The Art of Michael MacRae

Be Still

HEY everyone! I'm just a guy who likes to make pictures and tell stories. Most of these pictures have stories tied to them which you can read on my dA page:http://themichaelmacrae.deviantart.com or on Tumblr:http://themichaelmacrae.tumblr.com

Also I have a patreon... it's kindof sad right now if I can build it up I'd have more time to actually give decent rewards. But anyway here it is! https://www.patreon.com/themichaelmacrae?ty=h

Enjoy!

P.s. this is my first time submitting anything to imgur so I'm not sure if I've done it right. Here's hoping!

The Rain Room

She stands there naked amid the torrential downpour unleashed from a sprawling maze of hot copper pipework no more than a few feet overhead. It is here she spends an overwhelming percentage of her time in these recent weeks. This room is a flood, in every way It is a deluge of sensory overload and deprivation of light and distinction of sound. A grand open space conflicted by the suffocating blackness and cacophony where millions of heavy beads coalesce into a blanketing river beneath a steaming atmosphere. She spends hours at a time pacing back and forth, head down with the water forming a veil as it flows off of the hair swept behind her ears. Wading through with long steps dragging her toes along the cement flooring and sloshing up gallons of water she wanders. She is not lost however, not in space, nor in mind. She does not come here to contemplate, reflect. This room is a step into nothingness, and nothingness is bliss.

So you have come to visit me

In the darkness she knows all, she feels every drop upon waxy leaves as though they were her own skin. she does not exist in these woods as some have mistaken. She is a part of them. This place, as in all places not a quiver nor shiver goes unnoticed. But She whispers this time, not with a command but with a query. With a hushed tone, inaudible to any listening ear. In the mist of night a thing had changed that even she could not foresee. But it left its mark of soiled earth and caustic leaves.

The Twins

These titanic savages have long enough evaded their prior captors eye. Eight feet tall, six hundred pound behemoths with the physique of olympic sprinters. Their entire form is composed of dense sinew like muscles encased in a self sustaining suit of armour granting unparalleled strength, agility, and durability. They are trained to fight as one unit and will utilize their environment with maximum efficiency.

They were always hard pressed to take up firearms, but do not misinterpret this as a sign of heavy hearts. They live for the thrill of death. They tend toward melee combat, and are known for tearing their enemies to pieces with their bare hands and for when it suits them their throwing arms will make red mist of any distant foe.

You will not succeed in taking these creatures down if you treat them as you have others. They are far too intelligent to be picked off one at a time. If you engage them, you will engage them both at once. They are linked to each-other through transmitted thought and no longer have mouths with which to converse with you. Your only advantage is the knowledge that they will not back down from a fight. Engage them on your own terms.

He Does Not Sleep

“The days are regimented here and though you should expect him to leave me in the tundra if I were to fall behind, you could say I am well fed and energized, so do not worry. All that he provides in the way of foodstuffs is deer meat. I’ve relied on my rations of tin vegetables and and have taken up the hobby of fishing to satisfy a varied diet.

We hunt most hours of the day, he kills the animals leaving me to fix them to sleds and drag the carcasses, sometimes miles at a time back to the cave where he does not permit me to enter. I’ve been used as little more than a pack mule in these trips but from what I understand he brings me along to observe. It is difficult discerning him as he does not speak, or chooses not to, and he refrains from physical conversation beyond simple gestures when it pleases him. He engages in other activities on a mysterious schedule and he seems to make good use of any time I am away or the rare chance I may be caught sleeping. I’ve stepped outside for only minutes and returned to find a fully skinned and gutted carcass splayed upon the table with its spine removed and ground into sludge. He was sitting in his chair.

He acts like a shadow, constantly moving about the walls rather than cross the floor. If I don’t watch him closely it is easy to lose track of him, even in this confined cabin space. During the nights (if one can call them as such, they are little more than dim evenings here) he sits across from the bed, facing the snuffed out fireplace, barely visible in his dark and oiled wraps. Comfortable sleep has become a luxury, on more than one occasion I have awoke to find he had rotated to face me, his gaunt statuesque form with long fingers clutching the ends of the arm rests. I suppose it goes without saying that he does not make for good company.

