http://browse.deviantart.com/?order=9&q=faded+mauve+patterns deviantART RSS for boost:popular faded mauve patterns en-us Copyright 2013, deviantART.com Thu, 23 May 2013 02:57:26 PDT deviantART.com http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss http://st.deviantart.net/minish/widgets/apple-touch-icon-precomposed.png http://webtreatsetc.deviantart.com/art/Faded-Mauve-Vintage-Patterns-154945152 http://webtreatsetc.deviantart.com/art/Faded-Mauve-Vintage-Patterns-154945152 Sun, 21 Feb 2010 11:27:44 PST Faded Mauve Vintage Patterns nonadult resources/applications/patterns WebTreatsETC http://a.deviantart.net/avatars/w/e/webtreatsetc.jpg?1 Copyright 2010-2013 ~WebTreatsETC
Free for personal and commercial use. More details can be found here: [link] ]]>
Free for personal and commercial use. More details can be found here: [link]

]]> http://webtreatsetc.deviantart.com/art/Faded-Mauve-Photoshop-Patterns-151140428 http://webtreatsetc.deviantart.com/art/Faded-Mauve-Photoshop-Patterns-151140428 Wed, 20 Jan 2010 13:50:30 PST Faded Mauve Photoshop Patterns nonadult resources/applications/patterns WebTreatsETC http://a.deviantart.net/avatars/w/e/webtreatsetc.jpg?1 Copyright 2010-2013 ~WebTreatsETC
Free for personal and commercial use. More details can be found here: [link] ]]>
Free for personal and commercial use. More details can be found here: [link]

]]> http://fluffynabs.deviantart.com/art/Telgar-Weyr-Eggs-March-2009-115477911 http://fluffynabs.deviantart.com/art/Telgar-Weyr-Eggs-March-2009-115477911 Tue, 10 Mar 2009 07:19:39 PDT Telgar Weyr Eggs March 2009 nonadult fanart/digital/drawings/books FluffyNabs http://a.deviantart.net/avatars/f/l/fluffynabs.jpg Copyright 2009-2013 ~FluffyNabs

1. Promise of Romance - A molten mauve bump rests near the center of the sands. Its true size is hard to gauge as its main mass remains always buried in the warm sands. The bump’s markings do change slightly, though it maintains its purple-red base through it all. At places it is covered with a collection of small brown patches. At others it has a bright pink mark, heart-shaped with the point curling gently to the right. But most of the surface there is nothing at all but the warm tones which play over the shell and hint at a deep devotion waiting to be released upon the dearest heart.

2. Opened Treasures Egg - This egg can be hard to spot at first since it blends so well with the sand. A first glance makes it appear nothing more than another lump of sand, but on a second look the distinct egg-shape is quite visible. The color is made of light grains of brown all piled atop one another. In some places it looks like the sand has been blown away and there’s a peek of what looks like square stone piled up in a pyramid shape. Several strips of what looks like parchment peeks out through the sand as well as around either end of the egg. Upon these parchment-looking strips are lines that almost seem to be pictures of animals.

3. Violet Traditions Egg - The angles and iridescence of gems dot the surface of this egg, glimmering luridly against the bland colors of the hatching sands. The facets range from almost white through lavender and down to a rich, velvety purple. The violet is broken up by shoots of a dark green surrounded by leaves of the same color and topped with round petals. Though the flower-like markings range through the same colors as the rest of the egg, their lines are blurred and soft, distinguishing them from the sharp lines and angles.

4. African Cloth Egg - Energetic colors loop around this egg – sky blues, emerald greens, pulsating orange, blood red, and an earthy brown are all arranged in orderly rows of geometric shapes. The triangles, diamonds, checks, and stair-step patterns cover every inch of this eggs’ surface. It’s hard to look away from this egg’s shell, it’s so unusual and attractive, and there is no doubt that the colors invoke a feeling of exhilaration and happiness.

5. Winter Purification Rites Egg - On first glance this egg seems almost wherry-like but for its size; plain and slightly pebbly. It is only on a second look that the fractured-ice like patterns emerge, sharp corners meeting whirls of bluish wave-like patterns. The faint patterns are of such a complexity that the human eye can hardly take them all in, adding to the illusion of simplicity.

6. Heart on Fire Egg - Velvety blacks, vibrant reds, vivacious oranges, and vivid yellows make up the colors on the surface of this egg. Swirling in seductive curves and sinuous coils, the flame-like patterns seem to suggest, on one side, the shape of a heart symbol. If the blaze-wreathed egg shell is any indicator, this will be a passionate dragon, indeed!

7. First in Orbit Egg - This egg is an expanse of starry blue. The midnight color of the shell allows tiny freckles of white to stand out in stark contrast. More rounded than its other counterparts there is a spot on one side near the middle of the egg that’s rounded and made of blues and greens. Above this sphere of land and water there is a small whitish gray dot different from the others. Twice the size and less round it seems to be hovering over the larger expanse of blue and green like it is traveling on its way around it, far up in the dark blue sky.

8. Mantilla Lace Veil Egg - A soft, pearl-gray color dominates the surface of this egg, like mist drifting slowly over still black waters. The uniformity is broken up, however, by the lighter areas of pearly-white in the bottom half of the egg, which swirl and unfold in patterns that look like delicate flowers, and ghostly new leaves. At first unassuming, the fragile, unearthly beauty seems to grow the longer this egg’s shell is studied.

9. Flashes of Life Egg - The summit of this egg is marred with the shadows of two dragons, twinned in the passion of a Flight. The bottom right of the egg has a rippling pool, a handful of people gathered around an impromptu feast along the shore. The final detail is a lush tree which hangs, suspended, on the left. The shadows beside its trunk blur the details of what might have happened beneath, but the man pacing near the crackling fire with the large pot of bubbling water above it might stir the imagination.

10. Out to the Ballgame Egg - A green shell makes this egg not so hard to find. A thin white line that starts at one end and draws along to the other appears to be in the shape of a diamond with small white splotches at each point. Within that diamond are several round white dots and outside it are long brown spots with one end more rounded and large than the other. The egg has on either side of the diamond two rows each of four round spots of different colors.

11. Month of the Pearl Egg - Shimmers of color condense about the lines of this smaller egg: darker gray towards the base merges up with a gradually spreading blue. This in turn meets lavender, and then a pale pink swirled with a hint of yellow, and finally a dusting of silver curls. The soft shine of the egg has an elegant grace to it that makes it stand out even among its brightly colored siblings.

12. Fickle Winds Egg - While all of this egg glimmers with sapphire highlights, the amount of frost which coats its shell varies from one patch to another. When the snow is high, the rest of the section is a blanket of pure white snow. Where the sun has won the day’s battle, strands of brown plants and whispers of new growth can be seen among the patches of ice. Still other places are a swirl of fallen snow or angular darts of hail or freezing rain. It would appear that egg and sands battle for control of this ovoid’s clime.

13. Bowl of Cherries Egg - Crimson, scarlet, rub, burgundy – these are the colors on this egg’s shell. A series of overlapping round shapes which are not quite circles cover every available inch of space. Each round shape is darker on the edges, brighter in the center, with just the right amount of stark white highlight. It looks like the egg is composed of dozens of round, juicy berries of some kind – almost good enough to eat!

14. Shades of Klah Egg - A deep, rich klah-brown tone is the base color of this lusciously curved egg, sun-kissed here and there with mottled variations: burnt umber, chestnut, chocolate, ebony. Darker patterns of dusky brown-black create a sense of movement over its surface; trailing down like unruly, vibrant hair. The warm browns fit well with the warmth of the hatching grounds.

15. Shorter Than the Rest Egg - This egg with a shiny white shell is surely within proper egg size, but definitely shorter in length than the other eggs. The ends are rounded property as they should be but there is just not so much shell between those ends as might be found on every other egg in the clutch. Tiny snowflakes might be picked out if one looks close enough. The tiny white designs that appear here and there do not cover the egg, but can be found in one spot or the other. Faded gray patches can also be seen each with their own shape. Here what might be a tiny heart and there with what looks like a tall hat. On one end of the egg there is a dark patch of brown and green like a hole in the ground. ]]>

1. Promise of Romance - A molten mauve bump rests near the center of the sands. Its true size is hard to gauge as its main mass remains always buried in the warm sands. The bump’s markings do change slightly, though it maintains its purple-red base through it all. At places it is covered with a collection of small brown patches. At others it has a bright pink mark, heart-shaped with the point curling gently to the right. But most of the surface there is nothing at all but the warm tones which play over the shell and hint at a deep devotion waiting to be released upon the dearest heart.

2. Opened Treasures Egg - This egg can be hard to spot at first since it blends so well with the sand. A first glance makes it appear nothing more than another lump of sand, but on a second look the distinct egg-shape is quite visible. The color is made of light grains of brown all piled atop one another. In some places it looks like the sand has been blown away and there’s a peek of what looks like square stone piled up in a pyramid shape. Several strips of what looks like parchment peeks out through the sand as well as around either end of the egg. Upon these parchment-looking strips are lines that almost seem to be pictures of animals.

3. Violet Traditions Egg - The angles and iridescence of gems dot the surface of this egg, glimmering luridly against the bland colors of the hatching sands. The facets range from almost white through lavender and down to a rich, velvety purple. The violet is broken up by shoots of a dark green surrounded by leaves of the same color and topped with round petals. Though the flower-like markings range through the same colors as the rest of the egg, their lines are blurred and soft, distinguishing them from the sharp lines and angles.

4. African Cloth Egg - Energetic colors loop around this egg – sky blues, emerald greens, pulsating orange, blood red, and an earthy brown are all arranged in orderly rows of geometric shapes. The triangles, diamonds, checks, and stair-step patterns cover every inch of this eggs’ surface. It’s hard to look away from this egg’s shell, it’s so unusual and attractive, and there is no doubt that the colors invoke a feeling of exhilaration and happiness.

5. Winter Purification Rites Egg - On first glance this egg seems almost wherry-like but for its size; plain and slightly pebbly. It is only on a second look that the fractured-ice like patterns emerge, sharp corners meeting whirls of bluish wave-like patterns. The faint patterns are of such a complexity that the human eye can hardly take them all in, adding to the illusion of simplicity.

6. Heart on Fire Egg - Velvety blacks, vibrant reds, vivacious oranges, and vivid yellows make up the colors on the surface of this egg. Swirling in seductive curves and sinuous coils, the flame-like patterns seem to suggest, on one side, the shape of a heart symbol. If the blaze-wreathed egg shell is any indicator, this will be a passionate dragon, indeed!

7. First in Orbit Egg - This egg is an expanse of starry blue. The midnight color of the shell allows tiny freckles of white to stand out in stark contrast. More rounded than its other counterparts there is a spot on one side near the middle of the egg that’s rounded and made of blues and greens. Above this sphere of land and water there is a small whitish gray dot different from the others. Twice the size and less round it seems to be hovering over the larger expanse of blue and green like it is traveling on its way around it, far up in the dark blue sky.

