and a bit more

Another word art I did for my mom.

:)

dabbling in typography

Hello all!

I've recently been inspired to try hand-drawn typography (thanks to The Postman's Knock!)

And here is the result:

~

When I Grow Up...

Hello! I don't have any pictures of art to post, though I have been doing some painting. 

(Hopefully I'll post those soon.)

But, I do have a short story I wrote! Hope you enjoy. :)

When I Grow Up...

Jo was running. He was late for school, and he desperately did not want to be punished in front of the whole class. He had never been late before, and he did not plan on making this a first, though school was far from his chosen activity. Perhaps the new little girl with long hair had something to do with it, or perhaps not. At any rate, Jo was running. As he reached the long, meandering road to the schoolhouse, he glanced at the dirt path cutting through the forest. The shortcut. He hadn’t taken the old path ever since the day Rick had told him about ghosts.  But this was as a special case. He had to get to school on time. He would just have to risk the ghosts. He sucked in a huge breath, as if preparing for a deep dive, and stepped off the road onto the path. The forest was cool, and dim. Jo kept his eyes riveted on the path in front of him, and broke into a sprint. The faint sound of voices startled him, and he sped up. Suddenly, he broke into a clearing. Jo stopped short. Then, all his fears took flight, vanishing in a moment beyond the leafy canopy, along with all thoughts of the school bell. Before him, spread like a scene from some delightful book, was a group of people. All were dressed unusually, with worn but bright clothes. They were chatting around a small fire over which an iron pot was hanging. The scent from the stewpot talked in a familiar manner with his stomach, inviting him closer. Jo walked over, all thoughts of school temporarily dispelled.  A few of the people were looking over at him. Jo, ever sociable, struck up a conversation with the nearest boy, who was wearing a red handkerchief around his neck.

“I’m Jo. That smells good.”

The boy grinned. “Hey Jo. Yup. That’s hobo stew.”

Jo’s eyes grew huge. “You’re a hobo?” he asked, barely breathing.

The boy grinned wider. “Yup.” he said again. Jo was scarcely able to believe his great luck. He’d waited all his life, or so it seemed, to meet a hobo. Now, here, before his eyes, stood a real, live, flesh-and-blood specimen.

“My dad’s told me about hobos,” said Jo breathlessly. “Do you ride lots of trains? What’s in hobo stew? What do you do…”

“Whoa, whoa… hold yer horses!” said the boy. “I ain’t got but one tongue to answer ya!”

“What’s your name?” asked Jo.

The boy mopped his face with the red handkerchief and considered Jo.

“Why do you wear handkerchiefs?” asked Jo.

“I’ll make ya a deal.” said the boy, finally.

“What kind of a deal?” asked Jo.

“If ya stop talkin’ fer one minute, I’ll answer yer questions.”

“Alright.” said Jo, agreeably.

“Well, my name’s Alfred.” said the boy.

“Why…”

“And I’ve ridden about five trains myself. Hobo stew has anything in it from taters, to green beans, to meat, if ya can get any.”

“Is this…” began Jo.

Alfred interrupted. “Say, ya ain’t keeping your end of the deal too well, Jo.”

Jo shut his mouth again.

“Now, this stew is a pretty good un. We’ve got a whole chicken, a couple taters, and an onion.”

Jo opened his mouth, but Alfred began talking first. “What’s a fellow like you doin’ out in the woods on a school day?”

            A sudden vision of the drab school room flashed into Jo’s mind, and with a start, he leaped to his feet. The most prominent figure in the scene was Miss Alder, frowning sadly down upon him. Another figure, smaller, and more pleasant by far hovered in the background as well, warning the delinquent of the impending punishment.

Jo fled.

He was late.

The punishment was humiliating, and the new girl ignored all attempts at friendliness, even shunning the beautiful stick of peppermint purchased especially for her. Jo sucked the rejected candy at recess glumly.

That afternoon, Miss Alder, in her bright, cheerful voice, announced that each and every boy and girl in the room was to write on their slate what they wanted to be when they grew up, and why. Immediately hands flew into the air.

“Miss Alder, may I write down ‘doctor’?” asked Lenny.

“May I be a schoolteacher? My mother was a schoolteacher.” said Maryanne, primly.

Jo sucked his pencil for a few minutes, in deliberating silence. Finally, he raised his hand as well.

Miss Alder came over. “Yes Jo?”

“May I go outside for a few minutes?” asked Jo.

“Have you finished?” asked Miss Alder, looking dubiously at the blank slate.

“No. I need to ask someone something.”

Miss Alder blinked a few times. What on earth could he want to ask anyone? Her lively curiosity got the better of her. “Alright, Jo. Just hurry,” she said, finally.

Jo leaped up and dashed out of the classroom. In a few minutes he was back, panting, but a flash of triumph and defiance in his eyes.

He scrawled out some words on his slate and marched quickly to the front, handing it in with the rest of the students, a sort of daring look on his face.

After they left, Miss Alder looked through the children’s slates.

“Schoolteacher, doctor, writer, farmer, banker…”

The last slate was Jo’s. Scrawled on his slate, in messy chalk writing was his chosen profession and reason. Miss Alder’s lips twitched.

“I want to be a hobo, because they don’t have to go to school.”