Refracted Neurons

Earlier this summer, my four-year-old pulled a kid's graphic novel off the shelf of the library and said, "I want to check out this one."  Little did either of us realize that we would be checking out the additional two books in the series, backwards.  The series revolves around the titular Zita the Spacegirl , although honestly, from the first . . . er, last, I was always a huge fan of Piper. So last week we cracked open the first of the series, and bumped up against a picture of Piper playing his, well, what is that thing?  Recorder?  Irish Penny Whistle?  Regardless, music is swirling around him on scrolls and I realized: I just had to draw my version of Piper. After sketching, running it through Painstchainer , fighting with Paintschainer, and then cleaning it in in Drawing Desk , this is what I ended up with: I'm pretty sure Piper actually has blonde hair, but what do I know?  Paintschainer gave him pink hair, so pink hair it is.  It also gave hi

It was glimmering in the lean sky-topping shadows, like sunlight freckling the grass through the leaves of a tree, just waiting to be spoken. It was in the hiss of static traffic, and like the sound; in swept the tide, burning my soles with water. The city called your name, and the precipitation fell so slight, so unwonted, that I wondered if, perhaps, it was just me crying. ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo Laying on my back under an apple tree, I thought, "There has to be a poem in this somewhere." ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Anna still remembered the first time she saw it.  She was in the office picking up the dittos for fractions, her chin coming even with the attendance counter. “Yes?” Mrs. Munoz gazed down over the top of her readers, with a look that always terrified Anna. “I was sent by Miss Penta to get the dittos for fractions.  I have a hall pass,” Anna hastily slid it across the counter, her fingers sticking to the green slip of paper. Mrs. Munoz climbed off her stool and retreated into the depths of the office.  Something new sat in place of the spirit duplicator, and it hulked.  Gone were the long tables with their stacks of paper and wooden inboxes.  Gone was the ditto machine, cheerfully twirling its way through the school day.  In its place sat something impossibly rectangular, its off-white exterior rendering it invisible unless one looked directly at it.  Anna did exactly that, her mouth ajar, while Mrs. Munoz pulled the stack of copies from their new location, a tray somewhere in th