8. Mantilla Lace Veil Egg - A soft, pearl-gray color dominates the surface of this egg, like mist drifting slowly over still black waters. The uniformity is broken up, however, by the lighter areas of pearly-white in the bottom half of the egg, which swirl and unfold in patterns that look like delicate flowers, and ghostly new leaves. At first unassuming, the fragile, unearthly beauty seems to grow the longer this egg’s shell is studied.

9. Flashes of Life Egg - The summit of this egg is marred with the shadows of two dragons, twinned in the passion of a Flight. The bottom right of the egg has a rippling pool, a handful of people gathered around an impromptu feast along the shore. The final detail is a lush tree which hangs, suspended, on the left. The shadows beside its trunk blur the details of what might have happened beneath, but the man pacing near the crackling fire with the large pot of bubbling water above it might stir the imagination.

10. Out to the Ballgame Egg - A green shell makes this egg not so hard to find. A thin white line that starts at one end and draws along to the other appears to be in the shape of a diamond with small white splotches at each point. Within that diamond are several round white dots and outside it are long brown spots with one end more rounded and large than the other. The egg has on either side of the diamond two rows each of four round spots of different colors.

11. Month of the Pearl Egg - Shimmers of color condense about the lines of this smaller egg: darker gray towards the base merges up with a gradually spreading blue. This in turn meets lavender, and then a pale pink swirled with a hint of yellow, and finally a dusting of silver curls. The soft shine of the egg has an elegant grace to it that makes it stand out even among its brightly colored siblings.

12. Fickle Winds Egg - While all of this egg glimmers with sapphire highlights, the amount of frost which coats its shell varies from one patch to another. When the snow is high, the rest of the section is a blanket of pure white snow. Where the sun has won the day’s battle, strands of brown plants and whispers of new growth can be seen among the patches of ice. Still other places are a swirl of fallen snow or angular darts of hail or freezing rain. It would appear that egg and sands battle for control of this ovoid’s clime.

13. Bowl of Cherries Egg - Crimson, scarlet, rub, burgundy – these are the colors on this egg’s shell. A series of overlapping round shapes which are not quite circles cover every available inch of space. Each round shape is darker on the edges, brighter in the center, with just the right amount of stark white highlight. It looks like the egg is composed of dozens of round, juicy berries of some kind – almost good enough to eat!

14. Shades of Klah Egg - A deep, rich klah-brown tone is the base color of this lusciously curved egg, sun-kissed here and there with mottled variations: burnt umber, chestnut, chocolate, ebony. Darker patterns of dusky brown-black create a sense of movement over its surface; trailing down like unruly, vibrant hair. The warm browns fit well with the warmth of the hatching grounds.

15. Shorter Than the Rest Egg - This egg with a shiny white shell is surely within proper egg size, but definitely shorter in length than the other eggs. The ends are rounded property as they should be but there is just not so much shell between those ends as might be found on every other egg in the clutch. Tiny snowflakes might be picked out if one looks close enough. The tiny white designs that appear here and there do not cover the egg, but can be found in one spot or the other. Faded gray patches can also be seen each with their own shape. Here what might be a tiny heart and there with what looks like a tall hat. On one end of the egg there is a dark patch of brown and green like a hole in the ground.

]]> http://joeybuddy96.deviantart.com/art/Fall-of-the-Kulak-157813932 http://joeybuddy96.deviantart.com/art/Fall-of-the-Kulak-157813932 Fri, 19 Mar 2010 19:40:50 PDT Fall of the Kulak nonadult designs/gameart/gameconcepts/characters joeybuddy96 http://a.deviantart.net/avatars/j/o/joeybuddy96.jpg?1 Copyright 2010-2013 ~joeybuddy96 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/
Things that I made up: The deer pouch is made up, but spotted deer are common in Russia. The gloves are black leather, typical of the Russian military branches of the 1940s. The left glove has long-beaked bird skulls and animal bones from Russia (it is used as a climbing aid primarily, but also as a knuckle guard for punching). The sickle is a USSR symbol. This one is made from an animal rib and femur. If you look close, the thread pattern forms the five-pointed Russian star.

The title of the game is "Fall of the Kulak," and can be read as singular or plural. It literally means, "fall of the fist." The "fall of the" text is meant to look like a faded Russian handwritten letter. The "KULAK" part is meant to look like blood on a wall or on a letter.

The character is a Kulak, a peasant class obliterated by Stalin over the years by use of several great famines. The last was in 1947. Stalin collectivized the food to central USSR cities like Moscow, which this game is set in. He's one of the last survivors. Like many of the Kulak, he didn't stay in Ukraine to die, but instead traveled hundreds of miles to a less certain death in the Siberian wilderness. That's where the sickle, dear pouch, and left glove are created. He then sets forth to Moscow to exact vengeance on the persecutors.

This concept is based off of Prince of Persia, so the gameplay will have the same le parkour and surprise ambush elements. The Kulak is the same kind of antihero with a dark side. I made this whole idea before I'd even heard of 2033. Literally, I heard about that game two days ago.

Now, aren't you glad you read all that and didn't immediately assume he was a homeless fashion designer doing interpretive dance on top of Luke Skywalker's house? ]]>
Things that I made up: The deer pouch is made up, but spotted deer are common in Russia. The gloves are black leather, typical of the Russian military branches of the 1940s. The left glove has long-beaked bird skulls and animal bones from Russia (it is used as a climbing aid primarily, but also as a knuckle guard for punching). The sickle is a USSR symbol. This one is made from an animal rib and femur. If you look close, the thread pattern forms the five-pointed Russian star.

The title of the game is "Fall of the Kulak," and can be read as singular or plural. It literally means, "fall of the fist." The "fall of the" text is meant to look like a faded Russian handwritten letter. The "KULAK" part is meant to look like blood on a wall or on a letter.

The character is a Kulak, a peasant class obliterated by Stalin over the years by use of several great famines. The last was in 1947. Stalin collectivized the food to central USSR cities like Moscow, which this game is set in. He's one of the last survivors. Like many of the Kulak, he didn't stay in Ukraine to die, but instead traveled hundreds of miles to a less certain death in the Siberian wilderness. That's where the sickle, dear pouch, and left glove are created. He then sets forth to Moscow to exact vengeance on the persecutors.

This concept is based off of Prince of Persia, so the gameplay will have the same le parkour and surprise ambush elements. The Kulak is the same kind of antihero with a dark side. I made this whole idea before I'd even heard of 2033. Literally, I heard about that game two days ago.

Now, aren't you glad you read all that and didn't immediately assume he was a homeless fashion designer doing interpretive dance on top of Luke Skywalker's house?

]]> http://nekoamine.deviantart.com/art/Comic-Lucie-in-trouble-EN-18487108 http://nekoamine.deviantart.com/art/Comic-Lucie-in-trouble-EN-18487108 Thu, 19 May 2005 05:33:59 PDT Comic - Lucie in trouble- EN nonadult cartoons/traditional/cartoons/drawings NekoAmine http://a.deviantart.net/avatars/n/e/nekoamine.jpg?10 Copyright 2005-2013 =NekoAmine @nekoamine EXERCISE 4 : Action and reflection

"This work is based on the narrative structure of a comic page showing one or several characters in an outside place with a climatic atmosphere"
"Work on the landscape, the weather, the character integrated in the setting"
"The theme of this exercice is action (sport, game, trip, tragedy) or reflection (walk, test, memory, discovery, revelation). Action and reflection can be combined and worked together."

"The page will contain at least four panels:
-a very long plan of a place with a climatic state,
-a long shot with one or several characters
-a medium shot on the character(s) in action
-a close-up on the nature, on a vegetal or mineral element"

"Think of a situation, an action, an outside place that can be a landscape, mountain, plain, countryside, seaside, river, road, big street. One or several characters are in a situation of action, of reflection, with the corresponding climatic atmosphere. Indeed, there must have a connection between the weather and the action, the reflection. The climatic atmosphere will serve or intensify the dramatisation or the trivialization of the situation."
"The reflection can have a connection with the action, but it can also be: dialogue, monologue, thought, feeling due to the place or the climatic state, due to a memory, a noticing, a revelation."

"You will set up the mood of the story, narrative progress, dramatic, humoristic, symbolical, physical or psychological by the organization of the panels of the composition of the page."

"The definitive work must be made on an A3-sized page (30x42cm). The techniques are free, black and white or colour, but think to play on the matters, the scraping, the fade out, the climatic effects."

"The climatic mood can be unchanging, progressive or lowering. The climate is linked to the rain, the heat, the storm, the tempest, the fog, the wind, the snow, etc."

"A narrative text will appear with the situation or the action. It can be from one of the actors or someone outside of the situation. The text is short, well structured, descriptive or suggestive."
----------


So, this is my page for this fourth exercise. I’ve taken advantage of this to feature my own characters: until now my chars were just figurants, they hadn’t their own story and life. I also wanted to show I can be nasty with my own characters, he he (just to show I’m not so soppy!)



THE STORY

The story takes place in a Middle-Age/Fantasy world. The sky is in anger, it’s railing, a real deluge, the storms are rumbling, the clouds are black, heavy, threatening. The action takes place in a little road near a village hidden under the high mountains.

Lucie is a little female rabbit; she’s livings an horrifying moment: a wizard that has come from far far far away, is chasing her so as to get an item she doesn’t even know its value. However it seems she knows her chaser. This wizard has set fire to her entire village, annihilated her family, and now he’s chasing this girl that has managed to avoid the fire. But this wizard is powerful, very powerful, he’s fast, he wants to achieve his goal…



THE CHARACTERS

Lucie –now you know her- is this little female rabbit with a long tail appearing in some of my drawings. Here she plays the role of the victim, innocent, fragile, that doesn’t know what’s happening to her. However this is neither the true story of this character, nor her definitive universe: this is just a test, a setting of the personage in an universe among numerous other universes…

The wizard is a character invented during my “narrative image” course. He looks like a reptile, his skin is green, big shining orange eyes, a black and gold jacket, a mauve shirt, and a sceptre with three energy balls. This wizard is powerful and has no pity. We don’t know if he works for himself or for a superior. We don’t even know his name… (in fact, I haven’t found any good name for my wirazd, but shhht…)



THE TECHNIQUE

An A3-sized page, black and white, made with frames to imitate the volume and the texture: the clouds, the rain, the wood, the bark, the mud, the folds, the fire, the immolation, the speed lines… It’s a long long long long loooooooooooooooooooooooooong work! And I’ve been crazy enough in my brain to do it, eh. I wanted to imitate the manga style, usually printed in black and white with a lot of frames/patterns: however a manga page describing an action contains only two or three panels. But in my exercise, I had to gather, to concentrate all I wanted to show in only one page: this is why my page looks so heavy, so thick, so detailed, while some panels would be deserved to get more space for more hard-hitting effects. Dura lex, sed lex…

Moreover, I haven’t been able to reproduce the thinness of the frames in this scanned version: that looks kinda blurred -_- The original page is much more impressive than this version! ]]> EXERCISE 4 : Action and reflection

"This work is based on the narrative structure of a comic page showing one or several characters in an outside place with a climatic atmosphere"
"Work on the landscape, the weather, the character integrated in the setting"
"The theme of this exercice is action (sport, game, trip, tragedy) or reflection (walk, test, memory, discovery, revelation). Action and reflection can be combined and worked together."

