Once upon a time, Lisa and Adrienne worked for the same alternative newsweekly. Now, both spend their respective lives mining their creative souls and leading hermit-like lives. And so an idea was hatched. Every week, one would send the other a sketch—either in illustration or word form—and the other would make a companion to the sketch. The result would be posted on both their blogs every week, just for grins. Even if the result isn't award-worthy, the exercise makes both minds more nimble. Hopefully.
I do not have my mother’s pinkie toes. As a kid, I used to marvel at them, when I’d sit on the floor near her bare feet. They looked like little calloused pyramids and snugged neatly against the toe next to them.
“I’ll never let that happen,” I swore, horrified by those toes at a tender age.
And now, 40 years on, my pinkie toes look nothing like my mother’s did at this age. I credit a series of life choices that always let me wear comfortable shoes. Or, better still, no shoes at all.
Instead, it’s the toe next to my pinkie toe that inspires horror, as it twists outward on each foot. To say nothing of my big toes, whose callouses could grate cheese. And my weirdly long index toes, which inspire fear in my spouse, because they are nearly prehensile.
Still, my pinkie toes are gorgeous. I’m going to focus on that.
Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.