I enjoy short walks to the cinema and then sitting down for a long period of time... Reading is good, but films are better. I like drawing, writing, filming.
I don't like mushrooms and people that drink Primo One-Shot Decaf Soya Sugar-free Caramel Lattes.
In all serious though, I like to be creative with whatever I happen to be able to get my hands on. I try to keep things simple, and enjoy trying new things. So I use my blog as a way to display whatever I decide is worth keeping, and I hope others like them too!
A basic cartoony block-man. I was thinking how I could make something really simple, but try to add some character to it at the same time.
I could imagine Blunderblock being suitable for a children's cartoon or a cartoon-styled advertisement. Either way, I think creating this image helped me develop a bit more in terms of characteristic detail.
Something was up with blogger the past few days, and this meant that all the font on this blog changed to some random squiggly rubbish that you couldn't read. Sorry about that!
Now that we're back in buisness, I have a few things I will be posting in quick succession for a change. Someone very nice has taken it upon themself to use one of my images and try and make it look even better for me, and I have a few magazine pages I want to post too.
As much as he enjoyed his sprint for freedom (for
you must remember, this was the kind of disturbed man that took pleasure in
minor near-death experiences), he soon tired and fell to a slow jog till he
reached his looming saviour. As he crawled the final stretch, rasping, Louis
reached out and touched his guardian angel’s foot as if it were from heaven
itself. As his greasy palm rested on the worn boot, a thin layer of some form
of membrane slid away with his desperate hand. Louis scowled and placed his
hand on the boot again; only this time to receive more wafer thin sheets of
what seemed like dried skin. His hands travelled up the stranger’s leg, until
tiny white flakes trickled down upon his head. His hand gripped tighter, this
time the flaky skin crackled away and revealed a think trunk of bone.
thought it was a trunk; the closest to describing the strange anomaly would
have been a tree. What Louis had once seen as boots revealed to be roots grown
from a dark, muscular tissue. As he gazed at the tree, the first thought that
came into Louis’ head was:
As this was the wittiest thing he had come up with
for months, he decided to stick with it. The Bone-sai tree’s trunk was
comprised of twisted muscle tendons, dried skin and of course, bone. The three
elements gracefully fused in a twisting pattern that twirled towards the sky in
a majestic manner, leaving a magnificent yet horrific sight.
turned around and collapsed to his knees once more; before him, stood an entire
forest of these trees. The floor itself seemed to pulse as one giant, living
organism. Blood ran in putrid, bubbling streams past the trees, where their
muscular roots drank greedily. It was then that his other senses began to fall
back into place, which left him gagging at the vile odour firstly coming from
himself, and then of fresh corpses.
* * * *
looked up at the sky as a dark shadow crept over his vision and a crow the size
of a motorcycle swooped past his head, screeching as it ripped at the trunks of
bone that shielded Louis from his twisted talons. Louis had been following a
vein-like pathway for the forty minutes now; of course, he didn’t know the
exact time he had been travelling and to him it felt like hours. He had learnt
to savour the brief cool intervals from the giant bird’s shadow. Louis’ clothes
were soaked in blood below the waist from wading through the rivers which
intersected his path. As he approached another clearing in the forest, the
shadows that flickered above Louis grew more frequent. When he looked up he saw
a mass swarm of giant crows circling him, a cloud of black shifted and wavered
as hundreds of crows glided above him as one, dark entity. They clawed at any
other bird that came too close and picked fights over scraps of meat that a few
ripped from the trees. Louis quickened his pace, unsure how long the trees
would be able to provide a suitable defence against so many foes.
had grown languid; he was fed up with this place. After walking briskly for a
few miles he realised that the birds seemed only interested in following him,
granting the occasional attempt at attacking him but failing thanks to the
unnatural strength of the tree’s branches. He no longer noticed the smell or
touch of the blood, sweat and vomit that soaked his legs. He had entered a
state of mind where nothing existed but the road of blood. A crow flew too low
and clawed against the fleshy trees, the power from the crow’s attack resulted
in a tree crashing to the ground and knocking Louis to the ground, leaving him
dazed. He roared in fury at the crow, which had now glided off and back into
the cloud of black. He cursed the trees, the sky, anything that came to mind
that was related to his prison. He bellowed at the top of his voice, straining
his vocal chords till they cried reprieve. He stood, breathing heavily as his
ears pricked to the silence that had fallen over the forest. A figure strode
between the trees across Louis’ vision with unnatural speed. Louis squinted,
trying to focus on the shape of what seemed to be another man. From the shadow
of a nearby tree, a man stepped forward wearing a worn trench coat and
clutching a bottle of cider. Louis’ mouth tightened through no will of his own,
his eyes widened as the man raised his bottle and it twisted into an hour
glass. He shook the hour glass and sand began to trickle down into its base.