"The page will contain at least four panels:
-a very long plan of a place with a climatic state,
-a long shot with one or several characters
-a medium shot on the character(s) in action
-a close-up on the nature, on a vegetal or mineral element"

"Think of a situation, an action, an outside place that can be a landscape, mountain, plain, countryside, seaside, river, road, big street. One or several characters are in a situation of action, of reflection, with the corresponding climatic atmosphere. Indeed, there must have a connection between the weather and the action, the reflection. The climatic atmosphere will serve or intensify the dramatisation or the trivialization of the situation."
"The reflection can have a connection with the action, but it can also be: dialogue, monologue, thought, feeling due to the place or the climatic state, due to a memory, a noticing, a revelation."

"You will set up the mood of the story, narrative progress, dramatic, humoristic, symbolical, physical or psychological by the organization of the panels of the composition of the page."

"The definitive work must be made on an A3-sized page (30x42cm). The techniques are free, black and white or colour, but think to play on the matters, the scraping, the fade out, the climatic effects."

"The climatic mood can be unchanging, progressive or lowering. The climate is linked to the rain, the heat, the storm, the tempest, the fog, the wind, the snow, etc."

"A narrative text will appear with the situation or the action. It can be from one of the actors or someone outside of the situation. The text is short, well structured, descriptive or suggestive."
----------


So, this is my page for this fourth exercise. I’ve taken advantage of this to feature my own characters: until now my chars were just figurants, they hadn’t their own story and life. I also wanted to show I can be nasty with my own characters, he he (just to show I’m not so soppy!)



THE STORY

The story takes place in a Middle-Age/Fantasy world. The sky is in anger, it’s railing, a real deluge, the storms are rumbling, the clouds are black, heavy, threatening. The action takes place in a little road near a village hidden under the high mountains.

Lucie is a little female rabbit; she’s livings an horrifying moment: a wizard that has come from far far far away, is chasing her so as to get an item she doesn’t even know its value. However it seems she knows her chaser. This wizard has set fire to her entire village, annihilated her family, and now he’s chasing this girl that has managed to avoid the fire. But this wizard is powerful, very powerful, he’s fast, he wants to achieve his goal…



THE CHARACTERS

Lucie –now you know her- is this little female rabbit with a long tail appearing in some of my drawings. Here she plays the role of the victim, innocent, fragile, that doesn’t know what’s happening to her. However this is neither the true story of this character, nor her definitive universe: this is just a test, a setting of the personage in an universe among numerous other universes…

The wizard is a character invented during my “narrative image” course. He looks like a reptile, his skin is green, big shining orange eyes, a black and gold jacket, a mauve shirt, and a sceptre with three energy balls. This wizard is powerful and has no pity. We don’t know if he works for himself or for a superior. We don’t even know his name… (in fact, I haven’t found any good name for my wirazd, but shhht…)



THE TECHNIQUE

An A3-sized page, black and white, made with frames to imitate the volume and the texture: the clouds, the rain, the wood, the bark, the mud, the folds, the fire, the immolation, the speed lines… It’s a long long long long loooooooooooooooooooooooooong work! And I’ve been crazy enough in my brain to do it, eh. I wanted to imitate the manga style, usually printed in black and white with a lot of frames/patterns: however a manga page describing an action contains only two or three panels. But in my exercise, I had to gather, to concentrate all I wanted to show in only one page: this is why my page looks so heavy, so thick, so detailed, while some panels would be deserved to get more space for more hard-hitting effects. Dura lex, sed lex…

Moreover, I haven’t been able to reproduce the thinness of the frames in this scanned version: that looks kinda blurred -_- The original page is much more impressive than this version!

]]> http://mrdcwood.deviantart.com/art/The-Motivation-Prize-text-story-283981428 http://mrdcwood.deviantart.com/art/The-Motivation-Prize-text-story-283981428 Wed, 08 Feb 2012 12:59:00 PST The Motivation Prize - text story nonadult digitalart/drawings/illustrations/conceptual MrDCWood http://a.deviantart.net/avatars/m/r/mrdcwood.jpg?1 Copyright 2012-2013 ~MrDCWood [link]

The Saviour is for sale at these sites:

Amazon UK
Paperback: [link]
Kindle: [link]

Amazon US
Paperback: [link]
Kindle: [link]

'Nameless' is available for free download at: [link]

Listen to the short story on YouTube!

Part 1 [link]
Part 2 [link]
Part 3 [link]

***

The Motivation Prize

“Alright, alright! I can take a hint!”

Sigh…more pelting with rancid tomatoes. Even after I was blown up to assorted body parts! Philistines…

I hear my conscious mock me with They’re stick figures, D.C. . Stick figures that YOU drew to hate your work as part of your ‘grand’ reverse psychology scheme. What did you expect?

I can’t be bothered to argue with me conscious. My emotional state’s in a flux, and my repartee is as good as sapped. So I just tell my conscious to shut up or I’ll drown it with gin. Which I’m planning on doing anyway.

Thank God for inventing weekends. And public getaways.

One forty-five minute ride on the 38 Crewe bus later, and I’m home-sweet-home. Having barely survived the rigours of manual labour and migraine-inducing paperwork yet another week, I found myself ambushed by a small group of anonymous YouTube punters who demanded refunds off me for being made to sit through my AWFUL poems on stage. And me being the honourable chap I am…I legged it. Being chased by online detractors and grocery store owners, who hailed me with the squishy fruit of rancid hate.

I lock the door behind me, wipe the remains of tomato off my hat and cloak and leave them outside for the air to take away the stench. The next half-hour is a relaxing trance of showers, tea, and putting the dishes away…before I go upstairs for my emergency kip. Going to bed at eleven to be up for six in the morning…I’ve got to stop living like this.

I suppose I could use my powers to whip me up a nice chicken tikka masala, served on a silver platter with a pint of champagne. All the while travelling first-class on the Flying Scotsman throughout the Rocky Mountains, with Basil Brush, Michelle Yeoh, Catherine Tate, Stone Cold Steve Austin and Prime Minister Jeremy Clarkson as my honoured guests.

With mum’s homemade chocolate fudge cake and Häagan-Dazs ice-cream for afters…

But I can’t be BOTHERED. To be frank, I can’t be fuckin’ arsed! My brain’s deader than…than…than…

Can’t even think of a witty statement anymore. How enslaved I’ve become to dead-end routine of common man. Brain fatigue, body fatigue, soul fatigue, Asperger Syndrome fatigue and fatigue in general all overwhelm me as I take the Ric Flair comedy fall down onto my comfy, comfy mattress. And let the wonderful blackness envelop me like smothering hippos.

Zzzz…
***

Yawn…

Morning already? Oh, nadgers…I’ve missed tea.

My inability to take things seriously fades when I look around me. Grey void. The infinite dull abyss of non-imagination. The rut of fate that befalls so many.

The Writer’s Block.

I’m trapped here! No, I can’t be! I have so many ideas! So many things I want to bring life! So many names to give to people! So many children to give birth to! I can’t stall now! I…!

Then in my panic, the truth dawns on me. The Writer’s Block is grey for a reason. It’s made of clay, waiting for the hands of eager consciousness and unknowing subconscious to sculpt and breathe life into. This prison, this naughty box…is what I’ve sentenced myself to. As subconscious punishment for stalling.

If the Inquisitor off Red Dwarf was here now, he’d be telling me to justify my existence instead of me. What contributions have I made to society? What have I done with the superlative gift that is life? Written a few audiobooks, published my novel The Saviour after so many years of hard work. Gotten it onto shop shelves, done book signings, been in papers…written and animated my own crappy web-cartoon show. Visited Agatha Christie’s house, met Simon Drew…and that was all last year.

Things to be proud of, perhaps. Certainly in the eyes of others. So why do I feel as empty and as lifeless as this grey, uninspiring box I’m trapped in? Maybe it’s because (in actuality) I’ve done so little? When I can do so much more. Turn my imagination powers into dreams of living reality, and not just some more science-fiction/fantasy.

All this ambition that I have, yet no will or know-how to properly achieve my goals. Am I ever going to marry? Am I ever gonna see my name in light like Mr. Anchovy? Am I ever going to be able to buy packets of Fruitang again? Sad questions like these torment me every waking second, from switch-on to switch-off.

But as much of a curse my Asperger’s is…it’s also a blessing. Without it, I would never have survived school, finished college or known what I wanted to do with my life. So much inspiration and ideas buzzing in my beehive brain…without it all my poems, my Kingdom Hearts fan fiction, “Nameless”, The Saviour and D.C. Wood’s AWFUL Poems…ON STAGE!!! may never have come to light.

I look at my feet on the ground after this Winnie the Pooh think-period to see if the Writer’s Block has reacted in any way to my subconscious. I’m simultaneously bemused and pleased that it has. I’m now standing dead centre in a crossroads. My path’s paved in tarmac, each splitting endlessly north, east, south and west from my position.

Everything else…just miserable, uninspired grey.

All commonplace, mandatory settings for the right story…a sky, a landscape, weather, a breeze blowing against my face like some clichéd Mills & Boon shite…I’m wishing for ANY scenario right now to get out of this Godforsaken Writer’s Block and continue the story.

But my mental pleas fall on my own deaf ears. My will remains as comatose as ever.

So I start walking forward. North. The path behind me has already led me to this place. I can’t go back without starting all over again. I’ve come too far already. And I feel stretched between left and right as it is. So I might as well go forward, venturing deeper into my own void judgement.

I wonder how long I’ve been walking, struggling for the clay to take shape into something. Something to motivate me into pulling my finger out. Can’t even conjure up my watch to tell me the time. Trying to combat the monotony, I blink my eyes. I’m surprised and somewhat relieved to have conjured up my excellent Apple Mac (cheers again, Steve Jobs). It floats before me in thin air, mesmerising me as though someone’s lowering it into my grasp on puppet’s strings.

That’s when I start to feel a little spark at the back of my neck. It wants to travel up my cerebellum and ignite the whole of my brain into overdrive. With instinct, my desk materialises out of the ground for my laptop to rest on. I sit down, summoning my faithful chair into view. Slowly but surely, the crossroads in the Writer’s Block morph into a woolly blue carpet. The whole void of grey condenses from Block to Room.

My room.

Back in the swing of things, I power up my laptop. iTunes is up and running, blasting out Doctor Who soundtracks then “Breathless” by The Corrs through my AWESOME Bose speakers. I open up the viewer and start browsing through my files. Abandoned ideas, Amazon reviews, poems, completed prose and ongoing projects…

Still wondering what to do NEXT.

I just start typing any old gibberish, wondering if this mad, incoherent, loquacious drivel of eloquence will actually form something beyond a comment for Facebook and YouTube. My conscious wants to fight, it wants to achieve. Like Henry the Green Engine on a bad day, it’s a slow burner and wants to GET MOVING, YOU!!!

But my subconscious…has an even greater desire for reshaping the Writer’s Block. It’s own design for the imagination clay, which is stronger, greater…

…and more sinister.

Purge!

Red light explodes through the floor of my bedroom. Fear instantly overrides every cell...no, every atom of my existence as insanely bright energy erupts before me, incinerating carpet and floorboard into nothing. I shield my eyes as I fly off my chair. The ceiling and walls splinter into debris that swirls round me like a vortex in space.

