The Young Turtle at Her Studies.

We're moving her onto Chaucer next week.

Oxides.

I'm assuming that Gary, Indiana rests on some sort of layline. Eventually the iron bolts that hold it to the earth will rust enough to let the otherworlders over and then Chicago will have something to really fear.

I never drink when I fly.

Stop the presses.

Dripping with the blood of his enemies.

GOR! GOR!GOR!GOR!GOR!!!

On a roll.

For Kevin who is "juuuuust right". Newfound cousin, dungeonmaster, All-Father to a redheaded host of Loki-like boys, writer extraordinaire, and founder of what I like to call the true Bathroom Reader.

Keep your eyes peeled.

Sicky

Really for cranky granny annie as she lies abed, but I'll add my own grumblings to the convalescent mewl.

The shrieking of innumerable gibbons.

Need to get a leg up over Insomnia. I've heard that if you bridle her with elm she'll race until morning.

Clinging onto bottles.

Mighty fond of old school Mountain Dew.

Tad. Dah.

The last year laid out in front of me. I feel like there should be more, but I suppose two to five rounds of revisions aren't represented.

Ho!

The last of the mouse pics has been finished and submitted. Spent the day rolling with the felines. Absolutely unintentionally.

Quite Contrary.

More from the Nightmare Maze. Though I buck against representing her as a hero-type.

Little Vespa.

Keeping things as prosaic as possible. Vespa, from Alex's Waking Cassandra. K's optional.

LV

Check out the site. littlevespa.blogspot.com

Art based on Winsor Mckay's Little Nemo in Dreamland.

Hellcat.

The Japanese nekomata. Two-tailed, fireball throwing, soul eating, puppetmaster of the dead. One more reason to keep both the tails and lifespans of your felines abbreviated.

I say your, but really I mean our. I should own up to my weaknesses. Ennui has rent herself in two and is now making afternoon appearances as Foofy the Owlcat.

Spreeee.

And what it's like to work in many colors.

Exacto.

Everything nice.

Snakes and snails.

A little cut 'n paste experimentation that had me verging dangerously on Scrapbookland.

Artful Chaos.

I was directed to turn this image around, and now my sense of linearity is completely thrown. To me she is moving backwards. Unbreaking that glass. Unswirling that jelly.

Immortal Waitress pt. 1

Cat's Affection

Thank you, Ennui, for the lovely gift of snuggles and dead baby rabbit.

All the pages of our life.

Great idea from a really cool-sounding couple.

Revisionist Folklore.

...and the Journeyman bard that loves him.

Bookplate 1

Playing an ode to Ti-Jean. Trickster and hero and diminutive farmer.

Queue.

Wait your turn.

Getting a move on.

Prequel.

Back when hats were befeathered and toes were kept under wraps.

At her royal highness's bidding.

Master Sergeant Plug of Her Majesty's Second Infantry Division

Look again. It's only the mildest of glamours. The trick is to start with the feet and work your way up. Even the least of Her servants has learned the art of stillness under scrutiny, but this particular fellow has a peculiar sensitivity about his toes. Peer extra hard and he will start to fidget. Lean in and you'll see the telltale blurring around the edges. The rest of him can be tickled out and cloven from his shade. But there's no predicting his mood, and a sullen Plug tends to spit.

Answer.

Last of the armored guard.

Lonely? No. Mostly I just go around relieved there's no one near to observe the witless shit I do all day.

Subterranean by design.

Slipping through the cracks.

Loftier purposes.

A simpler riff on an older pic.

You really DO always come back!!!

Droooool.

DeNotes

Before you wreck'em.

An eye-opening campaign from Canisius (Roswell supported) had me raising an eyebrow at a less than impressive mascot. Felt he needed a little improving.

Non G-rated version hidden under a stack of orchestra mice.

Lord, but the things I've done to rodents these past weeks.

home

Making my due sacrifices to Hephaestus and getting reacquainted with my slippers.

Von Boyage.

Well, in a few days.

