An illustration I did some years back that I can't seem to either move forward on, or leave alone entirely. The idea was that it would function as a book cover, with the alien being the actual cover, the left spaceman as the back cover and a fold out of the other spaceman (as seen in next shot) inside. Then I realized, this book doesn't really exist.
11 months ago
The inside fold-out portion.
11 months ago
The underset lazer master, the explosion of eyes, those triangular fade shadows.
I'd write this book if you'd let me use it as a cover.
@Eric Westerlind I was gonna say the same thing.
Sons of Venus
by ew and @Adam L.
"It didn't take a million years for the tentacles to drift back along Brentley Freck's brain. In fact, only three months after, he thought back on it with almost a sense of satisfaction.
"And why shouldn't he? It had been his moment of truth, the moment in which it had all been revealed. His thoughts turned to when it all happened, a slight smiled crept onto his lips. Then his brows creased, and his mouth turned down."
This is giving me more ideas for illustrations. Please, Adam and Eric, feel free to continue. In the meantime I'll be sketching.
10 months ago
"You got to thinking about tentatcles again, Brentley?"
Tate Ordelaine, owner of Pinball Alley, Valedictorian of Brentley Freck's graduating class and current consumer of scone dipped in latte foam wiped at the trim of his moustache. "I see that glaze drop over your eyes and know as sure as I held your sweet daughter at her birth that you're back there again."
Brentley didn't need to agree. Tate always knew Tate was right.
"So why did you call me to this coffee shop anyway?" Any thoughts of tentacles soon drifted away as the prospect of whatever it could be that Tate had called him over for prodded the edges of his brain. "Ah me, yes I suppose I ought to spill the beans, eh? Tate twirled the end of his mustache, and let out a sigh of satisfaction. "Now listen carefully, I shan't need to repeat myself as if I was talking to my dear grandpapa..."
"There's this apartment, up Connecticut aways. Old thing; the brick is greying a bit."
"I know it," says Brentley.
"Well, I just bought it, see– figured it a good investment and paid the man a check quick as I could, seeing as how the real estate market is shark's waters these days and I didn't want to pass up the opportunity."
Tate was an impulsive son, that's how he'd snatched up Valedictorian and all those pinball machines. Sometimes it worked in his favor.
"Other times, I'd have gone through and had the place inspected but I trusted the seller, know him through Rotary Club, so I just paid him the money. It isn't any adventure– it's just $200 in your pocket; you'd just run over there and pass your critical eye over the plumbing and heating and let me know that I was right," Tate winked at Breckley, "cause I always am."
"Oh, well, I suppose I could use the cash. When do you need me over there?" And indeed Breckley did need the cash. Money had been tight since...He rubbed his temple, trying to erase any oncoming memories of what evil had come after he had been revealed as a son of Venus.
"Well, I was thinking maybe you could come sometime today. Maybe late afternoon, or tonight perhaps?" Tate grinned that mischievous little grin of his. "I know I sort of sprung it toward you quickly, but I have this great idea for the old place. Might even involve some more moolah for you"
"Well I can't do it this afternoon, got to run some errands... Tonight should be fine though." Breckley barely finished his sentence as Tate shoved his hand in his pocket and handed Breckley a wad of cash.
"That's all I needed to hear! I gotta jet now. Things to do, places to see." Tate put on his coat and hat, grabbed his cane and made for the door. "Ta-ta my friend! I am most interested in seeing the results of your search. Shall me meet again tomorrow morning? Same place, same time?" Tate didn't even wait for an answer as he opened the doors of the shop. He took one last look at Breckley and winked.
"Well er, yes I suppose we could. See you then?" But the last sentence fell on deaf ears as Tate had already gone. Just like dear old Tate...Rushing about as he did whatever he pleased.
"I see that glaze drop over your eyes and know as sure as I held your sweet daughter at her birth that you're back there again."
10 months ago
The night was a brisk one. Brentley held the cover flaps of his hat down over his ears and made his usual stumbling progress against wind and distance; his small studio apartment was a ways from Tate's new building on Connecticut.
His building inspector permit'd long since lapsed, unkept-up like so many things -- marriage, CDL, weapon accuracy, the 'garden' of wistaria he kept.
He rubbed at his full stomach. At least there was oatmeal. He hopped over a moonlit puddle to cross the street.
The errands he'd needed to run had been the inconsequential ones that seem to take up the most time, the kind his part-time boss Nickles O'Dunnel was always finding more and more to do-do. Have you checked the gauge and wear on the most recent round of cavern lug-nuts? Has the slipper-top on 1440's electric line been de-knotted and re-formed? Can you, would you, will you, please go...
Brentley did it, sure. But he didn't want to keep doing it. And who did? Seemed everyone he talked to was really dreaming of a 'good life' in an armchair; Coronoritas and vacant gazes into a perfect spring day on the beach.
"It ain't like that, is it," he said to himself, reaching the front of the building on Connecticut, a zig-zag silhouette of disuse that fell into the sky above him. He revisited that step he'd made into the earth's surface when the Crack had occurred in June.
"Just a building inspection," he said, strapping on tool-kit.
He took out his flashlight and called Tate to ask how to get in.
No reply. The ghost of silence hung across in the spans between rings. Brentley scratched his head and put the phone back in his pocket, tried the door.
A car rumbled by, he tried the handle again, turned it left instead of right. It opened; unusual. He'd had a garage like that once though.
Hello? sounded empty, that same ghost of silence pummeling it into nothing before it got too far through the door such that anyone who might've heard must've thought Brentley was down, locked in the basement, or calling from another planet. Venus, maybe.
He clicked on his flashlight and let it stroke the darkness, showing the oblong corners of piled furniture, rolls of string and yarn, the hatched shadows of a staircase that rose up in spirals to the second floor, wide steps canvasing the bulk of what seemed the great room.
The basement, right? But who wants to go down first? Moles. One of Brentley's exes, the one two before his wife, librarian..
Halfway up the grand staircase, Tate called.
@Eric Westerlind Ha. Sorry I haven't replied yet. Been pretty busy, and haven't had much time. I'll write something up later today. :)
Or maybe tomorrow...Stupid busy-ness. :)
"Sorry I missed your call, Brentley, stupid busy-ness. Some junkers been out back of one of my eastern properties stealing the scrap metal I've been piling–" Brentley could hear Tate pulling away from the phone, talk away from it to someone else, "–that's right, that's.. yeah, that red-haired– hang on.." he (Tate) turned back into the phone speaker, "Brentley, call you back in a sec."
The light shone up onto Brentley's face and he was back in that muted darkness. Phone to the pocket, eyes scanning, he kept up the stairs. Did Tate have people already up in here? Live in's?
The pitch of the stairs changed (creaks to croaks) when he hit the top of the staircase and a soft lush carpet, notably dirty, stretched the length of the hall.
Brentley whistled six free notes, thinking of dolphins, mine-hunting dolphins, the ones the Sons had employed when they'd hunted the Gorgon through the Minosian Minefarm, imagining his whistle tune bouncing to the walls, facets, nooks of the building, collecting and returning to him, relaying a map of the cracks and creases ahead of him. Alas, no dolphin, Brentley Freck.
"Just a man with a flashlight," he repeated, hopelessly.
Despite giving him a good view of carpet, door-frames, closed doors, and a dusty vanity at the far end with a strange dead flower hanging down, the flashlight blinded his peripheral and dulled his other senses, so he clicked it off and walked back down the staircase in silence, absorbed by the dark.
@Adam L. :) Take your time.
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