Unknown Artists: October Feature

Oct 8, 200525 min read

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Published: Oct 8, 2005

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The primary focus of the Unknown Artists Project is to expose talented, yet underrated, artists on deviantArt. In spirit of that goal, we will present to the community a monthly feature showcasing unknown artists in photography, traditional art, digital art and literature. This month SaiScribbles joins us as a guest to feature unknown artists in comics.

selections by `garrit


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selections by ^superkev


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selections by ^oedalis

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selections by `twosilverstars

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selections by ^De-Profundis

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selections by =IfrozenspiritI

:thumb22228164:	two tired children'when the sky falls,' she whispered softly, playing with the ends of his hair, 'will you hold my hand?' they sat in plastic chairs under the streetlight and staring at the stars. the road was empty and the city was hollow, littered with neon advertisements for underwear and french fries. the wind was cool, but not biting, soft and fresh around her neck as she hugged her body, grasping her shoulders and crossing her heart. she'd only brought one bag and she held it between her feet. her little red case of cds and jewelry. all he had was his guitar. she'd never seen him without it. they traveled light, perhaps hoping it'd rub off on their minds, as they sat with their tickets in their pockets and no money in their wallets. she looked up at his face. 'sure,' he said, touching her leg. 'sure i will.' they turned their heads, looking straight ahead, watching the streetlight shudder and flicker, blinking and fighting as it struggled with the inevitable. it was silent, save for the quiet flow	Mature Content	Day Job While on one of the mass-transit trains during rush hour, Robert Carlton ran into an old friend and former roommate. He'd been rolling up his newspaper--waiting for the animated headlines to change could be tedious on a commute--when a man in a business suit collided with him. "I'm sorry," Carlton said instinctively, even though he was quite sure it was the other man's fault and was more than a little annoyed. Then he got a good look at his 'assailant,' and recognized the man's hooked nose and broad, lined forehead. Before he could speak, the man grasped his hand, grinning. "Bob Carlton, is that you? I haven't seen you since graduation. Carlton's peeved expression was instantly replaced with a smile of his own. "Harve! My god, it's been a long time. I thought you were living up the coast a ways!" Harve shook his head. "Not anymore, Bob. I'm a native again, just like you. Meant to look you up, even, but the old number doesn't work." Carlton playfully socked his old friend on the shoulde
Not Feeling Yourself? Not Feeling Yourself I woke up to the sound of the repeated high-pitched wail of an alarm clock. I silenced it, pushed back the sheets and got up. After a quick cold shower I dressed and went downstairs. Edward Wetherby hates breakfast cereals, the milk always results in sludgy mush that makes him feel physically sick; but I poured myself a bowl of corn flakes, drowned them in milk and began to eat his breakfast. Half an hour later and I stood at the bus stop. The number seventeen bus arrived 17 minutes late. "How Ironic" Edward thought. I handed over my fare and took a seat at the back of the bus. "Are you alright dear?" Asked Mrs. Peterson, a kindly old lady who Edward knew through the bridge club. "You haven't been yourself recently." "I'm on my way to the doctor." I replied. "He called me back for a check-up after the therapy." "Oh yes, I remember. How are you feeling." "I feel fine." I reassured her. Edward Wetherby did not feel fine but I opened the morning paper, ending the conv	:thumb22562391:	time travelingEvery Friday and Saturday night he takes refuge in the coffeehouses that are positioned throughout his hometown. He always sits in the southwest corner of the coffeehouse; tonight's destination is on Drexel between Calle de Luna and Oración Blvd. It's an old building with patrons of a similar age who ignore him. His voice has nothing to add to their intellectual rendezvous' and he remains an insignificant observer; he tells himself that it is easier to see that way. The women smoke heavier than the men who scowl into their cups of coffee or double shot cappuccinos but their voices are even throughout the discourse. The air is thick with philosophy and the tired attempts of expired hippie revolutions. Worn out copies of The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test decorate nutmeg coffee tables and provide reading material in the bathrooms, feigned ambiance and imposed coincidence. The menu only provides for tame beverages b	Mature Content