Pterodactyl-sized butterflies whomping around in the pit. Strange for someone who clearly has no guts.

Oh, lord. Do I bring my pillow?

The Rose Garden

The Rose Garden Early Childhood Center. Bookplate.

Neither here nor there.

At the mouth of Purgatorio stands Queen Rat. Give her a bow and your shoes. Climb on her back and ride the whorls of her tail until she parts you from your senses and pitches you. And then stand in line, barefoot, wordless and without memory, until tea is served.

More.

Hair on the A string.

(cont.)

Put your money where your mouse is.

Hide and Peek.

The first of the Horde. Figured I'd do a little spring cleaning and start airing out the bestiary. Sweep out the old straw, dump the pellets, straighten the spools that serve as chairs. Mice are hoarders and it's dirty work, but nothing compared to the recent business of clearing the Hertel Side. There will be chaff in my hair and dust in my teeth for damn days.

Take Two.

Buffalo re-use in Amherst, NH. A multipurpose pic.

Aubergine.

All Wild Woods touch at some point.

Psyche amidst the brambles.

Possessive owners. Crabbed thickets. Questing sons of minor gods. Teary eyed maidens with dull shears. Flaking skin conditions.

They were rumored to eat human flesh, but if I was a golden fleeced sheep, I'd be hot-tempered too.

Little Candles.

Started out as a racy birthday Victorian, but come hither turned quickly into get thee hence. Seems there's only a breath of difference in shading between the two.

Full of Grace.

My answer to a day of imprisonment under Auntie ESPN. I get fanciful in the face of football.

All our dark deeeelight.

Sigur Ros and Snorri Sturluson are making pretty pictures in my brain. Residual effects: ice cream headache.

"Neither weaker nor less firm."

At the coming of Ragnarok, the maidens will burn when the Rhine runs with flame, the gold will be found anew, and the Helm of Dread will be worn by one far greater than Hreidmar's son.

Halve nots.

For the Aurora Waldorf School's Winterfest poster. There were some surgical repairs to be done with this scan, but grafting is easy when the cold slows sap to an ooze. It's the folk who tend to be the problematic--dwarves are traditionally prickly about their beards, and brownies have the tendency of crawling through even the most carefully knit seams.

"Octavius!"

But for short, we'll call him 'Gus'.

Aubergine in Kensington Gardens.

Or the Punjab equivalent.

Warp and Woof.

Greetings from American Dogthic. These two got lost in bucolia on the way to the poolhall, but if the cat's away and the calico fits, set up residence.

Blush and Bashful.

It's time to bring back bloggery.

Mus-ings.

Starting to dream in fuzzy ears and whiskers.

Chemistry 101.

And it was done. He broke her from the earth, and breathed warmth onto her tiny leaves, and he swore a brahmin's promise under an immediate sky. Under the watchful eyes of her netherworld nannies.

But they swore promises too. To take her back when the need arose. And it would. Because the evil wives of lovelorn kings tend to be women of science, and flowers tend to wilt in the lab.

Go figure.

A sketchling.

I've only seen a mouse in a house once, but I can seriously say that the voices of a screaming female and a squeaking rodent will combine to achieve a certain gestalt that can turn reality on its head. We're talking about the ability to twist time and send planets careening into each other at the slightest change in pitch.

That being said, the small brownish pellets I found on the counter this morning were only burnt pizza crumbs.

Long live the Queen.

She is risen! All hail Regina!

Suit up.

Grappling with the eternal question:

If you put pants on one anthropomorphized character, must you put them on all?

I have a crush on every (hoplite) boy.

Now when radiant Dawn with bright eyes looked forth upon the high mountain-tops of Pelias, and the headlands of the tossing main were swept into clear view before the breeze; in that hour uprose Tiphys, and at once he bade his comrades go aboard and make ready the oars. And strangely did the harbour of Pagasae, yea, and Pelian Argo herself cry alound, urging them to set forth.

Apollonius Rhodius, Argonautica