For anyone willing to listen, I have a small announcement regarding some revisions. Nothing major.

I'm going to update some of my older pieces with higher image quality. I want to make sure that you can see the art good and clear, flaws and all.

Thank you all for your support and let us all be great artists together.

Ladies and Gents, my first Gundam.

A good use of 14 bucks.

Pretty Plastic Island

By TheJudddman

My name is Santiago, and it was about 10 years ago that I had lived (and mostly worked) on the island of Santa Perdonala.

I barely remember much of my childhood, but aside from the memories of a drunk father whose face was a blur leaving me on this island, I certainly remember that this place would never be my home even after living there for most of my young life.

Santa Perdonala was a resort island first and foremost, and everything was designed to look as natural as possible, like a real place, even though most islands like it did not have clean water and air-conditioning despite abiding to the aesthetics of clay houses and brick roads. Many of the “citizens” on the island aren’t actually native and if asked, they will either tell you that they had lived there their entire lives or will give a grand backstory about their arrival to the place while endlessly singing its praises. Everyone here is given a script so as to provide a comfortable narrative to the resort-goers, having them think that Santa Perdonala is a beautiful place, rich in culture and lively in its soul, when in reality, it’s goods and crafts were handmade not by a grandmother or resident but by a child working his parents’ debt off in sweltering heat making clothes surrounded in a circle with other children his age.

I, of course, was one of these children, and I remember the day, distinctly, that I became a man.

I was an older kid, working in the sewing circle surrounded by other kids of varying ages, some teens and some pre-teens. The house we were in had clay walls and windows that were holes in those walls with cloth shutters. The ten of us only had one small bathroom to use and we slept in bunks in a room down the hall from the main room we worked in.

We all made the same thing. A bright blue button up shirt with intricate Perdonalan Swirls and crosses sewn onto the back and sides. We did it all by hand and if we pricked ourselves on the needles and got blood on the shirt, we would have to throw it away and start over from the beginning, supplemented by a whack from a carpet beater.

I was working, sweaty and tired as usual, when Jose, our “handler” walked in.

He was a man of fair skin, much lighter than the caramel brown of the children he watched over. He had a thick set of eyebrows, slicked back hair and a strong jaw with minor stubble. He was wearing the same shirt we were making and had just come back off of being a tour guide for vacationers. He always stood up straight and had a proud look on his face that would occasionally switch to a drunken half-smile when entering the house.

“Santi!” He called, nodding at me to follow him.

And so I did.

We walked over onto the balcony. Halved clay walls make the railings and a multi-colored carpet with geometric designs lines the sun-beaten floor.

Jose took his sunglasses off, lit a cigarette, and slumped down into the white, rusted, wrought-iron chair. He waved his hand, inviting me to sit in the other chair.

He rested his elbow on the table, the arm with the cigarette in it, furrowed his brow slightly.

“Santi, my boy”. He took a puff of his cigarette. “I got a job for you.”

It was always like Jose to cut to the chase. He never cared what anyone had to think of him. Admirable, but done in the wrong ways.

He continued, “One of the bar workers jumped ship and left the island, and I need you to take his place for a night, yeah?”

This was extremely new to me. I did occasionally get out of the house to do odd jobs, but those mostly consisted of cleaning houses or taking out trash. I was hesitant to do this. I’d be serving drinks to drunk foreigners, possibly getting berated by them and leaving it without any pay, leaving me more miserable than I usually am.

I tried to refuse.

“Um, Mr. Jose?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you sure there aren’t any free adults that can do this?”

His gaze grew serious. He stared at me, no, through me.

“You refusing?”

I faltered. Like an idiot.

“Well, no sir, but I’m wondering if I’m the right guy for the job. Isn’t there someone more…experienced?”

He stared at me, gave me a softer look. He reached over the table and put his arm around me.

“Awwww, Santi!” a quick puff and exhale of smoke. “You always struck me as the humble sort. You need more confidence, man!”

Avoiding the question. Typical Jose. He pulled back, inhaling as he did.

“Lemme tell ya, Santiago. It's a big scary world, and we both know I can’t house you forever. I think you ought to learn some people skills, before I have to send you out there. Can’t have the world eat you alive, you know?”

“Well, alright.”

“On board then? Nice. You know I can’t do it without ya.”

“Wait, no…I mean-”

“Santi…”, he puffed on his cigarette. “I’m sure you are aware of the only other option. You know what’s gonna happen if you don’t do this right?”

