Tuesday, 29 January 2013

Monday, 28 January 2013

Tuesday, 22 January 2013


By Alan McCormick and Jonny Voss
Published by dead drunk Dublin

Leaving the forest, Udo sails on his wardrobe boat across a shiny mirror glacier. Soon he is met by a line of soft melting snow and can’t go any further.

A group of eight penguins, who think they are a husky sleigh team, come to the rescue. They harness themselves to the boat and start pulling.

‘H’ shouts the lead penguin.
‘U’ shouts penguin Number 2.
‘S’ shouts another.

The eighth penguin stamps his feet with nothing to shout.

‘What’s that spell?’ shouts the lead penguin.

‘HUSKIES,’ yell back the penguins (apart from the eight with no letter to his name).

The boat flies through the sludgy snow and the vocal seven break into song:

‘We are the Huskies, who never make you slow,
We are the Huskies, who’ll lead you through the snow.
We are the Huskies, whose backs are strong,
We are the Huskies, and this is our song.’

‘Excuse me,’ cries Udo interrupting their song, and bringing them to a halt.

‘What is it?’ snaps the lead penguin.

‘You’re not huskies, you’re penguins,’ replies Udo.

‘Tell him to look at our tails,’ shouts Penguin Number 2.

‘You don’t have any tails,’ says Udo.

‘He’s right, we don’t have tails. We’re penguins,’ says the normally silent eighth one.

‘P-E-N-G-U-I-N-S,’ spells Udo trying to help.

A murmur of disquiet settles on the penguin team. They look each other up and down, raise their heavy black wings from their sides, and bend over to examine their tiny paddle-like webbed feet.

‘Penguins; we’re penguins,’ announces the lead penguin. ‘Number 8, you’ve been right along.’

They start to run in small steps like penguins and the boat creaks as it gets pulled along.

‘P’ shouts the lead penguin.

‘E’ shouts penguin Number 2.

‘N’ shouts another.



Cancer Bob and the Yoyo

Cancer Bob and the Yoyo

By Alan McCormick & Jonny Voss.
Published in 3am magazine.

Bob with the Cancer, a charred renegade cowboy scout was puffing and lolloping along on his half-assed, half-blind donkey when he passed two unlikely lads cavorting on the skirted hem of a daisy prairie.
One of the unlikely lads, Pete with a rooster, cried, ‘Yo!’
‘Yo,’ repeated his crushed-almond-eyed friend.
Cancer Bob creaked around his saddle to face them: ‘What in the name of sweet Jesus are you two female faggots wanting from me?’
‘Yo yo,’ shouted Rooster Pete and his nutty fiend.
Now the donkey agitated around to bring Cancer Bob nuzzle-up-close to the yoyo pair.
‘I’ll say it only once: why are you rattle-snakes repeating your death rattle claim on my running-out-time?’
‘Yoyo, sir. It’s all the craze in the East. Spare us a dime and we’ll furnish you with our presentation.’
‘What do you think, Dong?’ Cancer Bob asked of his donkey. ‘Shall we give them a dime for their troubles or shall we blast their dim-witted asses back up to Kingdom come?’
Donkey Dong looked heavenward and brayed very loud.
‘Sorry boys, I have my answer,’ said Cancer Bob with a rotten kind of smile. Then out came his pistols and squeeze went the triggers. Bullets flew and the two unfortunate, unlikely lads fell backwards onto the skirted hem of the prairie.
As the rooster cooked on a fire and Donkey Dong hoofed up granules of desert to make two shallow graves, Cancer Bob lay on his back doing an expert cat’s cradle with the yoyo. ‘Those talent less fuckers will be pushing up daisies soon enough,’ he said.
‘And so will you, Bob,’ replied Donkey Dong.
‘Guess I will at that,’ said Cancer Bob allowing a crooked smile to pass across his lips as he offered his donkey dong a drag on his nicotine.

The Wisdom of Solomon

Here is another story which was published by 3am magazine from Alan and myself.

