many things make a post
bow before my plastic bins

up with figs, perish

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.


Martin Ignatz waxed his mustache, put on his hat, adjusted its angle to just the proper degree of rakishness, and went out into the late winter air for a stroll down to the local brewpub (where all of the offerings were brewed with indigenous hops and wheat) for a quick pint before the start of his shift. 

Three feet from his front door, he found an old wooden piece of type, the sort that were common before the advent of hot lead. It was a T. Capital and serifed and about as big as his pinkie finger. A few steps later, an A. Then an O. He was a be-mustached mouse following a breadcrumb trail. 

His pockets were full by the time he reached the pub. Ditto his hat, which he’d pulled off of his head to use as a basket. 

All that was missing, he reckoned, was the lowercase p but his memory might be playing tricks on him. As memories can.


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


I love this. Both the drawing and the short story.

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