Transmutate by donnaquinn
This was done for a friend's upcoming birthday, a friend who likes tigers, surrealism and black-and-white art. Pencils on toned paper, each panel A4 (29.7 x 21 cm).
The following passage/ description is pretty nonsensical. I wanted to write some sort of prose but my mind went blank.
Jet rivulets slithered off the great cat's hide, trickling upwards and exploding into apparent nothingness. Spangled patterns flowed and fell into empty, dead air. The tiger wondered what was happening, his mind pondering limited possibilities in a limited manner.
Maybe he was slowly becoming another cat, he thought, watching as another drop of pigment separated itself from his fur and whispered skywards. Maybe he would lose all his stripes, and become one of the golden kings that roamed distant swathes of savannah. But those tyrants were tall, proud, and at that instant he felt defeated. Also, though the tiger could growl and chuff, those cats ROARED. He lacked their prodigious voice; he could not become a black-maned demon such as they.
However, there were other cats. He shared his hazy jungle with a nocturnal spotted wraith much smaller than he, and far more lithe. Like liquid it oozed head-first from the trees, rosetted pelage mingling with dappled shade. On one occasion, he had slaughtered the cubs of one of these cats as they blundered into his territory, and felt a pang of selfish regret. If he were to become one of them, how would the remaining tigers treat him?
A third possibility was almost too worrying to consider. A mere assemblage of bones held together by polka-dot skin, kicking up dust as it tore at breakneck speed after creatures even more stick-limbed than itself. Elegant to be sure, but scarily vulnerable. The massive tiger greatly hoped it would not become one of those... so, what was happening?