I looked down, defeated. “Yes sir…”

“Seven o’clock. Tomorrow. I’ll give you a uniform and you’ll bring out drinks till the place closes or a new guy can take over for you.”

He snuffed out his cigarette under his boot and got up to leave.

“Wait, sir.”

“Yeah?”

“Aren’t I too young for this? I’m only sixteen.”

He turned and leaned on the doorway with his hands in his pocket. The ends of his mouth curved upward to a subtle smile.

“You’re the oldest kid here Santi. You got some whiskers on you already.”

“True.”

“Besides, you look old enough. It's not like they need to know, yeah?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good Kid. Now back to work.”

He didn’t even hold the door open for me as I followed him downstairs.

“Oh right. Santi?”

“Yes, Mr. Jose?”

“You remember where you are really from, right?”

“No, sir.”

“Attaboy. Don’t.”

As I sat back down to continue working I noticed a small red dot on my pants. I looked up and noticed that I had pricked myself on the thumb with the needle before I talked with Jose. I was currently grabbing the shirt with the thumb and forefinger of my pricked hand, leaving a wine-red stain on the shirt.

That was the last straw. 

As the old woman in the corner went to get the carpet beater, I realized just how fed up I was with everything. I had spent the entirety of my life living a lie.

But I had no choice but to. It was a sickeningly perfect situation. A boy with a family who didn’t want him left to slave away making shirts for weak, rich men, with no knowledge to know who he was, no room to examine, to think, no room to fight for who he is, because doesn’t know who he is.

I saw someone I wasn’t happy with in the mirror as my fellow children and I lined up to brush our teeth. I made a promise to myself that tomorrow, I had to do something. I didn’t know what that something was but it had to happen, because if it didn’t, it would leave me to rot here, choking on a truth I never knew and never got to tell.

I’ll tell them what I know. That’s it.

I could convince someone to adopt me. Find an official and share what I know about this whole operation. Get drunk and spill everything out. I know it seems like wishful thinking, but that’s how desperate it made me.

And so I, Santiago Hernandez, would spend the next few years of my life hatching a plan to escape.

I would lead an honest life, away from a land of lies.

Sorry for not posting at all for this year currently.

Its exam week for me as of my posting of this, but I promise I will post something after.

I don't want to keep my fans waiting. I appreciate all of your support and I will post soon.

Thank you all.

Milk

By TheJudddman

Doctor Howard wasn’t too fond of my words. He didn’t seem to understand just what my form needed. It didn’t make sense. Wouldn’t he want this for me? Wouldn’t he want my bones to be the best they could be?

Please don’t do this, he said.

I must. It is my new life’s purpose.

It doesn’t even exist! There is no point!

I said nothing and left.

I never could play with the other kids. The Memory hurt too much for me to want to remember. But I did anyway. Front yard of neighbor’s house. Jimmy Lupo threw the football. My young self chased after it. I wanted that ball like a hungry man to a fresh ham. I catched it, rushed toward the touchdown zone, marked by the neighbor’s car. 

It was there. I damn near had it.

Michael Melito was there too, behind me. He tackled me.

Poor Mike. He never knew, just as I never knew. Just as my parents never knew.

I never should have been out there in the first place.

How would I even describe it? Ribs, shoulder, arm, hip, all cracked asunder. It was like a living breathing boulder who didn’t know that there was a human under it.

But he learned. Michael knew when my parents ran outside, alerted by my screams that shredded my throat. He and all the other children knew when my red, Bruise-marbled body was bound to the stretcher as my mother and father watched with heavy sobs as their tears crashed and exploded on the ground. One of the other kids, Sandra Lee, rushed past the paramedics and left a dandelion by my thin, broken hand. Michael was back on the lawn. On his knees, sobbing into his hands, surrounded by the other children saying

I didn’t know! I didn’t know! I’m so sorry! I’m sorry!

Somehow the biggest kid in the friend group looked so small that day.

I don’t blame him. I don’t blame anyone.

Why was I born this way? Why was I made to be so fragile? Why must my parents be burdened by this accident? By this condition? By me?

I barely leave the house much anymore. My parents talk to me occasionally, although their messages have become a lot more infrequent. The corners and sides of my kitchen table and counter are protected with blue pool noodles cut to shape and slipped onto the sides. All of this is here because even a light bump into the table will leave me a broken hip and a trip to the hospital. 

I hate those pool noodles. They always seem to remind me that the day my whole body was broken was the day I lost any sense of autonomy. I never wanted those pool noodles there, but my mother insisted otherwise. She didn’t want her little boy getting hurt. I love them to death, but they never let me breathe, just as they never let themselves breathe after that incident.

