I need OUT of this house.
I could handle my mom being a bitch, and Robert being an asshole and a drunk, and I could put up with the homophobic/transphobic/racist/sexist environment.
But Robert has started taking his anger out on my puppy and that IS NOT OKAY.
He beats on her when I’m not here for him to yell at, and that’s my last straw, I’m going back home.
The problem is the reason I’m here in the first place is my mom needs someone to watch Keryssa while she’s at work to make sure he never pulls that shit on HER, so until we get enough money to move out, we’re all stuck here.
SO I’m going to open up commissions to hopefully speed this process up a little!
tl;dr I need out of this house yesterday, and I’m opening commissions to help pay for it.
So here are the prices!
Twelve dollars for a simple Traditional piece like this [sent digitally]
Fifteen dollars to have me Mail it to you so you can have the original copy.
Fifteen dollars for a fully shaded and detailed traditional piece like this
Eighteen to Mail it to you.
Three Dollars for a corrective redline Like this
Digital full anatomy work:
Ten dollars for the following:
Flat-work like this.
Sketch work on a background like this
Pixel Figures With and Without Lines
Fifteen Dollars for Smooth drawings like this
Twelve for Scratch Work Like this
and Twenty Five dollars for a Character Montage page like this
It’s Three dollars for something in DoodleWorld Style
and Ten Dollars for a Character Montage Page in the DW Style.
Three dollar Chalk Work
And Eight for the other three styles:
SO If you’re interested in any of it, please message me, and we’ll exchange emails so we can work things out with paypal!
Thanks guys, I really need this!
I need OUT of this house.
AND IT’S DONE!
I started this in FEBRUARY finished the presketch, and then dropped it because I just wasn’t feeling it? Then I was without internet for a time, then stuff, blah blah blah, more internetlessness, then a road trip, more blah blah fucking blah, good god
then about a month ago I worked on it and did their faces, and then fucking oops I dropped it again
then YESTERDAY I picked it up, promised not to do any other drawings until I fucking finished this one, and I just finished it ten minutes ago, so NOW I am done!
Devon I am so painfully sorry you had to wait this long, I am actual garbage;;;;;
Not tagging this for nudity because it’s disgusting how people try to sexualize nipples on females in non sexual situations [this is a mostly nonsexual situation, hmmm]
I will tag it for nipples tho, because idk what your fears are //shrugs
Comic Concepts by Lukahhhhhhhh
AND HERE WE ARE AT LAST
Here they are, my Doodle World Comic Characters uwu
NOW REMEMBER this is an open project, so feel free to contact me about joining and also feel free to draw anyone you’d like! And please show me, I’d love to see!
AND ALSO feel free to ask me about any of the characters, yes there are a few couples and relations here!
I rarely remember my dreams. When I do it is of a world drenched in the hazy smoke of a fire long dead; decimated by dry heat, and drowning in the evaporated tears of so many who are no more.
I dream a luciferous being as the inhabitant of this world and provider of all things to enlighten the sky. It is this being that allows me to see the rotted land around me.
This place is shadowed and wilted but never black. Black is for those who are truly dead, and no matter all the dying that surrounds me, I see no death. We are a world forever suspended in the agony of the last cusp of living.
I dream of a garden, twisted and dark, with wilted white flowers decorating it like pinpricks of starlight amongst an expanding sky. Other flowers hang haggard and lifeless along the pathway. The grass gives way to dirt, and when I look back I realize I can not remember how I came to be here. I know not what path I took, or from where I’ve come, and I haven’t the faintest clue as to where I’m going. I know only that I must indeed go. If I do not, the thorns will get me.
In this garden that holds the world I know there will be a house, and yet I’ve never seen it. There will be a house, and inside it someone will be waiting for me. I know that the one who lives in this house is important, and I decide this is where I will go, but I am not certain as to who it is, nor am I sure if I am welcome.
But I go.
The being who brings enlightenment is ever still with its back to me, as if it dare not turn blind from its view of the sky before it. Still I step closer, sure that it will know the way to the house, for I am so very lost.
This being has tattered wrappings about its head and shoulders; vertebrae jutting from the path of its spine before vanishing behind the draped cloak it wears. the tattered cloth hangs from its elbows as if it is eternally in a state of undressing, baring its bandaged body to the world; shedding as much of the faint light it provides as possible on this dim and dank setting.
This figure is mottled in shadows of harsh greys and dirty whites, as if painted by dust and ash, but there is no black. Black is saved for those who are no longer dying, but truly dead.
In its hand there is a knife for some horrendous purpose I dare not imagine. In the other is a leash. The end of the leash disappears into the bushes, hidden by the chaotic undergrowth of snarling leaves and stems, as if it has claimed the dark twisted existence around us, the putrid dream, as its pet.
The silence of this place is interrupted only by a steady thrumming that fills my head with the pulse of this world. If I try to listen too hard, it overwhelms me, but if I ignore it, it only echoes louder, as if trying to gain my attention. No matter, the dream moves forward and if I stand still, the thorns will get me, so I must continuously move.
The air tastes like humidity and ozone; like the stormy scent that pushes ahead of thunder clouds thick with a flood. But rain never breaks through the dark tangled branches above me, and the dirt beneath my feet is cracked and dry. Jagged lines cut the earth with a surgeon’s precision, stitched together with twisting thorns that beg the ground to stay whole.
But it can not.
I move forward, infinitely moving, and every step makes my feet bleed, but it is not blood that escapes me; it is ink, dark and fluid but never black. Black is saved for those who are truly dead.
The figure does not move as I approach it, merely stands to its purpose, watching the horizon as if it dare not turn to see me come. Perhaps it is watching for something. Perhaps it does not notice me, or perhaps it is ignoring my presence. It does not turn to see me, as if I am something not to be looked upon. I desperately hope it does not decide to look at me.
Long and twisted fingers wrap around its belongings like vines, prepared to choke out the light it provides from whomever it deems fit. It has no fingernails, but I am certain its grip would feel like the sharpest of claws.
It’s only when I step within reach that the figure then throws back its head, its gaze piercing my own.
It sees me.
I awaken with a start, breath coming in harsh pants, sweat cooling tacky on my skin as I look in the darkness of my room. I am surrounded by the purest black; my vision blotted out. Black is saved for those who are truly dead. With that in mind and fear in heart, I scream.