Fin's Halloween Trains
While I do love trains (hi, autism), I usually leave those to my partner Andy--the Train Master™. I don’t make train art often, but Andy was actually the one who encouraged me to take a crack at some of my own this spooky season. Even though we share a brain cell most days, our artistic styles are wildly different—you’d never mistake one of my pieces for his, and vice versa. And honestly? That’s part of the magic.
So about this set:
In early September 2025, I made a journal post on DeviantArt addressing something that had been gnawing at me for a while: the growing trend of artists copying my floral dragons and fantasy animal designs. Not “inspired by”--copied. As in, barely-disguised clones popping up everywhere, usually with a $4-5 price tag (I typically charge $2 for my designs).
After that, I began including a note in the description of my artwork clarifying that I do not give permission for others to mimic or remix my style. You’d think that would help.
It did not.
By the time Halloween rolled around, not only were people still imitating my work—they’d moved on to ripping off Andy’s unique ship and train designs too. Yes, the same lovingly detailed, wildly imaginative, story-rich pieces that Andy crafts with precision, heart, and a deep sense of visual storytelling. And now they were showing up in the wild, overmarketed with sparkles and vague vibes. It was absurd. And frankly? Infuriating.
But instead of writing angry comments that could get me in trouble, I decided to do what artists do best: process it creatively. Thus, the Halloween train series was born.
So about this set:
In early September 2025, I made a journal post on DeviantArt addressing something that had been gnawing at me for a while: the growing trend of artists copying my floral dragons and fantasy animal designs. Not “inspired by”--copied. As in, barely-disguised clones popping up everywhere, usually with a $4-5 price tag (I typically charge $2 for my designs).
After that, I began including a note in the description of my artwork clarifying that I do not give permission for others to mimic or remix my style. You’d think that would help.
It did not.
By the time Halloween rolled around, not only were people still imitating my work—they’d moved on to ripping off Andy’s unique ship and train designs too. Yes, the same lovingly detailed, wildly imaginative, story-rich pieces that Andy crafts with precision, heart, and a deep sense of visual storytelling. And now they were showing up in the wild, overmarketed with sparkles and vague vibes. It was absurd. And frankly? Infuriating.
But instead of writing angry comments that could get me in trouble, I decided to do what artists do best: process it creatively. Thus, the Halloween train series was born.
Train of the Undead
They were digital artists once. Now they’re just Midjourney ghosts with jelly brains and glowing eyes.
The forest around the tracks is familiar—because you've seen it a hundred times. That same fog-drenched path with copy-paste trees that glimmer like they were dipped in fairy dust and rinsed through the same ten filters. At this point, it's unclear whether the forest birthed the zombies or the other way around.
The train of undead trudges along the rusted rail, each figure a shambling husk wrapped in glitchy sparkles and broken dreams of going viral. Their once-nimble hands now twitch spasmodically, swiping phantom brushes, summoning the same sad digital creatures: wide-eyed magical girls with inexplicably wet cheeks, mermaids with torpedo breasts and foam-perfect hair, birds that sparkle just like dragons that sparkle just like every other over-smoothed AI-lite creature belched out of the prompt churn.
Try to tell them apart. You can’t.
Their art used to have a soul—now it's just layers of low-effort churn designed for scrollbait. Every piece screams “Engagement bait. Now with bonus bloom!” They haven’t had an original thought since the fourth time they got 2,000 likes on yet another gilded forest scene titled “lost in the glow.”
One of them moans, “Just following the aesthetic,” and another replies, “It’s what people want.” A third hisses, “More pink hair,” as her last working neuron coughs out a limp-eyed anime girl holding a galaxy.
And so they walk—endlessly, tragically—toward the pitiful destination whispered only in digital winds:
Clout Gulch.
A land where every post is praised, every soul is erased, and every dragon looks like every mermaid who looks like every bird in a glowing forest of identity collapse.
There are no critiques in Clout Gulch. Just hollow praise, blank stares, and another round of sparkly mediocrity.
The train groans on. The forest stays the same. The art... stays the same.
The forest around the tracks is familiar—because you've seen it a hundred times. That same fog-drenched path with copy-paste trees that glimmer like they were dipped in fairy dust and rinsed through the same ten filters. At this point, it's unclear whether the forest birthed the zombies or the other way around.
The train of undead trudges along the rusted rail, each figure a shambling husk wrapped in glitchy sparkles and broken dreams of going viral. Their once-nimble hands now twitch spasmodically, swiping phantom brushes, summoning the same sad digital creatures: wide-eyed magical girls with inexplicably wet cheeks, mermaids with torpedo breasts and foam-perfect hair, birds that sparkle just like dragons that sparkle just like every other over-smoothed AI-lite creature belched out of the prompt churn.
Try to tell them apart. You can’t.
Their art used to have a soul—now it's just layers of low-effort churn designed for scrollbait. Every piece screams “Engagement bait. Now with bonus bloom!” They haven’t had an original thought since the fourth time they got 2,000 likes on yet another gilded forest scene titled “lost in the glow.”
One of them moans, “Just following the aesthetic,” and another replies, “It’s what people want.” A third hisses, “More pink hair,” as her last working neuron coughs out a limp-eyed anime girl holding a galaxy.
And so they walk—endlessly, tragically—toward the pitiful destination whispered only in digital winds:
Clout Gulch.
A land where every post is praised, every soul is erased, and every dragon looks like every mermaid who looks like every bird in a glowing forest of identity collapse.
There are no critiques in Clout Gulch. Just hollow praise, blank stares, and another round of sparkly mediocrity.
The train groans on. The forest stays the same. The art... stays the same.
All Aboard the PlagiarExpress
It’s sunset in the land of the creatively bankrupt, and the PlagiarExpress™ is rolling into town, belching the stench of rotting ideas and broken brush packs.
Out crawl the passengers—mangled mockeries of what used to be artists.
Each one sporting a desperate glint in their lifeless eyes and clutching something resembling a dragon, if you squint and also sustained recent head trauma. Behold: a limp creature with dandelions vomiting from its armpits, slapped together with whatever pastel gradient was trending last month and just enough petal spam to scream, “I definitely didn’t steal Fin’s idea, I just loved the concept so much it possessed me.”
One even dared to attempt to generate a floral wolf in Fin's style, and looked more like a taxidermied husky fell into a craft store clearance bin and crawled out covered in discount hibiscus. You can almost hear it wheeze “original character, do not steal,” between breathy gasps of algorithm-choked air.
But wait—what’s that sound? Oh yes, it’s the wheeze-clank of a derailed steam engine that looks suspiciously like Andy’s majestic, jewel-toned trains… except now it’s beige. Just beige. Beige with weird teeth? The knock-off artist stands proudly before it, declaring it “a spiritual homage,” as if Andy’s work is some kind of ancient relic and not an actual functioning aesthetic with internal consistency, gorgeous lighting, and literal soul.
The captain of the train—wearing a stolen conductor’s hat and a sticker that says “Concept Credit: ???”—moans through half a mouth, “I saw it on DeviantArt and made it my own,” while dragging behind him what might be a galleon… or a toaster oven with sails. Andy’s ships inspire awe; this one inspires a lawsuit and a tetanus shot.
The barn creaks. The cornfields lean away in embarrassment. Even the lightning in the sky hesitates like, “Should we... hit them? Or have they suffered enough?”
The undead art thieves shamble onward, clutching their warped floral squirrels, their cursed train-wolves, their floating boat-cakes with moodboards still duct-taped to the mast. None of it sells, of course—but that doesn’t stop them from whispering, “Why does his get attention?” as they slap another peony onto a rabbit’s butt and call it innovation.
The train shrieks its final whistle. The sign at the edge of the track reads:
Welcome to Derivativeville
Where every flower wilts,
every dragon looks like ass,
and every train crashes into the copyright office.
Please keep your hands, feet, and shame inside the vehicle at all times.
And remember: stealing art won’t make you great.
It just makes you late—to your own funeral.
Out crawl the passengers—mangled mockeries of what used to be artists.
Each one sporting a desperate glint in their lifeless eyes and clutching something resembling a dragon, if you squint and also sustained recent head trauma. Behold: a limp creature with dandelions vomiting from its armpits, slapped together with whatever pastel gradient was trending last month and just enough petal spam to scream, “I definitely didn’t steal Fin’s idea, I just loved the concept so much it possessed me.”
One even dared to attempt to generate a floral wolf in Fin's style, and looked more like a taxidermied husky fell into a craft store clearance bin and crawled out covered in discount hibiscus. You can almost hear it wheeze “original character, do not steal,” between breathy gasps of algorithm-choked air.
But wait—what’s that sound? Oh yes, it’s the wheeze-clank of a derailed steam engine that looks suspiciously like Andy’s majestic, jewel-toned trains… except now it’s beige. Just beige. Beige with weird teeth? The knock-off artist stands proudly before it, declaring it “a spiritual homage,” as if Andy’s work is some kind of ancient relic and not an actual functioning aesthetic with internal consistency, gorgeous lighting, and literal soul.
The captain of the train—wearing a stolen conductor’s hat and a sticker that says “Concept Credit: ???”—moans through half a mouth, “I saw it on DeviantArt and made it my own,” while dragging behind him what might be a galleon… or a toaster oven with sails. Andy’s ships inspire awe; this one inspires a lawsuit and a tetanus shot.
The barn creaks. The cornfields lean away in embarrassment. Even the lightning in the sky hesitates like, “Should we... hit them? Or have they suffered enough?”
The undead art thieves shamble onward, clutching their warped floral squirrels, their cursed train-wolves, their floating boat-cakes with moodboards still duct-taped to the mast. None of it sells, of course—but that doesn’t stop them from whispering, “Why does his get attention?” as they slap another peony onto a rabbit’s butt and call it innovation.
The train shrieks its final whistle. The sign at the edge of the track reads:
Welcome to Derivativeville
Where every flower wilts,
every dragon looks like ass,
and every train crashes into the copyright office.
Please keep your hands, feet, and shame inside the vehicle at all times.
And remember: stealing art won’t make you great.
It just makes you late—to your own funeral.
The Corn Express
It started with a $4 price tag and a stolen dream.
One by one, they appeared—AI-generated “whimsical train” images, barely tweaked and posted with captions like “inspired by magic” or “new original series!” Except… they weren’t. Not even close. They were limp, half-rendered knockoffs of Andy’s trains—his gorgeous, glowing creations full of story and soul. These? These were blurry sausages on wheels with a lens flare addiction and no idea how railroads work.
And the artists? Oh, they were proud. Slapping $4 on each JPEG like they’d just reinvented transportation, proudly announcing “LIMITED DROP” like the only thing limited wasn’t their creativity.
Fin saw it. All of it. And he was done.
He marched out into the misty cornfields of Indiana, summoned the ancient magic of Artistic Integrity, and muttered the sacred curse of “I’m so tired of this bullshit.” Within seconds, the offenders began to twitch.
First their fingers turned to husks. Then their arms. Then their faces puffed into glowing, smug little cobs.
Now they stand in a perfect line along the railway, tall and golden and overpriced. Glowing ears of corn with smug AI-generated auras, forever rooted in the soil they pretended to grow themselves from.
An owl watches from a nearby stalk, silently judging.
The sign at the edge of the field reads:
WELCOME TO THE CORN EXPRESS
Where stolen trains go to get buttered.
And Fin? He went home and made real art.
One by one, they appeared—AI-generated “whimsical train” images, barely tweaked and posted with captions like “inspired by magic” or “new original series!” Except… they weren’t. Not even close. They were limp, half-rendered knockoffs of Andy’s trains—his gorgeous, glowing creations full of story and soul. These? These were blurry sausages on wheels with a lens flare addiction and no idea how railroads work.
And the artists? Oh, they were proud. Slapping $4 on each JPEG like they’d just reinvented transportation, proudly announcing “LIMITED DROP” like the only thing limited wasn’t their creativity.
Fin saw it. All of it. And he was done.
