Thoughts in the Rain

They sat at the entrance of the cave as the rain poured down, Iago chewing on some fennel and Quasimodo absently tapping his fingers on his leg. "Well," Quasimodo finally said, "you must admit we needed the rain; the woods were getting pretty dry."

Iago let out a deep, long sigh. "Rain or no, I don't think it makes any difference. These woods, these indescribable woods, I don't think they need rain or sun or... or anything. I think these woods are self-sustaining, complete onto themselves. They'll survive, unchanged, long after we're nothing but rodent-gnawed bones. I tell you this, too: sometimes I think this forest is sentient... a conscious organism always watching us... maybe even laughing at us. The sun, this rain, even you and I, maybe we're all just ephemeral, transitory amusements to this eternal forest... all, all of us... just a joke, a momentary smile on the face of eternity."

"Well, even I have to admit that it seems we've been wandering these woods for eons. But there's no need to become morose about it. You have to admit the woods are beautiful, so beautiful I doubt they'd maliciously laugh at us, risible as we may deem we be."

Iago smiled at his friend. "You know I'm always morose. Sure, I'll admit the woods do have some beauty to them, but that's only because most mysteries, by their very nature, have an intrinsic beauty to them. Even you and I may have some beauty to us, if one only knew how to look."

Quasimodo laughed. "Well, I may have some discoverable beauty, some well-hidden allure even. But you?"

"Well, maybe once upon a time, long ago. Or at least grant me I at once had the potential for beauty."

"Indeed, my friend! We all do... or did. But can leopards such as us ever change out spots? Can our old souls ever reclaim our long-lost innate beauty? Can we ever even hope?"

Iago stared up at the sky, at the falling rain, a puzzling expression on his face. "Maybe," he whispered, "the cleansing rain from above can cleanse the dirty things of the earth, might wash off the grime, might... restore what was lost." He stood up and turned to Quasimodo and smiled in spite of himself. "You old scalawag, you! Do you think it's worth a try?"

Quasimodo also rose. "Even in eternity," he smiled, "there's no time like the present." And so, arm in arm, they walked out into the rain and back into the endless woods.

A Moment's Respite

The acrobat stood on his perch, his left hand firmly grasping the trapeze bar. He stared down at the awful abyss below him. It was about a yard wide, eight feet long and six feet deep. He thought he heard voices coming from it. Some were soft and soothing, but not all. He also thought he could hear his own voice whispering from out of that void. At least he imagined he heard distant, whispering voices, some familiar, and all rising up like vapor. But, if so, try as he might, he could not quite decipher what the voices were saying. And although the abyss wasn't deep, it was blanketed in a gloom, a darkness his straining eyes could not penetrate. All he could see was dust leisurely rising up from the tenebrous void and then gently swirling back into it. Yet there was a rhythm to the dust's ascent and descent that, for reasons he could not explain, charmed him and comforted him. He stared into the mysterious recess for some time, not really thinking about anything, just passively observing; so he could not state when he first noticed it. He knew only that, once having seen it, he could not take his eyes off of it. It was a light, a still, small light that seemed to shine from beyond the depth of the abyss. It was then he noticed the dust that rose on that beam of light did not descend again into the dark. So, smiling, he grasped the trapeze bar with both hands and swung from off his perch.

Black Jack Returns

 "Black Jack" number 2 is now available. It's a fun and exciting read, written by Matthew Brassfield, print formatted by Juliet Fromholt, and with cover colors by Jason Gilmore. Oh, and I drew it. If you're interested, you can purchase a copy at Sparkle Comics' website: www.sparklecomics.com.

And My Father Always Called Me His Little Flower

There's really nothing to say about this piece since the title fully explains it. However, this drawing was not originally crafted with any theme in mind. Indeed, the title and apparent idea were arbitrarily added after the fact since this was just another doodle where the pencil wandered where it would and the only part I actively played in the whole execution was to try to keep said pencil from wandering off the page.

Valentine's Day

In honor of the upcoming Valentine's Day, I disinterred an old newspaper clipping I saved from my youth. Even though it's from a now-defunct advice column and shows certain prejudices inherent and unquestioned in those times, I still feel the question and response fully express that old adage that love indeed conquers all. It also beautifully demonstrates just what that special romance celebrated on Valentine's Day is all about. I found the clipping deeply inspirational, to say the least. See if you agree.

"Guest's Station (Virginia) News Progress," evening edition, February 14, 1941

Dear Miss Lonely Hearts,

I am a genteel young lady who strongly believes people should know their proper place in society and that my elite upper class should never fraternize with commoners. Nevertheless, my heart has been won by someone far beneath my social station and I am torn as to what I should do. I am hopelessly enamored with "Larry," a common werewolf. I realize being married to a werewolf isn't equal to the social disgrace of being married to, say, someone who posts his doodles on an obscure blog, but it still troubles me that I would be marrying far beneath my station. I am naturally worried as to what my friends would say if "Larry" should give me fleas, or if I have to constantly bail him out of the county dog pound, or if he devours our children. Although I love my red-blooded lupine lover with all my blue-blooded heart, I also dearly cherish my place in society. Last night I was going to tearfully tell him we are through, but before I could say a word he suddenly sprinted off into the woods. Minutes later he happily loped back with the carcass of a squirrel in his mouth, the bloody stump of its mauled head craftily chewed into the shape of a valentine heart. What a sweet gift! And then, under the romantic full moon, he tenderly held my hand in his hand (or claw or paw or whatever it is), and gently ululated in my ear. Well, what young girl's heart wouldn't melt at that? This is why I need your advice. Should I hold on to my caste or cast my caste away to be with my uncanny canine man? Oh, dear Miss Lonely Hearts, whatever should I do?

Signed, 

Lycanthrope Loving Lady

Dear Lady,

What you should do is quit writing me.

Signed,

Miss Lonely Hearts

The Wanderer

 Upon a finite shore he waits for his Pilot to bear him to his infinite home since, in this life, there is always hope. Happy New Year!

Merry Christmas!

What more can I say? I hope you indeed have a most merry Christmas!