selections by =zebrazebrazebra

:thumb20707403:	Poor Substitution It's at this point in time, the pinnacle of your adolescence, when you realize that your mother can't play catch nearly as well as some kind of father could have.	Mayflies Mayflies When I was five, one of my classmates died. She had been hit by a car, and for some reason, she was the one out of a billion whose regeneration implant failed to function, so she died. When we all heard of this, nobody cried. We all knew it could not be happening. She had lived barely five years, barely an instant. She was supposed to live forever. We were all supposed to live forever. Death had been destroyed. We couldn't mourn her because it was impossible for anyone to die. We all had to go to her funeral. We didn't really want to go. We didn't want to spend the day sitting around listening to a lot of people make boring speeches. There had not been a funeral for so long that there must have been millions of people there, strangers as much to us as to her, who had come more out of morbid curiosity than anything else. It was held outside, in a big p	:thumb18360821:
LitterImpassively, you watched me, scoffing at my tears: "Don't litter on the pavement."	:thumb22966666:	:thumb22202664:	berryberry ericaleebrown sweet bones of a young face blushing smooth juice on a long, tangled vine anxious to burst through strained skin indigo soured ink loud fruit seedless hanging to small limbs like night on the moon's pale stomach lips touching sugared flesh hidden in thickets, in thorns, in thundered caverns of this untamed field berry black blue red violet berry raw bride eluding our clutching

selections by ^imperfect

:thumb11499316:	EchoicEchoic Your core is refracted and deflected from the straight path which continues to lead you here. Your transcendence, although well documented, lacked any sub-stantial evidence or clues on how to break your punctuated fall. R E S U R G E N C E Fresh diffusal of cool silence in this echoic theatre of beauty; imitation of speech and gesture, up close and personal. You are replication, my draft and fuzzy focus - interpreted perfectly, clearly defined fractal lines; my better half and improved reflection lying in wait for me.	Beauty, RevisitedComatose, She's a fiend of the close Harmony-dissonance; She'd feign cite her source, But with a furtive glittering glance. It may not be clear to you, but There's some sort of rigid beauty, Something that's yet to change. A soul's got to bend notes blue, Burst blood red and ready Before she knows her heart's range. An innocence by his side, A sliver of light left untouched: That was what attracted her. The beauty of that light, Though is wasn't much, A carrion call enacted her. Catatonic, She's a friend of the past, The physic and the sonic. Her knees are burst With the effort, the enharmonic: That flat and sharp are first And foremost natural, Unity that's actual. Cataleptic, Maybe pathetic, But she sure is beautiful today. Her melody, her hymn Her avant-garden; It's more than they can sing or say.	:thumb13151761:
Vinyl I listened to You in vinyl because digital aunts were getting old and tinny sounding and I wanted You, at least, to be real and scratchable	Defile All DesolateDefile All Desolate so dial a line back through human gloom past the present where the future's present in each curdling broth of boiling biology -- biography - the charting of your face, each face, every groove-line-ridge and every hole conformed to fit the map-- so where? over rocks bigger than the sky huge like minds, and yes, my friend, i'm there -- no split infinitive, no heretic to holy angst -- i am truth and i am nothing where? where wastes glisten-crackle-break their strain of ice- glaze the icing of their tops and grumble, split and spat in halves down countries, glaciers burning cold corridors through time where seas constrict and throttle continents in torrents - beat the bass that they were built to batter, quake the pagan gods in rumbled voices, baritone and strong and heavy and death where gurgles rose, ululating-ecstatic-frenzied-swooping banging their bodies across dry lands, swirling fingers of an elemental pandemonium wh	pipe tobacco His voice, slow, lovely, softly washes over my soul, like waves. Smoke, smelling of warm earth and sunlight, wreathes my head. His thoughts wrap round my own. He holds my small body against his, safe, the angry wind outside no match for the warm kettle on our hearth.	:thumb13701884:

selections by ^mangapunksai

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selections by ^alyn

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selections by %walloftruth

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