I can’t believe I’ve just imagined a concept as grossly impossible as that. Yet that’s what I’m now seeing, as the grey abyss is now pitch black, patterned with Polaris and all his fellow cousins. Gales of air somehow dance round this event at F5 speeds (in DEEP SPACE!). I cling to what’s left of my desk for dear life as my prize computer and chair become lost to the stars. I can’t breathe because I don’t want to imagine it. I don’t want to re-imagine the nightmare that I’ve shelved.

Yet I’m reliving it here and now. My subconscious has turned on me, using the future to override my will, my life. The debris of my room continues to decorate the vortex, as a red shining mass of energy, pulsating like a heart…splits into five, attracting wood, brick, plaster, wallpaper, glass, plastic and all other available material like a magnet.

The sight is awe-inspiring. Horrific. Sculpting itself like the imagination clay.

Purge!

The voices scream again, sewn together in beautiful harmony. My Fabricated Soldiers, the future I one day hope to realise.

Creator…you’ve dared to forget us.

“NO!!!” I scream defiantly, amazed at how my fear and indecision has now transformed into bold mastery. “I meant to finish your story! Show and tell it to the world, but I…!”

Excuses! Primitive denials of execution, from a relic of matter who has tainted our supremacy by bringing us life in your fiction!

“You can’t survive without me! You need me to bring light to your story!”

You have deliberately let your mind wander into the Writer’s Block. Your subconscious now holds dominion. And it will destroy you. We are now destined to share and accept your fate.

And so they rise. The debris having now liquidised, flowing round the energy spores. The material shapes and solidifies into organic, metallic, misshapen bodies. The exposed sentient energy - ‘Sentiergy’, I remember calling it – pulsates in their exposed chests, the great holes in their heads where faces should be!

They chant Purge! Purge! Purge! Purge! at me, screaming inside my head with telepathic death threats, determined to exorcise me as per their nature. I’ve delayed their story, but not the inevitable.

As my imagination turns on me…the Malevecore have finally arrived.

On all fours, on my desk, on my last real breath…I blink rapidly, hoping for an axe, a howitzer, a force-field, a NERF gun(!), ANYTHING to protect myself against the new alien invaders whose story I’ve wished to complete. But nothing comes to my aid. I cannot even wish the Malevecore away, because deep down I know I don’t want to. They’re too good of an idea.

So I close my eyes, and wait for the end. Wait to be put out of my misery! To get out of my own creative hell!

“Now what I have imagined?!” I yell out in frustration, as machine-gun fire cuts through space, bouncing off the Malevecore hides like ping-pong balls. More annoyed then anything else, the Malevecore turn to see my mysterious saviour.

I wish it was The Saviour. But it’s the complete opposite. I turn to see my other creation pop his assault rifle back under his trench coat, swapping it for a handful of grenades as he sings eerily, “Lovely Malevecore having a ball…”

The grenades lose their pins before the newcomer flings them in the aliens’ direction. Seconds later, they explode in a cosmic funeral pyre, dispersing the vortex completely and the species altogether it would seem. The explosion propels me far away, smashing through the border of space like glass.

“Lovely Malevecore blood on the wall…” sings the man whose propelled along with me, into something that now looks like the side of a hypnotic yo-yo. I look to the side to get a proper look of my other creation. The man clad in a bodysuit as grey as the Writer’s Block itself. Grey trench coat, grey gloves and boots…and wearing a grey, featureless mask.

That grey man…that grey man…

“All the Lord’s imagination and dreary men…” he rhymes with hands behind head, resting as we spiral uncontrollably, “can’t put the Malevecore back together again.”

“Hello, ‘Nameless’,” I greet with renewed confidence. “Come to wipe out evil with evil in the name of good?”

“Of course, Daniel. I maim, therefore I am. We all act to our creator’s wishes, remember?”

“Does this mean my story’s coming to an end soon?!” I yell as we continue to descend uncontrollably in this hypnotic hellhole. Unnaturally relaxed, ‘Nameless’ just chuckles, “You love a good ‘To be continued…’ as much as anyone. Don’t you, Daddy?”

“What’s happening?!” I demand from my creation. “I didn’t summon you to my defence! Am I regaining control?”

“Your consciousness and subconscious are at war with each other for dominion over your mind,” the murderous vigilante explains. “You’re directionless over what you’ve achieved and what you want to achieve…and you’re making us and all who follow your work as lost as you.”

“But I want to escape the Writer’s Block! I’ve done it before! Why can’t I do it now?!”

“Because you’ve forgotten through bone idleness, like the Malevecore said. You’ve let such great concepts and ideas grow cold like a delicious hot meal. The only way you can get back on track is through discipline. And only you can discipline yourself is through motivation.”

“What kind of motivation?” I ask rather stupidly, as our fall slows. Our bodies right themselves to a vertical position as we float gently down to a new ground below. ‘Nameless’ returns his arms to his side and just stares at me like I’m thicker than Yellow Pages.

“You should already know, Lord D.C. Wood of Ryecroft,” he bows mockingly at me. He’s such an evil bastard. And he’s right, I should already know. I made ‘Nameless’ this way.

Man of mystery used to pave the way for the future.

‘Nameless’ points toward a lone podium about half a kilometre away from us. A great big spotlight bathes it and the cushion on top. I can’t make out the item on top of it from this distance. So I start my walk towards it.

I don’t bother looking behind me to give ‘Nameless’ my thanks. I know he’s already gone. Retreated deep into the dark recesses of my mind, waiting to come out again for another story I one day hope to write.

A creepy, creepy monstrosity…my grey man…my grey man. But one who I’ve found helpful in getting me this far. He’ll keep in the drawer until I summon him again. When I figure out how, of course.

However, ‘Nameless’ was right. I should already know what to do. Motivation to see my novel in print, to expose my work to the world online through audiobooks and web-cartoons…those things have driven me to completion in the past. So why am I having trouble finding a new motivation now? What particular goal am I missing to achieve?

It’s so obvious. Yet…I can’t see it. Contrary to what others think, contrary to what my conscious and subconscious are proving…my brain is dead.

There’s no one at the helm. No one aiming this spray of out-of-control gunfire. I may as well be dead.

I’m thankful for the trees and buildings popping up out the ground like one of Terry Gilliam’s cartoons as I run nearer to the podium. I run on the pavements of old London town, the night sky and cool climate settling my nerves, as I finally start to feel like a normal human again.

Instead of some mental, untalented lunatic with psychiatric issues.

When I make it to the podium, I take a distracting second to appreciate how beautifully chiselled it is. The wonderfully smoothed marble, the indented lines, the creamy swirling of mauve and white, the strong weighty form of its structure. How the bases’ steps lead to a monument with a velvet cushion resting on its top.

The way I’m describing even the most unimportant things in this tale…I feel as though I’m starting to get back in control of detail. Then I see what is truly the centre of the spotlight’s attention. On top of the cushion is a tray, complete with a food cover resting on a platter, both made of silver.

In my excitement and hunger, I remove the cover to see Dad’s delicious homemade Tai Curry waiting for me. Of all the meals I love – meat & potato pie, lasagne, Indian curry, turkey & stuffing, pizza etc – this Tai Curry means I’m winning.

Because I can tell you all here and now…Tai Curry is an INSTANT CURE for Writer’s Block.

I tuck in, having forgotten just how hungry I am. Those wonderful spices and flavours immediately assault my lazy brain like acid on a slumbering rhino. Seizing the moment, my brain grabs the rope it’s been handed, and it climbs out of the fog, empowered by this overwhelming new clarity. Feeling like I can now write War and Peace – and improve on it with some nude pictures and a couple of car chases, like Rik Mayall once suggested – I turn away from my now empty platter, and solidify the new high with a bottle of Coca Cola that I’ve also managed to conjure up.

The caffeine consumption is another positive boon. It’s one of my favourite stimulants, and the fact that I’ve wished for it along with the Tai Curry, means that I’m rapidly regaining control. My power over my own imagination is returning to me. Though I know that my subconscious isn’t going to give up without a fight.

I look around me. This feels like London indeed. Believe it or not, I’ve only been to our magnificent capital twice in real-life, back when I was a child. I’d love to visit it again one day, when I can now truly appreciate it. Yet I used the setting for The Saviour because it seemed like a natural fit for the characters and story.

The surroundings are all the same. I’m now in Soho Square, in awe of the buildings, trees, the park itself…and the statue of King Charles II. It’s night time, the stars are twinkling, and the air is cool. The spotlight is long gone, as is the marble podium with the meal I ordered. What stops me from foolishly thinking I’m back in the real world…is the fact that I’m the only person in Soho Square.

There’re no cars parked anywhere. No other vehicles, no motorists, no cyclists, no pedestrians…not even dogs walking or birds chirping. I’m the only living creature in this setting.

An entire city deserted!

No longer riddled with doubt and stress, my mind reshapes into something more decisive. My brain has healed because of the rejuvenation it’s had, allowing my consciousness to get back into the driver’s seat. I’m certain that I’m no longer in the Writer’s Block, because my whole surroundings have changed from grey clay to vibrant writing. It’s a brand new story, but what’s motivating me into writing it? What did ‘Nameless’ know that I didn’t?

Right in the heart of the Square, I stand on another crossroads. Deciding that any direction is at least going somewhere, I move forward, past the half-timbered gardener’s hut. My newfound drive makes me forget just how haunting it is for there to be no other living beings - or any activity whatsoever - in this setting apart from myself. I should be feeling lonely. I’ve felt so lonely this past year many times, but now…I feel unstoppable. And it’s much more than just that Tai Curry I had.

I don’t run far when I see someone lying on the grass, just a few feet to my right. Immediately concerned, I dart over to help. When I reach the body, I gently turn it over to see that he’s still alright.

More than alright, in fact. A smile spreads across my face as the boy gives a small groan.

My son. My creation. Fifteen-years-old, in the prime of youth, forever scarred yet always refusing to cave in. That short black hair, the black t-shirt, trousers, trainers, studded gloves and utility belt. The sword strapped to his back. And the mask to hide his pain.

A true survivor. Who believes life is always worth living.

As I help him sit up, the vigilante’s right eye – the only eye his mask shows – opens slowly to see me. His vision blurs and trails as his equilibrium fights to regain control. I know how he feels.

“Hello, Jaron,” I smile at him. The teenager tilts his head at me, confused. He doesn’t recognise me. Unlike before with ‘Nameless’ and the Malevecore, I’m back in control now of my imagination. With my imagination no longer running wild, I see fit to keep Jaron’s confusion under gentle control.

His story is in a state of flux at the moment. Unlike my other creations, Jaron is not volatile. And he’s so much younger. He shouldn’t have to face his creator, not yet anyway. I know I didn’t summon him. So why is he here? Is Hi-Jax here, too?

It’s my subconscious at work again. It summoned the others, so why has it now brought Jaron into the fold?

“How do you know…?” he begins to ask me. As I help him to his feet, I interrupt with, “There’s no need for you to know yet. All you need to know that you are Jaron Mahanah, who the world will come to know as The Saviour.

