Where the story ends.

Book elves are merciless and macabre. Last night, this particular fellow descended on the small hamlet of Right Bottom Drawer. He toyed with them for a few hours, racked 'em and cracked 'em, then strung the inhabitants' pale, dry viscera across our bedroom wall. Pins and clothesline have never been used with such grisly efficiency.

Fostering.

By all accounts, she was pretty. Pretty as a little eggplant could be. But sometimes they'd catch her with mouthfuls of clay--cheeks bursting, eyes streaming from pain. Or mistressing tiny classes of ants and grubs and drooping swampflies up her arms, around her wrists in inky patterns. Or on rainy days with her feet inches in the mud, lips and fingers angled skywards. So they said their prayers, fashioned a wardrobe of waterlogged skirts and earthen slippers, leaked news of her beauty in the direction of the nearest palace, and waited for the story to run its course.

"Lost to sight in the Danube."

They've turned U/Ondine into a movie. Thank god for the barnacled sea hags that grant little wishes.

BYOB

Summer fun's nearly done and now the first dilemma of homeownership hits us squarely:

OVEN or BALLPIT?

Dainty dish.

"The king is in his counting house, counting house, counting out. Counting."

Now inextricably linked to King Haggard. But a thousand and a half unicorns breaking themselves against the shore was a little much for one lone sharpee. I couldn't even capture four and twenty.

Give pause.

A background nymph that survived the Great Purge of August '09.

The old heave-ho.

One of the most lasting, but also one of the few that doesn't end with the phrase "happily ever after". They simply ride off in a carriage and the prince is reunited with an adoring servant--with whom he has a warmer exchange than anything said to his new wife. Though, with a backside still aching from cruel mishandling, he can hardly be blamed.

Le Garvs.

Maeverton.

Adz.

Complete Blank.

More King Cole. And, yes, those fiddles are lacking parts. One could call it laziness, but I prefer to think of it as an inspired omission--in the vein of "Sir Orfeo". The fey aren't known for their inventiveness, so a row of fairy fiddlers aping their human counterparts on rough toy instruments seems to ring true. "There's none so (bare) as can compare with King Cole and his fiddlers three."

Along those lines, been watching a lot of Folklore gameplay lately and the amount of musical pilfering is pretty shocking. The train music from Spirited Away. The Going to Berlin ("there's more to the diary than just the map") music from Last Crusade. Always in Fairy, always on a very tiny loop. So, again the question arises--clever intent or just plain sloth?

Drink up.

Old King Cole was a thirsty old soul, touched him with some water and he puckered up for more. No wringing or squeezing was going to drain those greedy cheeks, so I stretched him on the rack instead and bled him dry of color. Cole, he was an abiding old soul--his tune's a little paler now, but still ripples round with laughter.

Grandma would be proud.

Burn of the week:

In the midst of drawing a "smoke dragon" for ten year-old Matthew--"Now I see why you have such a big eraser".

Lost Bots.

Marly.

The Armored Hound, aka The Red Steed.

Terror of the Lakes

Scourge of all Warrens.

Herald of Sailing Vessels.

Seeker of the Far-flung Wilson.

He Who Sits for None.

The canvas can do miracles.

Trying out some new paper. Looser weave, lighter weight. Prone to warping, but the darker tint saved me a good half day of laying down multiple sienna washes. We'll see how we go. Either way, I'm fine traveling the crooked miles.

Proper.

My sixpence is on the crooked mouse.

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.

Four and Twenty.

This one gets unlimited do-overs.

All in a row.

Anyone know how to transplant a tomato?

That doesn't require answering.

Dug a few shallow holes in our barrels, plunged the weedy things in, arranged them into arthritic positions, watered them for the first--and what I assumed to be the last--time, and decided that fortyfive minutes at the garden was more than deserving of a nap on a huge pile of clean laundry.

Went back out to check them and they've crisped up nice, with beautiful golden brown edges like a pretty pie. Which I assume means they're done and ready for serving.

Welcome.

Six months and three days in the new place and I received our first official introduction. No brownies, but an honest offering of secondhand sunflowers and cherry tomato plants from the guy across the street. He's a former Westsider, works T.A.T.S., dropped one "goddammit" and a few "fucks", and smelled like a four o'clock buzz. I decided we could parley.

Outland.

Once through the garden you will be in the

wood.

The trees are old. Eyes peer from the under-

growth.

Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman. She

may ask for something;

give it to her.

From "Instructions" by Neil Gaiman

That something may or may not have to do with the Vlasic Stork. (See bottom right.)

Wall of Fame.

Grab your most distinctive hats, most silhou-worthy collars, your boathouse coats, your pipes and pens, your 19th century glowers.

It's sittin' time.

Experiencing Nim-pah.

Had a mighty bout of deja vu while sketching this. Turns out I was tracing, from memory, every line of a favorite comic character of mine. He'd appeared in one panel. Of a Tom and Jerry insert. In 1983. He was the most minor of throwaways. A tough bird in a straw hat. But the lines were so graceful that he stuck--and it now occurs to me that he's become the template for every goose-necked, hawk-billed figure I attempt.

Look, Lizzie, look.

Down the glen tramp little men.

...cont.

Two more. A little more Branwen than Ballerina. I prefer the one on the left. Eyes to the distance, shoelaces trailing.

Lassie.

I call this one "Bridget". For she who commissioned, for she who will receive, and in memory of a well-timed bottle of Sour Apple Pucker.

Cedar chest.

Wound about in silver hair.
Arranged in unlikely angles.
Joints creaking, fingers snapping, elbows popping.
Smelling of sawdust and last breath.
More dead pixies.

