Having neglected my Fantastical Fifty stories for Fred (who now has a title but insists on the monkier) and having reached Fred's self-imposed deadline for the day, I decided to work on a short that has been swirling around my flashdrive for a couple of weeks. I knew its beginning and I knew its end, but its dangling inbetween bits were rather messy. Then I hit upon the answer...
The man with the sketchpad is Death.
Oh crap. I think I have a reaper fascination. That can't be good. I wonder if I was one in a previous life, or fell in love with one in the inbetween time between then and now. Or maybe, a portion of my brain is stale and needs some fresh air.
Ouch, poking a pencil through your skull hurts. Think I'll stick with stale.
Maybe I'm not stale. Maybe I'll just tag the word retro onto my thoughts.