I really want to make a (hopefully free) zine for the Bartimaeus Sequence. I’m not looking to gain any money from this, I just think it’d be really cool to do a small zine,, the theme would be centered around character interactions. This can be just about anything, with any of the characters.
What I’m looking for:
-Artists
-Writers
-People to help me organize this
Other info:
-There is not an official timeline yet, considering that I am still unsure of whether or not I will actually do this, but it’d hopefully start sometime in early to mid June. (applications would theoretically open in early to mid May)
-I would be looking for 10-30 pieces total, hopefully roughly half art and half writing
-Artists can make 1-2 pieces, unless they really want to do more
-Writers can write 1,000-50,000 words, although a higher word count can be requested
Let me know your opinions with the unofficial interest survey!
EDIT: I am aware of the previous zines, I just wanted to make another one because ✨content✨ (/nm, sorry if that sounded weird)
Sad depressi spaghetti Bart is yet again sad and depressi
Everyone has something they can’t imagine their life without. For some, that something is a someone or several, for others it's a hobby, or a calling, or circumstances or-
or a lot of other things.
If there was something Bartimaeus couldn’t imagine his life without, it was art. He’d been creating things for most of his life, for nearly forty years, and he’d yet to grow tired of it. Sure, at points he threw the clay against the nearest wall in frustration, or ripped the paper, punched the canvas - whatever his current project was. But he always ended up picking things up again, began to create anew. Though usually on his own projects, as they were ones that truly inspired him. The others? Well.. it depended, truly.
He liked working with people, in a way. If the company was good, everything was far more fun, brighter, vibrant, and he spent far less time thinking.
However, his latest company wasn’t as good, in his humble opinion. The kid - and he was, barely out of school, it seemed, though he hadn’t asked, he valued the money too much - was snooty, ready to critique the everloving Hell out of any sketch he hadn’t even started.
But Bartimaeus had worked with worse people - some[^1] of which he still had restraining orders against - and as such, he found it easy to ignore some arrogant kid. He kept his attention on the radio instead, even if it was turned to a station he’d never pick himself.
(Someone really needed to tell that kid that he was allowed to have actual taste.)
The music was soothing, in its own way, but it was soon interrupted by what Bartimaeus assumed were news - his focus was fully drowned by the inking he was currently doing. It had been a long time since he’d done it by hand before he’d gotten this job, he’d almost forgotten how mind-numbingly relaxing it was, to focus on something that allowed no mistakes.
And his employer was blissfully quiet for once, too, likely listening to whatever the news had to say. Probably something incredibly boring, as would be on par for the station.
He was wrong, and he learned how much when he placed the finished page on the drying rack. Because that was exactly when his focus swirled around, searching for something to latch onto and finding the words “- part of the famous Daiphron family, long since suspected to be involved with organised crime. The trial concluded two days ago-”.
There was no way that Bartimaeus could help the way he startled at the words, the way his vision swam as he staggered to his feet, his throat suddenly tight, the room closing in- he mumbled something about a smoke break, out of habit, despite the fact that he’d quit years ago, and rushed out, hoping the ice in his veins would be warmed by the spring weather.
“The famous Daiphron family,” rang through his head, almost mockingly.
Nearly thirty years. And only now was it out in the open. He felt like screaming, like tilting his head back and screaming the heavens down, he felt like painting. Not the sort that Nathaniel had him doing, of course, none of that aloof, sprawling stuff. No, the sort of painting that you finished in a sleepless night, that was too close to your own heart, that made others go mad with the same kind of pain as you.
He was itching for a smoke, too, and with that in mind he simply walked back to grab his shit. He couldn’t stand around, not right now, and he certainly couldn’t sit and ink and sketch with a douchebag of a child breathing down on his neck today.
“What are you doing?” said douchebag of a child asked when he put on his coat. “It’s not lunch yet.”
“Leaving early, I’m comin’ down with something,” Bartimaeus answered, the lie slipping easily off his tongue. In his defence, he had been coming down with something ever since he’d stood between strangers, clad in total black, and had to pretend they cared as much about the one in the casket as they did about their image. That they weren’t the ones who’d put him in there in the first place- he blinked away the memories and looked at his boss.
Nathaniel moved his chair as far away from him as possible. “Then what are you still doing, here? I don’t have time to get sick, spread your germs somewhere else!”
Bartimaeus rolled his eyes and saluted lazily, not bothering to look back when he left.
The next day, it was already past noon when he rolled out of the bed and into the cool air of his flat. And if it hadn’t been friday he might have been concerned about fucking up his sleep schedule. Instead, he grabbed his cardigan from where it had fallen to the floor and wandered into his office. Calling an atelier would make it out to be grander than it was, even if he used it as such.
The painting he’d finished last night had dried, and even in the bright light of a sunny day it darkened the room with intimacy and pain. He nodded to himself, and pulled out his phone to text Farqual he’d be coming over. And then he went to do just that, getting ready, and then carefully wrapping the six paintings he’d made since the last time he’d dropped by. He could take his pick, as per usual, Bartimaeus didn’t particularly care which made it into the restaurant and which one he’d take to the gallery to replace older ones, or the one he’d sold.
