#render's crayon table

Graphic design is my passion :[)

Was trawling through some old image files I had and found these; saw a few patterns and decided to mess around. I really like it, though this may just be one of those 'perpetually unfinished' types of artwork as I find more stuff to tack on or rearrange.

Nothing. At least, nothing Walker hadn’t already evaluated before.

He took a moment, in the peaceful quiet of the darkened shop, to simply take in the morning. He savored the smell of the steam wafting from his Styrofoam cup and the indescribable scent of rain and damp earth that hung in the air. He watched the rain blanket the entirety of his late father’s gas station and the woodland beyond in a cottony gray veil of streaming water.

The woods were weird when it rained. Nothing about them really changed with the presence of a storm; the trees were still tall, knotted pines with green needles and sap. The underbrush was still a bunch of thorny brambles and budding saplings with plenty of foliage to hide the tiny creatures crawling and scurrying among the shadows.

Still, there was something off about it. It’d taken Walker a while to pinpoint exactly what. If business hadn’t been a bit slow in the passing decade, he might never have puzzled at it long enough to come to any sort of conclusion. But, with the summer melting into a fall that withered into winter and thawed into spring and then drowned again in summer storms, Walker found himself quietly frozen; rooted to the spot behind his cash register like one of the spindly pines hovering a few feet from the lot. As the many faces of travelers and liars and trappers and beggars slowly melted and faded into one featureless Customer, Walker found himself alone more often than not; even among others. And when he was, he watched the forest. Listened to it, even when he wasn’t sure it wanted to be heard.

Even in the rain. Especially in the rain. No one wanted to walk to a near-dilapidated gas station convenience store while the sky was cracking open in heavy, bitter torrents. No one ever visited when the weather truly turned impressive.

Walker still wasn’t entirely sure, even now, but the most concrete thing he could identify was the noise. Or rather, the lack of noise in the forest. When large swaths of gray blocked out the sun and thunder rolled over the mountains, Walker could hear the rain on the roof, on the pavement outside. Walker could see the rain hit the leaves and needles on the outcropping fringe of foliage that crowded up near the store. He could even taste the sharp smell of pine and death and living things.

But it was quiet. The forest was quiet. Not the normal quiet, either, where the animals go silent and the woodland falls asleep. There was no patter of airborne droplets hitting crackling bark or brambles; of slick leaves slapping together. There was no creak of branches as Walker watched them whip around in the wind. There was a gaping hole where there should be mundane clatter. Instead, there was just silent motion as the wind and rain shook the trees. The silence ate at him, like the squat shadow of the soaking wooded valley leeched vitality out of whatever bordered it.

Walker checked above the door again. He blew gently on his steaming beverage, still not quite willing to sip it. Usually he had a doughnut with his coffee. It didn’t mask the taste of yesterday’s dregs, but made the event of consuming both items far more fun.

No change in the stain, the dully buzzing sign kept flashing, and the solar toys at his elbow stayed decidedly dormant. Walker, resigned to the lack of ready distractions, turned his gaze back to the window; to the suspended static of the buffeting world beyond it.

The lingering peace of the lazy morning was gone, just like his comfort in solitude that fled him so long ago. There was no one here but Walker and the wood. The trees didn’t sing to him in hushed whispers like they did in sunshine. It seemed like they, too, were holding their breath. What were they waiting for? Who was he supposed to notice?

Walker shook his head quietly snorting at a sentimental old man’s flights of fancy, checked the stain again, and started sorting lottery tickets at the register. Most of them were out of date. Walker didn’t receive enough foot traffic to make regular trips into town to refresh them. Most of what he could call his regulars were huntsmen, who spent their time in the woods and didn’t care for lotteries or tabloids. All they walked in for was gas, ice, and various tobacco products. Sometimes to chat while he rang them up, but never to read through Hollywood scandals or scratch off an excuse to drive all the way into town for a measly twenty bucks.

Walker didn’t even drive into town to stock his store; he had the Cunninghams' boy deliver groceries and the like for pocket change and free slush drinks. As the years wore on, Walker had found himself venturing outside less and less. Eventually he only left his father’s store to check the gas pumps and perform basic maintenance checks. He had a cot in the office for when it was too dark to safely trudge back to his cabin.

He checked the stain again. Was it getting bigger? It hadn’t seemed so mottled and fresh before; it appeared to have adopted a green tinge.

Thunder roiled above, the shock-wave powerful enough to rattle the toys on the window sill again, the lights and sign cutting out along with it. Walker waited for them to flicker back on; eyes never leaving the forest, hand clenched around his cup of frigid sludge. Turn on. Please, turn on.

The store remained dark, smothered in an unnatural hush.

It was a perfect atmosphere; the dancefloor writhing with swaying limbs and chattering smiles. The liquor ceaselessly flowing, with some bleary-eyed reveler announcing they were covering the next round every few minutes. The soundtrack, even, was a constant flux of skull-pulsing synth hooks, classic rock, and trashy dance pop of both new and old. The DJ was clearly new and over-zealous with the record-skips and mash-transitions. Somehow it wasn't as grating as it should be. It burned, but less like gas fumes than the timber of smooth scotch. She didn't know how he toed that perfect, fine line between ear-screeching and unimpressively safe.

