Update: Childrin R Skary has officially relocated. Any old links you have pointing to skary.net will redirect automatically. If you tell anyone about the site, make sure you waggle your eyebrows and do witchy fingers as you emphasize "dot COM!" Then watch as your friends ooh and ah before they've even seen it.

In celebration, here's a totally unrelated illustration of what Doctor Who would be like if Tom Waits were the Doctor.

Doc Waits

If, however, you're already shopping for a Skary print, it's worth mentioning that all profits for "Work to Do" (that's the one shown below) will go to the Red Cross. (All my profits, that is. I couldn't say what happens to ImageKind's profits.)

The text translates to "Children are scary." Extra special thanks to Cymark and Katie for help with the Japanese!

Work to Do

(click to enlarge)

Give Grandma a kiss, whydontcha?

A Parting Gift

It is always here, the gateway into the Hereafter, but no one living ever notices. There is no angel chorus heralding the entrance. It is neither gleaming nor made of pearl. Rather, it is a lonely row of hedges with a modest wooden door just low enough that even the greatest men must enter with heads bowed. Many are they who have entered with nasty bumps on their foreheads.

Here the three travelers stood and pondered what ought to be said. This would normally be when Death wished his companions well and gave them some idea of what to expect on the other side, but his throat felt curiously lumpy now.

Elsie took Death's hand and patted it gently.

"You be all right," she said softly.

Before Death could reply, the gate before them creaked open and swelled to a size just large enough for a humble circus elephant. From within came a hum that only the right sort of person or creature could understand. To Elsie, it was someone calling her name. To Barcas, the distant trumpeting of his kind. To Death, it was nothing but empty air.

"They're waiting for you," he said and then, "Mind your heads!"

But Elsie and Barcas were already passing through. Soon, the gateway was small again. Its little wooden door then closed with an unceremonious thud.

"Oh," said Death.

He sighed and nodded to himself. This was as it should be. It was his job, after all, and now it was time to move on.

Just as he turned around, something light and papery fell from above and landed between his feet. It seemed to the Reaper as if it were intended for him.

It was only a leaf. Just a dried up crinkly thing. But it looked very fine tied to his scythe with a stray bit of thread.

Perhaps, if you are lucky - or if you are not - you will see it yourself one day.

Countess Soap