I sided with the Railroad, would you believe! I don’t necessarily agree with them on all fronts (I definitely prefer them working alongside the Minutemen bc the Minutemen’s ideals are arguably The Best) but consider this: they’re not the Brotherhood
hi friends! I’ve had a bunch of people ask when my commissions will be open until and while I can’t give you a definite date I’m pretty confident in saying they’ll be available at least another month or so! If you want a festive gift you might wanna let me know sooner rather than later so I can do it in a timely fashion
my commission post is here (click!). Also, many of you might not know, I have a reblog blog at @ceriggreblogs if you’re in the mood for some more certified garbage content
helloooo I’m just letting you all know that I would rather you didn’t repost my doodles on instagram but if you absolutely must, please credit me! I’m @cerigiddens over there :)
(I just got like five asks asking about the tractor joke so here we go. Keep in mind it’s better when told aloud and obvs it is not mine but the beauty of it is that you can MAKE it yours)
so there's this little kiwi kid named Timmy. He's an average kid. Average suburban home, average kiwi family, cool dog in the backyard. Nothing spectular. He's maybe ten years old? Scruffy blonde hair, gross clothes as per usual for a boy his age. Boring. Timmy loves tractors.
Timmy fucking loves tractors.
This kid has a passion that burns with the intensity of a million suns and that passion is directed solely at tractors. His room is literally filled with tractor paraphernalia: drawings of tractors, posters of tractors, little accurately-scaled tractor figurines. There are tractors on his curtains, on his lampshade, on his duvet cover. His duvet cover, incidentally, sits on a bed shaped like a tractor (you know, like race car beds? But a tractor). His dog is named John, like John Deere. All his school books have scenic farmscapes on the wrapping, and inside the covers, little doodles of heavy farm machinery.
School wasn't great for Timmy. Not bad bad-- he's never been shoved in a locker-- but his personal relationships are all acquaintances at very best. I guess people find it tiring hearing about the benefits of one tractor engine over another every day, but that's not for me to say. He certainly very hard working and his teachers had nothing but praise for his intelligence and perseverance. Timmy's wider community held him in the same esteem. In the suburbs of the South Island, everyone knows everyone and Timmy was, in the eyes of the mainly elderly population, a goddamn sweetheart. He occasionally did paper runs around the community for spare change.
All in all, Timmy lived a pretty cruisy life.
I'm not sure if you guys know, but in Hamilton each year there is the Fieldays, a showcase event for farm technology, where farmers from around the country gather to discuss and debate their craft. They chat about stuff like agricultural theories and techniques and equipment. It's kinda the holy grail for farmers. Pretty cool.
Timmy sees in in passing on the news. Holy shit. Holy SHIT. There on his TV, a field. A field full of tractors. Gleaming and shiny and new. His breath catches in his throat. He has to see this.
“Dad,” he says to his dad. “Can I go to the Fieldays?”
“Timmy,” says his father, “it's a long way away. We'd have to book flights and a hotel, and I'd have to take time off work.”
Timmy, with all the resilience of a small boy on a mission, persists. “That's okay! It's months away! There's time to work that out!”
Timmy's dad sighs. He's been having a hard time at work, what with his coworkers constant picking at him and his boss demanding they stay overtime. It would be nice to take a break. Hamilton's a nice place, from what he's heard (he's sorely mistaken but how was he to know).
“Alright, kiddo, here's the plan. You earn half the money to pay for what it'll cost and I'll cover the rest. You said it yourself, there's still a couple months left.”
Timmy was a boy on a mission. That burning intensity tripled and he became a force of nature. He picked up his paper run again (although he would later realise he was being criminally underpaid, but what's a ten year old to do?) and stared doing chores for the old lady down the road. Her name was Marjorie and took pity on Timmy, so instructed him to mow her lawns and weed the garden despite managing to keep them pretty well kempt on her own. She gave him her home-baked lolly cake and a cup of tea as he told her about the tractors he was going to see, and would slip him an extra five dollars in his regular pay.
Timmy was well on his way to Fieldays. At school he could barely concentrate, he was so excited. His peers were baffled at how he could be MORE excited about tractors. They didn't think it was possible but there was the proof.
