Her name is Queen Legresse; wife of the mighty Warpin and Mother of the Waterbirds.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Warpin
Warpin, King of the Water Birds; the newest addition to the animal world of King Fran and Algebra. As is the case with Algebra, I'll have to come up with a backstory for this guy. Three characters.. Im getting up quite a population, eh?
Just occurred to me that.. since Fran's people have wings and they live in the water.. well, they could be considered water birds too, eh? Still, Warpin is not their king. All Hail Fran!
Just occurred to me that.. since Fran's people have wings and they live in the water.. well, they could be considered water birds too, eh? Still, Warpin is not their king. All Hail Fran!
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
King Fran
It seems that I was mistaken in my previous post. I had not, in fact, uploaded a picture of King Fran, my flying frog. A little info on Fran: His full name is Francine. He refuses to use his full name, and due to his exceedingly hot temper, anyone who should call him by his full name, accidentally or otherwise, is very likely to get hurt. A note on the picture: I colored the original with colored pencil. I wish I hadn't. It looked.. alright at best. I wish I'd had the Copic Markers that I used to color Algebra at the time. Anywho, since I hated the color, I tweaked it a bit in CS3 and made it into a little logo for myself, though I've never actually used it. Hope ya like it; more to come soon I hope.
Algebra
It all began when I decided to draw a frog with wings: King Fran. It came out alright, and I believe I have a picture up here somewhere, but the point is, one day, as I was showing the picture to my Grandma, she asked very facetiously who his subjects were. She then went on to suggest math and english before I got the pun. So, I decided that I would draw King Fran some subjects. Algebra will be the first. I may have to think up some sort of backstory eh? Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Time is money.
I know I haven't posted any updates in a while, but I'm comforted slightly by the fact that I seriously doubt anyone has noticed, what with no one knowing this page exists. At any rate, I'm currently working on a few sculptures, and as I keep switching back and forth, I'm not actually finishing any of them; more interesting, though. As they say, time is money, and I'm doing my best to waste as much as possible to please you, the reader... anyone out there?
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Stones
A dark brown leather coat trailed behind him as he picked his way over the red rocks of the mountain, glancing furtively behind him every minute or so. His hair was wispy, grey, and shoulder length, and blew madly about is head even in the lightest breeze. At best it could be said that his skin was pock-marked, but there were many who would argue that his face consisted of a mass of craters with a few patches of pale, flaky skin in between. There were more who refused to comment altogether. His hawkish, crooked nose bespoke a youth brawling in taverns, and there was what appeared to be a knife scar just below his left eye.
He turned slightly, his lip curling into a snarl as he sniffed the air behind him once, then again. His old leather boots crunched on the gravelly rock as he stopped, slowly kneeling. His right hand, gloved to the knuckle, swept through the dirt, a handful of which he brought up to his face, his fingers working back and forth, as if trying to get a feel for the earth between them.
He sniffed again.
A parched, dry tongue slid from between his cracking lips, and he drew it slowly, deliberately, across the dirt between his thumb and forefinger, making a sound like nothing more than sandpaper on wood.
He lowered his eyes pensively, and they swung slowly from left to right before he raised them again. He stood, dusting his hands, and pulled back his coat at the waist, revealing a pouch tied to his belt. He loosened the draw, feeling around inside with dusty fingers, and after a moment seemed to find something that suited him.
“Not many left,” he muttered to himself, “must be careful then, until I can make more.”
He pulled his hand from the pouch, his fingers concealing a small object as he drew the strings closed once more. What he brought before his face was a small stone. He licked it once, thoughtfully.
“Still good.”
The stone did no more or less than contrast entirely with everything about him and it might have been more accurate to say it was a gem. It was yellow, but somehow more so. One might have said it glowed, but of course that was impossible. The stone was transparent, and at the very center was what looked like the shape of a lightning bolt. He squeezed the stone contemplatively, and then tossed it unceremoniously down the hill behind him.
