Lucas Fan-Art Horror Spectacular
The Subject: One slasher, one psychotic backwoods family, pitted against each other in rural nowhere. Lucas, the soon-to-be released horror title by Arcana, is the inspiration behind this madness.
The Challenge: Lucas is not really what you'd consider to be a conventional graphic novel. The story itself is heavily narrated and pretty descriptive. What you, the contestant, are going to be provided with are a some of the character descriptions from the book. Lucas, Jeb, Mama, Jeremy, Ben, and Grandma. They'll all be there. You're going to createyourversion of these characters based on the wayyouenvision them. You can choose any one of them, or all. Whatever floats your boat.
The Rules: Create your Lucas fan-art using any medium at your disposal. Traditional, digital, 3D, photography, customs, anything goes. There are no specs, no size requirements. The contest deadline is April 9th, 2012, 12:00pm Pacific Standard Time.
The Reward: Once the contest has closed, judgement will fall. There will be three places rewarded for their efforts, skill, and overall awesomeness.
3rd place- You will receive one signed copy of the book.
2nd place- You will receive one signed copy of the book. Two exclusive prints, one by cover artist Sukhbir Purewal and one by Lucas creator David Murdoch.
1st place- You will receive one signed copy of the book. Two exlusive prints, one by cover artist Sukhbir Purewal and one by Lucas creator David Murdoch. One copy of Squarepusher's Music Is Rotted One Note (there's a track from this album recommended in the book). And an Arcana gift pack valued over $100.
The winners will be announced April 13th.
The Character Descriptions
Grandma. The corpse.
Still meaty. Not enough to keep her leathery skin from drooping all over her. Eye sockets sit sagging behind stained glasses secured by some other woman's string of pearls.
They fell out, her eyes, or maybe removed. No telling. Neither would surprise. In the right proximity to Grandma you can actually smell them; her eye sockets. They have an odor like no other. Indescribable. Awkward and unpleasant. The grip it takes on the gag reflex doesn't choke because it's pungent but just because of knowing where it comes from.
The self-righteous puritan that put Jeb at the head of this table.
Jeremy. Ben's gargantuan sibling.
Obese. Morbidly obese. A wiry beard has had a hard time growing through those fat cheeks. Thin enough to see his shining, greasy face and bloated lips. Thick enough to display the souvenirs of meals past. There is a bib cascading down his torso. No discernible logo or clever statement. It's been painted in spills and sauce and blood. It's a brick-red slip-and-slide. A tarp that has become so tight his neck has begun to swallow it.
Unlike his brother Ben, the latter portion of his defective anatomy is internal. Outside of his odd number of fingers pinching in meal-time anticipation, the rest has either been lost or smeared in his size.
Massive and powerful. No words. He's a machine that doesn't work without Jeb.
He's hidden behind a mask. Deformed. His mask is worn enough to keep from really knowing what it was supposed to be. A person's face. A quirky half smile. The holes for the eyes are torn. The head is split. Ben's matted hair stands out through it. His eye's are shifty in the lifelessness of his mask. Raging inside it.
Ben is the extension of Jeb's hatred and the compensation for his impotence. He executes it clumsily. Frustrated. It's all he is and all he'll ever be. Dim-witted. No innocent by any stretch of the imagination. He could never articulate his own hatred. He expresses himself with death. Carried out with the precision of preschool craftsmenship. Blunt-force-trauma. He loves it.
On a level he knows all of this and he is so empty.
Everyone calls her Mama, even Jeb, whom she calls Daddy, again, like everyone else. Everyone except Ben or Jeremy or Grandma. They don't speak.
Mother is unassuming. The woman you'd suspect makes delicious cookies. Mrs. Clause in a dated, flowery dress that beckons the accolades of women sipping tea in similarly flowery dresses. Mrs. Clause other than the hairs around her lips. The ones that hang stiff and point in different directions when she talks. Mrs. Clause other than just about everything about her.
Jeb, the mid-level inbred. Cornerstone of the family. Fanatic in his mission. What he lacks in physical prowess is made up in his sadist's demeanor. This is his show.
His crutches punch the ground...in unison. Left foot falling just after the right. Limp legs in rusted frames held together with bolts and chewed sinew. Empty seats swinging on a Ferris wheel in Chernobyl.
Ninety-nine inches of stacked meat passing for Kevlar is relaxing on the wide frame of a very calm and collected giant. The floor boards barely creaked under the three hundred and ten pounds on them. Who could have known such a mass could be so stealthy.
Clothes torn and blood stained. Traveled. Too small. No regard for style. A blunt weapon. Custom. A flat-edged and flat-topped brute sword. Must have been made from a fender. A very high regard for execution.
Thick plastic wrapping stretched and pulled around his head. Tight. Stapled and nailed in place. A skewed seam along the back. Gaping hole in the throat. Hot air moving in and out has a little stream running onto the neckline of the t-shirt. Time leaves stains all down the front.