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.
Book projects in the works:
Sometimes a Shoe is a Shoe
This Isn't a Spoon
The Baker Rabbit
The next morning, the woodsman woke slowly, he'd dreamt of dancing frogs in top hats, rabbits jumping out of pies, and a market full of animals, and a baker with long soft ears: how very odd. His very small imagination didn't know what to make of it. He rolled over and stretched, yawning huge, then opened his eyes. Where the dark wooden beams of his cottage ceiling should be, there were red and white stripes. He sat up with a start, crashing into the umbrella and sending it cartwheeling down the bank into the creek below. Still caught in his blankets (for he had tossed and turned all night, tying his covers into all manner of knots) the woodsman tried to jump to his feet, but only succeeded in crashing down again in a pile of tangled limbs and blankets and rolling a fair bit down the bank himself, following the umbrella. Finally shaking off the last blanket and brushing the grass from his clothes, the woodsman looked up and found the rabbit standing on his doorstep, one eyebrow cocked as he took in the scene.
“So, you're up, then?” the rabbit asked.
Excerpts, vignettes, odds, and ends:
“Why are you crying?” asked a voice so close and sudden that Tim jumped straight up into the air in fright.
“Sorry to startle you,” continued the voice, “I didn't mean to.” Tim wiped his eyes and looked around. There, peeping over the edge of a nearby leaf, were a pair of eyes. Tim took a step forward.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I'm Clarence,” said Clarence, the owner of the voice, and from around the side a the leaf poked a large black face.
“Oh,” said Tim. “I'm Tim.”
“Nice to meet you, Tim,” said Clarence. He came forward, his large black face was followed by a huge red dome painted with black spots, each one bigger than Tim.
“Ah...” breathed Tim, “What are you?”
“I'm a ladybug, of course,” replied Clarence with a laugh. (Now, you must remember that our Tim is a very tiny spider, and to a very tiny spider, a ladybug seems at least as big as an elephant seems to you.)