“Back to the Earth with yeh,” he said in a tone that spoke of frequent repetition, and he hiked up his dirty trousers, making his way up the hill once more. “Wouldn’t want ta be about when that went off,” he muttered.
The breeze whistled quietly between the red rocks. He thought he could hear the sound of men and horses in the distance.
He turned slightly, his lip curling into a snarl as he sniffed the air behind him once, then again. His old leather boots crunched on the gravelly rock as he stopped, slowly kneeling. His right hand, gloved to the knuckle, swept through the dirt, a handful of which he brought up to his face, his fingers working back and forth, as if trying to get a feel for the earth between them.
He sniffed again.
A parched, dry tongue slid from between his cracking lips, and he drew it slowly, deliberately, across the dirt between his thumb and forefinger, making a sound like nothing more than sandpaper on wood.
He lowered his eyes pensively, and they swung slowly from left to right before he raised them again. He stood, dusting his hands, and pulled back his coat at the waist, revealing a pouch tied to his belt. He loosened the draw, feeling around inside with dusty fingers, and after a moment seemed to find something that suited him.
“Not many left,” he muttered to himself, “must be careful then, until I can make more.”
He pulled his hand from the pouch, his fingers concealing a small object as he drew the strings closed once more. What he brought before his face was a small stone. He licked it once, thoughtfully.
“Still good.”
The stone did no more or less than contrast entirely with everything about him and it might have been more accurate to say it was a gem. It was yellow, but somehow more so. One might have said it glowed, but of course that was impossible. The stone was transparent, and at the very center was what looked like the shape of a lightning bolt. He squeezed the stone contemplatively, and then tossed it unceremoniously down the hill behind him.
“Back to the Earth with yeh,” he said in a tone that spoke of frequent repetition, and he hiked up his dirty trousers, making his way up the hill once more. “Wouldn’t want ta be about when that went off,” he muttered.
The breeze whistled quietly between the red rocks. He thought he could hear the sound of men and horses in the distance.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Socrates... I think.
Glass shattered.
Larry shot a quick glance over his shoulder, inadvertently double-taking as he saw the door to the convenience-store refrigerator behind him fall to peices, as about sixteen beer cans emptied their contents onto the linoleum floor. Christ, he thought, that could've been me! His subconscious, unbidden as usual, pointed out that, as he only had one pair of pants, the fact that he had just pissed himself wasn't really all that great either.
He dove into another aisle as the obscenity-screaming store clerk unloaded another shot in his general direction. He wondered how it had come to this.
At twenty-two, he'd been out of work for approximately three months now. His father's medical bills had eaten up any potential inheritance, and he'd never met his mother, so his own savings were all that he had to fall back on. They'd run out about a week ago. He'd been kicked out of his LA apartment a week before that, and he'd soon decided that carrying his meager possessions about with him wasn't going to help his luck any, so he'd pawned everything but the clothes on his back and his dad's gold watch. He'd gotten about $250 for the lot. Pawn-shop owners, he'd decided, were in the business of extortion, and he'd wondered at the time, if this was the case, why none of them seemed even remotely successful.
Somehow, in the short course of a week living on the streets, he'd managed to fall in with the wrong crowd. In this case, the wrong crowd referred to an individual by the name of Eddie Gains. At first Larry thought that running into Eddie had been a miracle; a real, honest-to-goodness case of God stepping in and lending a hand. Now he was beginning to wonder if it wasn't actually the Devil at work. Eddie had been nothing but gracious, letting Larry sleep on the floor of his one room apartment, while he himself slept on the fold out couch. Admittedly, it wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, sleeping on a guy's wooden floor, but there was a blanket invovled, and after spending six nights sleeping on a bench in the park, it was a dream come true.
During the day, Eddie ran errands of various mysterious natures, and Larry could never quite piece together exactly what he did for a living; any time it had come close to coming up in conversation Eddie had deftly steered the conversation in another direction. On his third day sleeping there, Eddie had asked Larry if he wanted to help him out on one of his errands, neglecting to specify exactly how he would be helping.
