I used to practice medicine in the jungle
Is what I’ll tell them when they ask about my life
In the jungle, in French Guiana
In a hut with a small team
Doctor, say the children
And off I go
With my tools
With my leather briefcase
Into the trees to save lives
To nurse dying relatives with coconuts
Into the trees to bandage heat rash
Malaria conquered with a hand behind my back
Riverflood diverted with engineering magic
Plague and misery and want forgotten for a time
Forgotten as I joke with village elders
As I impress young women
My watch a spectacle
My arm on a bar on a night off
Two more, I’ll tell them I say
And I see the woman of my dreams
In a twist of dress at the far end as she dances with a man
Her bare feet soaring to avoid mango on the floor
Her dress the color of parrots

I’ll tell them about the monsoons
The nights it rained thick into the vegetation
The music of those nights turned to songs lost in gunfire
The sides of our dwellings the mornings after caked
All darkly sticky and caught in a damaged mosquito net
The river earth of mudslid ground cemented
Hairlike swirls that lead out and past our doorway to the jungle

I’ll tell them about the flight home
Years after the work had been finished
When they finally caught up with me
The men in chinos
The long-expected termination of my visa
The Tylenol
The embassy redeye
The way that I slept in row 27
Cleanly snoozing into a towel
A bit of paper stuck in a dot of blood on my chin
The light thrum of ambient cabin nocturne
A red-blue-white Miami-bound blink in time

(A HALLOWEEN 2013 SPECIAL) DARK TALES FROM EASTON, part eleven — “Be Careful What You Wish For”

andrew marathas HALLOWEEN 2013 11


“Be Careful What You Wish For”


Years ago, her time had come,
Her hair stayed stuck
In a well’s rust pump


for all she knew, her mother dear
Had meant it true -
‘I wish her near…’

So, up she came, across the yard
queezed up the pipe
Her entrance barred

And it wasn’t until late into the night
With all asleep
That she did bite

And she did bite, and claw, and thrash
Until she was free
Very free at last


(A HALLOWEEN 2013 SPECIAL) DARK TALES FROM EASTON, part eight — “The Dead Girl’s House”


andrew marathas HALLOWEEN 2013 08



“The Dead Girl’s House”

A loud tap of branch against the pane
and a shrill outbursting of kettle steam
The loudest clap of a closed book
A noise as the bulkhead closes in the dark
The cellar door with bugs
Big spiders winding them up
Crawlspaces never used

And she drifts the halls of this house
Looking for him in the pulse of wallpaper patterns
She will lean in at your ear
The volume of an alto
To whisper


andrew marathas HALLOWEEN 2013 07


“Big Guy”

The soil that the old farmer had planted those little, football-shaped seeds into had, admittedly, been quite dark. Some would say that the earth was as black as oil, and it had the peculiar consistency of old grape junk, but, he had figured it being nothing more than a high concentration of decomposition from all of the area’s past foresting. Yet, by the sixth victim’s passing on the first night of that thing’s arrival, Fred Burns, award-winning patch farmer and proud owner of Oak’s Shade Nurseries, began to figure something far more insidious was afoot.


andrew marathas HALLOWEEN 2013 07insta



The rain does fall,
O’, Rosalie,
Your skin white bones
And death’s head teeth
Your hair
Or body’s veil replete

For when he died
You were his bride
Slick blood on rock and turpentine

And when the task had been complete
You hid his corpse sat tight and neat
His brains inside
Your smile wide
A knitting needle in each his feet


(A HALLOWEEN 2013 SPECIAL) DARK TALES FROM EASTON, part five — “When The Bleeding Man Walks Through Town”

andrew marathas HALLOWEEN 2013 06

“When The Bleeding Man Walks Through Town”

The kids on the street stop dead when they meet
When the bleeding man walks through town

The wives in the house stow knives in their blouse
When the bleeding man walks through town

 And the men with their guns should know when to run
When the bleeding man walks through town

Hide the babes, hide the kids
Pray for rain, screw the lids
When the bleeding man walks through town

Lock the door, kill the lights
Pray no more, it’s alright
When the bleeding man walks through town


andrew marathas HALLOWEEN 2013 04alt

“The Sea Witch”

Shortly after dusk on a cold, October evening, set to the timeless, rhythmic shushing of the rising tide, an impossible fire grew from boatwood and dune grass to reveal the woman at once. There was no heat in those flames, and it was as if the light of the intensifying blaze, as it occurred, was tapping the very sun as it waned at the western edge of the world. Her gown was soaked in seawater the dark thud pulse color of a distant hurricane; her eyes, concussive blue-dark pearls that reflected fire in pinpoints of flickering hell.

