And Back
Okay, new deal, for anybody who might've stumbled aross this, or for like the two people I've told about it.
Starting like Monday, Tuesday, D's gonna drop a drawing a week on me, and I'm giving myself two days to come up with some kind of coherent story to go with it. Most of them'll probably center on the Brass City (at D's desire; he's so damned happy that I'm calling the blog Brass City Static), and since that's such a big, unexplored world there should be pretty much fucking endless stories to tell.
I've asked D to come up with new people, but I'm figuring that he'll want to revisit Boop and Tycho and Alabaster and the rest, at least occasionally. And that's cool. I miss those guys.
Here's a Boop scene that never went anywhere, just to get shit started:
Boop, ah, Jesus, Boop. You wretched little girl, dirty fingers with ragged nails scrabbling for produce off the edge of a Pakistani’s convenience store display, oranges, apples, tomatoes, mangos pinched in a fast walkby, dropped into the grimy depths of the pocket of your torn London Fog tweed. Boop, fuck, your hair, hacked off with a rusting pocketknife, half-witted attempt to emulate seen-on-the-street fashion, delirious with malnutrition, starvation hallucinations in front of a cracked mirror in a forgotten bathroom in the bottom depths of Riverside Station.
Your hands, honey, your sweet young hands. Cracked with cold, scarred, knuckle-abraded. Hands with palms as rough as a construction worker’s, black lines of grime trapped under the nails, chapped, raw, pale.
Almost too much to look at already, but Oh God, your face, Boop. Smooth baby cheeks shiny with grease, the fine grime of street life smudged into the angles of your jaw, defining your fine, almost avian bone structure, darkening and shadowing as you clench your teeth against fast cold wind in the nighttime or the cheery jeers of passing young bucks. Your big black anime eyes bloodshot ‘cause you can’t sleep easy on the street, crusted in the corners ‘cause you just don’t care anymore. Nobody to keep clean for.
Okay, new deal, for anybody who might've stumbled aross this, or for like the two people I've told about it.
Starting like Monday, Tuesday, D's gonna drop a drawing a week on me, and I'm giving myself two days to come up with some kind of coherent story to go with it. Most of them'll probably center on the Brass City (at D's desire; he's so damned happy that I'm calling the blog Brass City Static), and since that's such a big, unexplored world there should be pretty much fucking endless stories to tell.
I've asked D to come up with new people, but I'm figuring that he'll want to revisit Boop and Tycho and Alabaster and the rest, at least occasionally. And that's cool. I miss those guys.
Here's a Boop scene that never went anywhere, just to get shit started:
Boop, ah, Jesus, Boop. You wretched little girl, dirty fingers with ragged nails scrabbling for produce off the edge of a Pakistani’s convenience store display, oranges, apples, tomatoes, mangos pinched in a fast walkby, dropped into the grimy depths of the pocket of your torn London Fog tweed. Boop, fuck, your hair, hacked off with a rusting pocketknife, half-witted attempt to emulate seen-on-the-street fashion, delirious with malnutrition, starvation hallucinations in front of a cracked mirror in a forgotten bathroom in the bottom depths of Riverside Station.
Your hands, honey, your sweet young hands. Cracked with cold, scarred, knuckle-abraded. Hands with palms as rough as a construction worker’s, black lines of grime trapped under the nails, chapped, raw, pale.
Almost too much to look at already, but Oh God, your face, Boop. Smooth baby cheeks shiny with grease, the fine grime of street life smudged into the angles of your jaw, defining your fine, almost avian bone structure, darkening and shadowing as you clench your teeth against fast cold wind in the nighttime or the cheery jeers of passing young bucks. Your big black anime eyes bloodshot ‘cause you can’t sleep easy on the street, crusted in the corners ‘cause you just don’t care anymore. Nobody to keep clean for.
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