“It’s…strange…” the masked teenager says, hand on head trying to deal with the same dilemmas I’ve experienced. “The last thing I remember was…”

“Shhhhh!” I hush him. “Spoilers.”

“Pardon me?”

“Spoilers, as River Song quite rightly says. Not everyone knows your story yet. Don’t want to spoil any surprises.”

“My…story…?” repeats The Saviour, as though those words mean something to him, like he was assigned an important side mission. Looking back up to me, Jaron remembers at last, “Of course! I remember now! I’m supposed to bring you something!”

“What is it?” I ask, my turn now to be confused.

“You wrote my story. I was your first character that you saw fit to entrust. I started out ‘unofficially’ and I impressed you.”

“That’s why I wrote my first novel about you,” I explain to him proudly. “But, I lost control of my mind. My discipline. It’s starting to come back to me but I’ve still got much more to do…”

“More than you realise, Daniel,” Jaron says. “You’re subconscious summoned me because you have a prize to win.”

“What prize? Hang on, I thought the Malevecore said...”

“Your subconscious wanted to destroy you,” The Saviour explains to me, “because you let yourself go astray. It instigated this conflict with your consciousness as a means to motivate you into picking yourself up. If you couldn’t do that, then it would have no other choice but to destroy you.

“Now that you’re regaining control, the attacks on you have lessened. But you have to keep fighting. As you have made me keep fighting.”

At first, I want to think that I’m just a pawn in my own subsconscious’ game. But then I realise that it’s not a game. I’m in control, and I’m willing myself to make my dreams a reality. Through hard work and perseverance.

I just need to stop feeling sorry for myself and keep at it.

A rule that should apply to all mortals on this plane.

“Jaron…” I begin again, “about…everything I’ve done with you in your story…I…”

“Lord,” he interrupts respectfully, “I-inspired-you. Characters are more than just tools to be dictated for the appeal of others. They inspire others to set them obstacles to show just how well they can gain the love or hate of people. Exactly like you and any other author in the world.”

It makes me think about myself and all of mankind. How we possibly fit into the story God writes.

The infinite story of life itself.

“As for the prize,” Jaron answers my earlier question, “it’s this. Your new motivation. For what you’re writing here and now.”

Of course! Now I remember! As Jaron holds the item out to me, I realise…this beautiful award. All silvery and glass, so prestigious. An honour only the elite few are chosen for.

The Motivation Prize.

I reach out to grab it…

Only for my fingers to grasp at transparent illusion. One that fades from Jaron’s possession.

“Your work has gotten us this far, Daniel,” The Saviour explains. “But you still have to keep going. The story is not over yet. You need to keep writing and fighting, rally all the support you can muster!”

“But I may never even win!” I protest. “What if all my work ends up being for nothing?”

Purge!

Both our heads turn as phantasms emerge from the ground. A swarm of demonic creatures descend from death night sky. The trees snap, bricks and mortar rip away from nearby buildings, earth lifts up from the ground; all reforming into bodies to house the Sentiergy spores that have popped up out of nowhere.

“The Malevecore are back!” shouts The Saviour, taking a handful of shuriken from his belt and throwing them in all directions. I duck to avoid the deathly hail. When I look up, I see that Jaron’s throwing stars have scored perfect bulls-eyes, right in the energy masses inside several heads of the Malevecore. Their bodies convulse, the Sentiergies disrupted somehow by the metal instead of the projectiles being absorbed. The Malevecore fall apart, but dozens more immediately take their place.

My subconscious is demanding me to fight or be destroyed. Jaron unsheathes his sword and rushes to engage the enemy. Despite the Saviour’s formidability, the devastating truth is I know he will lose. It’s not just the fact that he’s grossly outnumbered, it’s the fact that he’s the past.

The Malevecore are the future.

I can’t bear to see Jaron die. He’s touched me in a way no other creation has.

“Go!” The Saviour yells, his sword plunging through the chest of a Malevecore. “The Motivation Prize is not beyond your reach! There’s still time, but you must hurry!”

The Saviour only just manages to somersault over an energy blast fired from an enemy’s claws. Then he barely ducks a swinging arm, restructured to form a blazing scythe designed to take his head off. I can only stand and watch in tearful awe over Jaron Mahanah. How he started as part of a brainstorm, germinating into a fully-fleshed character, developing through all the obstacles I gave him…until he and I finally made it.

Our story for sale on Amazon, and available to pick up from the shelves of WHSmith and Waterstones in Macclesfield at £8.99. What an achievement.

What an achievement!

Jaron continues to fight, punch, kicking, hacking and slashing through the endless Malevecore swarm. What on Earth have I created? They’ll arrive one day, in the story I’ve curtailed. And when they do…things will never be the same.

I scream in horror as a Malevecore stabs Jaron in the solar plexus. The blood flows like wine, The Saviour howls in agony as another slashes away at his chest, another clutches his head and tortures him telepathically. The horde moves in, driven by their purpose, screaming it to the world! Letting it be known just what they want to do!

Purge! Purge! Purge! Purge! Purge! Purge! Purge!

“GO!!!” Jaron screams his last word at me. His compassion threatening to reduce me to tears.

“No,” I say simply. “I will not allow the story to end this way.”

My subconscious will never be the boss of me. How dare my own mind rebel against me this way! How dare myself to allow it to override my imagination!

The Motivation Prize is prestigious, but it’s not worth sacrificing my characters for.

Calm, in-control, and more focused than I’ve ever been, I raise my arms upward, summoning my children to me.

They all come. They will be published one day, just like The Saviour and ‘Nameless’. Just like the Malevecore will one day.

Hi-Jax is the first to arrive, naturally. His superhuman, teenage form materialising from the clay of my imagination. Donning his shades, and brushing his dreads back, Hi-Jax smiles, gives me a thumbs-up and then revs into the fray on his motorcycle, guaranteeing the Malevecore as he charges in, “I’LL CRUSH YOU ALL!”

The Dark Horse, the Underdog, the Champion Survivor…hits the Malevecore pile head-on, causing an eruption of alien bodies to fly sky-high like a volcanic eruption. Hi-Jax leaps from alien to alien, smashing them to pieces with fighting skill and unadulterated power. I calmly walk back towards the battle, summoning more ideas to let them know that I will never forget and I will achieve.

Lisa, Carlos, Holosphere, Aeroqueen, Stallion, Amalgamnon, Doctor Sara Phillips, Nyrovie Dijor…all arise!

As so shall Karana, the Eviscerator, Damnation, Vroom, Axel Thrash, Seizure, Devagyro and Rip Snap.

And ‘Nameless’. Once again.

Consciousness and subconscious fighting not to destroy me…but to drive me.

The Motivation Prize materialises before me. All other insane action in this imagination warzone…I am at peace with.

I can see them now. All my family and friends, so many people who follow my work…cheering me on. As I walk up the stage to claim the recognition for my work.

“We’ll win it together,” I smile reaching out to touch the Motivation Prize.


***

Nana Joan’s old bell was faint at first. But as it grew louder and louder, something stirred. When I realised it was my head, I opened a sleepy eye to discover I was back in my room. Same old white walls, same old blue carpet and all my possessions.

I slowly yawned back into full wakefulness, trying to get my head round that it was yet another barmy dream to add to my collection. I’m only now just with it. Then I hear the bell ring again with Mum yelling from downstairs that tea was ready.

“Coming!” I shout and am just about to leave the room, when I notice the stand-by light on my laptop. It’s in sleep mode. Weird. It hasn’t been switched on since the night before.

Curious, I lift the screen up. I can only stare at my screen in disbelief, as it confirms that I’ve gone even more insane!

All the stuff I’ve dreamt about in my imagination – The Saviour, ‘Nameless’, the Malevecore and everything else I’ve fantasized – is all here, typed out on screen.

Did I just write all of this in my sleep? I can’t remember writing it while I was awake!

The silence that fills my room…it isn’t negative silence. I don’t feel freaked out by anything. By myself or what I write.

The silence that befalls me…it’s Stig silence. Meaning that this is awesome. Simply awesome.

Feeling good about myself, I turn to what’s on my desk next to my laptop. It’s a letter from the publishers. Mum must’ve left it hear for me to read. Curious, I open up the envelope and unfold the news.

The publishers have told me that The Saviour has been nominated for The People’s Book Prize! Best Fiction in the Winter Collection 2011/12!

The honour itself is overwhelming!

Imagination could be become reality!

The Motivation Prize!

The thrill of this achievement, the possibilities that now lie ahead, sink in with wonderful pride. I pick up the book that’s on my desk.

The Saviour by D.C. Wood.

My name on my book. I was wrong to doubt myself earlier. This is huge. This is something I should be proud of forever.

What an achievement…what an achievement!

Time to start writing again methinks! Got to get word out on Facebook and YouTube!

But first things first…

It’s time for tea. We’re having Tai Curry tonight! As I rush downstairs to the kitchen, I think it’s also time to imagine myself a glass of Coca Cola! Hunger and thirst are just so totally inspiring!


TO BE CONTINUED! ]]> [link]

The Saviour is for sale at these sites:

Amazon UK
Paperback: [link]
Kindle: [link]

Amazon US
Paperback: [link]
Kindle: [link]

'Nameless' is available for free download at: [link]

Listen to the short story on YouTube!

Part 1 [link]
Part 2 [link]
Part 3 [link]

***

The Motivation Prize

“Alright, alright! I can take a hint!”

Sigh…more pelting with rancid tomatoes. Even after I was blown up to assorted body parts! Philistines…

I hear my conscious mock me with They’re stick figures, D.C. . Stick figures that YOU drew to hate your work as part of your ‘grand’ reverse psychology scheme. What did you expect?

I can’t be bothered to argue with me conscious. My emotional state’s in a flux, and my repartee is as good as sapped. So I just tell my conscious to shut up or I’ll drown it with gin. Which I’m planning on doing anyway.

Thank God for inventing weekends. And public getaways.

One forty-five minute ride on the 38 Crewe bus later, and I’m home-sweet-home. Having barely survived the rigours of manual labour and migraine-inducing paperwork yet another week, I found myself ambushed by a small group of anonymous YouTube punters who demanded refunds off me for being made to sit through my AWFUL poems on stage. And me being the honourable chap I am…I legged it. Being chased by online detractors and grocery store owners, who hailed me with the squishy fruit of rancid hate.

I lock the door behind me, wipe the remains of tomato off my hat and cloak and leave them outside for the air to take away the stench. The next half-hour is a relaxing trance of showers, tea, and putting the dishes away…before I go upstairs for my emergency kip. Going to bed at eleven to be up for six in the morning…I’ve got to stop living like this.

I suppose I could use my powers to whip me up a nice chicken tikka masala, served on a silver platter with a pint of champagne. All the while travelling first-class on the Flying Scotsman throughout the Rocky Mountains, with Basil Brush, Michelle Yeoh, Catherine Tate, Stone Cold Steve Austin and Prime Minister Jeremy Clarkson as my honoured guests.

