Note to the reader: The conferences among fellow art students considering the subject of nothing was quite interesting. The conference was completed in several conglomerate portions and eventually concluded on July 12th.
The following is highlights from the conferences.


Session One: June 27














Session Two: June 28











Session Three: June 29







Session Four: July 1st

"It seems as though nothing happened in the past few days."

"Agreed."

"That is nothing interesting." (the participant who said this irrelevant sentence was later removed)







Session Five: July 4th


"Nothing ever happened upon this day throughout the course of history. Therefore being said, nothing has ever happened."


"Nothing or something?" (The participant who queried this dialogue was subsequently removed from later meetings)



Session Six: July 12th


"Nothing ever happens. Nothing is so...nothing."

"I have nothing written down."

"I have nothing to hide." (It was later discovered that the person who remarked the latter sentence was infected with thirty-six known and twelve unknown stds)


Results:

Throughout the course of our conferences of the thesis of absolutely nothing, we have unveiled conclusive proof that ample dialogue can be salvaged from a conversation based on nothing. Therefore, the human race is the most sociable creature upon mother earth. Although, it has been proven that some types of South American primates are ravagingly good conversation igniters.

I awakened,quite content, when the sun emerged over the Eastern horizon. I began my pursuit of the day desperately trying to cleave my improper slumber habits of remaining unconscious farther than 11:00 a.m. central time.
Downstairs, I imbibed Earl Grey tea as my lovely wife supplied me with ample fresh biscuits to coagulate within my stomach. Carefully, I hearkened to the audible churning emitting from my digestive system. This dissonant cacaphony would possibly stray the common bipedal as nothing more than unpleasant noise. I earnestly entrust the contrast.
I peeled the sounds as my hands sketched a picture of a dalmation in a firefighter's helmet. This is the image I salvaged from the gurgling and trembling within my abdomen.
Recently, I have uploaded two seperate works of art into my gallery. These pieces are not the best my genius has to offer but they are very complex and indepth.
I am off to a conference about "nothing" brought forth by my colleague Kristen Paranoia. This will not be a standard social engagement due to the fact that we are certain we are the only homosapiens ever to commit to such a conference which will omit conversation to anything that does not abide with "nothing." Given these circumstances, we have bestowed a local lifeguard to record all dialogue amongst ourselves in an effort to realize what the implications of a conference topic of "nothing" will result.
Tomorrow, I shall display data from this unique affair and prompty write about it again within this public journal and a private one of my own keeping. Until then, I bid all of my "watchers" adieu.

Scarlet Rain
By: Pete Sutcliffe

In the midst of a blurry horizon, between two hills, infinitely shrouded in a crimson fog, a
village slowly rots and crumbles. The aura is saturated in a stench, a putrid stench, the stench of bodies spoiling upon innocent lands. Not long ago, death’s unforgiving hand swept over this
village . . .

When a scarlet tinged storm approached the lands, many thought of it as trouble. Hundreds of villagers flocked from the outdoors to the safety of their homes. When the storm halted above the town, it began to trickle rain. This rain though, was that of a deep shade of scarlet just as the clouds above it. Still, some of the villagers attempted to carry out their tasks. What began as a trickle soon turned into a downpour, that’s when a stranger entered the town. His features were hidden by an old tattered cloak and a wide-brimmed hat, of which foreshadowed his face. Mystery was lingering around this figure, more mystery than that of the storm.

He walked briskly through the town’s main road; he stopped when he reached the heart of the village, a formerly bustling marketplace, sprinkled with the only people who lingered outside of their homes. In the center of this marketplace, rested a statue of the Village Mayor mounted upon his prized horse. The figure gained an ample amount of suspicious stares. One woman approached him and called out unto him to answer. She received no answer as the figure turned away from her and faced the statue. She came closer to him in an act of curiosity. When she could see under the wide-brimmed hat, her curiosity reverted to pure fright; a naked skull gazed at her. Empty eye sockets focused onto her eyes. Her pupils grew nearly as large as the skull’s empty holes. The inexorable rains seemed to be the only thing that moved between her and the skull . . .

She then collapsed onto the moist ground, sprawled out, motionless and clearly dead.
The villagers huddled together and watched with aghast expressions. The figure faced the crowd and two skeleton hands emerged from the cloak. They reached to the hat removing it with ease.
The crowd was now as motionless and still as the dead woman. The figure unbuttoned his cloak to reveal a bare skeleton. The villagers all locked on the horrifying site. Their eyes bulged from their heads as they too instantly crashed to the ground. The skeleton stood there. He peered toward one of the hills looming in the distance. He followed the village people and then he too crashed to the ground into a catacomb of tangled bone.

Upon the hill the skull peered unto, a pigeon perches upon a window sill. The pigeon seemed to hesitate flying in the storm, but the pigeon flew off toward a hill on the opposite skirt of the village. On the hill, the Mayor watched outside of his window. A pigeon then appeared from the distance. It landed gracefully in front of his window.

“Fetch thy bird from the window!” shouted the Mayor.

His Assistant appeared from the hallway and quickly opened the window and grasped the bird.
The bird was dry, for the rains had ceased to fall. A message dangled from the bird’s limb. The assistant gently tore the letter from the pigeon and held it near a candle so he could read it.

Dear Mayor,
As you know an alien storm has enveloped the town. This storm is perceived by many to be a bad omen. Mainly due to its crimson hue and the fact of its blood colored raindrops. I believe that this is a curse. There is word that this water is tainted as well. I urge thee nought to venture outside nor drink these waters. I will keep you updated on the matters throughout these times of concern.

-Count Dulstrem, of the hill

“What is it then?” questioned the Mayor.
“It’s a letter from the Count.” answered the Assistant.
“If I wasn’t stapled to my bed! Damned Equine! If that beast hadn’t trampled me! If I could walk, I would expose this fool who has offended me so! There is nought a curse! There’s nought an omen! I disregard the message with all of my esteem!” the Mayor proclaimed.