The Wisdom of Solomon

By Alan McCormick & Jonny Voss.



Solomon King lay on the hem of the ocean, the sea tickling his toes. He watched his father with his giant flask of popcorn, his wife with her billowing cornetto hair, and his children, Posy, Mabel, Greta and Sidney paddling in the shallows and he wondered to himself how he got here and where he was going.
The moon turned and the waves pulled back to reveal a little man in a pink wetsuit burrowing into the sand.
‘He must have been here all the time’, thought Solomon. ‘I need to ask him what he wants.’
Suddenly a flock of seagulls fell from the sky. They snatched the popcorn from his father’s flask, and then rained them like crap confetti all over everyone and everything. Solomon looked down, the water was creeping over his toes and the little man in the wetsuit was gone.


Studio drawings

These are some of the drawings around me in the studio.
They are on the backs of doors, under shelves or just on the table I work on.

Friday, 18 January 2013

Large drawings

Here are two more large scale drawings which I did a few
months ago.  These are in graphite and wax crayon.

Thursday, 17 January 2013

New large drawings

Here are a couple of new large drawings.
pencil and oil bar.

Wednesday, 16 January 2013

New book

Here are some drawings from a sketch book I finished a few weeks ago.

Tuesday, 15 January 2013

More stories for 3am mag

Another story published by 3am magazine.  I sent the drawing over to Al
and he wrote the story to the drawing.   

Christmas spirit (by the River Lea)
Story by Alan McCormick drawing by Jonny Voss

It’s Christmas Eve and down at the anchor of hope down by the river Lea, Leonard the hopeless disabled Santa is on his seventh Pride.
Melancholic Mike whose eyebrows dance for a local ska three-piece offers some advice: ‘There ain’t no Christmas spirit no more, Santa, it’s about advertising, capitalism and exploitation. Kids these days would fall behind Pol Pot and mow you down without a blink for the sight of a Moshi Monster.’
Tiny Hat Pete chuckles and says the best Christmas spirit is found in a full Tequila bottle.
Gypsy tache Vladimir lends a chicken shout to the air and voices the following to a silent middle-European fiddle beat:
‘You’re all on the path to your despair
with the chasing heart of a fallen hare,
but when you’re skinned and savagely eaten
it’s only then that you’ll find yourself beaten.’
Leonard the hopeless disabled Santa shakes his head, drains his last Pride of the afternoon, and looks out at the winter wasteland of marsh and tundra.
‘Thanks, Vlad, for your sad gypsy heart and thank you, Pete, for your love of alcohol; it’s good to find love in this lonely loveless world. And thank you too, Mike, for offering me your advice but I must say you’re wrong about children and Christmas.’
‘What’s got into you, Santa?’ asks Mike.
‘Christmas Spirit,’ replies Leonard gesturing with a smile towards a noisy boy scraping a stick along the towpath railings.
‘Would you like a salty crisp?’ Leonard asks the boy.
‘I’d prefer a Capstan, Santa,’ replies the boy.
‘Good lad!’ shouts Pete.
‘Ho ho,’ chortles Leonard. ‘I’ll add it to the list.’
Then Leonard puts on his Christmas cape and hat, picks up his empty sack, and with an appropriate seasonal whistle starts up his Pride to Go Mobility Scooter and sets off northward along the river towpath.

New story for 3am mag

Alan sent this to 3am mag for Halloween and they published it.
The drawing wasn't done intentionally for Halloween but it seemed to work.


 An Unholy Grail

Story by Alan McCormick and drawing by Jonny Voss
Published at 3am magazine

Quiet now. The night is Devil black.
Sleep now. The Knight waits for attack.
They mass behind. They storm and plunder –
The giant evil birds, the filthy scalded cats,
The eternal tombstone tenants, faces racked by thunder.

Hope shines out from the door in a negative of night,
But the moon above is full and on the other side of dawn
The cheats and murderous burst out of the earth,
The horned devil finds a good place from which to strike,
And the Knight waits for a night that’s dead and drawn.