Larry had agreed mostly out of curiosity; he'd spent the previous two days trying to find any kind of work, since sleeping indoors had allowed him to be slightly more presentable for potential interviews, but it still hadn't been going well. They drove around for about four hours, stopping every once in a while, Eddie instructing Larry to stay in the car as he got out and had short, often heated conversations with more shady looking characters than Larry had seen in all of his twenty-two year life.
Finally, at around a quarter after six, they'd come to a Seven Eleven. Eddie had walked around the aisles for a few minutes, and Larry had simply assumed that he was looking for something to eat, so he went over to browse the magazine rack. Replacing the current issue of News Weekly on the rack, Larry walked over to join Eddie as he made his way over to the counter. The last thing he'd expected to see was Eddie pull a gun, and he was sure that he looked slightly more shocked than the shop owner as Eddie demanded all of the cash in the register. The clerk had stammered that he needed to get the key, and bent over to reach under the counter; it had exploded outward, with what Larry distantly recognized as the roar of a shotgun, and slammed Eddie back about six feet, before he landed in a heap on the ground.
Larry just stood there. A pool of red began to spread from Eddie's unmoving form, and still in shock, Larry stopped to wonder how many times he'd seen the same thing play out in movies; more than he could count, he'd decided and it never played out good for the guy in the position that he currently occupied. That was when the angry clerk turned the gun on him. He dove towards the back of the store as the gun had roared again. And that brought him to where he was now.
And currently, where he was was in the back of a Seven Eleven with the biggest shotgun he'd ever seen swinging in the direction of his head. Admittedly, he thought, the size could have something to do with the fact that it was currently pointed at his head.
Time slowed.
"Nobody points an effing gun at me, you son of a bitch!" screamed the clerk with a faint hispanic accent. He spat in Larry's direction. Too stunned and terrified to speak, all Larry could think was Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, over and over again. The room seemed to darken, and a man in a black robe stood over the clerk's shoulder. The shop owner's finger twitched on the trigger of the gun. The man in the robe smiled. Light glinted off the blade of a scythe. Larry's last thought was that he'd never particularly liked his name.
Larry shot a quick glance over his shoulder, inadvertently double-taking as he saw the door to the convenience-store refrigerator behind him fall to peices, as about sixteen beer cans emptied their contents onto the linoleum floor. Christ, he thought, that could've been me! His subconscious, unbidden as usual, pointed out that, as he only had one pair of pants, the fact that he had just pissed himself wasn't really all that great either.
He dove into another aisle as the obscenity-screaming store clerk unloaded another shot in his general direction. He wondered how it had come to this.
At twenty-two, he'd been out of work for approximately three months now. His father's medical bills had eaten up any potential inheritance, and he'd never met his mother, so his own savings were all that he had to fall back on. They'd run out about a week ago. He'd been kicked out of his LA apartment a week before that, and he'd soon decided that carrying his meager possessions about with him wasn't going to help his luck any, so he'd pawned everything but the clothes on his back and his dad's gold watch. He'd gotten about $250 for the lot. Pawn-shop owners, he'd decided, were in the business of extortion, and he'd wondered at the time, if this was the case, why none of them seemed even remotely successful.
Somehow, in the short course of a week living on the streets, he'd managed to fall in with the wrong crowd. In this case, the wrong crowd referred to an individual by the name of Eddie Gains. At first Larry thought that running into Eddie had been a miracle; a real, honest-to-goodness case of God stepping in and lending a hand. Now he was beginning to wonder if it wasn't actually the Devil at work. Eddie had been nothing but gracious, letting Larry sleep on the floor of his one room apartment, while he himself slept on the fold out couch. Admittedly, it wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, sleeping on a guy's wooden floor, but there was a blanket invovled, and after spending six nights sleeping on a bench in the park, it was a dream come true.
During the day, Eddie ran errands of various mysterious natures, and Larry could never quite piece together exactly what he did for a living; any time it had come close to coming up in conversation Eddie had deftly steered the conversation in another direction. On his third day sleeping there, Eddie had asked Larry if he wanted to help him out on one of his errands, neglecting to specify exactly how he would be helping.