One eighty.

Bit of a turnaround. Really it's just inspired by the last trip up to the attic. The grooves in the upstairs windows are filled with the tiny sunbleached corpses of a thousand ladybugs and their housefly nannies. Regina's lost brood. I'd long suspected her to be something of an absentee dam, but being sole witness to the slide of a generation into its own golden dust demands documentation.

I'm. In. Heaven.

There was a magical moment last night at Wegman's when every woman (and one stoned guy) was singing along with Mariah Carey's "Fantasy". The frozen foods section burst into dance.

No exaggeration.

Te llamo? Mallo?

Last of the bunch.

Terseness at its cryptic worst. Thank goodness for the eloquent image.

Dew Drop (Dude Drop)

Pondhopper. Puddlejumper.

Bla(s/z)e

Opted out of wings and tights for the series. Really wasn't my decision. If left to myself, I suspect I'd have had them all dancing with bees or curled up in flowers. Fireflowers.

Hothead.

Sketching out some bookmarks for a fave's fourth grade theater students. Could do this forever.

The devil's in the details in these kids' drawings, though. Been agonizing over the barest hints. Those three lines at the back of the head, for example? Are they the suggestion of speed? Heat? Impressionist dreads? Check out those arms--both clearly behind the back. Is that part of the process of fire-sculpting? Will they notice that I quite literally put his wrong foot forward?

When all's done, I'm putting faith in the ability of dragons and firefoxes to distract your above-average ten year old male.

I even seen a barn dance.

Miss Mary Mack.

Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack

All dressed in black, black, black

With silver buttons, buttons, buttons

All down her back, back, back.

She asked her mother, mother, mother

For 50 cents, cents, cents

To see the elephants, elephants, elephants

Jump over the fence, fence, fence.

They jumped so high, high, high

They reached the sky, sky, sky

And they didn't come back, back, back

'Til the 4th of July, ly, ly!

I'm going to pretend I knew all along that was a naval reference. Or that I knew of the poem's existence at all, for that matter. Though I'd always felt a prickling annoyance at the absence of ironclad lore. Yeah.

J&H: Part Deux

Dear Caller,

Only interested in things that have existed, might exist, will exist, never existed. Nothing that actually does exist.

Signed,

Out of Touch

Stirred, never shaken.

Not quite sure, but I may have printed Stoli on one of those beakers. Nestle Strawberry Quik on another. Either one is quite a high. Just watch for those mid-leap transformations--it's a long way down between buildings.

The play's the thing.

"As full of spirit as the month of May

and gorgeous as the sun at midsummer;

wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls."

William Shakespeare, King Henry the Fourth, part I

Spoonfuls.

The chair has finally arrived. A little marmalade dollop on my vanilla cream room.

West of the moon.

Psyche in the air. Boreas never really minds when he winds.

Prove it.

Semele. Really the Doubting Thomas of pre-Christianity. Just another someone for whom the divine "cuz I said so" didn't quite cut it. And why would it? What percentage of Bronze Age maids came wandering out of those sacred groves actually filled with Olympian seed--and what percentage found an easy excuse embedded in their nurses' stories? For that matter, how many farmlads, old perverts, wily centaurs, rootless veterans donned the mask of a lusty Hermes or Apollo to satisfy their own needs? Clay and paste have about as much legitimacy in a darkened grott as gold leaf.

So she asked. For certainty's sake. For pride's too. To silence her whispering sisters. "Show me your true face." If he was a fraud, she'd endure the burden of shame, but also the satisfaction of watching a local lech ripped apart by horses. Or whatever. If he was the god, she'd be vindicated, and perhaps emblazoned with some unearthly signature.

So Zeus emerged unwillingly. The touch was given. The mark made. Unfortunately, it happened to be a sootspot on the palace flagstones in the vague shape of a girl. Bright reward for a skeptic's narrowed eye.

See how they run.

So our wandering story comes to a sharp end. And is consigned to a fate of spinning tall tales and refusing medication in the amputee ward.

Nada.

Rounding that corner.

There's gonna be a beatdown.

Air on the C string.

"Pack up the gouda, Mother. We're moving on up."

Dancing attendance.

Fleets in the sheets.

Great Phoebus.

Unfinished symphony.

yerg

One more swan and I'm going to barf.

And his feet are faster.

I fell a little bit in love with Stephen Colbert during last night's interview with Neil Gaiman. I was fully prepared to fall for the wordsmith himself but couldn't get past the unfortunate bangs. Things were a bit snoozy until Colbert dropped character (you can see the exact moment when his inner geek wins out) and kicked the fatty lumpkin out of things.

Watch it and marvel.

All the undead, please stand up.

The L____ family portrait. For the L____ family weekend. We were supposed to meet the mystery woman who is to be my new sister in law (once removed?), but, according to our natures, we bolted early. So she remains preserved in my mind the shadowy figure I've constructed--"She-Hara". I like her as such. She doesn't ask any questions--and weilds her singing sword like any dutiful Blood Elf must.

And, in the real world, we went to Boston. The MFA? Well--must I say it?--Mother Fucking Awesome.

Necessitas.

Another mess-terpiece. The goal was to bulk up my slender collection of recognizables, so I started with Zeus and ended with Ananke. Who the hell knows Ananke? Me and a handful of mythology professors the hell do. So, it's fated to unravel. Mwah. Inside joke. Also, I think my HB's were balking at what is essentially a glorified rape. "Stick to ruffles and rodentia," they say. And I spin them on their heads.

Pan-ic.

It's upon us again! March forth!