Not that any of the ones he was carrying would be for sale. No, they were part of the series he’d been working on for what everyone of his friends described as an “obsessively long time”, like they weren’t working through their own traumas with their art.
He stared through the windows of the Tube, watching the ads in the train and in the stations and idly wondering if the people that created them were proud. Happy with their work. Or if they went through the motions, like he inked his bosses boring comics, like he lived every moment he wasn’t making his heart into art.
“Don’t you think you,” Farqual waved a meaty hand at his painting, indicating the theme, the subject, like he’d done a thousand times. For once, it wasn’t an exaggeration. “Should, you know, get therapy?”
“Don’t you think you should keep your opinions to yourself?” Bartimaeus shot back, glaring at him over the table. The restaurant was empty - it was about half an hour from opening, after all - and they were sharing some coffee. It was a bit of a ritual, one Bartimaeus paid for, to his annoyance. “Do you want any of them, or not?”
Farqual rolled his eyes and picked up the newest piece, pursing his lips. Instead of answering, he asked another question: “You’re not selling those, are you?”
He kept glaring and tossed back the rest of his coffee. Strong, grainy, just as he liked it. “No.”
“You know how many-”
“I know,” he pressed out. He knew the amount of offers, he knew the amount of those offers. He also knew he would never sell them, not as long as he drew breath. It would be like selling his soul. “It’s not worth it.”
Farqual scoffed and put it down. “I’ll take two of the smaller ones, and this one. The expansion has been looking a little empty since we held that party. Five sales.”
Bartimaeus hummed. “My statue. Who else’s?”
“Queezle’s landscape, three of Jabor’s moderns, a newcomer’s - she’s already replaced it,” Farqual’s lips twitched into a grin. “Wanna see it?”
“Sure,” he followed him, taking the paintings he’d chosen along. The moment he saw the work, he laughed. “Of course you liked it.”
He earned himself a glare.
“But for real,” Bartimaeus said, unable to keep a grin off his face. He stared at the shiny piece, partially polished, partially rusted knives of all shapes and sizes, spelling out for the people. “Looks like she raided your kitchen.”
“I treat my knives better than that,” Farqual answered, grabbing the first of the paintings - the closeup of an eye, crinkling in a smile. It drew Bartimaeus’ eyes as he handled it, putting it up expertly. They’d been doing this for years.
Decades, it hit him.
“It’s gonna be thirty years in November,” he heard himself say, still looking at the eye. The details were perfect, he knew, he’d drawn those eyes so many times over the years. They still haunted his dreams, too.
Farqual didn’t turn to him, instead he grabbed the next painting. “And it’s the gallery’s fifth in seven weeks. You’d better show up.”
Bartimaeus blinked, twice, and then wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. His emotions were still all over the place, caught up in his past again. It had been so.. Good, the past few months. “Already? Jeez,” he blew up his cheeks and cleared his throat, grabbing the next painting before Farqual came back over. “Where do you want this one?”
(to be continued)
[^1] For example that weird priest and his boytoy that had paid far too well, even for the amount of skin he’d insisted Bartimaeus see.
This is a test post to use the add function. Bart and Nat right after the PG I drew before (Such a scene could not possibly exist in the original story. A bit of blood. It's AU. My eng might be wrong...).
I decided to draw THE GIRLS NIGHT, but not like you (and I) expected. Bart (in Asmira's form) is trying to do make up on Kitty, but she isn't sure she likes this idea anymore...
This has been sitting my inbox for literally forever, and I’m so sorry.
Bartimaeus and Queezle headcanons because why not:
They first met in Prague, when they were both summoned there for the first time
Originally, they were both going to work on the walls, but Queezle’s master was moved to a different assignment so she moved as well
She and Bart still messed around together though. They were those kids in the group project who never do anything except sit in the corner laughing and mess up everyone else’s work. You know what I’m talking about.
One of Queezle’s favorite things to do was to steal random objects from the magicians and keep them as long as she could. Eventually she and Bartimaeus started daring each other to steal specific items and it became a game.
They would fight as training and usually both end up on the ground laughing
They’re pretty evenly matched, since I imagine Queezle as an earth and water djinni whereas Bartimaeus is a spirit of air and fire
Queezle is agender (she/her)
She and Bart are usually in panther and leopard form around each other
haha if I theoretically made a discord server for the Bartimaeus sequence would anyone be interested in joining? I know it’d definitely be a small server, but idk man I think it’d be neat
“I am Bartimaeus! I am Sakhr al-Jinni, N’gorso the Mighty, and the Serpent of Silver Plumes! I have rebuilt the walls of Uruk, Karnak, and Prague. I have spoken with Solomon. I have run with the buffalo fathers of the plains. I have watched over Old Zimbabwe till the stones fell and the jackals fed on its people. I am Bartimaeus!”
I love my boy so much.
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