One afternoon he headed home to his dad, who was chilling in the lounge room with the newspaper. “Here Dad! Here's my pay for the week.”“Well son, this looks about half the money. Fieldays is in a few weeks. Shall we?”
Timmy was over the moon. He was going to see the tractors!! It was really happening!!!
The next few weeks passed in a blur. He was at the airport, then another airport, then a shuttle, then a hotel. The night before the convention he could barely sleep, but forced himself to so he wouldn't be tired when his dreams finally came true.
They pulled up outside the convention centre. The world moved in slow motion for Timmy as he wandered off in amongst the crowd of Swanndris and gumboots. His dad smiled. He had done a good thing for Timmy. He watched at the little blonde mop of hair wandered, dazed, through the building, in amongst the maze of shiny machinery.
There were so many. So many tractors. Red ones, green ones, blue ones, black ones. Big, medium sized, huge ones. Ones with alien looking attachments and terrifying blades. Ones that were small, and marketed towards young farmers. Ones that had little seats for the farm dog. It was tractor nirvana.
Timmy's dad sat on a bench and read a book. He expected to be there a while. But after half an hour or so, his son came wandering up to him.
“Hey kiddo, what's up?”
Timmy shrugged. “Nothing.”
“No, hey, come here. What's the matter?”
“It's just.. I just... the tractors.”
“What about them?”
“They're just okay I guess.”
“Just okay?”
“Yeah. I guess. Not as good as I expected. Can we go home?”
Timmy's dad was astounded, but obeyed. They headed back to the hotel, back to the shuttle, back through two different airports, back into their driveway.
Life continued as usual. But duller. The tractor posters came down, the figures went on TradeMe, the bed got turned into a regular old bed. It wasn't so much melancholic as just natural progression. Timmy's dad was concerned at first that his son wasn't alright, but Timmy found new interest. He joined a rugby team and auditioned for his school's play. He wasn't a natural performer, but as Timmy said, he was doing it so he could hang out with his friends after school. The other kids had found Timmy a lot more entertaining without the tractor barrier in between them. Timmy was a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. It was kind of beautiful. He became a more well rounded kid, and his eleventh birthday cake was the first one in years that wasn't shaped like a tractor (it was an icecream cake with like three tiers of Neopolitan flavours and cost an arm and a leg but the things you do for love eh.) Timmy had taken a shine to the old lady Marjorie and continued doing chores for her. He put the spare cash in a savings account. He secretly loved the tea and lolly cake she gave him.
It was after rehearsal one day (Timmy had got a part in the chorus, provided he sing softly and stay near the back), when he was heading home and laughing about a joke the his crush had told, that Timmy noticed something was up. A few blocks down, a pillar of smoke was rising. He quickened his pace. He recognised those beautiful roses in the yard, the neatly groomed garden bed, the freshly painted decorative metal mailbox. Marjorie's house!
He broke into a sprint. Was she okay? He didn't want to entertain the thought. What about all her old vintage dolls she cared so deeply for? What if they were ruined??
Timmy skidded onto her gravel driveway, where a firetruck was parked. Two more were out on the street, lights flashing. Firefighters swarmed. They mumbled amongst themselves worriedly.
The beautiful two storey house was engulfed in black, black smoke. Flames licked at the windows.
He didn't wait to talk to the authorities. Timmy stepped forward.
He breathed in.
He kept breathing in.
His lungs burned like a million suns but he kept going. The firefighters turned and watched in awe. He kept going. His lungs felt fit to burst. He kept going.
He kept going.
The smoke cleared. Timmy turned and exhaled.
The firefighters gasped in awe. “Kid!” They cried. “What was that?”
Timmy shrugged, glad that he could see Marjorie walking out of the blackened house unharmed.
what are some of ur fave art blogs/blogs w similar art styles as U??? I wanna follow more art blogs & i love urs !!!
HOO BOY ARE WE READY FOR THIS
I can’t help you with art that looks like mine specifically but here are some artists you should be following if you aren’t already (ps these are just a tiny selection of artists that I love!!! There are so many more but there are only so many hours in a day that I can dedicate to pointing lovingly at them):