I opened up my medicine cabinet. In the bottom row of the shelf is where the temporary fix lies. I weave my hand past the medicine bottles like an explorer through a jungle of bisphosphonates with the golden idol at the end labeled “Calcium and Vitamin D”. I take a sip of coffee and a pill and leave them to dance together in my stomach. 

Breakfast felt strange today. I never thought that I would have a last meal for something. It doesn’t feel like a last meal on death row but it feels like something is most definitely dying.

My bags are packed with the essentials. Rope, rations, water, etc. Everything needed to survive the challenges that shall greet me soon. 

I don’t have many people to say goodbye to. If I told my parents, they would do almost anything in their power to stop me. I wish I could tell them about the journey I would take. I wish I could tell them that imbibing upon the milk of that sacred cow would make all of their problems fade away, that all of MY problems would fade away.

I kiss goodbye to an empty house in a cold neighborhood, wished farewell by a frozen gale and a slammed door.

My flight leaves in 2 hours.

God help me with this.

Hello folks.

I'm sorry I haven't posted anything in a while.

Junior year of high school had started a couple months back and I've been dealing with a bunch of homework because of it.

I'm gonna try to find time to draw something good for you folks.

I'm thinking I might post some old artwork in the near future to keep everyone entertained while I do school stuff/new art projects.

I'm thinking that since this is a new school year (Posting in October and acting like the year just started I guess) I ought to change things up a bit.

Does anybody have any ideas as to what I should draw?

I believe that taking suggestions might motivate me more to draw.

Thank you for reading and God bless.

A Solid Snake for your troubles.

Petty Feuds

By TheJudddman

What you have to understand is that Earth sucks. At this point in time, in the far future, the main planet of earth is a ruthlessly hot, smoldering mess of corporations fighting over resources, land, and they are all taking whatever crap they can find.

With this violence, anyone can understand why a mass exodus of people would take place. A generation of men, women, theys, thems, and what have you left earth behind, looking to carve out a name for themselves and plant their destinies in the ground and watch them grow and inspire generations upon generations of…

Galactic Expatriates.

Except…reality is often more disappointing than fantasy.

Since the world as we know it is embroiled in a conflict between everyone and everything, the major players in the neverending war of the earth don’t really have time to focus on so-called “Pressing issues” like human rights or using taxpayer dollars responsibly. 

Also, said corporations have tapped into the market of agencies for setting these Expatriates up with just enough materials to be able to carve out a life for themselves, and considering the negligence towards human rights, you can guess that some people got scammed and have been shipped to places that are isolated, hard to terraform, or generally lackluster in their conditions.

Such is the case for our two farmers.

What is basically a rock, desolate with sparse weeds and spiraled ferns known as Talcan 2 is slightly smaller than Pluto, only taking about thirty-six point six days to circumnavigate on foot. It’s purple-grey rocky desert contrasting with the white speckled black void of space.

This was where Octavius Spagan began farming five years earlier.

Now, 25 acres of fertilized, artificially planted soil were filled with kragfruit trees, pike roots, and alien wheats and grains. The barren purple rock looked a lot more vibrant than the other dumb rocks lightyears away.

Octavius himself was a solid man. He was a veteran of 5 years having fought for the HENSEN company, who are surprisingly responsible for harvesting precious gems. Octavius was tall, well built with subtle muscle definition attained from his service. His skin was a light gray and developed gills for breathing. His Brown hair was stained black from ash and he had scars along his chest from shrapnel.

He stepped out of his Titanium reinforced HENSEN standard issue permanent housing unit, basket in hand and moonscreen slathered across his tank top brandishing form, he strolled casually to the kragfruit section of his farm. 

He grabbed the hard, stone-like fruit of the nearest tree, fingers gripping across all of the fruit’s morel mushroom-like pockmarks. A swish and a flick of his hand and into the basket the fruit went with a thatchy Thud.

With his barren feet on soft dirt terraformed with company provided dirt, (Yes that’s a thing here) he enjoyed going about his day, or at least that’s what he told himself. 

Truth is, his life here was awfully isolated. There were only a few other people on the planet, but they were spread out in their locations for miles with very little chances to converse with each other. Most here were veterans for their companies, and with some of them believing a bit too much in the ideologies of their respective companies. The occasional clash would happen between two opposing parties. Octavius wasn’t much of an exception, for his company subscribed to the beliefs held by the late, great Portimus Hensen, the founder of HENSEN and the creator of Maxxovism, where firm belief in order and discipline was above all else.

