Errol made his way over to her and asked, “Mind if I sit here?”

​

Marigold shook her head. Errol took out a handkerchief and started wiping the chair.

​

Marigold buried her head in her hands and mumbled, “This is about my work, isn’t it?”

​

Examining the chair closely (and grimacing when he found a piece of dried pie on the arm) Errol eyed her and answered, “Look, it’s been almost a month. I’ve tried to be lenient with you.” He switched the chair out with a cleaner one. “I don’t know if you should stay with Short Pencils.”

​

Marigold stared off into the distance.

​

Errol sat down. “Nor that greaseball I hired to replace Othmer. He’s a lousy artist. It’s a shame. His portfolio had looked so promising.”

​

Marigold sniffled, her eyes brimming with tears.

​

“Marigold?”

​

“Please don’t fire me, Errol. I helped build Short Pencils with you!” Marigold whimpered. She gazed up at him, a tear rolling down her cheek. “Without this job, I don’t know what Ottie and I will do.”

​

Errol’s wings curled around Marigold and her chair. He wrapped an arm around her and murmured, “Othmer still doesn’t have a job?”

​

“No. He’s focused on other things now.”

​

Errol softly snorted, “What, his stupid idea? To make toons able to crush themselves with anvils?”

​

Marigold nodded and tried regaining her composure. “Yes,” she finally answered. “You know how many extra hours I’ve been working recently. I’ve even found a second job. But Ottie’s happier now.”

​

“Look, Marigold. I can try to offer him his job back,” Errol offered, scratching the back of his neck.

​

“Thank you, Errol,” Marigold sighed, “But I don’t think he’d take it back.” Reaching for a locket around her neck, Marigold opened it to reveal a picture of Othmer. She whispered, “He really believes his idea will be successful.”

​

                                                                                           ***

​

Back at Marigold and Othmer’s house, Othmer was working in the basement. Stacks of notebooks and history books were sprawled open. Stray papers and vials were strewn along the table and scattered on the floor. It looked like a frenzied tornado had barreled through.

​

Othmer stared at Roland and Velda’s ink bottle. He lifted it to examine it once again. All that was left was a bit of dried ink at the bottom. Turning to an open book, he ran a finger along a page, skimming the contents. “I’m so close,” he murmured.

​

Othmer pushed a bit too hard on the book. It dropped to the floor. Othmer reached out his other hand to grab it, and between juggling the book and ink bottle, both items crashed to the ground. Several pages were bent in the book, and the ink bottle shattered in two large pieces. Othmer stared at the ink bottle.

​

He rushed to clean it and grabbed one of the glass pieces, and managed to cut his finger on the jagged edge. “Ah!” Othmer held his hand to his face to examine the cut. A thin trail of blood seeped its way down his hand.

​

Pricking his antennae, he gently grabbed the ink bottle parts and took a closer look at the dried ink. He held the ink bottle next to his bleeding hand. The ink and his blood were the same color. Something seemed familiar about this…

​

Setting the glass parts on the table, Othmer rummaged through a different history book, smearing blood on some of the pages. He stopped at a page with several pictures on it. The first picture showed Roland, casually standing under a piano. The next picture showed him looking up as the piano started to fall on him. In the last picture, the piano had crushed Roland, reducing him to nothing but a giant ink splatter.

​

Othmer looked back at his cut. It looked like Roland’s inky puddle. Othmer’s eyes widened as it hit him. “That’s how they did it,” he breathed. “They were made with pen and ink!”

​

Othmer held the glass bits up to the light to see all the individual dried ink spots on the pieces. The same ink that Roland and Velda were made from was the same ink—blood—that every toon in Insecta had. But there must have been something very special about the ink that Roland and Velda were comprised of. Othmer didn’t know anyone who would be able to be crushed by a piano and turn into an ink puddle, and live after something like that.

​

Again Othmer wondered where Roland and Velda had come from. It would be a mystery no one would ever solve. The ink bottle held no answer, not even a label. He strummed his fingers against the table ledge, pondering why they would want to be buried with such a mundane object. Was it possible that the ink bottle came from wherever Roland and Velda originated from? Was that why it had been buried with them? Was it a reminder of their old home?

​

He drummed his fingers faster. The mystery and importance of this silly little ink bottle was growing. Roland and Velda were made of ink, that much he knew. They had made Insecta, including its inhabitants. Othmer realized that a toon’s blood looked very similar to the ink Roland and Velda were made of.

