch is a neighborhood friend of Canadian watercolor artist, Diane Michelin, from the Vancouver Island coast of British Columbia. Diane says whenever she is outside and this dog comes around he walks over and sets on her feet. So she took a photo of him – from above; posted it to Facebook and I took that image as inspiration for this image and added a bit of Sam Stovepipe, Sage of Gar Island wisdom, to make this eLITHOGRAPH titled, ‘Dog Porch: Zen Friends”.

I have been busy with new pieces, collaborating with more people and bringing a new level of technique to the eLITHOGRAPH process.

Following are few of the pieces I have been working on … and Kudos ‘n Thank You’s to those who graciously allowed me to continue the rending of influence initiated by their infusions of creativity.



Papa’s 2-Toned Wet

061113_ooak_papas-2tone-wet_barblessPapa said Jesus did His best work when He reached down, under-the-water’s-surface and pulled a person up. They were drowning. They’d already give’in to the idea they were gonna die. They’re workable. That’s the kinda house I lived in: Papa’s 2-Toned Wet.

Papa said when Jesus tried to work with people on top of the water, they weren’t easy to work with. They’s too much of themselves. Those people who’d gone down – were stiff – well …somebody else had to deal with them.

Kinda like fishin’. Papa liked wet-flies. He said fishin’ right ‘neath the surface was where you got a serious fish. Fishin’ on the top, that was easy. T’wern’t that hard. Fishing way down on the drag-bottom, that weren’t hard neither. Sorta like chuckin Kentuck’chuck’bait … or, what other folks called, fishin’ with dynamite.

But gettin’ the fish on a bite, right under the surface – at the line between their world ‘n ours – that was real fishin’. That’s Papa’s 2-Tone Wet. Well, part of it – at least.

Growin’ up in our family, there was rules, ‘n there was rules. Not many, but there was rules. One rule that Papa had – and no one dared to break it; least whys not when he was ’round; or kept right secret like, soes he’d be most likely not t’ EVER find out; was simple.

Fishin’s not about draggin’ the bottom, rakin’ the surface, killen or braggin’. Fishin’s ’bout one thing – and one thing only – fightin’ chance.

The fish gives you a fightin’ chance when you come to the water, to do your ‘fishin’ thing’ – whatever it be. So, h’it’s only fair that you give the fish, a fightin’ chance as well. That’s why he only used, the method he called, The 2-Toned Wet.

H’it weren’t no secret that my Papa liked fish and fishin’. But it was a hugemongeous secret about how Papa was able to be so lucky at turnin’ fishin’ into catchin’. Most folks thought he has some sort of deal with the water-spirits that helped him with catchin’ fish. But Papa just laughed. Laught good’n’hard …and loud… when he heard this said. Papa said the only spirit he knew of – anywheres near his fishin’, came from a Ball Mason quart jar. And he said most of them spirits were damned liars.

Papa no longer casts the 2-Toned Wet fly over the creeks of our home area. But, his shadow still casts quite a line over folks in these parts. Folks done asked ’bout Papa’s fishin’ luck and how he came to be in possession of his knowledge of 2-Toned Wet and I just ignored them. Then –I begun’ta realize that my bein’ all quiet’n’such ’bout Papa ‘n his gift, caused me to lose touch with Papa and his fishin’. That’s somethin’ I don’t ever wanna lose touch with.

So, I finally decided; since Papa is now only fishin’ in our memories; to write down what I know about Him and the 2-Toned Wet.

So, this is where Papa’s story begins … on a cool-runnin’ mountain stream, deep’steep in rhoady-shade hidin’, nestled like a baby’to’a’tit in a hot Tarheel afternoon’s rays; blazin’-hot-rays’, too, from an unseasonably hot June sun; alone and wonderin’ where the fish had gone.”

The eLITHOGRAPH, Pappa’s Two-Toned Wet, is an image size – 10″ x 8″, watercolor style image when printed. There are four panels of PTTW images. The image shown above is the Barbless version. There are three panels displaying the other versions. Shown below in the bar-panel (from left to right) you find  the  Club, Button and Hookless, styles of the PTTW wet-fly.



This fly and the story came out of an influential article, written by the well-known, and highly-respected Canadian-born, (now residing in the Bahamas) fly-fishing and TV personality of the popular fishing show, What A Catch, Kathryn Maroun.

Kathryn and I had started an online conversation, on Facebook, a few months before the ‘article of influence’ was published.  Our conversation of origin was over her current struggle with  Late-stage Lyme disease.  During her months and months of treatment, pain, agony and suffering, she began rethinking the whole issue of pain.  And in this she began rethinking her position as a ‘hooking angler’.  Read Kat’s story to get the full-story and her message.  Watch the video: The Evolution of an Angler.  Read the article in WOW online.

The upstart of the video and conversations with Kat was, her disclosure of a new-found preference for the use of a ‘hookless-fly’; a fly without, not only a barb, but NO POINT!  As I told Kat, I had been using a ‘hookless fly’ technique for the better part of 15 years.

I had developed this in response to what I was seeing as too many injuries – leading to death or greater potential for fatal release – of fish, through improper handling, that were intended to be released as catch-n-release.  So, instead of hooking the fish, I would cast a fly that has no hook to ‘hold the fish’.  The only ‘catch’ I would have would be the length of time the fish retained possession of the fly in its mouth.   Thereby giving new meaning to the old fishing mantra, ‘The Tug is the Drug’.

As part of the story, Pappa’s Two-Toned Wet, I have introduced 4 types of hook/bend designs for fishing a barbless to near to total-barbless fly.f  Thank you Kat for the inspiration that brought about Pappa’s Two-Toned Wet!