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.