Untitled.

Such lofty plans for this one. I had blueprints for Peas and Pixies. Peas and Pucks. Peas Amano style. Notions of something called The Dance of the Littlest Pea. Or Mendel's Multitudes. Or maybe The Plight of the Pod on the Gardener's Block.

But after two days of family haggling, five hours on the phone, and the official start of the venomous holiday tide, I've settled for simply peas. Peas and Quiet.

And the footprint of a tiny Jack o' the Pod in the upper left corner.

I am NOT your honey.

Piece #97 in the series of irrecognizable, vaguely referenced scenes from The Greats.

The Princess and the Pea. Not that one would know.

But something went down outside of those castle walls. Something much more interesting than the mean-spirited plot to test bluebloods being hatched inside. Just how long did it take her to get past that guard? How much coaxing of a couple of well-fed ornamentals pampered and buffed into total intransigence?
There would have been a scuffle. Foot-stomping and bared teeth. A helping of "Don't call me sweetheart"s, peppered with a few "I AM calm"s. And then the flood of barracks language (no doubt pocketed over years spent spying on her father's men at arms) that would have cast further suspicion on her claims.

All much more entertaining than a roll in the blankets with a legume. Or a victorious set of bruises. Or the marriage that came of them. Or the happily ever after with her brood of delicate, well-bred hemophiliacs.

While not quite as I remembered...

There you are, you sneaky little bastard.

Time was...

The first three Googles for bridge troll have to do with some funnybusiness out west. A couple of homeless guys decided it would be good fun to camp below overpasses and harass pedestrians. Not that I don't applaud a vigorous return to traditions, but there's not a billy goat or gold piece to be seen--just plain Colorado hippietrash.

The rest of the pickings are slim: A handful of horrible watercolors that have no right popping up on the first page of a search. An overly sentimental piece by Terry Pratchett which I won't recommend. The short story by Neil Gaiman that I will.

Maybe I'm missing a point.

In a perfect world.

Seen the new commercial?

Electric Sheep, meet Mighty Taco.

Menchika boola.

An ode to the rocky relationships with godmothers. My own is my mother's half-sister. Near enough in relation for some really effective spellery to go down, but not so close that a magical misstep would end in any weighty guilt for her. Not that she's one to take care. So, she ran off at the mouth a bit during my baptismal ceremony. Rained down some rubbish on a forhead still damp from the font. Made a young mother cry. All the good stuff was there. Everything except the convenient mitigation in the corner, shivering behind the curtains, waiting its turn.

What was it she said? Not telling. Did it work? Dunno. Probably. It's possible she just gave me a serious case of blocksey when it comes to babas of any sort. Fairy or no. That, or there was no curse at all and she instead opted for a more direct route to vengeance.

Well, shit.

Would anyone believe me if I said the perspectives on this piece were accurate?

Well, they are.

Would anyone believe me if I said it lost a certain something during scanning?

Well, you'd be a chump.

God dammit.

I'd like to produce its stunning mate from my apron-folds and <poof> transformation, but all I've got are some glass shards and a suffocated rat.

The Courtship of Henrietta Pink and the Viscount du Pac

From Her Lady's journals:

I cannot tell precisely when it was that we met. Undoubtedly at some crowded event--I was always surrounded by people in those days. Surely we crossed paths at more than one party. We must have danced, though I don't recall it.

But the parties changed to lunches and the lunches to morning walks--strange that the early hours of the day are the most intimate. Perhaps it was the quiet, for we rarely talked unless it was to the birds. He would say something, laugh, and turn to confer with the long-lived crows that watched the grounds. Eventually I learned enough of their language to hear bits, but I've never taken to twittering on my own.

He was shy but dressed himself in yellows. Large, but graceful. His hands were stained the color of cherries, and he whistled faultlessly, if tunelessly. He smelled of dirt and water and of days in the sun and his skin was waxen in the way of very fat men. But if his waistcoats were wide, so were his orchards, and we married after a year. I wore a pink bow in my hair that day and ever after.

And after two years of marriage, I found the hedgemaze.

Hungry Jack.

From the story Clever Jack, which I'm beginning to think I've conjured from the airs. But the bumbling adolescent is archetypal enough--so he's bound to attach himself to something.

Pass the salt.

Did I mention that I want to see Happy Feet?

God help me, but I want to see Happy Feet.

Clean-up.

Nothing doin'. Catching up on things. A couple emails here to a long-lost aquaintance. A half-dozen oblique apologies there for all the attempts at drunkhuggery this weekend.
Nothing too extraordinary.

Except the neighborhood finished its tree-felling yesterday of all days. Pried open the rooftop strangleholds, loosed the powerline nooses. Committed all from air to earth. I can't help but watch them desperately oozing into the mud and think we've got some quiet retribution coming our way.