adventures in writing and illustrating
There is a pocket in my purple jumper:
it's a magic door.
Mother says I should stop telling lies.
But it's true, although I'm sure I don't know how. The other end must come out near the ocean, 'cause my hankies always smell like salt and seaweed. And things I put in my pocket go missing, only to show up inside again sometime later, damp and sandy.
Mother says I need to learn to take better care of my things.
This morning a small crab, green as bottle, crawled out. It hid itself in the potted begonia.
Mother won't be happy.
Projects in the works:
Excerpts, vignettes, odds, and ends: