Clementine just cant stop killing people...  

In her defense, she's doing it for the greater good, taking rapists and murderers off the streets, making the world a better place one mark at a time. It doesn't hurt that killing people has a small benefit for her too.

Here lies a snippet into the inspiration For Small Deaths. This idea started as a short story I wrote long ago about a girl who accompanied her father and he took the dead to their final resting places.

Clementine, by Dorian McIntyre

 Clementine walked alongside the tall man in the dark. It was raining, but they weren’t wet. The night sky painted the town a dreary black and white, and the strong winds whipped the shrubs and trees back and forth, ripping leaves off the stems, and making them dance in the mist. A thick fog lay like a blanket on the ground; it parted as they strolled through it like a zipper being unzipped and then zipped back up again. “Do you like coming to work with Daddy, Tiny?” the man spoke as he walked down the path, searching for their destination. Clementine had to raise her head almost horizontally to see the man. She giggled and nodded her head up and down, resembling a bobblehead. “I like to finger paint.” She said. Houses sat in rows on either side of them, looking dark and unoccupied – a little haunted. Every now and again you could see a shadow of something strolling through a hallway. The man wore a long black robe that dragged the ground, the delicate fabric flowed gossamer and looked like a current from the ocean in the breeze. The little girl had blazing red hair– dulled from the absence of light at night–and sparkling green eyes. Freckles peppered her small heart-shaped face. The man had the same features, only a little older and more masculine and worn. A bit tired. They stopped right in front of a red brick house and walked up the pathway. The steps were steep. Clementine had to practically jump to reach each one. Her stump legs could never reach anything. The man in the robe pulled her up into his arms and walked up the remainder of the stairs for both of them. He opened up the door and sat Clementine down on the white alabaster floor parallel to another man lying on it. Clementine finger-painted with the thick red liquid spreading lazily across the white marbled floor. She drew flowers in the same places over and over again, but it always took too long for the liquid to dry, so her pattern would never stay. It always rushed back to where it had been before she had disturbed it, erasing all of her hard work. Like the milk she poured in her cereal bowl, it was flowing out of a man who hadn’t moved since her and Daddy had entered the red brick house. He was sleeping, and she kept trying to wake him up. He wouldn’t budge, he just lay there, and so Clementine decided she would go back to her artwork, trying – and failing – over and over again to make her flowers stay. She was always so impatient. She rubbed her hands off on her yellow dress, but it left no stains on the front. She hummed as she drew and waited on Daddy to come back down the stairs in the foreign house. He had told her not to touch anything, but 5-year-old children weren’t the best at being told what to do, and she touched a lot. The man in the robe, Daddy, descended down the stairs with the same man who was also on the ground in front of Clementine. The man on the ground – now up and walking and not sleep like she thought – smiled and walked out of the front door. “Ice cream?” Daddy asked Clementine. “Orange flavor?” Clementine loved orange flavor ice cream. Daddy smiled and said yes. He pulled Clementine up into his arms and they exited the house, disappearing into the night.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                              ***    Credits   ***

• Video: Rough Animatic Created by Dorian McIntyre   
• Images: All images and illustrations were created by Dorian McIntyre 
• Audio: Elevator Music - Bohoman, All rights belong to Bohoman, used for personal use only