A corner of another piece of scrap. Though I'm not to blame for it. I'm holding my mom directly repsonsible. She'd asked so sweetly to see some of my pieces, and I'd been such a testy bitch all week that I decided to make things up to her and go against my strict "no viewings until finished" policy. So I laid things out and she played nice with my terrible ego.
Until this one.
"What are those things in the corner?"
"I dunno, mom. Grass fairies?"
"Ah." Followed by the series of ticks that generally indicates the bruising of her tender, born-again sensibilities. The nervous smile and compulsive throat clearing that have been the norm since I showed her my first hobbit, grotesque and reeking slightly of magenta marker. I've never been quite sure what pointed ears have to do with the Dark Lord's work, but I packed my shit up without a word and we made pineapple horns (or should I say "crescents"?) instead.
The next morning, try as I might, I could not set pen to paper. Seems that the different strata of superstition we inhabit intersect at some crucial point.
1 comment:
I had to hide D&D from my mom for years before she finally decided it wasn't the work of the devil. "But maaaa! It's math! I'm leeeearning!"
Post a Comment