She raised her arms to the wind and sang, clutching in each hand the impressive ingredients for unspeakable rituals before casting them from thin air to hand to fire. And it went on like this: she began slowly with the wreckage of an ancient ship, pulling wood from an amorphous hole in the world and piling it high in a terrible construction of steaming mayhem. Quietly, she threw fistfuls of slick black tidal mud mixed into cold paint with the tube guts and blood of beached fish. She carved out bird spells in sea glass with the bladed edges of broken conch shells. She threw whole handfuls of sand and grass with striking speed into clouds that caught it and sent it away in dancing swirls. She chanted in time with the tide, and the winds rose. Tiny storms began in her heart.

The speed of it seemed unreal, as if time acted differently for the woman and the fire and the world set in total opposition to them. The gusts and violence were voluminous, feeding the inferno with an old spirit. The wood of the otherwordly vessel dried, splintered black, and exploded in a constellation of fireflies to the backdrop of shrill laughter. The knotted lights in the depths of her eyes dilated wildly, and a grin of diabolical satisfaction revealed with parting lips of remarkably dark beauty the carnivorous teeth of an ancient and wild thing.

In time, the witch had stopped.

The sun was gone. The moon was gone, too. An array of living stars spread out in the sky that was the pitch color of soot shrouding the coast. The flames, now naturally hot and small, had died to a slow crackle around the skeleton assembly of burned things. The low thrum of high tide pulled up on the sand, only to pull away again with a watery hiss. Glints of light caught in the emerald crags of tumbled sea glass at the foot of a log by a gull that blinked, cleaned its plumage with a couple motions of its face, and flew away into the night.


andrew marathas HALLOWEEN 2013 02

“The Bites”

The hole in the wall by the stairs at the door
Opens once in the night for the darks that seek more
In the night, the Bites come
Without light, without thumbs
Without sight, without gums

And it’s your legs that they seek
All of the meat in your feet
All of the teeth in your head
And the hands in your bed

And the lids of your eyes
Which are just right size


andrew marathas HALLOWEEN 2013 01

“The Darks”

By late October of 1975, the old half farm house at the far end of Sink Street began its term of total isolation. Town officials for Cedar Hill pointedly did away with incidental foot and car traffic in 1974 with the emergency construction of a new highway that stunted the entrance of the street, making it an island of reality. In 1976, a wall built to retain sound lined the fast lane of route 67 for the quarter of a mile where hints of the broken road could be spotted by commuters in traffic. Large trees beyond that were planted to edge its top, pretty red cedars the grew a peculiar sooty color. In 1977, traffic in the left two lanes of the route passing the street was disallowed outright overnight, a move later described in newspapers as one needed for the prolonged integrity of the overpass during months of high traffic.

On October 2nd, 1991, decades out from the isolation laws being passed and decades more still from the murders of the children, unknown to the rest of the world and uninterrupted deep in the basement of 19 Sink Street, a small, black rotary telephone began to ring abruptly, muffled by the walls of the buried, bricked up lockbox that investigators had, years earlier, tragically neglected to find.

One Per Day Archive — December 22nd, 2010, “Nathan Tyler, Ocarina of Time”


“Nathan Tyler, Ocarina of Time”

In an interview, Nathan Tyler once remarked that the quality of everything old-seeming to feel as if it had a fine layer of chalk, not dust or death, he said, but chalk, forms a fine example in the winter months, the months where the coldly bright and the awful wind draws everything out and thin, where the objective of most men is to appreciate the wet dark wood of the dead season from the dry inside, to keep the murk and the dreariness for the air of the wilds and to keep everything on the inside of things arid and hot with fire, there accentuating and perpetuating – or, rather, he went on to elaborate, continuing, preserving the effect of dry, clean, chalky, old, as he would have it, effects – old books, clean pages, dry socks, cool sheets that skiff above mattresses with the most complete of airy sounds.

He talked of days by the window, the days he would sit by the electric, breathy film of cool atmosphere near the dusty panes and wonder about the sheer amounts of sunlight bringing a cold, halved illumination to the boxy room. He would remark about the absurd glow of a world so frozen, the strangely alive light, he explained, that remains and pours outward when the world goes to sleep for months. All the while wondering this, he would, as he said, close in on the glass, real close, and keep his nose in the airy cold for long enough of a moment to feel the moisture bounce from the tip of his face to the window pane as frosty dew, small snowflakes that never make it. Tiny circles of human fog, he stated quite plainly, as if the thought had been with him for a while, would hug the outside through clear plate for some seconds before giving up and vanishing completely.

Once done with the interview, Nathan adjusted the left lapel of his wool coat and continued with his coffee.


