Since I couldn't think of anything to draw, I opened an old magazine for inspiration and chanced upon a photograph of an actor. Now, because I'm rarely successful in capturing likenesses, I thought I'd use his middle-aged features for reference to aid me in drawing an imaginary older person. I put the magazine away after roughing in the head, certain no one would ever suspect (or care) about my source. That's when Kathy walked by, said the face reminded her of someone and then amazed me by guessing the thespian (although, to be honest, it took her two tries). I was so surprised that I didn't even think to tell her she guessed correctly. In fact, I was so stunned that I quit working on the drawing, which is why the picture looks the way it does. I'm not so bedazzled with Kathy's keen detective abilities now, however, since she's been walking by as I type this and keeps guessing more and more people, most of whom I've never heard of. Still, it does make me wonder if anyone else could ever guess the model's identity.
Monday, January 1, 2018
The sun was beginning to set by the time I eluded my final pursuer. Having a moment to rest, I studied my surroundings. I had never been this far in the woods before. Some things ... or some thing... was moving in the overhead canopy, but the dying light and thick clumps of leaves kept the source of the rustling well hidden. Some distance to the left a full-throated basso choir of frogs commenced their evening performance. Dropping on the moss and resting my head against a dead sycamore, I thought, "So, water's close by and, in theory, the mosquitoes should be few. Not bad. I've slept in worse places." I then closed my eyes and fell instantly asleep.
Tuesday, December 26, 2017
The above is an article written by Sarah that was published in the Beaver Creek Wetlands Association's "The Spotted Turtle," volume 3, number 4, Fall 2017. Yup, her mother and father are kind of proud of her.
Saturday, December 2, 2017
Wednesday, November 1, 2017
Monday, October 2, 2017
"The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere --
The leaves they were withering and sere:
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year..."
-- "Ulalume: A Ballad"
On October 7, 1849, Edgar A. Poe, wearily whispering, "Lord, help my poor soul," slipped from his life's short story and into the mystery of eternity. As every schoolchild has thought, how sadly fitting that he should take his leave in the month of Halloween and lengthening nights, at the time when the colors of autumn begin to turn gray, the vegetation withers beneath a canopy of massive, monstrous clouds and the whole earth seems to be solemnly slipping into the cold shroud of winter. Like countless others, Poe had a sad, short life; but his art has endured... and what better fate could any artist have?
Sunday, September 3, 2017
The sound was similar to the piercing cry of a hawk or, at times, to the yapping of a small dog. Yet there was also something unearthly about it, some indescribable element of... what? Agony? Well, of something strange and dark and indefinable. It waylaid the the two men traveling through the forest. Fascinated and appalled by the mysterious strident notes, they followed the siren call through the tangled underbrush until they reached the top of the hill where they finally rested, rubbing their barked shins and scratches. Peering in a small clearing in the vale below them, they saw the source of the haunting cry. It was a gorgon.
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