With mum’s homemade chocolate fudge cake and Häagan-Dazs ice-cream for afters…

But I can’t be BOTHERED. To be frank, I can’t be fuckin’ arsed! My brain’s deader than…than…than…

Can’t even think of a witty statement anymore. How enslaved I’ve become to dead-end routine of common man. Brain fatigue, body fatigue, soul fatigue, Asperger Syndrome fatigue and fatigue in general all overwhelm me as I take the Ric Flair comedy fall down onto my comfy, comfy mattress. And let the wonderful blackness envelop me like smothering hippos.

Zzzz…
***

Yawn…

Morning already? Oh, nadgers…I’ve missed tea.

My inability to take things seriously fades when I look around me. Grey void. The infinite dull abyss of non-imagination. The rut of fate that befalls so many.

The Writer’s Block.

I’m trapped here! No, I can’t be! I have so many ideas! So many things I want to bring life! So many names to give to people! So many children to give birth to! I can’t stall now! I…!

Then in my panic, the truth dawns on me. The Writer’s Block is grey for a reason. It’s made of clay, waiting for the hands of eager consciousness and unknowing subconscious to sculpt and breathe life into. This prison, this naughty box…is what I’ve sentenced myself to. As subconscious punishment for stalling.

If the Inquisitor off Red Dwarf was here now, he’d be telling me to justify my existence instead of me. What contributions have I made to society? What have I done with the superlative gift that is life? Written a few audiobooks, published my novel The Saviour after so many years of hard work. Gotten it onto shop shelves, done book signings, been in papers…written and animated my own crappy web-cartoon show. Visited Agatha Christie’s house, met Simon Drew…and that was all last year.

Things to be proud of, perhaps. Certainly in the eyes of others. So why do I feel as empty and as lifeless as this grey, uninspiring box I’m trapped in? Maybe it’s because (in actuality) I’ve done so little? When I can do so much more. Turn my imagination powers into dreams of living reality, and not just some more science-fiction/fantasy.

All this ambition that I have, yet no will or know-how to properly achieve my goals. Am I ever going to marry? Am I ever gonna see my name in light like Mr. Anchovy? Am I ever going to be able to buy packets of Fruitang again? Sad questions like these torment me every waking second, from switch-on to switch-off.

But as much of a curse my Asperger’s is…it’s also a blessing. Without it, I would never have survived school, finished college or known what I wanted to do with my life. So much inspiration and ideas buzzing in my beehive brain…without it all my poems, my Kingdom Hearts fan fiction, “Nameless”, The Saviour and D.C. Wood’s AWFUL Poems…ON STAGE!!! may never have come to light.

I look at my feet on the ground after this Winnie the Pooh think-period to see if the Writer’s Block has reacted in any way to my subconscious. I’m simultaneously bemused and pleased that it has. I’m now standing dead centre in a crossroads. My path’s paved in tarmac, each splitting endlessly north, east, south and west from my position.

Everything else…just miserable, uninspired grey.

All commonplace, mandatory settings for the right story…a sky, a landscape, weather, a breeze blowing against my face like some clichéd Mills & Boon shite…I’m wishing for ANY scenario right now to get out of this Godforsaken Writer’s Block and continue the story.

But my mental pleas fall on my own deaf ears. My will remains as comatose as ever.

So I start walking forward. North. The path behind me has already led me to this place. I can’t go back without starting all over again. I’ve come too far already. And I feel stretched between left and right as it is. So I might as well go forward, venturing deeper into my own void judgement.

I wonder how long I’ve been walking, struggling for the clay to take shape into something. Something to motivate me into pulling my finger out. Can’t even conjure up my watch to tell me the time. Trying to combat the monotony, I blink my eyes. I’m surprised and somewhat relieved to have conjured up my excellent Apple Mac (cheers again, Steve Jobs). It floats before me in thin air, mesmerising me as though someone’s lowering it into my grasp on puppet’s strings.

That’s when I start to feel a little spark at the back of my neck. It wants to travel up my cerebellum and ignite the whole of my brain into overdrive. With instinct, my desk materialises out of the ground for my laptop to rest on. I sit down, summoning my faithful chair into view. Slowly but surely, the crossroads in the Writer’s Block morph into a woolly blue carpet. The whole void of grey condenses from Block to Room.

My room.

Back in the swing of things, I power up my laptop. iTunes is up and running, blasting out Doctor Who soundtracks then “Breathless” by The Corrs through my AWESOME Bose speakers. I open up the viewer and start browsing through my files. Abandoned ideas, Amazon reviews, poems, completed prose and ongoing projects…

Still wondering what to do NEXT.

I just start typing any old gibberish, wondering if this mad, incoherent, loquacious drivel of eloquence will actually form something beyond a comment for Facebook and YouTube. My conscious wants to fight, it wants to achieve. Like Henry the Green Engine on a bad day, it’s a slow burner and wants to GET MOVING, YOU!!!

But my subconscious…has an even greater desire for reshaping the Writer’s Block. It’s own design for the imagination clay, which is stronger, greater…

…and more sinister.

Purge!

Red light explodes through the floor of my bedroom. Fear instantly overrides every cell...no, every atom of my existence as insanely bright energy erupts before me, incinerating carpet and floorboard into nothing. I shield my eyes as I fly off my chair. The ceiling and walls splinter into debris that swirls round me like a vortex in space.

I can’t believe I’ve just imagined a concept as grossly impossible as that. Yet that’s what I’m now seeing, as the grey abyss is now pitch black, patterned with Polaris and all his fellow cousins. Gales of air somehow dance round this event at F5 speeds (in DEEP SPACE!). I cling to what’s left of my desk for dear life as my prize computer and chair become lost to the stars. I can’t breathe because I don’t want to imagine it. I don’t want to re-imagine the nightmare that I’ve shelved.

Yet I’m reliving it here and now. My subconscious has turned on me, using the future to override my will, my life. The debris of my room continues to decorate the vortex, as a red shining mass of energy, pulsating like a heart…splits into five, attracting wood, brick, plaster, wallpaper, glass, plastic and all other available material like a magnet.

The sight is awe-inspiring. Horrific. Sculpting itself like the imagination clay.

Purge!

The voices scream again, sewn together in beautiful harmony. My Fabricated Soldiers, the future I one day hope to realise.

Creator…you’ve dared to forget us.

“NO!!!” I scream defiantly, amazed at how my fear and indecision has now transformed into bold mastery. “I meant to finish your story! Show and tell it to the world, but I…!”

Excuses! Primitive denials of execution, from a relic of matter who has tainted our supremacy by bringing us life in your fiction!

“You can’t survive without me! You need me to bring light to your story!”

You have deliberately let your mind wander into the Writer’s Block. Your subconscious now holds dominion. And it will destroy you. We are now destined to share and accept your fate.

And so they rise. The debris having now liquidised, flowing round the energy spores. The material shapes and solidifies into organic, metallic, misshapen bodies. The exposed sentient energy - ‘Sentiergy’, I remember calling it – pulsates in their exposed chests, the great holes in their heads where faces should be!

They chant Purge! Purge! Purge! Purge! at me, screaming inside my head with telepathic death threats, determined to exorcise me as per their nature. I’ve delayed their story, but not the inevitable.

As my imagination turns on me…the Malevecore have finally arrived.

On all fours, on my desk, on my last real breath…I blink rapidly, hoping for an axe, a howitzer, a force-field, a NERF gun(!), ANYTHING to protect myself against the new alien invaders whose story I’ve wished to complete. But nothing comes to my aid. I cannot even wish the Malevecore away, because deep down I know I don’t want to. They’re too good of an idea.

So I close my eyes, and wait for the end. Wait to be put out of my misery! To get out of my own creative hell!

“Now what I have imagined?!” I yell out in frustration, as machine-gun fire cuts through space, bouncing off the Malevecore hides like ping-pong balls. More annoyed then anything else, the Malevecore turn to see my mysterious saviour.

I wish it was The Saviour. But it’s the complete opposite. I turn to see my other creation pop his assault rifle back under his trench coat, swapping it for a handful of grenades as he sings eerily, “Lovely Malevecore having a ball…”

The grenades lose their pins before the newcomer flings them in the aliens’ direction. Seconds later, they explode in a cosmic funeral pyre, dispersing the vortex completely and the species altogether it would seem. The explosion propels me far away, smashing through the border of space like glass.

“Lovely Malevecore blood on the wall…” sings the man whose propelled along with me, into something that now looks like the side of a hypnotic yo-yo. I look to the side to get a proper look of my other creation. The man clad in a bodysuit as grey as the Writer’s Block itself. Grey trench coat, grey gloves and boots…and wearing a grey, featureless mask.

That grey man…that grey man…

“All the Lord’s imagination and dreary men…” he rhymes with hands behind head, resting as we spiral uncontrollably, “can’t put the Malevecore back together again.”

“Hello, ‘Nameless’,” I greet with renewed confidence. “Come to wipe out evil with evil in the name of good?”

“Of course, Daniel. I maim, therefore I am. We all act to our creator’s wishes, remember?”

“Does this mean my story’s coming to an end soon?!” I yell as we continue to descend uncontrollably in this hypnotic hellhole. Unnaturally relaxed, ‘Nameless’ just chuckles, “You love a good ‘To be continued…’ as much as anyone. Don’t you, Daddy?”

“What’s happening?!” I demand from my creation. “I didn’t summon you to my defence! Am I regaining control?”

“Your consciousness and subconscious are at war with each other for dominion over your mind,” the murderous vigilante explains. “You’re directionless over what you’ve achieved and what you want to achieve…and you’re making us and all who follow your work as lost as you.”

“But I want to escape the Writer’s Block! I’ve done it before! Why can’t I do it now?!”

“Because you’ve forgotten through bone idleness, like the Malevecore said. You’ve let such great concepts and ideas grow cold like a delicious hot meal. The only way you can get back on track is through discipline. And only you can discipline yourself is through motivation.”

“What kind of motivation?” I ask rather stupidly, as our fall slows. Our bodies right themselves to a vertical position as we float gently down to a new ground below. ‘Nameless’ returns his arms to his side and just stares at me like I’m thicker than Yellow Pages.

“You should already know, Lord D.C. Wood of Ryecroft,” he bows mockingly at me. He’s such an evil bastard. And he’s right, I should already know. I made ‘Nameless’ this way.

Man of mystery used to pave the way for the future.

‘Nameless’ points toward a lone podium about half a kilometre away from us. A great big spotlight bathes it and the cushion on top. I can’t make out the item on top of it from this distance. So I start my walk towards it.

I don’t bother looking behind me to give ‘Nameless’ my thanks. I know he’s already gone. Retreated deep into the dark recesses of my mind, waiting to come out again for another story I one day hope to write.

A creepy, creepy monstrosity…my grey man…my grey man. But one who I’ve found helpful in getting me this far. He’ll keep in the drawer until I summon him again. When I figure out how, of course.

However, ‘Nameless’ was right. I should already know what to do. Motivation to see my novel in print, to expose my work to the world online through audiobooks and web-cartoons…those things have driven me to completion in the past. So why am I having trouble finding a new motivation now? What particular goal am I missing to achieve?

It’s so obvious. Yet…I can’t see it. Contrary to what others think, contrary to what my conscious and subconscious are proving…my brain is dead.

There’s no one at the helm. No one aiming this spray of out-of-control gunfire. I may as well be dead.

