Boat, 2

Yar.

Take a good, hard look.

A weekend of wind and water.

Scissor happy.

Infinite possibilities for less shit.

Spooky Old Tree

One with a light.

One with a stick.

One with a rope.

Entering Moriae territory. It was all I could do to not drop three, huddled figures under those boughs.

And a bit with a dog.

The theatre. Doodlings and doings-on.

Ship to Shore

Belay that.

In the hedges.

A swarm of bees in May

Is worth a bale of hay.

A swarm of bees in June

Is worth a silver spoon.

A swarm of bees in July

Isn't worth a fly.

May all your swarms prove worthy.

Stuck in my head.

They are the Choirmasters of Faery. The literal Un-sung. Melodies come to them in tight, ravelled packages and leave deconstructed through bright beaks. Exit confounded through blazing nostrils. Fall to the ground in shards.

The broken remains are collected and scribbled down by the maestros, then played with the backwards, hobbled artistry of the fey. They limp back to us in the pre-dawn, garbled and sad, displaying their pieces, desperate for a rendering. And the codebreakers? They tease out the strongest strains and pipe the old tunes, and they come back to us, altered but true.

Ino what you're thinking.

A retooling of the bluegirl after some (s)trident opinions.

After the Fall.

Having a hard time shaking the feeling that my post-fall inventory missed some key injury.

Nobody.

There's a long history of giants sleeping past red letter days tip-toed through by red-headed scoundrels.

Fantastic Voyage.

With the Blue Lady, and all her incarnations, in mind.

Rewind

A little out of time, but the holidays were a little out of joint this year.

2011

Happy New Year's from the inmates of cell block Gadra.

Flora.

The pink fairy in the Strawberry Quik wants your soul.

Hansel and Gretel

For this season and for ever after, starring in the role of.

Changing the hue, but holding the line.

Or, What you will.

Now, now.

Don't you cast your scrapbooking labels on me!

Complex.

Lily's been causing problems in the Garden of the Gods. I found Ganesh upended, trunk in the dirt. Buddha's gone pallid with fright, arms in the air, ready for a frisk; and the luckcat has forfeited her turn. I've righted them, consoled them, brushed them off--and braved her resentful tortoise eyes--only to find them freshly dishevelled in an hour or so.

She does, however, seem to enjoy resting in the long dark shadow of Alexander the Great. But, really, don't we all?

I met a lady in the meads.

Gaiman outlined it most recently, but it's just plain common sense. If you meet an old woman under an oak, answer her questions and ask her your own. Give her what food or water she needs, take whatever trinket she gives you and curtsey.

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.