“The Love Poetry of Ted Leuras” — IV

Mountains of New Jersey


I’d like to know what it’s like here when it snows
Sat quiet soft love seat in the dark
Give me time, shouts the hill
Come down the pipe from heaven, shouts the road
And in the morning a large plate of sunlight slides up over the sky
The blankets pull blonde strands out from curls all a mess
Is this what you had in mind, asks the mother
Because water does slap the bridge as the boats go by
The noise is close as you pass but claps out wet behind you and falls away
Every tree along the road leans in to watch you go
Every road you go on lifts for a moment, breathes in, and is gone with you
Time can ache
That same plate that seemed to be sliding to a stop rotates down and around until wet ink nothing remains
The door and the carpet and the sofa bed, she said


HF Character Concept — “Baby Abraham”

baby abraham(6x12)

Her purse and her keys and her clothes always make roughly the same noises as she sides up to the bar. Most of the time, some say she’ll show up around like eleven. Girl’s a mess. The only guests that are there to notice by that point are people signed up for water aerobics or the general populace of bored beach people – hotel guests that literally had nothing else to do but go outdoors and act the part of the glad vacationer making the most of their time. There isn’t much room on the south shore, anyway. Even when it’s packed, the recent construction Kellogg had approved after signing on with Galaxy makes it hard to get a decent number in on the best days, and the worst days see rain or off-holiday lulls or something more interesting in the amphitheater on the top floor of the hotel. All of this lets Baby sneak in a pretty impressive amount of well drinks without being disturbed or noticed as a regular, if she’s in the mood for it. The Cormorant Club isn’t her only haunt.


She flips her purse and digs through its contents, making the hollow, plastic sounds of empty lipstick and compacts. She grabs a five and pulled it flat, holding one end with her right hand and pulling her left thumb along the middle of the bill. It’s perfumed with the smells of all her stuff by the time she hands it to the young man behind the bar.

He, in turn, now days trained to her order shorthand, puts a glass of beer and a tumbler of scotch in both her grabby hands. She smiles, pulls a hat down over her head, and makes off for the shade of a nearby stalk. She makes a half-attempt at unfolding a towel and sits on it. She pulls off one shoe awkwardly as she sips scotch. The beer she had ordered she had forgotten on the bar and is sweating cold water by the time she realizes that it’s probably too late to grab it. Failing to finish the drink in her hand, Baby Abraham digs the bottom of the glass into the sand to avoid tipping it in her sleep and promptly takes a nap for an hour before getting started with her day.


“There is always a man. There is always a lighthouse. There is always a city…”


“What’s the next Big Daddy? Is it Songbird? Is it the Handyman?” No, honestly, it’s going to sound counter-intuitive, it’s Elizabeth.”


“She is the next stage of how we make you emotionally connected to what’s going on with the world, what’s going on with characters.”


“It’s a character we create empathy with.”


 ”It’s a character that makes you feel that you’re a participant in the narrative, you’re not just observing.”


“That you, as Booker, are interacting with a character and driving the narrative of this experience.”


“That’s been our mission, making the player part of that and letting them drive their relationship with it rather than watching it passively.”

-Ken Levine
Creative Director, Irrational Games
BAFTA, 2013


The story is amazing. The characters are amazing. The scope of the narrative is so spot on. Visually, the game is extreme and fantastic. The nuance is there. The use of technology is graceful and inspiring. The resolution of everything is perfectly paced and, really, just kind of astonishing.

If you haven’t yet, grab a copy and play the damn thing…

April 8th – 15th; COMMISSION WEEK

COMMISSIONWEEK andrewmarathasdotcom


As is typical for this time of the Spring most years, I find myself with a stretch of manageable free time where I can squeeze in commissions that would otherwise press me for time and energy. My plate of tasks is clean and ready to be refilled! As such, I like dedicating a week to the pure chaos that is finding, wrangling, netting, negotiating, and otherwise bringing about great commissioned work.

Here’s my pitch, voiced internally by you by whichever commercial celebrity you deem compelling enough to convey the selling remarks:


“Do you find yourself lonely, on the tail end of your seasonally affected winter depression? Are you energized by the sunlight that seems to be thumbing its way through the smeared dust of your dirty window glass? Are you refreshed by the bitter end of tax season, the electric pop jump start that is late April that could, in another universe, actually have its arrival heralded by the kickstarting of a loud bike engine, boxing bell, or starting pistol? Was tax season great to you? Are you rich? Most important of all, are you in the market to purchase the bright work of a local, Boston-based illustrator to fill the voids on your otherwise snore-worthy bore-fest walls?

You’re lonely. You’re edging out of the groggy depression of winter months into the bright near-summer sun and smells of blooming flora. You have extra money. Make the right decision for the sake of your own self-care and commission a painting! Works are finished mount-ready and sealed with a resin gloss glassy enough to wow even the most skeptical of art critic houseguests. You have nothing to fear.”


Feel free, in this new season, to splurge a bit to help yourself to something remarkably cool that you can end up showing off to people when they visit with you, can ponder in your most quiet hour from your couch on some boring weekday afternoon, or hold on to until I either become famous enough to make the initial value of the work increase dramatically or desperate enough for you to sell it back to me for double the cost!

Get in touch with me at the following address to negotiate the details. Let’s start a conversation!