Pixilated Paintings – Dead Deer

Pixilated Paintings

Pushing out content, day after day. It was a great idea, once. Take an instantly recognisable classical painting, and render as if it were produced in the early days of computing. Blocky, but still itself. A good laugh. Friends enjoyed it, and out it went onto social media. It was fun, thinking of new ones, adding amusing quirks to old masters in this heavily pixilated form.

It grew, and some big names started following, eventually even a book was produced. That was fun, but a bit stressful and ultimately of course that type of book is always disappointing. Almost without noticing the pressure to get a new picture out every week – long since stopped doing it daily, how long ago was that? – begin to build. It was no longer fun any more. The idea was no longer fresh, new ideas for the subversive humour was harder to find. Everyone had seen the gag and moved on.

So a new idea was needed. An equally simple basic concept, and one which could maintain the simplicity of the #pixilatedpaintings identity. Taking some old pixilated graphic games and turning them backwards into old masters was clever, but very difficult, very finite and very niche.

The #pixilatednovels idea was never going to catch on in the modern instant ultra-micro-consumption social media world, and anyway what the hell did it mean?

So. It took months, years even. Cost a fortune and was exceedingly painful but when completed it scored huge in the hits and shares. For a few days. Was it worth it? #pixilatedself trended high for a brief moment but those uncomfortable square bone alterations were there for life. Never sleep lying down again. #Viral


Today I wrote from 19:06 to 19:16. I was prompted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

Feb 6th – Misty morning melancholy

February 6th – Misty morning melancholy

A Villanelle

(A1bA2 abA1 abA2 abA1 abA2 abA1A2)

Misty morning melancholy today,
it never seems to take me by surprise;
a creeping sense of nothingness at play.

I wonder if I can hold it at bay,
to shake the sense of dread from off my eyes;
misty morning melancholy today.

The sunrise opens up without a ray
of anything, it sinks and swiftly dies,
a creeping sense of nothingness at play.

Sometimes I feel it best to go away,
to seek a place away from empty cries;
misty morning melancholy today.

Other people who seem to find a way,
are people who can live without these lies;
a creeping sense of nothingness at play.

I shake the covers off, throw them away,
determined to resist the teasing cries;
misty morning melancholy today:
a creeping sense of nothingness at play.



Inspired by a prompt from here

Feb 5th – Blue jean babies

February 5th – Blue jean babies


They called them the ‘Blue Jean Babies’. And for a while, back in the late 1980s and early 1990s, they held most of South London in their grip.

These streets had known terror before. From Jack the Ripper to the Krays, there had always been something to fear. Something to stop you from going out alone at night, something for mothers to scare their children with The Bogeyman was real, and he had a name, and he was going to get you if you didn’t watch your step, be a good child, and do go out alone at night.

Nothing had prepared them for the Blue Jean Babies.

Nobody knew how many they were: they hunted in packs, sometimes in groups well into double figures. Where they cam from was a mystery. Easily identifiable by their uniform of denim jeans and jackets, you only wanted to see them from a distance. If you were close enough to see their faces, it was already too late.

The organised crime department of the Metropolitan Police was at a loss. Conventional methods of anti-gang policing were clearly not going to work. Informers were next to useless, and even their best men and women would be unable to go undercover. Because how could you infiltrate a gang whose average age was estimated at around four years old?

Mothercare was worst hit. Extra staff had been drafted in, security guards posted on the doors, but the Blue Jean Babies were too good, too fast, too ruthless. They were between the legs of the guards and wreaking havoc inside before you even had the time to work out what was going on. For a while it looked like stringing a net between the legs of the guards, tied on each side to the knees and ankles, was going to work, but field testing in Lewisham showed up one major flaw: how could you chase tearaway toddlers with your legs tied together?

Too young even for infant school, the average age of the Blue Jean Babies kept them out of the clutches of maternal infant school teachers who would smother them with kindness and pacify them with colouring in. Nursery schools kept inefficient records: it was impossible to know who was there and who wasn’t. A collaborative effort by shops and markets to ban the sale of junior denim only saw an increase in late-night containers arriving at Tilbury and swiftly moved on before the authorities could pounce.

And then, after a ten-year reign of terror, the Blue Jean Babies were gone. Some said they had simply grown up; others claimed that advancing technology and the deployment of animatronic teddy bears was the cause. Perhaps we shall never know. It is still the case, though, in several boroughs of London, that dressing your toddler in double denim is more alarming than a simple fashion faux-pas, and still has the power to elicit a shudder from even the most alpha of males.


Inspired by a prompt from here.