Jareth Sculpt: Part I

For no discernible reason, while visiting my best friend in La Jolla, I took it into my head to make a sculpey Jareth.  He's my first go at sculpting anything and turned out surprisingly well, though the arms are subpar with the rest of him.  Obviously, the trousers aren't intended for him, but the scarf, which is of hand-dyed silk my friend got at university in Santa Cruz, might stick, costuming-wise.

HORRIBLE ARMS.  However, I'm somewhat proud of his face.  The eyes are cat's eye beads I had kept for ages, doing nothing with, then gave to her this summer and, in typical fashion, proceeded to steal back and use.  However, they contribute to a sort of mutable expression on him so I gues that's all right.

The beads, backstory-wise, are made from his own bone, during his days as a freelance mercenary; he'd broken a bone quite badly and the enemy commander who captured him turned him over to the resident torturer, who threatened to make beads of the protruding bone, to humiliate or intimidate him, whereupon Jareth, who was too mind-numbingly tired to care, cordially invited him to knock himself out.  Preferably literally.

Just a couple shots of the thing standing.  The fact that he actually stands makes me a bit proud, though it's slightly wonky. Wonky's a completely legitimate, dictionary-authenticated word, riiiight?

I made a tiny version of his amulet from the film, of course; there are better shots of that, and the other props, later.

No words can suffice for how fucking much I hate those fucking arms.  My friend has sworn to fix them at some point.

The best that can be said is that his hand does at least sort of hold the crystal.  Sort of.  The more I look at it the more I loathe it. 

And now, on to Part II - the details!

Ginger Peach

Spring came on suddenly, like desert rain. Sarah, forever in love with the turning of the seasons, woke up full of light and floated to the window, with breath bated until the rush of cool air twirled her around, and she breathed out a laugh and, inhaling, felt her eyes sting at the cold. It could not be much above freezing, but the world had shifted. It was spring, spring, spring!

The Road Through the Maze

Of the realm of Jareth the Goblin King (a border kingdom and thus half dependent upon the hopes, fears and fantasies of mortals Above,) some will look at its construction and say, "But it is ill-named! It is not a labyrinth at all, but a maze! A labyrinth is supposed to have a straight line to the center!"

As with so many other statements about this bizarre kingdom, that is only half true.

There is a road.

No One Remembered

He would not mourn her.

Hers had been a heroic death, all told – valiant and selfless, if hardly picturesque. Two out of three wasn't bad. But he would not mourn her. He would not grant her such an early death; he would not let her go so easily, nor lie so heavy on his conscience. He would keep her exhausted and beautiful, radiantly defiant, not angry but joyous in her epiphany, denying him. He would not mourn her.

After all, he had no power over her.

Thunk!

It was not so much administration as entertainment, but he'd grown expert at getting them to accomplish some approximation of what he wanted, albeit that this frequently involved a dramatic lowering of expectations on his part. The disturbing thing about ruling goblins, however, is that one must think like a goblin and, after innumerable eons, he still wasn't at all sure that goblins thought. And then he realised that he had, on the first attempt, conjugated that as 'thunk'. Jareth briefly considered throwing himself off the nearest cliff.