Larry had agreed mostly out of curiosity; he'd spent the previous two days trying to find any kind of work, since sleeping indoors had allowed him to be slightly more presentable for potential interviews, but it still hadn't been going well. They drove around for about four hours, stopping every once in a while, Eddie instructing Larry to stay in the car as he got out and had short, often heated conversations with more shady looking characters than Larry had seen in all of his twenty-two year life.
Finally, at around a quarter after six, they'd come to a Seven Eleven. Eddie had walked around the aisles for a few minutes, and Larry had simply assumed that he was looking for something to eat, so he went over to browse the magazine rack. Replacing the current issue of News Weekly on the rack, Larry walked over to join Eddie as he made his way over to the counter. The last thing he'd expected to see was Eddie pull a gun, and he was sure that he looked slightly more shocked than the shop owner as Eddie demanded all of the cash in the register. The clerk had stammered that he needed to get the key, and bent over to reach under the counter; it had exploded outward, with what Larry distantly recognized as the roar of a shotgun, and slammed Eddie back about six feet, before he landed in a heap on the ground.
Larry just stood there. A pool of red began to spread from Eddie's unmoving form, and still in shock, Larry stopped to wonder how many times he'd seen the same thing play out in movies; more than he could count, he'd decided and it never played out good for the guy in the position that he currently occupied. That was when the angry clerk turned the gun on him. He dove towards the back of the store as the gun had roared again. And that brought him to where he was now.
And currently, where he was was in the back of a Seven Eleven with the biggest shotgun he'd ever seen swinging in the direction of his head. Admittedly, he thought, the size could have something to do with the fact that it was currently pointed at his head.
Time slowed.
"Nobody points an effing gun at me, you son of a bitch!" screamed the clerk with a faint hispanic accent. He spat in Larry's direction. Too stunned and terrified to speak, all Larry could think was Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, over and over again. The room seemed to darken, and a man in a black robe stood over the clerk's shoulder. The shop owner's finger twitched on the trigger of the gun. The man in the robe smiled. Light glinted off the blade of a scythe. Larry's last thought was that he'd never particularly liked his name.
* * *
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Colorin'!
A friend (the same one who did the line art for the heart harvester) gave me some new images to color, and of course, I did, because it was fun. Anywho, I think they came out pretty good.
The Moon Fox
The kanji mean tsuki and kitsune respectively. I hope it's traditional to write them from top to bottom, because I'm certainly not an authority. If it's not, well, feel free to correct me. Tsuki means moon, among other things, and Kitsune, of course, means fox. I think it sounds cooler than the latin Vulpes. My two cents...
Monday, June 30, 2008
Briefcase.
This picture might provide some valid social commentary. Might not. I was bored, alright?
edit: Can you see the little man inside? Inter'stin eh?
Some older stuff
The lower one is of a man coming out of a wall, and as the text says "T'is wise to fear the Chameleon," it can be logically assumed that he was camouflaged there. It's photoshop over a drawing I did while bored in one of my math classes, although when I drew it it looked more like he was coming out of the shadows, which was my original intention; it's also the first time I used layer masks in photoshop. The top is my one and only entry for an activity of the week for Conceptart.org. The prompt was "Heart Harvester," for the creature of the week. I can only claim responsibility for the color. The sketch was done by one of my friends.
Couldn't be a Bear
Seems that my postings are getting progressively older. But fear not! I've run out of typed, old writing, so we're good. Now then, this was something that I wrote after walking around the city of Fullerton at 11:30 for about an hour and a half. What can I say? My mind wanders.
Now, the first thing that came to my mind was, There is no effing way that there’s a bear hiding in there. ---Right? But if not, what made that rustling sound? The second thing that came to my mind was, Why the HELL am I standing next to the road at 11:30 at night doing lopsided roundhouse-kicks that could not possibly help to fend off an angry bear (or equally dangerous potentially rabid squirrel) as the occasional passing driver stares at me like I’m on some kind of narcotics?
