Stephen is not a well man. His house is crowded with hellish creatures, stuffed dogs, gravewigs, Victorian medical tools, and malformed infants swimming in formaldehyde. We artists cowered and hunched together against his deviltry, clutching sketchbooks like shields, touring his wicked mansion. There, amid the mimic rout, we saw a crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing -- it writhes! - It writhes! with mortal pangs! Our minds become its food, and seraphs sob at vermin fangs in human gore imbued! And Stephen, eyes like Satan's glowing coals, laughs and tears open the curtain, a funeral pall, unveiling the horror within to affirm: this play is the tragedy, "Man," and its hero the Conquerer Worm.
(with apologies to Edgar Allen Poe)
Artist: Bob Rini