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    The Sketchbook
    The Sketchbook
    The Sketchbook
    Ebook81 pages1 hour

    The Sketchbook

    By Mojo Place

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    About this ebook

    An artist, a famous Painter, discovers an offhand doodle in her sketchbook has inexplicably come to life. From the moment the Painter draws him, the doodle-a childish stickman named Sketch-has but one dream: to become a great artist like his creator. The Painter is a willing enough teacher, but Sketch proves a challenging student. Overwhelmed by this exciting new world, what Sketch lacks in knowledge he makes up for in enthusiasm. Mistakes are made, however, and mistakes compound, until Sketch finds himself pushing the very boundaries of creation, destruction and perhaps even forgiveness.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPurple Ducks Digital Media
    Release dateJun 21, 2011
    ISBN9780981536521
    The Sketchbook
    Author

    Mojo Place

    Mojo Place lives waayyy out in the sticks, somewhere in the Berkshire foothills of Western Massachusetts, as far from polite society as both can manage. She spends a fair amount of her time shooing bears out of her back yard. When she is not shooing bears, her life is dull and uneventful. She prefers it that way. More mind-numbing dullness can be found on her website, www.mojorama.com.

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      Book preview

      The Sketchbook - Mojo Place

      The Sketchbook

      by Mojo Place

      Published by Purple Ducks Publishing

      a division of Purple Ducks Digital Media, Inc.

      POB 251, Granby, CT 06035

      http://www.purpleducks.com

      Copyright © 2011 by Mary J Place

      All rights reserved.

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s overactive imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons (living or dead) is coincidental. So there. Nyaaahh.

      ISBN-13: 978-0-9815365-0-7 (hardcover)

      ISBN-13: 978-0-9815365-1-4 (trade paperback)

      ISBN-13: 978-0-9815365-2-1 (Smashwords ebook)

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2011909717

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author, and thank you for your continued support!

      For my friend Perry,

      who is an awesome artist

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      About the Author

      The Painter lived down the road from me, out in the country, in a small house perched on top of a hill.

      It was an odd, knicky-knacky sort of house, just the type you'd expect an artist to have. It was full of little nooks and dead ends, as if the builder had no real plans and just slapped the rooms together. Its oddest quirk was that the front of the house—or, at least, the side that looked like a front, with a porch, shutters, hedges and all—did not face the road. It looked in the opposite direction, down the hill, as if it were too busy admiring the view to bother with the other houses on the street.

      The Painter was kind of like that, too. She lived in her own little world, and those who didn't bother to introduce themselves were ignored. It wasn't that she didn't like her neighbors. She was a nice enough person once you got to know her. She was just too busy to get out and socialize, and folks tended to leave her alone. Over the years all sorts of rumors spread about her. The grownups thought she was weird, snobbish, and perhaps a little crazy. The children had their own ideas—much more imaginative theories, usually involving witchcraft, a hidden dungeon and some nameless mystery victim who vanished years ago and was never.... seen.... again.

      While all these rumors whispered their way around the neighborhood, do you know what the Painter was really doing within the crazy walls of that crazy house?

      She was painting.

      Her neighbors never guessed it (they never asked) but their secretive, mad neighbor was actually a world-famous artist, a celebrity in the big-city world of museums and collectors. I won't bother you with her name, for that would give her away. But you can walk into just about any art museum in the country and see her work displayed. And that strange-looking house held not torture devices nor counterfeit money printers, but hundreds of her paintings, hanging on the walls or leaning carelessly against them.

      Yeah, I know, paintings aren't as exciting as gold coins or rare jewels, but trust me: her paintings were worth an awful lot of money. If the art world knew about it, her ramshackle house would be priceless. But no one knew about it—not agents, nor neighbors, nor insurance adjusters, nor art collectors. Nobody knew—and that's how the Painter liked it. She painted not for money or fame anymore, but just for the sheer joy of painting.

      The Painter bought this house a few years ago when she retired, mostly because she liked the view. From her front porch (or back porch, depending on how you looked at it) the countryside spread out like a huge living canvas. Fields and forests, houses and barns, with a winding river sewing it all together. A range of small mountains, swelling like furry green bubbles, framed the distant horizon.

      There was always something new to see. Early in the morning, the fog settled into the valleys, giving the mountains a floating, ghost-like appearance. During the day, after the fog burned off, the houses and sharp steeples of the village dragged the eye away from the soft greens of the countryside. In the evening, the hard lines softened in the fading light and the mountains moved forward once more, swallowing the town as night closed in. Later, even the mountains vanished against the black sky. The only things visible then were the stars above, and the town lights below reflecting them.

      The Painter liked to sit on her porch and watch this scene unfold for hours, until long after the sun

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