XUBO: The Lost Drawing!

This was drawn back when XUBO had a robotic sidekick named ALVA.

A.ll-purpose

L.abor

V.ocation

A.ssistant

It's name was is a tribute to Thomas Edison's middle name, Alva.

Volog, The Goblin of Russia

A character from another folk tale in the works.

The setting is a Victorian carnival.

The name "Volog" came from the name of a Russian villiage called "Vologda" from a Russian Folk tale called "The Bad Wife".

The Ballad Of Exodus Tombs

An Original Folk Tale by

Jake Skully Jones

Of all the outlaws that ever lived

Most have gone and laid to rest

But there’s one man who never did

And he continues to haunt the West



A wanted man named Exodus Tombs

Who held up towns at a time

They called him The Reaper of High Noon

And The Man Who Shot Clementine



He’s stolen from carriage, clergy, and train

He walks endless days and nights

Until only his skeleton remained

Now, he’s called The Holstergeist



He’s a sharp six-shooter who’s first to fire

Lived by no ones rules but his own

Never slept and he never retired

He just worked himself to the bone



Word spread of a new sheriff in town

The Holstergeist walked in the saloon

He said, “By the time the sun goes down,

you’ll need a preacher and a gravestone too”



He said, “By my recollection,

there shouldn’t be a sheriff ‘round these parts”

He reached in his vest and showed his collection

Of his victims’ golden stars



Stores closed down for the standoff

Even shadows seemed to hide

A mortal and a ghost who can’t be stopped

Who gladly kills who wish to try



The sheriff came to end the peril

He drew his gun, and then there was a flash

The phantom’s pistols had two smoking barrels

The sheriff died and lost his badge



Always quickest to the draw

This duel was like the rest

Then The Holstergeist looked down and saw

Two bullet holes in his vest



“Who’s the one who shot me from behind?”

He asked the silent town

“You would have to be out of your mind!

But I’ll make it the other way around!”



He turned, and four times he shot

At a marksman perched on a roof

The gunman was safe, or so he thought

The noticed the supports were suddenly loose



The overhang collapsed

The Holstergeist laughed at the pitiful attempt

“Did you really think you would win?” he asked

Off to another town, he went



There were two men dead after the town was warned

With rumors of another sheriff, he made his leave

The Holstergeist is a killer to the manner born

Which is why he will never rest in peace.

The Legend Of Haystack Jack

An Original Folk Tale By

Jake Skully Jones

Once upon a time

a village on an English countryside

feared an apparition with orange eyes

with a burlap face, and it’s not a mask



The villagers would warn to stay inside

“Turn back while you can,” they would advise

Every autumn, he comes out at night

The people of Crowswell named him Haystack Jack

Around the time of harvest, silence always fell

His name, they wouldn’t utter, think, or tell

They were wise to pretend that all was well

should they want their lives to remain intact



But fear was rampant throughout the land

After years of terror, a meeting was planned

They declared it was time to take a stand

However, one man merely smiled and sat



If only they knew

the sordid truth

behind their village and the harvest moon

He was present at the meeting; his concern was just an act



You see, it was his particular farm and field

which lay a secret he would never reveal

Was it blessed? Was it evil?

Was it his scarecrow? No, it couldn’t be that



Almost no one asked why his farm was better than most

Those who had an answer, didn’t come close

Indeed, it was the figure in his field on the wooden post

His scarecrow, to be exact



Many times he had contemplated

just how much he’d be hated

if revealed, that he created

the terror made of straw and rags



It wasn’t in bad spirit

That he kept this dark secret

If the truth be told, if anyone were to hear it

It would surely evoke the villagers’ wrath



They never knew what happened that fateful night

Since then, it’s been debated many times

Magic? Spirits? Were the planets aligned?

Men of religion and science remain aghast



That night, something was born by ways of a curse

when his straw-filled man was placed on unholy earth

The scarecrow or the spirit? Which came first?

Are they one and the same or just a perfect match?



All theories aside

a scarecrow came to life

in the harvest moonlight

When sun meets horizon, he turns back



The farmer didn’t choose to live this lie

So many times that he had tried

to prevent what went on during harvest nights

He’s tried all manners of restraints and straps



He couldn’t destroy the menace, he would never win

It’s not the body, he knew, it’s the spirit within

He knew that it would go after him

He knew better than to make his scarecrow mad



The meeting began

One woman raised her hand

“I say we need to stop this man,

this so-called ‘Haystack Jack’”



“He is no man,” another cried

“Every harvest, my crops, they die

Those nights I see those orange eyes

when the moon is out and the sky is black”



“He’s a demon!” “He has no face!”

“He’s the devil himself!” “Is no one safe?”

“Last year, my cattle vanished without a trace

and every fencepost was broken in half”



“We’re all going to die,” one man exclaimed

“Last harvest, he left a message in my field of grain

He vowed that he’d be back again

As of tonight, one year has passed”



All of a sudden

A stranger came in running

He collapsed and looked behind him, alas, there was nothing

The villagers erupted in whispers and gasps



As people rushed to his side

Clutching his chest, the man was petrified

Screaming over and over, “Those orange eyes!”

The man was scared to death, they knew who was back



The villagers began to conspire

Torches were lit afire

fueled by anger and desire

They wanted the head of Haystack Jack



They demanded revenge

Some had families to defend

Up in arms, prepared to fight and then-

They heard something laugh



They looked in awe

Pitchforks in withdraw

Who do you think they saw?

Confronted with their terror at last



Illuminated by their torches light

The living scarecrow that haunted the night

They had him cornered, but something wasn’t right

Despite the angered mob, he appeared relaxed



He began to speak

He said, “Yes, I am he,

the one who visits annually,

My, these years have gone by so very fast”



“You’ve heard all the stories

You come for vengeance and glory

Yet, you stand still before me?

Are you men or is it courage you lack?”



“Now everyone knows

It’s my job to scare crows

But they just wouldn’t go

I started talking to them,” said Haystack Jack



“I said, ‘you’re called omens, monsters, and a precursor to plagues

The villagers tell you to ‘shoo’ and ‘go away’

In order to survive, you endure this day after day

A life of interrupted meals and scraps’

“I said ‘Let’s make a deal,

For you shouldn’t have to steal

I promise you a feast, not a meal

I’m a scarecrow of my word, and that’s a fact’”

You see, the crows’ eyes were transfixed, they were listening to me

They could comprehend my rhetorical treaty

They nodded in a black ocean of feathers and beaks

They obliged that night and we made our pact



“We had come to understand

we would both get revenge on man

The crows shall receive their feast under my command”

As he smiled, he said, “Attack”

The villagers looked in the sky

and saw that darkness could fly

A mass of crows, perhaps miles high

The harvest moon was clouded black

The villagers looked upon his feathered forces

Their eyes were black and remorseless

They were waiting for the command and the sight of torches

The villagers realized that it was all a trap

The morning after, the air was still

Haystack Jack’s promise had been fulfilled

Despite the many that were killed,

one fortunate farmer was without a scratch

At the break of dawn

Haystack Jack was gone

Awakening villagers looked upon

the burnt-out torches, the only remnants of the failed clash



It was a good harvest that year

What transpired the night before wasn’t quite clear

Those who attended the meeting had disappeared

Their crops were untouched, yet the crows were fat

Some still reside in Crowswell to this very day

despite the others unfortunate fate

They never come out in the light of day

For it’s the harvest moon and Haystack Jack