i think i'm going to hang fire for a bit before i show any of my stuff.
amazing work everyone i just got inspired for my project again ^_^
amazing work everyone i just got inspired for my project again ^_^
The artist in thee
- Thread starter Labyrinth
- Start date
That si awesome, i remember my local library hosted a show for my work (I had to paint a mural on their elder teens section first) and i got to meet the Mayor of where i live, it was pretty awesome..Labyrinth said:
They didn't pay me though...
Although a design company sometimes commissions me for travel brochures and cartoon characters, So far only had one job from though, but that landed me £175, so i wasn't gonna complain.
but no seriously, that is bloody brilliant Labby, Just keep at it! xD
[EDIT]:
Also got this to show off,
Those Early Hours
Insomnia called 3am
(best of friends you see)
to say Hey
party at LaCoil's place
The Wild Ones are there
(Caffeine and Sugar)
tearing shit up.
Won't be down for days
after this
4am might drop by
to say Hey
party now at 5am's.
Nicotine's not invited
but the three of you
are welcome
Says 6am
Sunrise came
to say Hey
heard you won't be
getting any sleep tonight.
Critiques welcome.
Insomnia called 3am
(best of friends you see)
to say Hey
party at LaCoil's place
The Wild Ones are there
(Caffeine and Sugar)
tearing shit up.
Won't be down for days
after this
4am might drop by
to say Hey
party now at 5am's.
Nicotine's not invited
but the three of you
are welcome
Says 6am
Sunrise came
to say Hey
heard you won't be
getting any sleep tonight.
Critiques welcome.
Fine poem, this is. I know exactly what kind of night you're talking about. The only thing I'd say is odd is the capitalization, which is kind of randomly used. Or maybe I'm missing something? It seems to interrupt the flow a little when you capitalize something In the middle of a scentance.Labyrinth said:
On a totally different subject...more art!
This is some character art I drew recently. I'm not really sure what it's for, but I like the look of these guys.
The only thing wrong with it is the guy in the back, his left hand is facing the wrong way, but besides that it's good.Zemalac said:Fine poem, this is. I know exactly what kind of night you're talking about. The only thing I'd say is odd is the capitalization, which is kind of randomly used. Or maybe I'm missing something? It seems to interrupt the flow a little when you capitalize something In the middle of a scentance.Labyrinth said:
On a totally different subject...more art!
This is some character art I drew recently. I'm not really sure what it's for, but I like the look of these guys.
If scribblings on small peices of paper count then I'd be a god among the art community but since my concentration span is quite short on any one doodle we may never know.
A while ago I made an avatar for Lord Krunk, it's a bit harder to make everything out at the size it is now, but I haven't posted on this thread in ages, so here you go, the full sized version.
Because the Sevens website isn't up yet and I've been dying to share these and get some criticism on them, here are the first two strips of Straight Sevens.
[http://www.freeimagehosting.net/]
[http://www.freeimagehosting.net/]
I wouldn't know, Krunk just asked me to make something that looked like a mix between a tazer and a geiger counter, he called it an "anomalyictic condolumiser" or something like that.TheNecroswanson said:Is that the gizmo from Wayne's World?The Iron Ninja said:A while ago I made an avatar for Lord Krunk, it's a bit harder to make everything out at the size it is now, but I haven't posted on this thread in ages, so here you go, the full sized version.
And I just realised that I posted an earlier version of the picture, where Krunk isn't holding the weapon properly and somehow has his index finger in front of the handle instead of behind it. But I can't be arsed going through imageshack again just to fix it here.
Crack. Grind. A door swung open as a man stepped past me. He seemed oddly familiar. I shook my head and continued down the steps to sit upon a park bench and wait. The wind tugged at my hair in the thin morning light.
My name is Paulette. As ever, I was sent to ensure that a deal went down solid. It's a matter of pride. I can't afford to have my name blemished by any shortcoming. I got hired because of this.
The signal came when a man with a red dog stopped before me to give his dog's paw a once-over. While bent over, he slipped a piece of paper under my shoe, the next stage of the plan written on it. Cafe. Table 17. Man with a pinstripe fedora. Thirty minutes. I memorised the message as tradition dictates and took care to smear the ink with a bit of saliva before throwing it away. Can't burn stuff in public any more.
The man was where promised, sipping coffee and reading a paper. Same shit as ever on the cover. War in India. Hero troops. Government success.
"Martha, good to see you," he opened. "I hope you don't mind that I ordered for you." An agreed code. He checked a tanless patch on his wrist where a watch had once been. Watches were contraband, but the habit remained. Another signal. We exchanged identical bags under the table, the one I received laden with far more precious cargo than the clothes and lead I pushed across.
16 banned books, an antique clock and three watches. Worth far more than the quarter million paid for them by my current employer. Just a matter of finding the right buyer. Most science these days is focused on clocks. The secret to time travel is supposedly locked up in them and books on the subject have been banned in an attempt to clamp down the market. Pipe-dreams sell, it would seem.
My coffee was finished. A little more small talk and I departed, taking the prize with me. As ever I had to fight down the urge to bolt from the scene of exchange. That would draw too much attention. I took the two lefts and a right to get to the drop-off lab. The bag disappeared into a slot in the door for checking.
"Everything shiny?" I asked.
"Just look at something for me?"
"Sure."
Bang.
Son of a whore.
Crack. Squeal. The door swung open beside me as a familiar man walked past. Deja-vu struck for some reason. Almost like a gift from God an image flashed inside my skull.
Violence and pain. That was the end of this assignment, but how? No. Stop. I've never believed that. I wasn't going to start then. It's just superstition. Yet the image felt more like memory than anything else. Odd.
No matter.
I shook my head and trotted down the steps. The moment of deja-vu had stolen precious time. Plonking down on a park bench I waited.
My name is Paulette. I'm the woman people go to as a middleman if they don't trust the other part. Hell, even if they do. It's a matter of pride now. I can't afford to slip up.
The signal came as a man paused to adjust the leash on his dog's collar, slipping a piece of paper under my shoe. My next contact was a man with a pinstripe fedora, seated at table 18 in a nearby cafe. Thirty minutes. Not allowed to burn things in public any more, so I chewed up the piece of paper instead.
The man was tapping his fingers against the tabletop as I sat down. Again, deja-vu struck. I didn't have a single clue what was going on. A long black was placed before me without even asking, setting alarm bells off in my head. Very few people know my coffee preference, and none of them are ones I meet for the first time as deal contacts.
My growing malcontent aside, he pushed a bag toward me and I nudged mine over in exchange. One laden with lead and clothes, the other with books, watches and a carefully packaged clock. Everyone wanted analogue stuff. An obsession with time travel and media spurring it on will do that. Just meant more business to me, nothing more, though this particular job had my hair standing on end. I hate deja-vu for that very reason, as being more on edge never benefits me.
No matter.
Two lefts and a right took me to a steel door with a slot in the bottom. I eased the bag through and waited. There was an odd mutter.
"Everything okay? I want this job done with," I asked, unable to restrain a hint of unease.
"Check something would you?" the reply came.
My breath hitched. Too surreal. I was getting out. I bolted just as I heard the door open, feet already spinning as fast as they could.
Bang.
Son of a whore.
Creak. The groan of hinges as a door swung open behind me. A man stepped past and my instinct screamed that something was wrong. It was all too familiar, like I'd lived it more than once already. That's impossible.
My name's Paulette. I'm a middleman. Or middle-woman, if you'd like. Either way, I get goods from one person to another. Supposedly the best at it too, but that's due to willpower more than anything.
I shook my head to rid the surreal feeling from it as my required spot came into view. Park bench. So cliche. My contact turned up not long after to sit down puffing for a minute or two. He left a folded piece of paper wedged between two of the bench slats when he moved off again. Cafe around the corner. Table 19. Half an hour.
The scrap of paper was long torn up and scattered by the time I reached my next point. Willpower alone kept me from screaming and bolting as I saw a waiter place a long black on the table waiting for me. The pinstripe-fedora man smiled at me, but I noticed it was an empty expression. Whatever. I still had to keep my name up. Very little small talk passed between us before I'd finished my coffee and we exchanged bags. I wanted to break this feeling of a cycle.
Two lefts and a right took me to the drop-off. I'd been there before, I could feel it in my bones. The way the slot swung open to admit the bag as I pushed it through was as eerily familiar as the rest of the day, so I didn't wait around, I head off down the street instead.
The door opened behind me and there was a mutter of voices and one calling for me. Don't turn. Don't run. Just ignore it and it'll go away right?
Wrong. Bang.
Son of a whore.
Creak. Click. The door shut behind me and an all-too familiar man smiled as he paused to speak. My mind was going crazy. Everything was surreal. Everything was a memory.
"Sick of the loop?" he asked and the flicker of horror in my eyes turned the expression on his face wry.
A hand grasped my shoulder and propelled me away from the bench I'd been heading towards, as ordered, for the first step of a goods transfer. I'm a middle-woman for people who don't trust each other. Or do. None of my business really.
Within a minute I found myself seated in front of a thin man in a suit. He had both hands folded on a table and was regarding me through curious though not unkind eyes.
"Paulette, I presume." His smile didn't shift. Nor did his eyes which remained fixed on my face. "We can break you out, but you must bring us something in return. Instructions are in the envelope."
