Bethalynne Bajema was brought to this world some years past, spring-time-ish, in a dark ceremony using stolen languages since unspoken by man. From an early age she was taught sewing, story-telling, and unconventional warfare… all this in preparation of her foretold future as Dread-Overlord-And-Tailor. What prophecy could not see was the impact her older brother’s comic collection would have on her, and the siren songs of India ink, the arts, and the written word. These talents have since been nurtured and have been showcased in a variety of magazines, books, and for more than ten years online.

Mixing equal parts Victorian horror, sepia erotica, clockwork logic and Industrial music, Beth carves her dreams on the skins of Tibetan holy men before transferring their contents to the computer’s screen.

Beth currently resides on America ’s East Coast with her better half, a rather bizarre little cat, a laptop, and her dark army. Online she can be found at Bajema’s Web or her online journal.

(Biography provided by John Galati)

Examples of Beth’s Work (Click on a thumbnail to see a larger view)

All images in this post are copyright © 2008 Bethalynne Bajema,
and used by this site with permission

Beth’s first collection of work is available through the lulu.com site.

Beth’s prints and various craft work can be found in Etta Diem’s Attic Shop

Share This

(1921) H. P. Lovecraft Published June 1926 in Weird Tales

Somewhere, to what remote and fearsome region I know not, Denys Barry has gone. I was with him the last night he lived among men, and heard his screams when the thing came to him; but all the peasants and police in County Meath could never find him, or the others, though they searched long and far. And now I shudder when I hear the frogs piping in swamps, or see the moon in lonely places.

I had known Denys Barry well in America, where he had grown rich, and had congratulated him when he bought back the old castle by the bog at sleepy Kilderry. It was from Kilderry that his father had come, and it was there that he wished to enjoy his wealth among ancestral scenes. Men of his blood had once ruled over Kilderry and built and dwelt in the castle, but those days were very remote, so that for generations the castle had been empty and decaying. After he went to Ireland, Barry wrote me often, and told me how under his care the gray castle was rising tower by tower to its ancient splendor, how the ivy was climbing slowly over the restored walls as it had climbed so many centuries ago, and how the peasants blessed him for bringing back the old days with his gold from over the sea. But in time there came troubles, and the peasants ceased to bless him, and fled away instead as from a doom. And then he sent a letter and asked me to visit him, for he was lonely in the castle with no one to speak to save the new servants and laborers he had brought from the North.

The bog was the cause of all these troubles, as Barry told me the night I came to the castle. I had reached Kilderry in the summer sunset, as the gold of the sky lighted the green of the hills and groves and the blue of the bog, where on a far islet a strange olden ruin glistened spectrally. That sunset was very beautiful, but the peasants at Ballylough had warned me against it and said that Kilderry had become accursed, so that I almost shuddered to see the high turrets of the castle gilded with fire. Barry’s motor had met me at the Ballylough station, for Kilderry is off the railway. The villagers had shunned the car and the driver from the North, but had whispered to me with pale faces when they saw I was going to Kilderry. And that night, after our reunion, Barry told me why. (more…)

Share This