The Show Tell Project

For Seymour's Fat Lady

Opening to “Hypochondraway”

by fyarlgiles

There is a bloody rot in this place. It breathes beneath the floors. It lurks in the shadowy vents stalking the weak- hunting for meat until all the sick are swallowed whole. The thick smell of it made my vision go grey.

I’d been here as a child when it was a normal crumpled hospital for normal crumpled cirhossis patients and gangrenous feet. Thoughts of cancer crept into my ear, reminding me that there are poisons in this world that I can taste as clearly as the salt that rides on an ocean breeze.  I wasn’t completely cured yet. Dark, unpleasant thoughts often swelled up in my head leaving no room for cupcake recipes or oven cleaning tips. Today’s Hypochondraway treatment would fix all that though. From now on, ALL my daydreams would be happy and light like lemon meringue.

Excerpt from unfinished science fiction story titled “Hypochondraway” 

 The concept of this fragment is inspired by  a  series of psychosomatic fainting spells I had. The imagery, which I will expand on in later posts,  is taken from a dream I often have where I am sitting in the waiting room of a hospital in the early 1970s. Everything is yellow, linoleum, and humming with the sound of indifferent machinery.

by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

Unrecorded Song

by fyarlgiles

the bitter kiss of compromise

stained your lips and stole your voice

you’re a stranger I’m a ghost

and i can’t reach through all your noise

I’d float through all our clouds of smoke

That’s if I felt I had a choice 

Every morning I feel older

dark nights crawl, and warm days race

you’re so black and I’m too blue

our bed is such a lonely place 

Every day we wake up dry

in fields too brown for rain to save

sleep in weeds until we die

sleep in weeds until we die


Time will bury girls and boys

paint their minds then blow away

I was bright and you were new

I was a poem yesterday

now cut my skin or kiss my mouth

The notes I sing are always gray 

and every time you looked at me

My eyes were hard

My eyes were drained

My eyes were nothing much

 My Eyes by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

This song is about my relationship with my first live-in boyfriend after we grew tired of each other. I just remember scrubbing plates in our kitchen thinking, everything in my life is losing color but at least I can look out the window while it happens. Years after we broke up, I started  working on an album and wanted to capture that feeling in a song., but the chords I wrote felt very repetitive and didn’t really capture the mood accurately, so I scrapped the project.

Untitled Sketch drawn while listening to Kid A

by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

Untitled Image

by fyarlgiles


There are four red finger swipes essentially dissecting this girl, but these marks are simply there to set the mood, which they do. It’s an emotional piece… one that makes me think of abuse and how it leaves one broken.

Untitled Image by Vanessa Cate 

Journal by Mitch Shiwal


by fyarlgiles


Sketch &  Journal by Mitch Schiwal 

The sketch was called “Partheniad”. The concept was to draw someone bearing stigmas of a sexual nature. However the subject of the piece was not a sexual being, rather a virgin. Because fuck preconceptions.

Partheniad: A poem in honor of a virgin.


Evan Doll Without Feet

by fyarlgiles


This is a doll that I made of my fiance using sculpy and bent paper clips. I can’t sew, so he is topless. He also has no feet. After I finish a face I tend to lose interest.

by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

Unfinished Lyrics for Captain Crow

by fyarlgiles

His ruined ears can hear no truth

His soiled hands can share no warmth

I know his eyes seem soft at times

but they’ll steal what’s good in you

you’re just his fool

you’re just his fool

dance a jig to make him laugh

you’re just his fool

his loyal fool

Good Old Captain Crow


Your pity gets the best of you

that crooked fool you see is you

i know he’s lonesome, lost, and blind

but you can’t bring him back to life

“Captain Crow” from unfinished musical titled A Woman Made Cold 

& Partial Portrait of a Man by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

More of Angie’s poetry here:

Everything’s Blue in this World

by fyarlgiles


Beauty is mysterious;

finding mere pieces of Her is all we can ever hope to do.

In an effort to understand how truth and beauty are created, we regularly break down large perplexing works into more manageable pieces.A novel is merely a group of chapters, which is a group of paragraphs, which is a collection of sentences, etc. All interesting subjects become the victims of criticism, the Self included.

The artist’s perception of the world cannot be separated from her perception of self. Ultimately, she is another mystery  worthy of dissection and interpretation.One whose smaller parts offer glimmers of truth that can be seen, but never truly captured.

photo by Jaq Vega

journal by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse