Skip to main content

She's dead. Wrapped in plastic.


Henry has graciously agreed to offer up one of his photographs as fodder for an experiment in digital manipulation.

This one has all of the hallmarks of great photojournalism. A body has been found, foul play suspected, yet no motive nor suspect to speak of. The police are at wits' end, and a keen amateur sleuth is called up to investigate, with little more than a magnifying glass, a stick and a keen sense of justice.

Comments

Reyjr said…
cute kid. cool photo!
Anonymous said…
Who is Laura Palmer?

Do I win??!
KL said…
What is it with these 2 year olds and sticks? I spend the weekend with a 2year old and all she wanted to do is go out of the house, play in the snow, swim in frozen rivers and move around with big branches and sticks!!! In house, she could not get the sticks, so what she will do? Take a big umbrella and pretend that it is a big stick and move around!!
Kris McCracken said…
Reyjr, he is tops.
Kris McCracken said…
Tania, even Jen got that pop culture reference...
Kris McCracken said…
KL, a stick can be anything you like, with a bit of imagination.
Anonymous said…
Even Jen?
Pfft
Kris McCracken said…
Tania, I will concede that I always thought that it went "She's dead Harry, wrapped in plastic". My memory must have been deceiving me.

You should test Jen one time on pop culture references. I put it down to her parents being ABC Nazis.

Popular posts from this blog

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut