My Artist Brain Wants To Describe Colors In Fancy Words Like Carmine And Vermilion, But My Author Brain

Abled Person: Hey man, can you hold this wad of $2,000 and this one penny for me while I open my wallet?

Disabled Person: YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER FOOL!

The United States Government:

(Watch how many people don’t get this.)

Reblog if you…

Liked something you wrote today.

Enjoyed writing whatever you wrote today.

Are eager to write the thing you’re supposed to write today.

Are proud to be a writer.

The Wreckers - In the Junkyard

Another round of thugly antics. Again, check out Puckarooni for her Pokemon Superhero AU. Cool jams, friendos.

Alolan Joe - Alolan Ratata Leader and self proclaimed mousestache afficianado

Ben - Spearow Brawn of the group of Bachelor of Thuganomics

Zach - Zigzagoon Dunno what he’s doing, but he’s doing it well

Sherman - Sentret Newbie, but he makes up for it with heart

~~~

“Alright, Gents.” Joe said, strapping on his goggles

“Who wants to go first?”

Ben and Sherman’s hands both shot up, Zach was taking his time strapping on his hard hat.

Joe stroked his luxurious lip fluff, “Hmm, let’s see what the new recruit has to offer. Sherman, you’re up.”

Sherman pumped his fist and smiled at Ben. Ben gave him a curt snort before tossing the sledgehammer at him. Sherman fumbled the catch but managed to miss having it land on his toes. He gathered up the hammer and scurried to the center of the junkyard where they had set up their latest target. A sleek, heavy duty, Ironclad™ mini-vault safe.

“Okay,” Sherman said, squaring his feet and tugging at his leather gloves. “Watch this.”

He brought the sledgehammer way back behind him, twisting almost all the way around. He then let out a warrior cry, something of a mix between a painful yelp and yodelling, and brought the sledgehammer against the side of the safe. The metal-on-metal clang rang out through the junkyard. The others brought their hands up over their ears. The safe keeled onto two of its legs before settling back to stability. The ringing died out and Sherman turned around.

His whole body was shaking from the heavy impact. “How was that?”

Zach gave a golf clap, Joe chuckled under his breath. Ben shook his head, “Alright alright, amateur hour is over. We don’t have all night to bust this thing open.”

He sauntered over to Sherman and snagged the sledge out of his trembling hands. Sherman smiled up at him, expectantly. Ben scowled down the bridge of his nose at him. “Uh…Not bad, I guess.” He sniffed and noticed the small dent at the side of the safe, “Now, stand back. Let me show you how it’s done.” He smirked.

Sherman nodded and scuttled back a few steps. Ben took the sledgehammer in his hands and tested its weight, a few test swings swiping at the air. Like a baseball star, he rolled his shoulders, spat on his hands, shook his arms out.

“While we’re young, tough guy.” Joe called out.

“Bite Me, Nerd!” Ben hollered back.

Joe folded his arms and laughed. He turned to Zach, “Think he can actually bust that thing open?”

Zach had finished suiting up with a dust mask and looked like a post-apocalyptic refugee. Zach looked at Ben’s prep ritual and shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I heard that.” Ben said, shouldering the hammer, “Okay, here we go.” He whipped the hammer high over his head and roared his own battle cry. For a whole minute, Ben whaled against the safe. He slammed the sides, top and legs, driving the safe into the dirt. Over and over the hammer fell to the brittle tune of clanging metal. When he finished, the sledge hammer landed beside him with a heavy thud. Ben fought to catch his breath.

“Damn, what’s this thing made of?”

“WHAT!?” Shouted Sherman, standing a few feet away.

“I SAID! -Nevermind.” Ben dragged the hammer back to where Joe was standing. Zach had vanished to places unknown. Sherman hustled behind him.

“Alright, Joe.” Ben said, holding out the hammer to him. “Show us what you got.”

Joe lifted his eyebrows, “What’s this? You’ve given up?”

Sherman, ears slowly returning to their rightful tone frequency, chimed in, “Hey hey, I can go again.”

Ben ignored him, “This was your idea, fearless leader. Let’s see you put your money where your mouth is.”

Joe looked at the hammer, then back at Joe. “Alright, Ben.” He took the tool out of Ben’s hands, “But when I crack this thing open, I expect you to start treating me with a little more respect.”

Ben scoffed as Joe whisped past him. Sherman scooted up beside Ben, who stepped a little bit away. Sherman followed. Ben grumbled.

Joe came to the center of the junkyard. The atmosphere of the yard became heavy. He dragged the metal sledge along the ground and it rattled against the various pieces of scrap along the way. The florescent lights hummed above and there was a quiet breeze that picked up a few scattered bits of paper, causing them to dance in the air.

Joe squared off with the safe. He took a deep breath and pulled the heavy sledge hammer into the air. He ratcheted his torso, twisting back and leveling the hammer. The air stood still in anticipation. Ben and Sherman held their breath, along with Zach, whom had returned at some point. Then, with a mighty howl, Joe spun his body and connected with the pointed edge of the safe. The metal clang was joined with a loud crack and snap. The head of the sledgehammer sailed through the air and landed a few feet away from Joe with a dull thud. The safe had been scuffed to the side a few inches, but aside from that was unchanged.

Ben clucked and doubled over, laughing heartily. Sherman shouted from beside him, “That was Awesome!”

Joe turned and casually walked over to the busted head of the hammer. He regarded it before gathering the lump of metal and returning to the rest of the crew.

“Well gents, looks like- Ben you can stop now- looks like we’ll need another plan.”

“What’s in the safe, anyway?” Sherman asked.

“Documents, of some nature.” Said Joe. “They must be pretty dangerous if they want us to Wreck them.”

“What if,” Sherman said, looking excitedly between Joe and Ben, Zach had shuffled off to sniff around the safe. “What if we just hold the stuff ransom? Maybe we can blackmail the guy?”

Joe stroked his stache. Ben gathered himself, “No, cause then we wouldn’t be the Wreckers anymore.” He folded his arms in a tough guy flex, “We’d be the Blackmailers. Or whatever.”

Joe nodded, “He’s right, and I’m already getting T-shirts made.”

“We’re Getting T-Shirts?” Sherman exclaimed.

“You bet, as soon as we crack this safe. Now then.” Joe looked at the busted sledgehammer, “We’ll need a new plan to get those–”

“Done,” Zach said, holding up a manila folder stuffed with documents, the word “classified” was barely visible on a sheet jutting from the mass.

They all looked at the folder, then to the safe, the door was open with no further apparent damage. Joe, with an exceedingly puzzled look on his face, took the folder.

Sherman gawked, “How did you do that?”

Zach held out his hands and gestured with is fingers, wiggling them and twisting his wrist. “Just…ya know.” He did some more wangjangling and fidgeting, “That.” He nodded with a satisfied look on his face.

Sherman watched the display intently, mimicking the frivolous actions as best he could. When Zach was done, he looked at his hands. “That’s wild,” He said, a little disheartened that it made little sense to him.

Ben scoffed, “Well, whatever. I probably loosened it up for him.” He looked over to Joe, “Alright, so now..?” He trailed off expectantly.

Joe took the hint and walked over to an oil drum, “Now, we do what we do best.” He tossed the folder into the bin.

“We Wreck Stuff!” Sherman called out and ran back to the edge of the clearing, grabbing a half tank of gasoline they had stashed there. He hustled it over to Ben and handed off the payload. Sherman had not yet achieved “Burn it” status yet, but he was eager to help.

They gathered around the drum as Ben poured in a responsible amount of fuel into the drum, and then added an irresponsible amount with a sinister grin.

Joe held a hand out to Zach, who whipped a match from his pocket and placed it into Joe’s palm. “Alright Ben, that’s enough.”

Ben rejoined them and set down the tank of gasoline. The three of them watched Joe expectantly.

“This is another job,” Joe lit the match with a strike against his teeth, “Well done.”

He tossed the match into the oil drum and it immediately burst into a column of flame. The four of them stepped back at the spectacle.

“This is so damn cool.” Said Sherman. “Don’t you think this is cool?” He said, turning to Zach.

“Maybe.” Said Zach, who was already busy trying to pry open the lid of what looked like a jewel box.

Ben glanced at Joe, “‘Well done’? Are you freakin serious?”

“What can I say, I have a–,” Joe turned to Ben, so the firelight glimmered off his goggles, “Flare for dramatics.”

Ben groaned.

but did victor frankenstein actually have a phd

Writing without a story

I’ve got a couple of asks in my inbox about my prompt fills on here as well as how long I spend on them exactly. So here’s a bit of my process!

1) Find a prompt you like.

There are a lot of great prompt blogs out there! @writing-prompt-s, @gingerly-writing, @witterprompts, @yetmoreprompts and @corvidprompts are some of my favorites to go for inspiration.

For this post, I’ll be using this one (X) from writing-prompt-s! Don’t think too hard about it–that’ll just keep you from writing! Pick one you’d be interested in learning more about and open up a new document!

Prompt:  You are a lonely young child. Your parents are always working and you don’t have any friends. To cope, you decide to start talking to your stuffed animal. After you ask it a question one day, it responds

2) Choose your genre.

I tend to stick to urban fantasy or high fantasy, but maybe that’s not what you’re interested in writing! If you like writing out suspense, maybe thriller is more your speed or mystery! The world is your oyster.

3) Write the first line.

I favor my 10th grade english teacher’s advice here and try to write “one true sentence!” Technically it’s Hemingway’s advice, but he can go ahead and stay the frick out of this post!

Here’s my thought process: Young children need physical/verbal/emotional affection. Without the parents around, their reliance on stuffed animals makes sense. They probably hug the animal a lot and, from my experience, well loved stuffed animals aren’t quite as soft as they once were.

First line: Mr. Kili’s mane feels more like the fraying mop in the kitchen than yarn the night that Janet decides he’s the only friend she’ll ever need.

Keep reading

For those who like silly artists who also love martial arts. Give this one a looksee.

Oh!

Hey budoka and fitness buddies! I’ve had several people in the community approach me about martial arts & fitness related drawings- it’s super fun for me to work on things like that, as it basically combines two of the things I love most in life! When i can I like to draw stuff on the fly and for free- but time is pretty short these days and so, incidentally, is money! I am opening several slots for commissions of that variety this week. Wanna see yourself as a badass anime character? Or maybe you just want one of your favourite characters giving you a little bit of motivation? I’m your Pants!

Interested? Cool, have a sample/price list: sketches/simple lineart-10$:

Chibi, flat colours with basic shading- 15$:

One shot/short comics. B&W- 25$:

single waist up, full colour- 25$ :

full shot, full colour- 30$ and up :

You’ll get a 300dpi version of the image and big sloppy thank you from yours truly ;D WHY PANTS WHY ARE YOU DOIN THIS???

I am heading out to a comic convention in the month of May. Trips like this are an out of pocket expense for me. As it would happen, I’ve also got a handful of karate clinics I need to attend as well.  Needless to say, it’s gonna be a “tight on the budget” kinda month!  I am hoping to acquire some of the necessary funding in this way. If you’re interested send me a message, and I will provide you with art to make you smile and get you amped up to work out!! Thanks for stopping by and, as usual, Happy Training!

Grondel of Irvasker

I never planned on this turning into a scene. It just sort of tumbled out. So I had no way of knowing how to end it. So, forgive the meme conclusion. Enjoy?

...

The Irvasker tribe of the wintery north always held honor among warriors as guiding doctrine. Every man, woman, and child was expected to show this level of reverence and respect to strength and especially overcoming obstacles, be they from the world or within. This left Yorgen Irvasker, son of the mighty Tusk Irvasker, in a difficult position. The great beast Grondel’s head lay at his feet. The same beast that Yorgen had failed to hunt for months. Indeed, such a feat would yield, by their tribe’s most honored traditions, the seat beside the Chief. Yorgen was conflicted giving such a regal position to an outsider, especially a Bobkin. He clenched and unclenched his fist several times around the pommel of his great sword, debating if he could talk his way out of lopping the sly grin off the Bobkin’s face. The Chief cleared his throat again, motioning to Yorgen.

“Ah yes,” Yorgen said, knocked from his internal monologues of bloodshed, “You have done well, Bobkin.”

“The name’th Withper.” The Bobkin named Whisper said with a painfully comical lisp. He leaned his small frame against the beast’s head, his elbow digging into its ear. “And I think, you got more to thay than that.”

Yorgen stifled a grumble with a cough, “Yes of course. As the customs and traditions of our tribe dictate, you are to receive a title and position worthy of your deed.”

Whisper gave a revoltingly self-satisfying smile and patted the head, “Tho, what will thith get me?”

The Chief stood from his throne of furs, leather and bone and made a wide gesture that made his mammoth-skin cape flutter around him. “For your deeds you shall become a Yar-Vasker.” 

Whisper looked from the Chief to Yorgen. Yorgen sighed and wiped a hand over his face and down his beard, “He means you will become like a brother to the Chief.” 

The minute warrior cheered, “About time you meatheads recognized my might.”

The Chief smiled. Yorgen grumbled, but then noticed a shifting of movement on the beast’s head. Not a sign of life, more like a sudden change in color before quickly shifting back. 

“But before that,” Yorgen said, approaching the head, “We shall make ceremony of this great and impressive victory!” He raised his mighty great sword into the air. The masses cheered at the glinting steel of his blade. “Oh Whisper, the great hunter, the honor shall be yours.” He extended his arm, offering the huge weapon to the small Bobkin.

“Exthcuthe me?” Whisper said, head tilting to the side.

“Drive the blade into the beast’s head, such is the ceremony before honoring you as Yar-Vasker.” Yorgen said with an ice-cold smile. 

Whisper looked at the greatsword, the handle of which was larger than his forearm. “I don’t think--”

“Oh but great hunter Whisper,” Yorgen said, his voice booming, “After defeating this beast, surely this small task is nothing for you.”

“Yes,” The Chief said, his smile was warm and brotherly, “Show us the might that slew the powerful beast.”

Cheers lifted from the crowd, followed by chanting for their new hero. Yorgen beamed, eyes wide and full of malice, down at the small Bobkin. The handle of the weapon aimed at his head like the bolt of a crossbow.

“Uh,” He looked between the weapon and the beast’s head. “Ith thith really nethethary?”

“Oh?” Yorgen said, a brow arching with the hope of mimicking the expression of one who is surprised. “Could it be you do not have the strength?”

Whisper sneered and matched glares with Yorgen, “Well, it was quite a mighty battle,” He let his grin show more of his sharp teeth, “Not that you would really know.”

The chanting of the crowd masked their interaction, but enough people noticed the change in Yorgen, from his usual calm and dominant presence, to the tense presence of a coiled predator. A second chant was called out, probably by one of the younger fools in attendance, that called for more bloodshed.

Whisper and Yorgen held each other at a glare until the burly, bearded man broke first. He turned to the Chief.

“My Chief. The battle with Grondel has left our savior weary indeed and unable to initiate the ceremony.” Yorgen said, his face wearing a worried look that ill matched the giddy sound in his voice.

Whisper let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

“So instead” Yorgen continued, “Mightn’t I do the honors?” He turned and lifted the blade over his head, eyes locked on the head of the beast.

“STOP!” Whisper said, his lisp vanishing. 

Yorgen brought the blade down. 

The head bounced out of the way and tumbled behind Whisper.

“Are you crazy?” The head burbled before twitching and shifting into a different creature. A mix between a shaggy dog and a dragon. The Farceling tried to hunker its large body behind the small Bobkin. 

The crowd went wild, confusion, anger and a couple of people laughing nervously.

“I knew it!” Yorgen cried, “Naught but lies and trickery!” Yorgen strode over to them, blade held tight in his fist. “You dare--”

“Now,” Whisper held up his hands, “Let’s be reasonable about this.” 

“We need to escape,” the Farceling muttered from behind his friend.

“What do you think I am trying to do, Hush?” Whisper said in a panicked voice.

“No, not from him,” Hush said.

Yorgen loomed over them. “I have had enough of you both.” He was shouting over the cacophony of the crowd. “You shall be put to death for your deceit.”

“Silence!” The Chief cried, raising his hands.

A rather tiny Pixum poked its head out of Whisper’s pocket for a second, “Did they figure me out too?” Whisper quickly pushed Silence back into his pocket.

The din of noise in the hall fell away. 

“Where are the guardsmen?” The Chief said, scanning the crowd. Five hands went up.

“Here, Chief!”

Yorgen’s eyes went wide, “Then who is standing guard?”

The five men looked at one another.

“You said you were going to stay behind.”

“I told Bristle to stand watch for me.”

“Then why is HE here?”

“But Grondel is dead, so why would I need to stand guard?”

The crowd turned their eyes on the cowering Farceling. A hush fell over the room. 

Then a quaking wail, the sound of souls being shred and the dead writhing in their graves, came thundering through the hall. Followed soon was the sound of barricades splintering under the force of powerful, unstoppable limbs. 

The Chief went pale, “Grondel.”

Yorgen furrowed his brow, “It's here.”

“Oh shit,” Whisper whispered

Roll initiative…

Are fedoras really that bad?

YES YES THEY ARE

I was talking to someone today about writing, and I was surprised by how amazed they were by writers’ ability to create a story. They couldn’t understand how JKR was able to create the world of Harry Potter–how she came up a world so far removed from our reality. 

It made me realize something; not everyone can come up with worlds on a whimsy. Not everyone can create characters that they grow so fond of that they’re like real people in their eyes. Not everyone has gone through the experience of a character derailing their story and swearing it wasn’t them typing those words in that document. Not everyone can just envision a story and then just write it. 

I’ve been making stories since I was a small child–it’s something so ingrained in me that to imagine not being able to write (no matter how much I agonize over writing woes) is such a foreign concept to me. Writers, cherish your ability to create stories. Because not everyone can create stories. Because there isn’t anyone in the world who can write the stories you are writing. Because you don’t know when or where there might be a person in the world who needs to hear your story.