Rowr.

More fodder for the lake kiddies.

Go away.

It's raining, it's pouring.

The old man is snoring.

Bumped his head,

And he went to bed.

And he couldn't get up in the morning.

In honor of our fitful summer. And an entreaty to old sluggard Helios to take two aspirin, shake off the hangover, and harness the team.

Buzzing.

She made us lasagna. Then she sat on the couch, propped up her nyloned feet, and set to the business of filling every last nook and cranny with conversation.

Silence is golden...

...enjoy the silence.

Food for thought.

If all the world were apple pie,

And all the seas were ink,

And all the trees were bread and cheese,

What would we have to drink?

Old Mother Goose

Stained toes and strained bows. And sticky fingers, too. And gods that would rather consume than compose.

Stalf.

Bringing mayhem, carnage, curses of the undead, and birthday wishes.

Aim.

CREEPY CUPID!!!

MainMonsters

I'm going to be a guest illustrator on a ten-year old's monster blog. And if you've got anything to say about, you can direct all criticism to the blade wielding wildebeest up yon.

Sport.

Technically, we live in what used to be an Old Wood. Though I suppose, technically, everyone does. But the reminders are of the more immediate sort. We have some bold bunnies and one shy skunk. There's a tut-tutting groundhog that's currently suing for his hours in the backyard. I saw a small rabbit get hoisted by a crow into the tops of the trees, wailing all the way. All in broad daylight.

And the Little Folk are more than just fringe folk here. They're vague approximations, to be sure; come tumbling out of memory in a mess of cobbled features, ragdoll limbs, and tiny pedestrian tricks. But they've a knack for the oldest and best, and every morning my hair tangles a bit more, and every night they have their way with the attic door.