The man raised one finger to his lips, then stepped into the dark shadow of an
approaching crow and vanished.
lips relaxed and with no time to reflect on what had just happened, it seemed
as if all the sky demons in hell screamed and swooped down, intending to break
past the barrier of trees and rip Louis apart. Louis spurred into action,
adrenaline replenishing his energy reserves. Trees came crashing down around
him and a crow swooped down and missed his eyes by an inch, clawing his shabby
jacket-turban of instead, it had proven useful for fighting off the sun’s
glare, but now its usefulness had come to an end. His assailant screeched in
frustration when it saw that it had been cheated out of its prey. More and more
birds flew down attempting to maim him, but the trees provided sufficient cover
whilst he ran along the veined road. Louis looked ahead and saw a clearing
opening up in the forest. In one final push, he dashed to the edge of the
forest, leaping over fallen trees and ducking from the beaks and talons of the
birds above. As he approached the clearing, a crow scraped its talon down the
calf of Louis’ left leg; in agonic response, he dived towards his reprieve and
soared into warm, gritty sand.
It was a dull
autumn’s morning when Louis stepped onto the 21A to Lowlands Street. A thin mist
surreptitiously crept across the road as he watched people going about their
daily business. When he saw the mist, he
shivered and hastily stepped onto the bus which had just arrived. As his foot
lifted above the ground, the mist engulfed the bus in a shallow pool of the
dullest of silvers, and was swept away as the bus pulled away from the shelter.
The forecast that morning had been reported to be bright and sunny all day
long, but since when could you trust the weather man?
relished sitting in the bus, during its voyage little mattered to him except
for his instinct of self preservation which gripped him like a chain around his
chest. This was due to the protesting groans of the gear box as the driver
shifted into third gear. Always third, the first and second gears were like the
brief calm before a storm; the moment where almost the whole world seems still,
then the force of nature unleashes its true power. He would grip the worn
railings every time this happened, hanging on for dear life. The world would
simply melt away into a melancholic blur as Louis focused on the single task of
staying upright; this thrilled him none the less, a computer salesman doesn’t
get much excitement in his life.
elderly man violently spluttered behind him, the stench of alcohol and rain
He’s probably homeless.
Immediately after thinking that, Louis scowled at
himself and silently apologised to the poor man for his callous
assumption. Although Lark Ridge had a
large population of tramps (and was well known for it too), Louis thought it
was wrong that he should make such immediate assumptions about anybody. He
brushed his greasy mid-length hair sideways, and went back to enjoying his bus
ride. Soon after, the bus slowed to a painfully loud halt and the man rose from
behind Louis and stumbled down the aisle, gold grains of sand caught the light
as they trickled from his worn trench coat as he took a deep gulp of cider from
the bottle that draped from his loose clutch.
bus launched off again, rattling and churning as before. It was going to be a
long ride to Lowlands Street,
and the rhythmic hum of the engine and the clatter of some no-doubtedly
important part of the vehicle made Louis drowsy, he soon found himself
submerging into the fluid limbo of sleep.
* * * *
eyes snapped open to the sound of the bus horn blowing, his eyes frantically
scanned for solidity and eventually focused. “End of the line, buddy”, the bus
driver said as he swung from his seat and out of the driver’s door. Still
dazed, Louis stumbled out of the bus and fell to the ground.
was everywhere; Louis rose from his knees and shielded his eyes from the sun
with his arm. He searched for the bus driver, but he was nowhere to be found.
This isn’t Lowlands Street… this isn’t even Lark Ridge… This is a
“Hello?” Louis cried, “Hello? Is anybody there?”
there was no reply. Then, as if in response to his cries a familiar groaning of
metal and rubber roared behind him. Louis span around only to see the 21A
speeding off into the distance possessing irregular speed for a bus in the
middle of a desert.
computer salesman of Lark Ridge, was alone. He took off his suit jacket and
wrapped it around his head like the turbans he had seen in the movies; it
didn’t help much, but it made him feel better.