In fact, Octavius was such a firm believer in all of this that his company-provided farming equipment still looked as if it were brand new, despite being under daily use for the past five years. That’s how deep the belief goes. His company loves order so much that any inkling or notion of disrupting it is seen as extending from the macros of individuals or groups of people to the micros of an untightened bolt or a loose nail. If it disrupts functions in any way, then it ought to be fixed as soon as possible.

This would not be so easy to enforce when referring to Tomas Hinger.

Tomas was a rebel, an outlaw. He did not ally himself with any company, nor did he really like anybody except for his mother (May God rest her soul), his own privacy, friends, and people who make other people in suits really, really, angry.

He spent most of his life on the run from authorities enforcing the moral foundations of not staying out late and not feeding the hungry man on the side of the road. Tomas did not like these rules. So he didn’t follow them. He did not like the people who followed the rules, so they did not like him.

Despite this rebellious behavior, Tomas did enjoy his peace and quiet, so he took up the role of a slightly humble farmer to pass the time and to hide out from the law as a consequence of he and his friends’ exploits. He was able to go to Talcan 2 because of a favor from a colleague. His equipment was not of the best quality and he wasn’t the most well-versed in the art of farming, but he seemed to want to try anyway.

He only arrived here about a month ago, stationed not too far away from Octavius’ plot of land and did not want much to do with anyone.

The heft of the shovel.

The clang of the metal.

The whirring of the Moisture-extractor.

Octavius had to occasionally extract the meager amounts of moisture from the only slightly damp soil of the planet to use on the plants in the offworld soil he planted them in. The native soil was not rich enough in nitrogen to sustain his crop.

In the distance, Tomas, a young, bald man with dark skin and a scar on his right eyebrow had stepped into his car, started it with a sputtering vroom and set off from his driveway to find a general store that could hopefully provide him with a book or two about farming so he would finally be able to know what the hell he’s doing after a month of failure. 

Inching up and out of his driveway, Tomas turned the barely functional truck to the right, down the quiet dirt road.

In a few minutes, Tomas’ rage would quell to immeasurable proportions.

All of this would occur upon seeing the dimly faded HENSEN logo lying across the housing unit Octavius owned.

Octavius knew. He may have been a simple farmer but he wasn’t an idiot.

He has been hearing reports of a brutal murder of a fellow HENSEN employee. His house has been vandalized with anti-Maxxovist rhetoric and the occasional expletive.

Fellow veterans, working alongside his fellow brothers and sisters in a quest to root out all that is disorderly in the world. A comrade, dead. Even if he was retired, his passion for delivering justice lived on.

And Octavius had his suspicions…

For Tomas, however, it is unsure whether or not he committed said murder, But his emotions were in fact quite definite and incensed.

His mother disappeared. Had gone missing. All of this was under supposed rumors of assisting fugitives into neighboring sectors. One does not get a fair trial anymore. Every enforcer is judge, jury, and executioner.

And the one who made his mother disappear worked with HENSEN.

These two men had never met before.

They would soon know each other in the worst ways.

Two residences.

Two farms.

Two kingdoms.

Two very angry men.

That night, Octavius stashed his standard issue enforcer pistol in his nightstand.

One of them had to go.

Hello again folks. I've been meaning to get back on to Newgrounds but it seems that I just...didn't.

Don't get me wrong, I love this site and I love art, but motivation has been waxing and waining. Sometimes when I don't draw for a decent period of time, It takes some strength to get things started up again. I promise that I will post some things soon (including the old art I've told y'all about).

Also, for anyone that wants to answer:

What are YOUR methods for dealing with dips in motivation when it comes to art? How do you get back to art when you've taken a long break and want to start back up again?

Thanks for your support and I'll see you soon!

For those unaware, I am TheJudddman. I have literally no online presence other than Newgrounds.

It's been a strange ride on here. Mental health gets in the way of practicing art and I get scared of drawing things I don't work with often because I am too afraid of failing. But the support of the few people that know me has kept me going and I most definitely want to experiment and post more on here.

I've found that I have an affinity for linocut printing, and I'm quite content with some of the things I've created with that.

I have a fair bit of projects I think I should post that are a little old that I haven't gotten around to posting because...well...I kinda forgot to. So do expect older artwork and linocut posts.

Overall, being on this site is a blessing. It is one of the few bastions for creators on the internet that has stayed strong ever since it's inception. For the 17 people that follow me at the time of me writing this, you are some of the most inspired people I've seen on the internet.

For everyone on this site, God bless y'all!