There’s an old cliche that states that, rather than age, disease, or car-smooshing, a curious disposition led to the demise of the metaphorical feline. Would that I did not possess the same inevitably (eventually anyway) fatal flaw. I told myself that walking into the largish patch of three-foot-tall brush beside the road was a bad idea; I mean, there was every possibility that there was a newly awakened hobo in there waiting to knife me and make off with my shoes... but none of us is better than our nature.
And so into danger I did go, trusting to luck and my astonishing reflexes and standing not ten feet from a fairly major road and expecting the next passing headlights any minute now. And without warning I did trip. And fall. Face first.
In my defense, the brush was rather thick, and almost to my waist, but I’ll admit that I had no business hunting grizzlies and rabid squirrels at 11:30 on a school night.
So I put my hands out to stop myself from landing nose-down in the bear-scat that I imagined coming up to meet me, because well, it’s what anybody would do, right? My hands met the brush, and kept going, down towards the ground, and I followed. I slid through the spindly-tall grasses and the dry stalks lightly scratched, among other things, my now tightly-clenched eyelids... and I kept going.
Now, there was no falling through a dark nothingness, no feeling of vertigo, nothing like that. I tripped, and then I regained my balance; the only problem was, somewhere between point A and point B I should’ve come face to face with this little thing known as the ground, because I before I even closed my eyes I’d passed the 45 degree mark with nothing to catch me.
When I finally forced myself to pry open my eyes and remove my stiffened arms from their defensive position in front of my face... well, let’s just say that no shortage of those cliche’s came to mind but damned if I wasn’t looking out for Dorothy and a flying house.
Now, the first thing that came to my mind was, There is no effing way that there’s a bear hiding in there. ---Right? But if not, what made that rustling sound? The second thing that came to my mind was, Why the HELL am I standing next to the road at 11:30 at night doing lopsided roundhouse-kicks that could not possibly help to fend off an angry bear (or equally dangerous potentially rabid squirrel) as the occasional passing driver stares at me like I’m on some kind of narcotics?
There’s an old cliche that states that, rather than age, disease, or car-smooshing, a curious disposition led to the demise of the metaphorical feline. Would that I did not possess the same inevitably (eventually anyway) fatal flaw. I told myself that walking into the largish patch of three-foot-tall brush beside the road was a bad idea; I mean, there was every possibility that there was a newly awakened hobo in there waiting to knife me and make off with my shoes... but none of us is better than our nature.
And so into danger I did go, trusting to luck and my astonishing reflexes and standing not ten feet from a fairly major road and expecting the next passing headlights any minute now. And without warning I did trip. And fall. Face first.
In my defense, the brush was rather thick, and almost to my waist, but I’ll admit that I had no business hunting grizzlies and rabid squirrels at 11:30 on a school night.
So I put my hands out to stop myself from landing nose-down in the bear-scat that I imagined coming up to meet me, because well, it’s what anybody would do, right? My hands met the brush, and kept going, down towards the ground, and I followed. I slid through the spindly-tall grasses and the dry stalks lightly scratched, among other things, my now tightly-clenched eyelids... and I kept going.
Now, there was no falling through a dark nothingness, no feeling of vertigo, nothing like that. I tripped, and then I regained my balance; the only problem was, somewhere between point A and point B I should’ve come face to face with this little thing known as the ground, because I before I even closed my eyes I’d passed the 45 degree mark with nothing to catch me.
When I finally forced myself to pry open my eyes and remove my stiffened arms from their defensive position in front of my face... well, let’s just say that no shortage of those cliche’s came to mind but damned if I wasn’t looking out for Dorothy and a flying house.
A Summer Wind
Yeah, it's also the name of a Frank Sinatra song, which can be heard in the movie Matchstick Men. I have a friend who uses song names and lyrics for all of the titles of his blog postings. I think this'll be the only one for me.
There was a man who thought of nothing but the pale Moon, so he built his house on the highest hill that he could find. This house was very tall, and from the roof the man could see the entire world spread out beneath him, but try as he might he could not reach the pale Moon.