​

Of course—Roland and Velda had made Insecta out of ink! They must have combined their “toon physics” with the ink to create the world he lived in. Othmer scratched his head. He wondered why no one else in Insecta had toon physics, or were able to achieve the same feats with ink like Roland and Velda had been able to.

​

He shrugged, realizing that the differences between the ink Insecta toons made and the ink that Roland and Velda had would never really be known. What was important was that Othmer had Roland and Velda’s ink, and he was positive that he could use it for his experiment.

​

A weird idea struck him. He filled a cup with water, scraped the dried ink into it, and stirred it until the water turned black. He grabbed a pen with a crooked nib then dipped the nib in the ink. He peered around the basement for a suitable test subject. A mouse scuttled away into a hole, and a spider sat in its web near the top of the wall, but other than that, Othmer was alone.

​

Looking at the pen, he whispered, “There’s no way I can test this on anyone except myself.”

​

He plunged the nib into his cut.

​

The room spun. Othmer crouched down and held his head in his hands. For a minute he thought he saw Roland’s face glaring at him. He squeezed his eyes shut.

​

The dizzying sensation subsided. Othmer staggered to his feet and crept up the stairs, moaning, “Ugh. Ow.”

​

Once upstairs, he saw the welcoming sight of the sofa. He collapsed onto it with a sigh and closed his eyes.

​

The phone rang. He glared at it, but heaved himself to his feet and picked it up. Rubbing his head, he groaned, “Who is this? Uhhh….my head.”

​

“You picked up! What a relief,” Cloyce’s voice squeaked on the other end. “Othmer, it’s me, Cloyce! I gotta talk to you. Please let me come back! I can’t make it on my own. I need your help. I can’t find a job, or even a place to sleep! And I haven’t brushed my teeth in a long time. Please, cousin, let me come back!”

​

Othmer hissed at the phone, “Look, Cloyce, that’s your problem! You’ve dug your grave, now lie in it!”

​

“But—but Othmer, we’re family!” Cloyce cried.

​

Othmer slammed the receiver back onto the base. The clang echoed throughout the house. Pacing around the room, he tugged at his antennae and growled, “Why won’t he leave us alone?”

​

POP! Othmer stopped, wondering what had made the sound. Looking down at his hands, he saw an antenna in each hand. Rushing to a mirror, he saw it—no antennae on his head. He had pulled them off, and it hadn’t hurt! He stared at the antennae in his hands, and another scene of Roland flashed in his mind, this one of Roland taking an antenna off his head to use it as a pencil.

​

“I did it!” Othmer cried out, dancing around the room.

​

After a few more sprightly prances, he twisted the antennae back onto his head. He mused, “I can’t believe it! I have toon physics. I have to see what else I can do!”

​

All day long, Othmer tried out different things, and was surprised to find that his experiment had been so successful.

​

Later that afternoon, Marigold trudged back home. Weary not only with exhaustion, but with confusion regarding what she should do to help her husband, she opened the front door and called out, “I’m home.”

​

Her jaw dropped open at the scene before her. Photographs were slumped on the floor, a giant crack wrinkled its way along the ceiling, and several springs sprouted from the sofa cushions like flowers. The sofa had been tipped forward, its front feet mysteriously missing. In the center of the wreckage, Othmer was perched on some sort of make-shift seesaw, preparing to catapult himself into the air. Marigold cried, “Ottie!”

​

Othmer sprang over to her, exclaiming, “Marigold! I’ve got splendid news!”

​

​“What, that you’ve destroyed our house?” Marigold snarled, gesturing to the mess.

​

Othmer, smiling, shook his head and grabbed her hand. “Never mind that. Marigold, I’ve done it. I have toon physics. We’ll be famous!”

​

“Huh?”

​

“I’ll show you,” Othmer announced with a grin. He jumped around her, shaking his wings with glee. “Things are looking up now!”

​

He reached for his antenna and attempted to pull it off. “I’ll detach my antenna,” he announced. No matter how much he tugged, it didn’t budge. He grunted, “That’s odd. I did it earlier!”

​

Marigold shook her head and tried to make him stop. “Ottie, stop it. You don’t have to show me. Let’s just clean this mess.”

​

Ignoring her, he pulled harder. Marigold placed a hand on his cheek, sighing, “Ottie. Please stop this nonsense. At least for tonight?”

​

“Marigold…” Othmer muttered. He then relented. “All right. Let’s clean up.”

​

As they cleaned the house, confusion swept over Othmer. How was he unable to use his new-found abilities? He absentmindedly threw away a vase of flowers and set a trash can up on the end table. He still had some ink left. He’d show Marigold his success tomorrow.