Folded paper in hand I paused to thank him. Once read, the letter was destroyed. I got the chance to burn this one, leaving it flaming in the trashcan next to the table.
"Oh, and one other thing..."
Bang.
My turn.
Creak. Grind. I made eye contact with the man as I walked past him, the slightest flicker of recognition. This time there would be no mistakes.
My name's Paulette. I get the job done.
The park bench was all too surreal under me as I waited without patience. Here was the message: table 20, café around the corner. I didn't even bother to read the rest before I strolled away from the spot to leave the first contact blinking after me. Somewhat of a stupid move but I felt it appropriate none the less. The remains of the letter were cast into a fountain to drown.
Everything seemed to slow as I approached the table. My long black had not yet arrived, but indicating to a waiter brought it soon enough. It steamed away as small talk flowed. God only knows how I managed to sit through that and act natural. I must be better than I thought.
Bags were exchanged along with a final farewell as I moved off, feeling the burn of his gaze on my skull. Right turn. He growled and stood up from the table. Something exploded on the ground next to me and I broke into a run, speeding away as fast as I could. A bus pulled up at the allotted time for me to step on to and use the code-line excuse about my pass. Vexation flickered a mask over the driver's face as he waved me to a seat in the empty bus and pulled away from the verge.
The next passenger to hop on was my all-too familiar male accomplice. We didn't speak. We didn't make eye contact. It was too dangerous now that the groups were fighting. I just handed over my bag and watched as he tore it open to slide the contraband into an alternate pack, swapping it for some textbooks.
"You can fake a student right? Good. Hop off at the uni, we'll fix the rest up," he whispered. A nod, and that was the end of it.
My name is Paulette. Only once did I not get the job done.
My name is Paulette. As ever, I was sent to ensure that a deal went down solid. It's a matter of pride. I can't afford to have my name blemished by any shortcoming. I got hired because of this.
The signal came when a man with a red dog stopped before me to give his dog's paw a once-over. While bent over, he slipped a piece of paper under my shoe, the next stage of the plan written on it. Cafe. Table 17. Man with a pinstripe fedora. Thirty minutes. I memorised the message as tradition dictates and took care to smear the ink with a bit of saliva before throwing it away. Can't burn stuff in public any more.
The man was where promised, sipping coffee and reading a paper. Same shit as ever on the cover. War in India. Hero troops. Government success.
"Martha, good to see you," he opened. "I hope you don't mind that I ordered for you." An agreed code. He checked a tanless patch on his wrist where a watch had once been. Watches were contraband, but the habit remained. Another signal. We exchanged identical bags under the table, the one I received laden with far more precious cargo than the clothes and lead I pushed across.
16 banned books, an antique clock and three watches. Worth far more than the quarter million paid for them by my current employer. Just a matter of finding the right buyer. Most science these days is focused on clocks. The secret to time travel is supposedly locked up in them and books on the subject have been banned in an attempt to clamp down the market. Pipe-dreams sell, it would seem.
My coffee was finished. A little more small talk and I departed, taking the prize with me. As ever I had to fight down the urge to bolt from the scene of exchange. That would draw too much attention. I took the two lefts and a right to get to the drop-off lab. The bag disappeared into a slot in the door for checking.
"Everything shiny?" I asked.
"Just look at something for me?"
"Sure."
Bang.
Son of a whore.
* * *
Crack. Squeal. The door swung open beside me as a familiar man walked past. Deja-vu struck for some reason. Almost like a gift from God an image flashed inside my skull.
Violence and pain. That was the end of this assignment, but how? No. Stop. I've never believed that. I wasn't going to start then. It's just superstition. Yet the image felt more like memory than anything else. Odd.
No matter.
I shook my head and trotted down the steps. The moment of deja-vu had stolen precious time. Plonking down on a park bench I waited.
My name is Paulette. I'm the woman people go to as a middleman if they don't trust the other part. Hell, even if they do. It's a matter of pride now. I can't afford to slip up.
The signal came as a man paused to adjust the leash on his dog's collar, slipping a piece of paper under my shoe. My next contact was a man with a pinstripe fedora, seated at table 18 in a nearby cafe. Thirty minutes. Not allowed to burn things in public any more, so I chewed up the piece of paper instead.
The man was tapping his fingers against the tabletop as I sat down. Again, deja-vu struck. I didn't have a single clue what was going on. A long black was placed before me without even asking, setting alarm bells off in my head. Very few people know my coffee preference, and none of them are ones I meet for the first time as deal contacts.