* * * *
marched for what felt to him was probably hours, his entire body was drenched
in sweat; exercise wasn’t exactly his favourite pastime. The desert had formed
a perfect equilibrium of sand and sky after the dunes had evened out into a
flat plain. Now all he could see was a seemingly limitless span of barren land,
hosting nothing but searing heat. After wiping the sweat from his eyes, Louis
gazed blankly into the distance once more. His heart leapt when he spotted a
tall silhouette resting upon the thin line separating gold from blue. For the
first time in his life, Louis ran as fast as his little porky legs would carry
him; and he relished every stride, for each meant one stride closer to
I know this is classed as a "short" story, but I will be posting it in installments due to it's length on the page. I've always had a number of short stories floating around in limbo in the form of notes and opening pages, but as i've said before, I tend to dabble with a little and then move on.
This is the first short story I ever fully completed to a level that I was satisfied with. It's a horror (although I hope that's not just because you think it's bad!), and hopefully something original.
The one thing i've always disliked about the horror genre is that a lot of it seems to be taken from the same stock storylines. No doubt something similar exists somewhere because it's almost impossible to come up with something that hasn't been done at least once before considering how long the human race has existed.
Either way, I hope it's at least new to you, and that you can enjoy this story knowing that the author hasn't taken inspiration from anything other than his own sick and twisted mind.
How do I write something meaningful? No one else is going to
truly empathise with another’s personal experiences, not unquestionablly. In
response to this, I have chosen to throw out something that I don’t expect many
to understand, and perhaps most will even view as pointless. To those who write
diaries, you must feel that level of deep importance about what you write, that
feeling of lifting the weight off your shoulders and pouring yourself into those
pages. Yet if someone else was to read it, I doubt they would see it in quite
the same way. I myself have never written a diary, and so I find this a
somewhat remedying task. This isn’t designed to entertain, nor is it crafted to
engage you. This is a moment, captured still, and it’s all about the crux.
I stare at the wall before me;to me, an endless abyss. As I write this, I
have just completed a journey by foot. Mournful thoughts began to probe my mind
as I walked, and soon I found myself wanting of paper.
No, these thoughts
cannot simply be jotted onto a phone as i usually would when such literary
inspiration comes to fancy, they are those thoughts that come too quickly to be
registered and then typed afterwards; and now as I sit, I mark them equally as
important as all my previously planned pieces. As I write this, for the
majority of this will be straight from this point of epiphany (other than those
few remarks, such as these, that were added upon further reflection), you may
not like what you hear. As a matter of fact I doubt you ever will hear this, because the subject of
which my wandering mind encroaches upon is the very cause of your absence to
partake in that which is written.
I miss you. That’s it. The core and sound truth of what all
these rushing incoherent flickers of the past tell me. We lived miles apart –
and at times I found that difficult, yes – but your abscense made our frequent
visits even more meaningful to me. As I dive into my fondest of memories, I
emerge with a single sensory action. The touch of your bare skin against mine.
The time we spent simply holding each other in the darkness were the times when
I wish the world would stop spinning. How unoriginal a thought, yet true all
the same. I feel this creeping death deep within my breast whenever I think of
The times after when we spoke, I began to think things might
be able to return to how they used to be. You treated me the same, and I felt
as I always did; that you were the easiest person to talk to, and that you out
of all others understood me completely and wholly. Why then, did you tell me
you just wanted to be friends? After a half-year long silence I broke when
confering with a so-called “friend” of yours, why did I think we could slot
back together? This hole inside me, the one that you used to fit in, is the
same shape as ever. But time has warped your own person, and left me empty
As my thoughts drift back to those of our ease of
conversation, I am forced to ask, why? Why did I feel like we as a pair could
talk for days without running out of topics whereas with others I simply find
myself running through the motions? The thought of the level of investment and
risk involved with finding another and slowly etching away that mask we all
wear when we first meet is a daunting one. The attempts I make when searching
for another serious relationship leave me feeling false. I struggle on,
lackluster and powerless in my constant aching desire to run all those miles
just to see you again.
How can I keep running? When people ask me if I have
“someone special” all I say is that I don’t anymore. No longer, past tense,
gone and never again to be replaced in the same way that your innocent smile
made my days glow. When they ask, I say “every girl has problems, and each one
has a different one”. But what was your problem? You never said. Maybe that was
it. Maybe I couldn’t see, being blinded by my adoration of you, or perhaps we
simply faded apart and I was left still smiling at your shadow.
