#tearboy

This strange tearboy randomly showed up in my ceramics studio

got these three friends yellowed from cigarettes from a lovely older lady who called them “cute little things” I wonder what their story is????

This Is What Makes Us Clowns. avantgarde stubtype girlband, led by lapsed Tearboy nun Flora L’Arrangement. they’re sweeping the charts as quickly and sloppily as they once swept the floors of their abbey. youthful in appearance, but actually all middle-aged and frightfully jaded. listening to their records is either catastrophically heretical or mandatory, depending on the denomination and musical taste of your local Church of Tears minister.

St. Blood. not a real saint; his given name is Silly Tiny Blood, but he pre-emptively initial-ed it to get ahead in the Church. he suffers terribly from social anxiety and has developed a nervous habit of clicking his heels, blissfully unaware that the ruby plimsolls he sports were whittled by a Bastard and cursed to send anyone who hears them click three times to hell. the Church views going to hell as a learning experience, so they see no reason to step in.

he came in reeking of cigars and death, so i seal him for a time and now he smells of pumpkin spice. (he’s free now, don’t worry) he came in without any Informative Reading Material so i don’t know a thing about him! any help?

Duke de Bubbelrapp, experimental director and heretical Tearboy. his fortress is full of little themed playrooms, into which he shoves guests and mailclowns and hounds, to enforce, on point of destroying the only antidote, a constant state of improv theatre. the best skits are broadcast live to an audience of work-from-home aesthetes. the Church of Tears spurns him for wearing too many colours, and for not directing their ad campaign when they were a mere Chapel.

Frère Longfellow, who has rejected many opportunities to model, and avoided many related kidnapping attempts by modelling agencies. he likes to curl his long feet under the pews during long sermons; when the ranks of Tearboys finally get to leave the chapel, he sits and weeps, maybe from the power of the reading but probably a little due to everyone stepping on his toes on the way out.

Who is this well dressed boy

Dottore Skankenstein, who handles tear-duct transplants for the Church of Tears. many a Tearboy has figuratively and literally cried their eyes out, and been sent up to the good doctor’s office, where they are given a number and a colour chart and sent to the back of the queue. and it is a sad and penitent queue, stretching around the quad, out of the main vestibule and straight down the road, where it is impeding traffic.

Skankenstein’s third eye was sewn shut for a bet, at a charity gala in his spacious operating theatre (since he couldn’t get the night off). the prize was a gorgeous forehead-mounted eyepatch, which he intends to try on if he ever gets some him-time.

Retch the Wretch. a Tearboy who has refined his technique so much that he doesn’t cry from his eyes, but from his mouth. everyone is shocked, awed or already bored by his prowess. the tears he upchucks are vast in quantity but feeble in quality. another Tearboy started crying through his nose in veneration/imitation, and died. Retch’s catchphrase: “i’m actually really very ill.”

Why does she have a bible.

God’s Chosen Puppet. a reincarnating reformer of the Church of Tears, unkillable as long as the Church keeps on its vast bureaucratic trajectory. her current body can conjure doves on command, proof positive of her saintliness. some Tearboy assassins still tail her; they’ve accepted that she can’t be killed by non-structural means, so they just sweep up the excess birds she leaves everywhere. the Church keeps her on an advisory council out of respect, and never implements her commandments out of pure, unsheathed spite.