My growing malcontent aside, he pushed a bag toward me and I nudged mine over in exchange. One laden with lead and clothes, the other with books, watches and a carefully packaged clock. Everyone wanted analogue stuff. An obsession with time travel and media spurring it on will do that. Just meant more business to me, nothing more, though this particular job had my hair standing on end. I hate deja-vu for that very reason, as being more on edge never benefits me.
No matter.
Two lefts and a right took me to a steel door with a slot in the bottom. I eased the bag through and waited. There was an odd mutter.
"Everything okay? I want this job done with," I asked, unable to restrain a hint of unease.
"Check something would you?" the reply came.
My breath hitched. Too surreal. I was getting out. I bolted just as I heard the door open, feet already spinning as fast as they could.
Bang.
Son of a whore.
* * *
Creak. The groan of hinges as a door swung open behind me. A man stepped past and my instinct screamed that something was wrong. It was all too familiar, like I'd lived it more than once already. That's impossible.
My name's Paulette. I'm a middleman. Or middle-woman, if you'd like. Either way, I get goods from one person to another. Supposedly the best at it too, but that's due to willpower more than anything.
I shook my head to rid the surreal feeling from it as my required spot came into view. Park bench. So cliche. My contact turned up not long after to sit down puffing for a minute or two. He left a folded piece of paper wedged between two of the bench slats when he moved off again. Cafe around the corner. Table 19. Half an hour.
The scrap of paper was long torn up and scattered by the time I reached my next point. Willpower alone kept me from screaming and bolting as I saw a waiter place a long black on the table waiting for me. The pinstripe-fedora man smiled at me, but I noticed it was an empty expression. Whatever. I still had to keep my name up. Very little small talk passed between us before I'd finished my coffee and we exchanged bags. I wanted to break this feeling of a cycle.
Two lefts and a right took me to the drop-off. I'd been there before, I could feel it in my bones. The way the slot swung open to admit the bag as I pushed it through was as eerily familiar as the rest of the day, so I didn't wait around, I head off down the street instead.
The door opened behind me and there was a mutter of voices and one calling for me. Don't turn. Don't run. Just ignore it and it'll go away right?
Wrong. Bang.
Son of a whore.
* * *
Creak. Click. The door shut behind me and an all-too familiar man smiled as he paused to speak. My mind was going crazy. Everything was surreal. Everything was a memory.
"Sick of the loop?" he asked and the flicker of horror in my eyes turned the expression on his face wry.
A hand grasped my shoulder and propelled me away from the bench I'd been heading towards, as ordered, for the first step of a goods transfer. I'm a middle-woman for people who don't trust each other. Or do. None of my business really.
Within a minute I found myself seated in front of a thin man in a suit. He had both hands folded on a table and was regarding me through curious though not unkind eyes.
"Paulette, I presume." His smile didn't shift. Nor did his eyes which remained fixed on my face. "We can break you out, but you must bring us something in return. Instructions are in the envelope."
Folded paper in hand I paused to thank him. Once read, the letter was destroyed. I got the chance to burn this one, leaving it flaming in the trashcan next to the table.
"Oh, and one other thing..."
Bang.
My turn.
* * *
Creak. Grind. I made eye contact with the man as I walked past him, the slightest flicker of recognition. This time there would be no mistakes.
My name's Paulette. I get the job done.
The park bench was all too surreal under me as I waited without patience. Here was the message: table 20, café around the corner. I didn't even bother to read the rest before I strolled away from the spot to leave the first contact blinking after me. Somewhat of a stupid move but I felt it appropriate none the less. The remains of the letter were cast into a fountain to drown.
Everything seemed to slow as I approached the table. My long black had not yet arrived, but indicating to a waiter brought it soon enough. It steamed away as small talk flowed. God only knows how I managed to sit through that and act natural. I must be better than I thought.
Bags were exchanged along with a final farewell as I moved off, feeling the burn of his gaze on my skull. Right turn. He growled and stood up from the table. Something exploded on the ground next to me and I broke into a run, speeding away as fast as I could. A bus pulled up at the allotted time for me to step on to and use the code-line excuse about my pass. Vexation flickered a mask over the driver's face as he waved me to a seat in the empty bus and pulled away from the verge.
The next passenger to hop on was my all-too familiar male accomplice. We didn't speak. We didn't make eye contact. It was too dangerous now that the groups were fighting. I just handed over my bag and watched as he tore it open to slide the contraband into an alternate pack, swapping it for some textbooks.
"You can fake a student right? Good. Hop off at the uni, we'll fix the rest up," he whispered. A nod, and that was the end of it.
My name is Paulette. Only once did I not get the job done.
A sculpt in Zbrush for this year's Dominance War (the biggest low poly art competition. My final render sucks so badly, I'm afraid I might loose credibility)