At this point I begin to question whether or not I should even
continue to compose this. What will it serve other than to cause ridicule from
others, or to anger you? But I want to see this through, for the moments we
One more thought...
This is it. I can feel these last few reflections building
up and I don’t want them to slip away. Will I even make it home in time? I want
to keep all of this fresh in my mind yet I don’t feel like I can hold it all.
Emotional thoughts spill out of memory like a bucket overflowing with too much
I love you.
There have been times when people have explained the concept
of puppy love to me when i’ve mentioned that I have claimed to be in love
twice. I look at other couples and think to myself that they don’t really know
what love is either. Are any of these relationships real, or are they all
acting as falsley as I felt I did after you? My friends, they describe their
relationships in such a way that leaves me wondering if the person they “love”
even knows who they really are. And now I stand as a hyprocrite, because I say:
I. Love. You. I probably don’t know what true love is either, maybe “true” love
doesn't even exist - A fictional creation designed to create a psychological catalyst
for our hormones to take over all sense and reasoning – But I do. I felt like I
was actually honest with you. You were my best friend all the way through my
most difficult times with the first girl I “loved”. You were there when I was
messed around by others after too. You knew what kind of person I was when it
came to relationships yet you still liked me.
But without you, how can I like myself?
Dedicated to someone who will remain without a name.
I recently got an app called "Draw" for my Iphone. With this I can doodle whenever I want (although it's not that detailed) and so build a nice little collection of draft images ready to improve later. Remember that these were drawn on a tiny touch screen (and probably on a train for that matter), and there will hopefully be better versions to come!
I will be posting some doodles soon, and this is one of the images I created based on one of them. Because it's been a while since i've posted something, i'll be EXTRA generous and show you the original drawing, followed by the finished picture!
I considered calling it "Tigerfish", but that would just seem stupid. I mean come on, Bubbles is sooo much cooler.
Whilst working on a few other things all at once, I decided to post this image. I watched Seasons 1-3 of Misfits a while ago and I always liked their opening title sequence. So, I thought it'd try a dark cartoony-come-painterly style with my own twist. It's not amazing, but I still like it for it's simplicity.
This was a project I did a few weeks ago. It's a 30 second television advert for Kit Kat designed to tickle that funny bone whilst keeping you focused on the product. It's not HD because of the rubbish camera I used, but I feel like the editing is at least decent enough from a technical standpoint.
This video is supposed to be in widescreen, but my Youtube knowledge is severely lacking so it's been squashed. Bear with me.
Now, this may make you want to eat a Kit Kat, so get you shoes on and prepare to run for your closest corner shop...
Huge news everyone, this blog is new. That means a plethora of empty pages. Sorry about that.
You'll be seeing quite a bit of this picture as I perfect the format of the blog, so if there's anything that has caught your eye but isn't yet complete, feel free to give me a prod to see if i'm still alive and i'll work as fast as possible to finish it.
Well, it's time to start displaying the few pieces of work I feel happy with. Now please bear with me, there aren't many pictures I ever end up keeping due to the fact that i'm such a cynical perfectionist.
This series's namesake originates from my source of inspiration. Call of Duty Black Ops (Can you spot the BO there? Well done you!) has a crummy little emblem maker, but I finally managed to toy around with it enough to create a manic smiley face I felt happy with. Let all foes who pick up my gun be distracted by the glaring red eyes of that crazy little man. Following this, I decided to try and perfect it and create some more variations. And so, the concept was born.
Anyway, at the risk of never getting round to showing anything, here are the first few base drafts for my BO images:
Hello there, my name is David Saint. Whether you've stumbled onto this blog by accident, by referall, or maybe you're stalking me...Welcome!
I think the best way to describe myself is a "dabbler". I dabble in things. Yeah. Work that one out.
On a more detailed note, I like to experiment with whatever takes my fancy. Poetry, Short Stories, Cartoons, Filming, you name it and i've probably tried it, failed at it, came back to it a year later and produced one good thing out of it. Because of this, my creative output can be...irratic at best. So if you like what you see, feel free to check the blog every now and then.
I'll start posting things as soon as I can, but the surprise for you guys will be what it could be! If you have any suggestions, feel free to comment. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy the few pieces of creativity I jumble together.