up with figs, fetus-ize me.

Once upon a time, Lisa and Adrienne worked for the same alternative newsweekly. Now, both spend their respective days 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 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 might make both minds more nimble. Hopefully.

 

He looks like a fetus, the older dude does, all curled up on the mat next to me. He’s wearing a speedo just two shades darker than his skin and a sour expression, like he’s been booted from the womb too early and it’s all my fault.

For the record, it’s not my fault. I’m just doing sit-ups. He chose to fetusize himself on the mat next to me. It’s like he believes that I should move now that he has arrived because he is the king of the upper floors of the gym. He snapped off the fan like it insulted his mother, rest her soul, and his look insinuated I was responsible that a gentle breeze was cooling his mostly naked flesh.

It was just strange, is all I’m saying. He was close enough to touch me, all curled up like a fetus, with fuzzy butt hanging out while I panted through my last few crunches. 

 

Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.

Comments

[PL]

Um, ew.