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.