Welcome

My name is Evelyn Alvar.  I'm a writer and an artist.  Perhaps you've seen my illustrated novella series, which this blog is named after, or perhaps not.  They are something of a niche market.

These novellas detail fantastical landscapes, eerie and beautiful beings, strange stars and wonders and oddities.  My artwork attempts to capture these things, illustrations tucked between the pages.

The books are billed as fiction.  But they are not.

I have been to each and every one of these places.  You see, for as long as I can remember, I have been able to slip between the layers of reality, to visit realms that most believe to be fantasy or myth.  But they are very real.  I walk in them every day.  I take the name Siabhra (SHEE-vrah) when I do this, and I... transform.  Dark hair becomes silver streaked with gold, brown eyes take on a shimmering violet hue, eyelashes and eyebrows shift to a frosted silver.  I don't know why this
happens, but it does.

Here, you will read my story, and my stories.  You will see images I create that are dim and imperfect reflections of the things I've seen.  And you will likely believe this blog to be a creative expression, a fiction, the fantastical workings of a creative mind.  I won't disagree, but neither will I agree with you.

Welcome.

--Evelyn

For easy-to-follow chronological story links, go to the "Chronology" tab at the top.

If you like what you see here and would like to support this storytelling and art project, please leave a tip by clicking on the Paypal-linked perfume bottle below!

Chapter Eight-- Things That Are True, Things That Are Ignoble


My mother sets out a plate of shortbread cookies and a ceramic pot of tea decorated with little yellow flowers. An almost syrupy fruit-like scent wafts from the pot. Her auburn hair is perfectly coiffed and pinned, her modestly-cut yellow dress crisply pressed, makeup carefully and subtley applied, a stark contrast to my own hurriedly restrained hair and utter lack of adornment. The house is, as always, spotless and decorated like a photo in a home décor magazine. My mother prides herself on being the perfect picture of domesticity and wifeliness, a carefully cultivated image meant to enhance my father’s standing in the religious communities he frequents and solicits business from.


Well. I say ‘father.’ It seems I may be mistaken about that assumption. That’s why I’m here.

Read More...

Chapter Seven-- Fluid Time

Looking at photographs on a laptop screen does not have the same impact as holding a book in one’s hands, feeling the texture of the paper, the leather, the coarseness of aged ink, the scent of age and hidden history. I find I can’t read the text now, but as I gaze at the graceful script, my mind starts clouding over with half-realized images, jumbled and cryptic. A great, shimmering city, domed and spired, partially translucent, white with deep cerulean depths, like arctic ice. Endless forests filled with ancient, sentient trees that branch and root in all directions, intertwining, a single entity. I stand before a group of old-young-old men in deep blue robes, their faces dour and hardened with cruel lines, their eyes cold and calculating, and I laugh in their faces and tell them I am free of you. They reach for me with clawing fingers, but I am gone like the North Wind, an icy gust in my wake. I see Trick again, and he is laughing with me. “Create your own name,” he says to me. “You are not Galatea. You are not their marble lady…”

Read More.

Chapter Six-- Trust

I arrive at her condo very early this morning because I didn’t want to do this at the store. I haven’t been here in years; it has changed little since I lived here, the furnishings still elegant and classic, the walls still paneled with delicately carved scrollwork. I look down at the book in my hands, running my fingers once across the dried, cracked leather, before glancing briefly at Alice. She is gazing at me expectantly, hands outstretched, waiting for me to place the book in them. I nibble on my lower lip.

 “Can I ask you something?” I murmur. She tilts her head slightly without lowering her hands, and I take it as an affirmative. I start to continue, but then falter, uncertain how to ask.

Read Chapter Six here.

I apologize, but Chapter Six will have to be delayed due to a family member being taken to the hospital.

Journal

An entry from Evelyn’s personal journal.



5/18

I didn’t get much sleep last night. Too much on my mind.

 I have to go to work at the shop today; I can’t stand the thought of seeing Alice right now, while her reaction to my taking the book is still fresh in my mind. For some reason, her lack of anger bothers me more than anything. I don’t know why. I suppose I just expected that icy rage of hers to be leveled at me, but she’s being… kind. Even gentle. And, now more than ever, I can’t shake the feeling that she knows more about me than she’s ever said. I don’t think her possession of a book with my image in it, an image of my projection-self, is a coincidence. And I don’t think she is ignorant of the truth behind that image.

Read full entry.

A Note from Amyla

Note from the author:

After some consideration, I've decided to move this blog to Wordpress.  I have a number of reasons for this, from crazy formatting, to awkward follow buttons, and just generally a preference for Wordpress as a whole.  I opened the blog here with the intent to use Google AdPlus, but I think that having a better platform is preferable.  I figured it was best to do this now, rather than later.

So, for a little while, I'm going to post a paragraph or two of each new chapter of narrative that then links to the new blog.

I'm hoping to have a new chapter available today.  I'm not certain if I'll be able to, because it's looking like I may have to take a family member to the hospital.  But I'm going to try to at least do a text post, if not an illustration.

If you would like to add the new Wordpress Memoirs of a Tourist blog to your follow list, please feel free, and spread the word about this project!

I appreciate each of you, and thank you for reading.

--Amyla