The Mayor’s rant only fell upon a single ear and that was the lobe of his assistant.
“I’m sorry sir.” he spoke.
“A Coward! A Count born with all shame of his father and his mother’s woes!” quipped the Mayor.

The Mayor then looked outside his window again watching the crimson clouds stir above his village. He looked beyond his window until the day was taken by the night and he succumbed to his eyelids. Before falling into deep slumber he uttered something loudly.

“If I could wallow in the scarlet rains, I would have! Damned equine!”

At dawn the Assistant started up the stairs bearing a freshly prepared breakfast. Flap-jacks and scrambled eggs took up most of the meal, the remainder being freshly brewed tea. Awakening to the breakfast’s intoxicating aroma, the Mayor peeled his eyes open. Through his window he saw a rusty fog shaping on the ground. A feeling of deja vu came upon him, a pigeon flew across the sky on course to his window. The Assistant treaded into the room when the bird unexpectedly slammed into the window. The noise jolted the Assistant so much that the breakfast flung from his hands and landed upon the Mayor. The scorching tea spilled over the Mayor’s face making him erupt an ear-stabbing scream from the top of his lungs. The syrup covered flap-jacks landed on top of the Mayor’s robes as well. The plate clattered to the floor shattering into small splinters.

“You incompetent fool! If I wasn’t bound to this bed, I would have severed your cranium and display it in the dining hall! the Mayor bellowed.

Right then, the Assistant felt compelled to act upon the Mayor’s unnecessarily harsh ridicule.
More hatred flowed through the Assistant’s veins than blood. He would not act without retribution.

“You look as though you are going to spill your tears! Read the message tied upon the pigeon’s shank!” barked the Mayor.

The Assistant walked solemnly to the window propping it up just as he did yesterday. His eyes were fixated on the dead bird although, his thoughts were on the undoing of the Mayor.
The pigeon’s carcass was lifeless and the Assistant felt a bit scared doing this. Despite his animosity toward the Mayor, he skimmed over it silently.

Dear Mayor,
I have received news that a disease has been killing off many of the townsfolk. The storm seems to have something to do with it. The water, primarily. I now am assured that it is tainted with a toxin that causes people to die in the most grisly fashion. Many trees and homes seem to still be dripping the scarlet rain. So I emphasize the need for us to stay indoors until either of us hear further news. Also, I have recently become aware that my well system is contaminated with the scarlet waters. I forewarn that your well may have been tainted as well so do not come in contact with any of it, or else the consequences will be dire on your behalf.

-Count Dulstrem, of the hill

“Do not spoon feed me any of those filthy superstitions if that is the Count’s letter!” snapped the Mayor,
“Now bathe this rancid breakfast concoction off of my face and robes!

A smirk appeared over the Assistant’s face as he paraded to the master bathroom. When he reached the bathing vessel, he stood over the tub, and turned the ivory spigot. Red colored water spewed from the spout and gathered at the bottom of the tub.

“I want the globules too!” the Mayor added.

The Assistant’s smirk grew into a devious grin when he grabbed a glass of body wash and poured it over the water.

At this very moment, the Gardener stumbled into the bedroom. The Mayor didn not say anything to the Gardner as he trotted over to the message, now lying crumpled on the floor. He picked up the crumpled letter and his eyes gazed wide as he read the paper.

“You are taking a bath sir?” he questioned with suspicion.
“Yes.” the Mayor calmly chimed.

The Gardener wavered for a minute then just as he opened his lips; the assistant lunged from the master bathroom, tackling the Gardener to the floor. The Assistant delivered one punch to his face and to his dismay the Gardener’s skin pulled off. The Assistant jumped off the floor and stood over the Gardener, watching tears of blood roll out from under his eyes. More blood flooded through, until his eyes gave way to even larger amounts of blood mixed with pus seeping from his blood pooling eye sockets that resided in the same spot his eyes once were. The liquids rose to the outsides of the sockets and slowly spilled over onto the floor. The Assistant looked away from the sickness he sensed developing in his stomach.

The Mayor bellowed a long scream, it made the Assistant feel as though a ton of needles were wedged into his inner-ear.

“What is going on?! What are you doing?! What twas the Gardener to say?!” the Mayor uttered.

“I’m going to give you a bath! Then you may finally meet your fate within the basin of scarlet rains!” menacingly screeched the Assistant.

With those words the Assistant roughly lugged the Mayor from his bed, using strength unknown to him until now. He dragged his corpulent victim from his berth and towed him inside the bathroom. There the tub sat, filled to the brim with a crimson tinged fluid.

“I beg of you to stop! Stop now! My back! My back! It is in so much pain! Put return me at once! Return me at once!” pleaded the Mayor.

His cries went unheard as he was ejected from the Assistant’s grasp and landed into the bathtub. His enormously large gut served him as in anchor, holding his body underwater. The Mayor wriggled, but the pain from his backbone was too much. He moved his arms violently in the water, for that was all he could do. He pushed the water back and forth with futile hope and his gut, which squirmed above the waters, wrenched all around. Then he instantly perished in the bathtub under the scarlet waters.

The Assistant laughed, he had hoped for so long that the Mayor would die. Now his dream had become realized. He then felt something moist on his vest. His heart suddenly sank. He looked down upon his shirt. Water, the scarlet water, had somehow splashed onto him in the height of the Mayor’s writhing and twitching in the tub. He fell to the ground while he could feel blood pressure building behind his eyes and his flesh slowly loosening their grip from his bones.

Outside, the rust colored fog failed to subside. Upon the other hill, the Count sent his final message to the Mayor and his Assistant.