FRANK THE SEVEN-LEGGED SPIDER

After losing a leg, a spider sets out to find it—and his identity.

Frank likes spinning beautiful webs—they’re works of art, really—and scaring humans, which also entertains (most of) his friends. But above all, he likes his eight “beautiful, glorious” legs. When he wakes up missing one, (most of) his friends wonder what happened. Is he still a spider? After getting his balance, Frank searches for his leg in unusual places to no avail. Fortunately, some practical ants remind him that he can still spin and jump, averting his identity crisis; the last scene finds Frank pranking an unsuspecting cyclist, who’s about to ride smack into Frank’s grinning, seven-legged self-portrait. But wait—is that a sneakered severed leg somebody’s holding in the credits? The story’s short, direct sentences and speech-balloon dialogue are reassuringly pragmatic, acknowledging difficulties and moving on. The deceptively straightforward text lures readers into the digital illustrations’ silly punch lines and droll grace notes, the figures and their muted colors magnified against minimal background. Composed of simple, high-contrast circles, Frank conveys everything from annoyance to joy with his wide eyes and tiny-fang-tipped mouth. Frank’s infectious expressions and humorous misadventures give his disability a refreshingly lighthearted treatment, but the Jon Klassen–esque twist puts a wicked spin on his journey to acceptance.

By turns hilarious, affirming, and an itsy bit disturbing.