I’m thankful for the trees and buildings popping up out the ground like one of Terry Gilliam’s cartoons as I run nearer to the podium. I run on the pavements of old London town, the night sky and cool climate settling my nerves, as I finally start to feel like a normal human again.

Instead of some mental, untalented lunatic with psychiatric issues.

When I make it to the podium, I take a distracting second to appreciate how beautifully chiselled it is. The wonderfully smoothed marble, the indented lines, the creamy swirling of mauve and white, the strong weighty form of its structure. How the bases’ steps lead to a monument with a velvet cushion resting on its top.

The way I’m describing even the most unimportant things in this tale…I feel as though I’m starting to get back in control of detail. Then I see what is truly the centre of the spotlight’s attention. On top of the cushion is a tray, complete with a food cover resting on a platter, both made of silver.

In my excitement and hunger, I remove the cover to see Dad’s delicious homemade Tai Curry waiting for me. Of all the meals I love – meat & potato pie, lasagne, Indian curry, turkey & stuffing, pizza etc – this Tai Curry means I’m winning.

Because I can tell you all here and now…Tai Curry is an INSTANT CURE for Writer’s Block.

I tuck in, having forgotten just how hungry I am. Those wonderful spices and flavours immediately assault my lazy brain like acid on a slumbering rhino. Seizing the moment, my brain grabs the rope it’s been handed, and it climbs out of the fog, empowered by this overwhelming new clarity. Feeling like I can now write War and Peace – and improve on it with some nude pictures and a couple of car chases, like Rik Mayall once suggested – I turn away from my now empty platter, and solidify the new high with a bottle of Coca Cola that I’ve also managed to conjure up.

The caffeine consumption is another positive boon. It’s one of my favourite stimulants, and the fact that I’ve wished for it along with the Tai Curry, means that I’m rapidly regaining control. My power over my own imagination is returning to me. Though I know that my subconscious isn’t going to give up without a fight.

I look around me. This feels like London indeed. Believe it or not, I’ve only been to our magnificent capital twice in real-life, back when I was a child. I’d love to visit it again one day, when I can now truly appreciate it. Yet I used the setting for The Saviour because it seemed like a natural fit for the characters and story.

The surroundings are all the same. I’m now in Soho Square, in awe of the buildings, trees, the park itself…and the statue of King Charles II. It’s night time, the stars are twinkling, and the air is cool. The spotlight is long gone, as is the marble podium with the meal I ordered. What stops me from foolishly thinking I’m back in the real world…is the fact that I’m the only person in Soho Square.

There’re no cars parked anywhere. No other vehicles, no motorists, no cyclists, no pedestrians…not even dogs walking or birds chirping. I’m the only living creature in this setting.

An entire city deserted!

No longer riddled with doubt and stress, my mind reshapes into something more decisive. My brain has healed because of the rejuvenation it’s had, allowing my consciousness to get back into the driver’s seat. I’m certain that I’m no longer in the Writer’s Block, because my whole surroundings have changed from grey clay to vibrant writing. It’s a brand new story, but what’s motivating me into writing it? What did ‘Nameless’ know that I didn’t?

Right in the heart of the Square, I stand on another crossroads. Deciding that any direction is at least going somewhere, I move forward, past the half-timbered gardener’s hut. My newfound drive makes me forget just how haunting it is for there to be no other living beings - or any activity whatsoever - in this setting apart from myself. I should be feeling lonely. I’ve felt so lonely this past year many times, but now…I feel unstoppable. And it’s much more than just that Tai Curry I had.

I don’t run far when I see someone lying on the grass, just a few feet to my right. Immediately concerned, I dart over to help. When I reach the body, I gently turn it over to see that he’s still alright.

More than alright, in fact. A smile spreads across my face as the boy gives a small groan.

My son. My creation. Fifteen-years-old, in the prime of youth, forever scarred yet always refusing to cave in. That short black hair, the black t-shirt, trousers, trainers, studded gloves and utility belt. The sword strapped to his back. And the mask to hide his pain.

A true survivor. Who believes life is always worth living.

As I help him sit up, the vigilante’s right eye – the only eye his mask shows – opens slowly to see me. His vision blurs and trails as his equilibrium fights to regain control. I know how he feels.

“Hello, Jaron,” I smile at him. The teenager tilts his head at me, confused. He doesn’t recognise me. Unlike before with ‘Nameless’ and the Malevecore, I’m back in control now of my imagination. With my imagination no longer running wild, I see fit to keep Jaron’s confusion under gentle control.

His story is in a state of flux at the moment. Unlike my other creations, Jaron is not volatile. And he’s so much younger. He shouldn’t have to face his creator, not yet anyway. I know I didn’t summon him. So why is he here? Is Hi-Jax here, too?

It’s my subconscious at work again. It summoned the others, so why has it now brought Jaron into the fold?

“How do you know…?” he begins to ask me. As I help him to his feet, I interrupt with, “There’s no need for you to know yet. All you need to know that you are Jaron Mahanah, who the world will come to know as The Saviour.

“It’s…strange…” the masked teenager says, hand on head trying to deal with the same dilemmas I’ve experienced. “The last thing I remember was…”

“Shhhhh!” I hush him. “Spoilers.”

“Pardon me?”

“Spoilers, as River Song quite rightly says. Not everyone knows your story yet. Don’t want to spoil any surprises.”

“My…story…?” repeats The Saviour, as though those words mean something to him, like he was assigned an important side mission. Looking back up to me, Jaron remembers at last, “Of course! I remember now! I’m supposed to bring you something!”

“What is it?” I ask, my turn now to be confused.

“You wrote my story. I was your first character that you saw fit to entrust. I started out ‘unofficially’ and I impressed you.”

“That’s why I wrote my first novel about you,” I explain to him proudly. “But, I lost control of my mind. My discipline. It’s starting to come back to me but I’ve still got much more to do…”

“More than you realise, Daniel,” Jaron says. “You’re subconscious summoned me because you have a prize to win.”

“What prize? Hang on, I thought the Malevecore said...”

“Your subconscious wanted to destroy you,” The Saviour explains to me, “because you let yourself go astray. It instigated this conflict with your consciousness as a means to motivate you into picking yourself up. If you couldn’t do that, then it would have no other choice but to destroy you.

“Now that you’re regaining control, the attacks on you have lessened. But you have to keep fighting. As you have made me keep fighting.”

At first, I want to think that I’m just a pawn in my own subsconscious’ game. But then I realise that it’s not a game. I’m in control, and I’m willing myself to make my dreams a reality. Through hard work and perseverance.

I just need to stop feeling sorry for myself and keep at it.

A rule that should apply to all mortals on this plane.

“Jaron…” I begin again, “about…everything I’ve done with you in your story…I…”

“Lord,” he interrupts respectfully, “I-inspired-you. Characters are more than just tools to be dictated for the appeal of others. They inspire others to set them obstacles to show just how well they can gain the love or hate of people. Exactly like you and any other author in the world.”

It makes me think about myself and all of mankind. How we possibly fit into the story God writes.

The infinite story of life itself.

“As for the prize,” Jaron answers my earlier question, “it’s this. Your new motivation. For what you’re writing here and now.”

Of course! Now I remember! As Jaron holds the item out to me, I realise…this beautiful award. All silvery and glass, so prestigious. An honour only the elite few are chosen for.

The Motivation Prize.

I reach out to grab it…

Only for my fingers to grasp at transparent illusion. One that fades from Jaron’s possession.

“Your work has gotten us this far, Daniel,” The Saviour explains. “But you still have to keep going. The story is not over yet. You need to keep writing and fighting, rally all the support you can muster!”

“But I may never even win!” I protest. “What if all my work ends up being for nothing?”

Purge!

Both our heads turn as phantasms emerge from the ground. A swarm of demonic creatures descend from death night sky. The trees snap, bricks and mortar rip away from nearby buildings, earth lifts up from the ground; all reforming into bodies to house the Sentiergy spores that have popped up out of nowhere.

“The Malevecore are back!” shouts The Saviour, taking a handful of shuriken from his belt and throwing them in all directions. I duck to avoid the deathly hail. When I look up, I see that Jaron’s throwing stars have scored perfect bulls-eyes, right in the energy masses inside several heads of the Malevecore. Their bodies convulse, the Sentiergies disrupted somehow by the metal instead of the projectiles being absorbed. The Malevecore fall apart, but dozens more immediately take their place.

My subconscious is demanding me to fight or be destroyed. Jaron unsheathes his sword and rushes to engage the enemy. Despite the Saviour’s formidability, the devastating truth is I know he will lose. It’s not just the fact that he’s grossly outnumbered, it’s the fact that he’s the past.

The Malevecore are the future.

I can’t bear to see Jaron die. He’s touched me in a way no other creation has.

“Go!” The Saviour yells, his sword plunging through the chest of a Malevecore. “The Motivation Prize is not beyond your reach! There’s still time, but you must hurry!”

The Saviour only just manages to somersault over an energy blast fired from an enemy’s claws. Then he barely ducks a swinging arm, restructured to form a blazing scythe designed to take his head off. I can only stand and watch in tearful awe over Jaron Mahanah. How he started as part of a brainstorm, germinating into a fully-fleshed character, developing through all the obstacles I gave him…until he and I finally made it.

Our story for sale on Amazon, and available to pick up from the shelves of WHSmith and Waterstones in Macclesfield at £8.99. What an achievement.

What an achievement!

Jaron continues to fight, punch, kicking, hacking and slashing through the endless Malevecore swarm. What on Earth have I created? They’ll arrive one day, in the story I’ve curtailed. And when they do…things will never be the same.

I scream in horror as a Malevecore stabs Jaron in the solar plexus. The blood flows like wine, The Saviour howls in agony as another slashes away at his chest, another clutches his head and tortures him telepathically. The horde moves in, driven by their purpose, screaming it to the world! Letting it be known just what they want to do!

Purge! Purge! Purge! Purge! Purge! Purge! Purge!

“GO!!!” Jaron screams his last word at me. His compassion threatening to reduce me to tears.

“No,” I say simply. “I will not allow the story to end this way.”

My subconscious will never be the boss of me. How dare my own mind rebel against me this way! How dare myself to allow it to override my imagination!

The Motivation Prize is prestigious, but it’s not worth sacrificing my characters for.

Calm, in-control, and more focused than I’ve ever been, I raise my arms upward, summoning my children to me.

They all come. They will be published one day, just like The Saviour and ‘Nameless’. Just like the Malevecore will one day.

Hi-Jax is the first to arrive, naturally. His superhuman, teenage form materialising from the clay of my imagination. Donning his shades, and brushing his dreads back, Hi-Jax smiles, gives me a thumbs-up and then revs into the fray on his motorcycle, guaranteeing the Malevecore as he charges in, “I’LL CRUSH YOU ALL!”

The Dark Horse, the Underdog, the Champion Survivor…hits the Malevecore pile head-on, causing an eruption of alien bodies to fly sky-high like a volcanic eruption. Hi-Jax leaps from alien to alien, smashing them to pieces with fighting skill and unadulterated power. I calmly walk back towards the battle, summoning more ideas to let them know that I will never forget and I will achieve.