Nothing was right. It was a perfect night, too perfect. The party was too much. Too cheerful, too comfortable. She could feel a tugging in her gut, a strange pliancy whispering at her to start dancing, to drink more liquor, to sink further into the festivities. Let the music wrap her in a hazy bliss. There was a creeping suspicion curled that the base of her mind that if she indulged further, she tumble over the edge of something far more powerful than a simple shot of alcohol. She'd dance until she died. Until she ripped herself apart. The air was oppressive, sticky, one giant pitcher of spirits.

Uncurling her hand from her drink took gargantuan effort, like the skin of her palm had frozen to the chilled glass. Her fear continued to spike as she sat it, tenderly, on a filthy table, and turned to go.

Then she saw him, a newcomer of sorts, who slipped through the gyrating crowd like a fish through water. Strangely, flying elbows and clumsy stumbles avoided him entirely. He looked as if he belonged. He also looked bored.

It was almost impossible to avoid his eyes. That pull was concentrated on him. There was something inhuman about him. The splendorous shine of the sweat on his skin, the casual but well-fitted cut of his shirt, the way his hair slicked back without a greasy sheen settled over the frosted tips.

She turned to go. She had to. She had to leave. Something wasn't right. There was a god in her favorite club and everything was too perfect. This was going to end in a bloodbath, vero, and so help her she was too sober to go painlessly. She needed a drink, maybe a line from the girls in the bathroom. Anything to calm her rabbiting pulse.

It was a party. She needed to calm down, and relax. Everything would work out in the end; panicking would only make it hurt worse.

She took a hesitant step towards him. He cocked his head, and a request to dance fluttered on the tip of her tongue. The music turned syrupy, everything pooling around them. The reek of alcohol burned her nostrils, and she couldn't breathe.

It was simple, so simple. He would acquiesce. Not because he cared about her, but because it would feed him. Excess had always gotten the closest to sating that eternal hunger. He needed her. He needed all of them.

She couldn't tell what branching set of events would be her fate; the chaos of the roiling club kept distracting her train of thought. But as likely as this night was to result in a simple hangover and potential std, the image of blood soaking the tacky carpet and the DJ station rendered a makeshift alter of viscera, wine, and debauchery dogged her. If he knew what he was going to do to them, he wasn't a convincing liar or placater.

She almost felt bad for him. She should comfort him, gods, he's so bored. So, so lonely. She should stay, have a drink, maybe dance a bit. He'd love the company. He'd feel human, for once. Just for a second, before her skin was peeled from her hands in dainty little strips. Out of boredom; a child worrying at its clothes.

She brushed past his shoulder, eyes fixed on the door. It was like scrabbling at the walls of the stomach of a great beast, there was no intended room for escape. His influence clung to her like honey, like the embrace of mead. He turned his face to her, slightly, an eyebrow raising in his otherwise politely blank expression. It doled into the spot at the base of her neck, her spine tingling with a sense of unfathomable danger. Vero, she whispered as she screwed her eyes shut and dragged her leaden limbs through the club's cramped lobby.

She let out a long gasp as she inhaled the crisp night air. Tasted of smog and burnt rubber, but it was grounding. It felt real. She was at the edge of his domain. The dregs of the tankard. She took one wobbly step forward, a heeled foot fumbling off the club's front step, hand raising to wave over a taxi--

"Hey!"

Everything clenched. She wheezed and turned to look over her shoulder. He stood, half in shadow, leaning against the desk of the lobby. The clerk behind the counter acknowledged neither of them, staring out of the window. She couldn't see his face, but the parts of him that were visible were... admittedly more disappointing than what she expected of a god. Like the light of the real world washed him out, ate away at his sense of bearing, leaving him an unremarkable but alluring man in garish designer clothes.

She wondered what his face truly was. Her foot left the pavement as she turned back to better face him. She watched the light catch the whites of his eyes. He was inscrutable.

But even from here, she sense his hunger, banked by her distance from his domain. Everything hurt, like pins and needles shoved into every joint and twisted around just to see if she'd leak. She smiled, weakly, a watery farce of grin, but it was better than nothing, vero.

He dug a small item from his pocket, his eyes cutting from hers as he turned it around in his hands. He cleared his throat and the song in the club reached a fevered climax. He looked up at her, steadily, gaze somehow stopping before it reached her, like he was looking somewhere else through the haze of the faded lights.

"You forgot your wallet."

"Oh."

He raised his arm, the wallet loosely clasped between his fingers.

"Go on, take it."

The shuddering steps, and a trembling hand to pluck it from his hands. He was unmoving. A statue. Staring into her mottled soul. He wasn't breathing. She took a hurried step back, nearly rolling her ankle as her stilettos betrayed her.

When she was braced against the lobby wall, she worked up the courage to look at him again. "Th-thank you, sir..."

He quirked a charming smile that felt like nails on a chalkboard and nodded. He didn't move, kept staring at her, but when she was forced to blink, he was gone as her eyes opened.

She hurried out, kicking the heels off and shoving the wallet in her pocket as she vigorously hailed a taxi. She dreamed of being flayed alive by giggling clawed hands and her own screams morphing into the screech of cheap blown-out speakers.