It came inevitably to pass that this man ran out of materials with which to build, and though he asked and asked, the people below would sell him no more, envious of his magnificent view. And so, in defiance of the laws and physics that held his house atop the hill, he began to dismantle the lower stories, in order to continue his work. It seemed that the house was as defiant as he, or perhaps it was held up simply by the force of his will, because soon enough nothing remained but the upper half, topped now by an alien but beautiful tower.
Seeing this, the people below believed that the man must be some kind of dark sorcerer, and unable to reach him with the traditional torches and pitch-forks, they began to pelt his house with all manner of large, dangerous looking rocks, in hope that they might knock his house from the sky as it bore over the world below.
These rocks were not returned, for the man, determined as he was, had once again run out of materials with which to build. He kept the rocks, and thanked sincerely the people of the world, who thought simply that he taunted them, glorying in his majestic abode.
Those people are gone now, and the throwing of rocks has long since ceased, but their children, and their children's children look up to the sky each night, filled with stars in all the colors pastel, telling stories of the man who finally slept, content, beside his friend, the pale Moon.
There was a man who thought of nothing but the pale Moon, so he built his house on the highest hill that he could find. This house was very tall, and from the roof the man could see the entire world spread out beneath him, but try as he might he could not reach the pale Moon.
It came inevitably to pass that this man ran out of materials with which to build, and though he asked and asked, the people below would sell him no more, envious of his magnificent view. And so, in defiance of the laws and physics that held his house atop the hill, he began to dismantle the lower stories, in order to continue his work. It seemed that the house was as defiant as he, or perhaps it was held up simply by the force of his will, because soon enough nothing remained but the upper half, topped now by an alien but beautiful tower.
Seeing this, the people below believed that the man must be some kind of dark sorcerer, and unable to reach him with the traditional torches and pitch-forks, they began to pelt his house with all manner of large, dangerous looking rocks, in hope that they might knock his house from the sky as it bore over the world below.
These rocks were not returned, for the man, determined as he was, had once again run out of materials with which to build. He kept the rocks, and thanked sincerely the people of the world, who thought simply that he taunted them, glorying in his majestic abode.
Those people are gone now, and the throwing of rocks has long since ceased, but their children, and their children's children look up to the sky each night, filled with stars in all the colors pastel, telling stories of the man who finally slept, content, beside his friend, the pale Moon.
Boomsticks.
This is one of my fairly recent... well, I suppose you could call it a short story. Or maybe you couldn't. I don't know. Anyway, enjoy.
Although my watch had stopped working about four days ago, I guessed by the position of the sun that it was probably around five in the afternoon. This meant of course that it could have been anywhere from noon to midnight, but I took comfort in the knowledge nonetheless. As my companion and I walked along the old dirt road we came upon a moderately well-sized wooden cart that looked like it had seen better days, but was having trouble remembering exactly when they had been, or for that matter what a better day might have looked like. At the front of the cart was a mule, healthy and strong in defiance of his surroundings, idly chewing a mouthful of dry grass and pointedly ignoring us with the air of one who does not deign to gaze upon those inferior to itself.
The sign atop the cart proclaimed the owner to be a purveyor of Fyne Qualitie BoomStickes, though my companion and I were at a loss as to what a boom stick actually was. As it turned out, a purveyor of boomsticks looks much like an old farmer might if he had spent his life lighting fires in close proximity to methane deposits, and was accordingly missing several fingers from his right hand.
The old man's brittle, shoulder-length white hair was singed in places, and his straw hat boasted a large hole in the brim just above his right eye, ringed with a dark scorch mark. I began to wonder if perhaps a boomstick was some kind of firework, and if, perhaps, someone had set one off directly under the man's hat. The rest of his clothing was equal parts scorched and burned, and I guessed that hit shirt might have been yellow at some point, but it now ranged from black to a dingy brown. All of this I saw from over the counter of his cart, which, now that I thought about it looked to have been set on fire several times during its weary lifetime.
