In addressing a short story by Benedict Fleming about a small boy who stumbles upon one potential dangerous situation after another in a bayou town of eastern Texas, I thought about visually generating the ghosts and ancestors swimming around in his prose, and I kind of wanted to. I wanted to put that bit of flair into play. But, upon further scrutiny of the words and structure, it's the quiet that I liked most, the mundane interjections of daily life in which the boy is absorbed to distraction.
So I bit down my theatrical side and drew what I hope are illustrations from a quiet place and a reflected point of view.
It was a little hard to leave out color for such a soupy environment, but these are sketches of memories that probably won't stay in the character's mind, so I don't want them to leave too indelible an impression on the page, either.