He marched out into the misty cornfields of Indiana, summoned the ancient magic of Artistic Integrity, and muttered the sacred curse of “I’m so tired of this bullshit.” Within seconds, the offenders began to twitch.
First their fingers turned to husks. Then their arms. Then their faces puffed into glowing, smug little cobs.
Now they stand in a perfect line along the railway, tall and golden and overpriced. Glowing ears of corn with smug AI-generated auras, forever rooted in the soil they pretended to grow themselves from.
An owl watches from a nearby stalk, silently judging.
The sign at the edge of the field reads:
WELCOME TO THE CORN EXPRESS
Where stolen trains go to get buttered.
And Fin? He went home and made real art.
Corntrain of the Crawling Root
It’s been three weeks since the first batch of $4 train thieves got Fin-snapped into corn. Most people thought that would be the end of it.
It wasn’t.
The Corntrain began to move.
No wheels. No coal. Just an ancient, eldritch rustle and a slow, scraping crawl of root and stalk as the cursed corn husks dragged themselves down the rails at twilight, glowing faintly with the sour light of stolen prompts and bad lighting choices. Each cob pulsed with a sickly green hue—like Midjourney forgot how photosynthesis works—and trailed tangled roots that twitched like they were still trying to “drop a new series.”
And above it all, perched on a cursed stalk shaped like a gallows, the owl watched. Still judging. Now glowing.
The Corntrain was on a mission now: to find the next crop of AI artists who dared to “totally coincidentally” make flower dragons and animals with the exact same flowers, colors, poses, and theme as Fin’s.
The Corntrain didn’t forget.
It crept silently across the abandoned railways of DeviantArt and Gumroad, hunting tags like “train,” “ethereal,” “dragon,” and “floral,” sniffing out any image with the scent of unearned confidence and a $4 price tag slapped on top of a bad remix.
The moment it found one, the roots struck.
The artist would freeze mid-upload. Their file would glitch. Their mouse would stop working. And then—with a crackle of green light and the sound of rustling husks—they’d vanish from their chair.
Their DeviantArt? Abandoned.
Their shop? Deleted.
Their body? Now a corn.
A glowing, twitching, overpriced cob crawling slowly toward the next town, dragging itself by its own roots. Whispering things like “engagement drop” and “limited edition” with every pulse of cursed chlorophyll.
No one’s safe.
Unless, of course, you just make your own art.
Fin sleeps peacefully.
Andy generates in peace.
But the Corntrain?
The Corntrain crawls on.
It wasn’t.
The Corntrain began to move.
No wheels. No coal. Just an ancient, eldritch rustle and a slow, scraping crawl of root and stalk as the cursed corn husks dragged themselves down the rails at twilight, glowing faintly with the sour light of stolen prompts and bad lighting choices. Each cob pulsed with a sickly green hue—like Midjourney forgot how photosynthesis works—and trailed tangled roots that twitched like they were still trying to “drop a new series.”
And above it all, perched on a cursed stalk shaped like a gallows, the owl watched. Still judging. Now glowing.
The Corntrain was on a mission now: to find the next crop of AI artists who dared to “totally coincidentally” make flower dragons and animals with the exact same flowers, colors, poses, and theme as Fin’s.
The Corntrain didn’t forget.
It crept silently across the abandoned railways of DeviantArt and Gumroad, hunting tags like “train,” “ethereal,” “dragon,” and “floral,” sniffing out any image with the scent of unearned confidence and a $4 price tag slapped on top of a bad remix.
The moment it found one, the roots struck.
The artist would freeze mid-upload. Their file would glitch. Their mouse would stop working. And then—with a crackle of green light and the sound of rustling husks—they’d vanish from their chair.
Their DeviantArt? Abandoned.
Their shop? Deleted.
Their body? Now a corn.
A glowing, twitching, overpriced cob crawling slowly toward the next town, dragging itself by its own roots. Whispering things like “engagement drop” and “limited edition” with every pulse of cursed chlorophyll.
No one’s safe.
Unless, of course, you just make your own art.
Fin sleeps peacefully.
Andy generates in peace.
But the Corntrain?
The Corntrain crawls on.