"Excuse me," I said to the man, who, sitting on a rickety looking chair near the rear of his cart had, much like the mule, pointedly ignored our presence until now, "but what exactly is it that you're selling here?"
Lifting his head and tilting it slightly to the left, he fixed his right eye on me sharply, illuminated now by the hole in his hat, and said simply, "Kent ya reed, boy?"
"Well, yes," I said, somewhat apologetically, "but my friend and I were wondering--" I broke off, searching for some more tactful way to put it and finding none, "That is, we wanted to know just what a boomstick is."
"Ahh," he said, lifting himself slowly from the chair, his hands on his knees providing most of the support, in that purposeful way that old, tired men are wont to do, "then ye've come to the right place, for here ye'll find the finest quality boomsticks anywhere, and that's a fact."
Although my watch had stopped working about four days ago, I guessed by the position of the sun that it was probably around five in the afternoon. This meant of course that it could have been anywhere from noon to midnight, but I took comfort in the knowledge nonetheless. As my companion and I walked along the old dirt road we came upon a moderately well-sized wooden cart that looked like it had seen better days, but was having trouble remembering exactly when they had been, or for that matter what a better day might have looked like. At the front of the cart was a mule, healthy and strong in defiance of his surroundings, idly chewing a mouthful of dry grass and pointedly ignoring us with the air of one who does not deign to gaze upon those inferior to itself.
The sign atop the cart proclaimed the owner to be a purveyor of Fyne Qualitie BoomStickes, though my companion and I were at a loss as to what a boom stick actually was. As it turned out, a purveyor of boomsticks looks much like an old farmer might if he had spent his life lighting fires in close proximity to methane deposits, and was accordingly missing several fingers from his right hand.
The old man's brittle, shoulder-length white hair was singed in places, and his straw hat boasted a large hole in the brim just above his right eye, ringed with a dark scorch mark. I began to wonder if perhaps a boomstick was some kind of firework, and if, perhaps, someone had set one off directly under the man's hat. The rest of his clothing was equal parts scorched and burned, and I guessed that hit shirt might have been yellow at some point, but it now ranged from black to a dingy brown. All of this I saw from over the counter of his cart, which, now that I thought about it looked to have been set on fire several times during its weary lifetime.
"Excuse me," I said to the man, who, sitting on a rickety looking chair near the rear of his cart had, much like the mule, pointedly ignored our presence until now, "but what exactly is it that you're selling here?"
Lifting his head and tilting it slightly to the left, he fixed his right eye on me sharply, illuminated now by the hole in his hat, and said simply, "Kent ya reed, boy?"
"Well, yes," I said, somewhat apologetically, "but my friend and I were wondering--" I broke off, searching for some more tactful way to put it and finding none, "That is, we wanted to know just what a boomstick is."
"Ahh," he said, lifting himself slowly from the chair, his hands on his knees providing most of the support, in that purposeful way that old, tired men are wont to do, "then ye've come to the right place, for here ye'll find the finest quality boomsticks anywhere, and that's a fact."
Test!
My newest work. Done with PS over a sketch done while on vacation. Hope you like it, internet!
edit: Jeez, I've gotta learn to get this right the first time. Anyway, this picture was inspired by a scene in a book I just read by Raymond E Feist. Can't remember the name, but it's from "The Darkwar Saga," and I believe it's in the book before Wrath of A Mad God.. the uhh.. second one. He never said it was a homunculus, but I made an executive decision. Hope he doesn't mind.
New Beginnings.
As of now I will be posting here any of my creative endeavors I deem worthy. Fun fun!
edit: you may note, though it is small, that my avatar is, in fact, an unfinished picture of a frog; this is intentional, as I believe it says something about me. Specifically that I have trouble finishing things.
ps. The frog's name is Algebra. Perhaps I'll finish it one day.
edit: you may note, though it is small, that my avatar is, in fact, an unfinished picture of a frog; this is intentional, as I believe it says something about me. Specifically that I have trouble finishing things.
ps. The frog's name is Algebra. Perhaps I'll finish it one day.
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