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.

Give pause.

A background nymph that survived the Great Purge of August '09.

The old heave-ho.

One of the most lasting, but also one of the few that doesn't end with the phrase "happily ever after". They simply ride off in a carriage and the prince is reunited with an adoring servant--with whom he has a warmer exchange than anything said to his new wife. Though, with a backside still aching from cruel mishandling, he can hardly be blamed.

Le Garvs.

Maeverton.

Adz.

Complete Blank.

More King Cole. And, yes, those fiddles are lacking parts. One could call it laziness, but I prefer to think of it as an inspired omission--in the vein of "Sir Orfeo". The fey aren't known for their inventiveness, so a row of fairy fiddlers aping their human counterparts on rough toy instruments seems to ring true. "There's none so (bare) as can compare with King Cole and his fiddlers three."

Along those lines, been watching a lot of Folklore gameplay lately and the amount of musical pilfering is pretty shocking. The train music from Spirited Away. The Going to Berlin ("there's more to the diary than just the map") music from Last Crusade. Always in Fairy, always on a very tiny loop. So, again the question arises--clever intent or just plain sloth?

Drink up.

Old King Cole was a thirsty old soul, touched him with some water and he puckered up for more. No wringing or squeezing was going to drain those greedy cheeks, so I stretched him on the rack instead and bled him dry of color. Cole, he was an abiding old soul--his tune's a little paler now, but still ripples round with laughter.

Grandma would be proud.

Burn of the week:

In the midst of drawing a "smoke dragon" for ten year-old Matthew--"Now I see why you have such a big eraser".

Lost Bots.

Marly.

The Armored Hound, aka The Red Steed.

Terror of the Lakes

Scourge of all Warrens.

Herald of Sailing Vessels.

Seeker of the Far-flung Wilson.

He Who Sits for None.

The canvas can do miracles.

Trying out some new paper. Looser weave, lighter weight. Prone to warping, but the darker tint saved me a good half day of laying down multiple sienna washes. We'll see how we go. Either way, I'm fine traveling the crooked miles.

Proper.

My sixpence is on the crooked mouse.

Rowr.

More fodder for the lake kiddies.

Go away.

It's raining, it's pouring.

The old man is snoring.

Bumped his head,

And he went to bed.

And he couldn't get up in the morning.

In honor of our fitful summer. And an entreaty to old sluggard Helios to take two aspirin, shake off the hangover, and harness the team.

Buzzing.

She made us lasagna. Then she sat on the couch, propped up her nyloned feet, and set to the business of filling every last nook and cranny with conversation.

Silence is golden...

...enjoy the silence.

Food for thought.

If all the world were apple pie,

And all the seas were ink,

And all the trees were bread and cheese,

What would we have to drink?

Old Mother Goose

Stained toes and strained bows. And sticky fingers, too. And gods that would rather consume than compose.