A sight to behold.

If you're having trouble with the main course, just remember that eggplant is subject to flattery.

Where the story ends.

Book elves are merciless and macabre. Last night, this particular fellow descended on the small hamlet of Right Bottom Drawer. He toyed with them for a few hours, racked 'em and cracked 'em, then strung the inhabitants' pale, dry viscera across our bedroom wall. Pins and clothesline have never been used with such grisly efficiency.

Fostering.

By all accounts, she was pretty. Pretty as a little eggplant could be. But sometimes they'd catch her with mouthfuls of clay--cheeks bursting, eyes streaming from pain. Or mistressing tiny classes of ants and grubs and drooping swampflies up her arms, around her wrists in inky patterns. Or on rainy days with her feet inches in the mud, lips and fingers angled skywards. So they said their prayers, fashioned a wardrobe of waterlogged skirts and earthen slippers, leaked news of her beauty in the direction of the nearest palace, and waited for the story to run its course.

"Lost to sight in the Danube."

They've turned U/Ondine into a movie. Thank god for the barnacled sea hags that grant little wishes.

BYOB

Summer fun's nearly done and now the first dilemma of homeownership hits us squarely:

OVEN or BALLPIT?

Dainty dish.

"The king is in his counting house, counting house, counting out. Counting."

Now inextricably linked to King Haggard. But a thousand and a half unicorns breaking themselves against the shore was a little much for one lone sharpee. I couldn't even capture four and twenty.