Today I woke up to find that I'd been chosen by Imagekind as a featured member. Given the fact that they host hundreds (maybe thousands?) of artists, this is somewhat of an honor. Check it out:
April 2008 Archives
“Man, are my feet killing me.”
That’s what Ronald Dayton said as he sat down on a handy bench to take a load off. He had no way of knowing it, but his feet really were trying to kill him. They were out for revenge, pure and simple, and the grudge went all the way back to Ronald’s early childhood.
Back then he went by Ronnie and little Ronnie was given to stamping his feet when he didn’t get his way. This amused his parents to no end and they made a big show of not giving them what he wanted so they could see him stamp his little feet in anger. His feet, ignorant of the machinations of Ronnie’s guardians, bore the abuse, figuring he would quickly grow out of it. This was not to be the case.
As Ronnie grew he grew more and more willful and his tantrums became more and more violent. Instead of merely stamping his feet, he started kicking things – toys, walls, doors, table legs, and finally people’s legs. This was when his parents put their feet down, since theirs were the legs he most frequently took out his aggression on. It’s amazing how a few well-placed kicks in the shin will change amusement to annoyance.
“Stop! What do you think you’re doing?”
The guilty party was frozen, the spoonful of ice cream halfway to his lips.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is this yours?” He guiltily held out the pint container.
“Yes, but that’s not the point,” she said, snatching it from him. “Can’t you read?”
“Oh, did you have your name on it?” he asked, the spoon still held in place inches from his lips.
“No, I didn’t. I wrote this instead.”
She showed him the lid, which was sitting on the counter. Scrawled on it in black magic marker was the legend “YOU WILL DIE!”
Yet again, the mountain failed to read the label on the eggs he was eating. Sickness and a multitude of pink, large-footed birds followed in the wake of his gluttony. (Illustration Friday, theme: fail)
I wasn't sure I'd be able to tackle this project as my wife had an unforeseen medical emergency which put her in the hospital overnight earlier this week. Luckily, she's OK.
Wellness and Responsibility are nothing without Excellence. I suspect that this earnest young man not only knew this as he integrated his foodstuffs into a thoughtfully planned and decisively executed program for consumption, but that his appetite was ravenous from all the dynamic synergies he had leveraged that day.
I apologise for the blurriness of the photo, but when paradigms are being shifted so near to where I am, I tend to get all nervous and stuff.
Two weeks. Two weeks and the dead kitten was still there. Or maybe it was closer to three now. Nick hadn’t made a mental note of when he had first spotted it, but he knew he’d drawn somebody’s attention to it the first day that he did.
“Hey, did you know there’s a dead kitten out on the lawn in front of the building?” he had asked the first person he saw.
“Yes” came the reply, and that had been the end of it. Or it would have been if something had ever been done about it, but day in, day out, on his way into the office in the morning and on his way home at night, he saw the kitten still out there on the lawn, dead.
One of the many reasons to save water is because you never know when the rare, but dangerous saguaro tortoise will stop by to slurp up your reservoir or swimming pool. (Illustration Friday, theme: save)
I spent a little more time on this than usual, adding in a lot of texture details. Near the end, the computer became almost unworkable because of all the vectors and feathered paths (not like means anything to most people, but oh well).
Enjoy, or not if that suits you. Purchase a print of this for your favorite uncle by clicking here.
Peter was in one of his moods; Roger could tell. The best thing he could do was hang in there and roll with it.
“I’m no good to anybody,” Peter said. “I’m pessimistic, fatalistic and a total bummer to be around."
Tell me about it, Roger thought. He took a swig of his drink. “You forgot self-loathing.”