Lisa, Carlos, Holosphere, Aeroqueen, Stallion, Amalgamnon, Doctor Sara Phillips, Nyrovie Dijor…all arise!

As so shall Karana, the Eviscerator, Damnation, Vroom, Axel Thrash, Seizure, Devagyro and Rip Snap.

And ‘Nameless’. Once again.

Consciousness and subconscious fighting not to destroy me…but to drive me.

The Motivation Prize materialises before me. All other insane action in this imagination warzone…I am at peace with.

I can see them now. All my family and friends, so many people who follow my work…cheering me on. As I walk up the stage to claim the recognition for my work.

“We’ll win it together,” I smile reaching out to touch the Motivation Prize.


***

Nana Joan’s old bell was faint at first. But as it grew louder and louder, something stirred. When I realised it was my head, I opened a sleepy eye to discover I was back in my room. Same old white walls, same old blue carpet and all my possessions.

I slowly yawned back into full wakefulness, trying to get my head round that it was yet another barmy dream to add to my collection. I’m only now just with it. Then I hear the bell ring again with Mum yelling from downstairs that tea was ready.

“Coming!” I shout and am just about to leave the room, when I notice the stand-by light on my laptop. It’s in sleep mode. Weird. It hasn’t been switched on since the night before.

Curious, I lift the screen up. I can only stare at my screen in disbelief, as it confirms that I’ve gone even more insane!

All the stuff I’ve dreamt about in my imagination – The Saviour, ‘Nameless’, the Malevecore and everything else I’ve fantasized – is all here, typed out on screen.

Did I just write all of this in my sleep? I can’t remember writing it while I was awake!

The silence that fills my room…it isn’t negative silence. I don’t feel freaked out by anything. By myself or what I write.

The silence that befalls me…it’s Stig silence. Meaning that this is awesome. Simply awesome.

Feeling good about myself, I turn to what’s on my desk next to my laptop. It’s a letter from the publishers. Mum must’ve left it hear for me to read. Curious, I open up the envelope and unfold the news.

The publishers have told me that The Saviour has been nominated for The People’s Book Prize! Best Fiction in the Winter Collection 2011/12!

The honour itself is overwhelming!

Imagination could be become reality!

The Motivation Prize!

The thrill of this achievement, the possibilities that now lie ahead, sink in with wonderful pride. I pick up the book that’s on my desk.

The Saviour by D.C. Wood.

My name on my book. I was wrong to doubt myself earlier. This is huge. This is something I should be proud of forever.

What an achievement…what an achievement!

Time to start writing again methinks! Got to get word out on Facebook and YouTube!

But first things first…

It’s time for tea. We’re having Tai Curry tonight! As I rush downstairs to the kitchen, I think it’s also time to imagine myself a glass of Coca Cola! Hunger and thirst are just so totally inspiring!


TO BE CONTINUED!

]]> http://arbuscula.deviantart.com/art/Introducing-Ipersade-38920127 http://arbuscula.deviantart.com/art/Introducing-Ipersade-38920127 Tue, 29 Aug 2006 18:05:18 PDT Introducing: Ipersade nonadult traditional/drawings/animals Arbuscula http://a.deviantart.net/avatars/a/r/arbuscula.png Copyright 2006-2013 ~Arbuscula FULL VIEW. NOW.

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Underneath the decaying sunlight rested the tranquil illahie, silent for the most part. The occasional hum of a cricket, or the crackle of a leaf, or the late singing of a bird seemed to be the only ones to break this silence. The natural melody of Mother Nature was all that was required, familiar and yet mysterious. Leaves danced seductively with the faint breeze, showing off their marvelous green hues for the end of summer. When Fall began, the clorophyll would dissapate, thus leaving them to more earthern maroons, yellows, and browns. This would be one of the last dusks that would enjoy such beauty, for the summertime was drawing to a close.

With the dying beams coming to a close, the sun began to hide behind the high knolls to the West, as if seeking refuge after a long days work. From the East, the faint sillhouette of the moon began to form, though it's chalky surface had to be heavily focused upon to notice. Darker skies began to flow in from the West as well, which would soon end up becoming a navy blanket over the land. Soon, the gin light of mistress moon would be all to guide the nocturnal creatures, though most malovent animals prefered to live by the shadows of the night.

Piercing, silven eyes gazed upon the sun, seeming to long for it's return. The night was uncomfortable, for both predators and prey could easily bypass the less aware without much effort. But nevertheless, it was not as if it could be helped; the sun would return soon. The fresh scent of a new female wafered upon the South-East wind, drifting into the Everbound Spirits of Fate territory. Apparently, another arrival was on the way, to seek admission into the clan.

Slowly, her chassis filtered out of the vegitation, leaves grating against her pelt. The sun's beams cascaded down upon her royal purple base coat, which shimmered flawlessly. Slender mape lifted to the fading light in the skies, it's hue dipped in ivory paint. Leathery nares wiffed at the skies, capturing the scents of a nearby, powerful clan. Thin, charcoal lips pulled into a faint smile, pleased to be amongst others of her own kind, or at least close enough.

The hues across her body were all of ivory, gold, or deep mauve hue. Her back was graced with a spider-web pattern, glimmering gold-hue making it attractive underneath the sunlight. Keen sound recievers flicked, the left one having an electrifying golden pattern that extended from the tip. Also on her left side were three silven stars, placed upon her upper neck, which were clearly visible, despite her shaggy coat. Her left front paw was dipped in ivory, splattered somewhat in a paint design. While her right front paw held an electrifying golden pattern, similar to her ear. On her back leg, an undescribable design rested, visible on each side. The middle was golden, while it faded out to a blissful ivory hue.

Keen, silver eyes danced upon the surrounding terrain, aknowledging that the clan resided to the West, in which she would be heading into darkness. Though she held little fondness for the dark, she felt responsible to arrive at the clan. By now, she figured the members would have picked up her scent, in which she wouldn't want to disappoint them by not showing up. Her thin, mauve banner flicked diligently, the golden tip catching the rays of the sun. Three ivory bands resided farther up her tail, also attracting the excitement of the sun. The illusionist paid no attention to this, catiously making her way towards the Everbound lands, not stopping for a moments rest. {done}

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Yep, an introduction in Everbound Spirits of Fate to introduce: Ipersade. :] She's an illusionist, and sibling to Polaris and Masque (copyrighted by Marsh / _Trekkie02_). She appeared when I was talking to Marsh about how I liked her Illusionist idea on her new characters a few days ago. Marsh welcomed me to make one of my own to be their kin, and I gladly accepted. A few days later, I ended up with this drawing (it's cruddy, but it's the first I've drawn of her), and ideas swarming around in my head. :]

Her personality is going to be kind of mysterious and aloof, though to her friends, she's a childish fool. Kind of basic and vague, but I can't think of what else to say. As an illusionist, she has no real elemental prowess, such as most other elemental wolves. She waves illusions to win her battles, some so realistic they could fool the keenest canine around. Within the realm of illusions, she blends in reality, to make it seem psychotically realistic, and yet out of this world. Otherwise, she can physically fight, though she would only be an average fighter, if even that.

But uhm, yeah. This picture is going to be digitally colored, though I'm still looking around on some websites for the best coloring methods before I proceed. ^-^ ]]> FULL VIEW. NOW.

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Underneath the decaying sunlight rested the tranquil illahie, silent for the most part. The occasional hum of a cricket, or the crackle of a leaf, or the late singing of a bird seemed to be the only ones to break this silence. The natural melody of Mother Nature was all that was required, familiar and yet mysterious. Leaves danced seductively with the faint breeze, showing off their marvelous green hues for the end of summer. When Fall began, the clorophyll would dissapate, thus leaving them to more earthern maroons, yellows, and browns. This would be one of the last dusks that would enjoy such beauty, for the summertime was drawing to a close.

With the dying beams coming to a close, the sun began to hide behind the high knolls to the West, as if seeking refuge after a long days work. From the East, the faint sillhouette of the moon began to form, though it's chalky surface had to be heavily focused upon to notice. Darker skies began to flow in from the West as well, which would soon end up becoming a navy blanket over the land. Soon, the gin light of mistress moon would be all to guide the nocturnal creatures, though most malovent animals prefered to live by the shadows of the night.

Piercing, silven eyes gazed upon the sun, seeming to long for it's return. The night was uncomfortable, for both predators and prey could easily bypass the less aware without much effort. But nevertheless, it was not as if it could be helped; the sun would return soon. The fresh scent of a new female wafered upon the South-East wind, drifting into the Everbound Spirits of Fate territory. Apparently, another arrival was on the way, to seek admission into the clan.

Slowly, her chassis filtered out of the vegitation, leaves grating against her pelt. The sun's beams cascaded down upon her royal purple base coat, which shimmered flawlessly. Slender mape lifted to the fading light in the skies, it's hue dipped in ivory paint. Leathery nares wiffed at the skies, capturing the scents of a nearby, powerful clan. Thin, charcoal lips pulled into a faint smile, pleased to be amongst others of her own kind, or at least close enough.

The hues across her body were all of ivory, gold, or deep mauve hue. Her back was graced with a spider-web pattern, glimmering gold-hue making it attractive underneath the sunlight. Keen sound recievers flicked, the left one having an electrifying golden pattern that extended from the tip. Also on her left side were three silven stars, placed upon her upper neck, which were clearly visible, despite her shaggy coat. Her left front paw was dipped in ivory, splattered somewhat in a paint design. While her right front paw held an electrifying golden pattern, similar to her ear. On her back leg, an undescribable design rested, visible on each side. The middle was golden, while it faded out to a blissful ivory hue.

Keen, silver eyes danced upon the surrounding terrain, aknowledging that the clan resided to the West, in which she would be heading into darkness. Though she held little fondness for the dark, she felt responsible to arrive at the clan. By now, she figured the members would have picked up her scent, in which she wouldn't want to disappoint them by not showing up. Her thin, mauve banner flicked diligently, the golden tip catching the rays of the sun. Three ivory bands resided farther up her tail, also attracting the excitement of the sun. The illusionist paid no attention to this, catiously making her way towards the Everbound lands, not stopping for a moments rest. {done}

---------

Yep, an introduction in Everbound Spirits of Fate to introduce: Ipersade. :] She's an illusionist, and sibling to Polaris and Masque (copyrighted by Marsh / _Trekkie02_). She appeared when I was talking to Marsh about how I liked her Illusionist idea on her new characters a few days ago. Marsh welcomed me to make one of my own to be their kin, and I gladly accepted. A few days later, I ended up with this drawing (it's cruddy, but it's the first I've drawn of her), and ideas swarming around in my head. :]

Her personality is going to be kind of mysterious and aloof, though to her friends, she's a childish fool. Kind of basic and vague, but I can't think of what else to say. As an illusionist, she has no real elemental prowess, such as most other elemental wolves. She waves illusions to win her battles, some so realistic they could fool the keenest canine around. Within the realm of illusions, she blends in reality, to make it seem psychotically realistic, and yet out of this world. Otherwise, she can physically fight, though she would only be an average fighter, if even that.

But uhm, yeah. This picture is going to be digitally colored, though I'm still looking around on some websites for the best coloring methods before I proceed. ^-^

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