I have yet to fully understand what we are doing here, I do hope it is revealed soon. As things are though, I may be here for some time.

That Was the Most Fun I've Ever Had

Exhausted, bloodied and with newfound appreciation for the fragility of modern automobiles the two sat with thousand yard stares. "So... Where to now?" he asked. A long moment passed before she spoke "I think that was the most fun I have ever had."

City Of Demons cover

Heed the Creatures of these Woods

... for no matter how small or innocent they seem, be not deceived. They harbour a malice creed of unnatural means.

Ignore the Smokey Smell

Why Not This One?

The two wander out of the thicket and into an open field. Through the few trees the one machine spots a figure laying in the snow. Like an eager puppy tethered to its master she tugs the other along and stands over the body.

Clearly they have ventured further south then he had anticipated. It was a rare thing to come across a corpse as decomposed as this in the tundra from whence they came. As the years pass there are fewer and fewer humans able to survive on the dwindling, untainted, resources. Little to none have managed to carve out a living up north and most have already migrated to the equator. The discovery of one dead does not mean there are others camped nearby. Likely this one died of natural causes, possibly left by fellow travelers, maybe he was alone. In any case, it should not be cause for concern.

She stands still. No movement save her eyes scanning the figure from top to bottom. There is a whirring sound followed by a series of clicks, and she breaks out of her trance. She kneels before it and then turns toward him with a slight smile, " Can you fix it?" she asks with an exaggerated, exited tone. This must be the first time she has seen a human. or at least, the first time since she was re-activated. - he tells her no, it's dead. "I was dead too. We can find parts for it!".

She doesn't understand yet, what it is to be a machine. He remains silent, and she looks back at him and her expression goes neutral once more. She then turns her head back and for a brief fraction of a second before her hair covers her face he catches a genuine glint of sadness.

Owl

Rid of Former Ties

Flight

The Alpine

The Mansion

The Mothers

Every night at 2 am.

Loss is the one shared quality prevailing in all of those who are taken before their time. But with that loss comes the caveat of something that was had, something worth celebrating. The dead are remembered and in keeping all the lessons taught they remain assured of the finality of death and mournful of it.

But this is not always so.

Few, in their life long fit of stagnation, develop an inner rage. A hatred of themselves and of others so white hot that it prevails beyond entombment. The seething envy of what was long desired but never had fuels their soul to rise as a ghastly husk with newfound power over the living. In death they seek to claim what artifacts and persons they could never have in life. But they are bound by otherworldly rules such that even with an ability to claim what they will they can never have enough to satiate the unbearable need. They become more bold, more dangerous and with growing numbers they claw and tear like starved dogs all for but a moment of respite.

--

They set sights upon this house one week ago and each night since under the cover of snowfall they have invaded. Without sound, not a scratch or gust of air they drift through the walls in search of her son. This activity will continue indefinitely until both mother and child are sucked dry of all life and will to care. She knows this because it has happened before. This town is intertwined in the goings on of unnatural creatures, things that exist outside our realm yet have a vested interest in its functions. Most of the people here are unknowing pawns drawn in with the promise of long life and ample food and drink entirely ignorant that what is given is not a gift. There are a select few who in their own potentially miss-guided efforts are here to pursue interests of their own.

“Do not take my child!” someone must have cried in the face of losing their kin to the nightly raids, to pass the burden along. Admittedly those of a lesser fortitude should be driven mad by the spirits’ horrid consistency and in such case is it not reasonable to do any and all one can to protect those they love? Regardless, she had endured so much to keep him hidden as all who live in this place must do to guard what they value most. She is no saint, she would not sacrifice herself to better her moral stance, taking onus to satiate these spirits with her own blood. Passing on a curse only secures ones position for it to return some day with considerably more terrifying force. She had always thought highly of her ability to suffer at great cost in favour of even greater benefits and this is one such situation. The dead reside in parts unknown and if coaxed with the right bait they can become unwitting pawns themselves.

== sorry I wrote this one pretty quickly, it's a little rough==

They Would Burn Witchs

Those Who Play For Ghosts

There are pieces written for the ones forgotten. They linger unmoving while their shriveled hearts long for the dulcet tunes of a living, breathing soul.

In the Pursuit of Mothes

Wolf