So 1978. Such Iceland. Wow. (The predomination of skateboard kids of every gender is matched by the fact that all of the music we heard here was American,  and I’m pretty sure it all predated me entering middle school. Total nostalgia trip,  man. )

So 1978. Such Iceland. Wow. (The predomination of skateboard kids of every gender is matched by the fact that all of the music we heard here was American, and I’m pretty sure it all predated me entering middle school. Total nostalgia trip, man. )

In a bookstore in Reykjavik, ran into so many friends… saladinahmed jimhines hollyblack and more…

Fuck yeah, brand new Leonard Cohen.

Leonard Cohen - Almost Like the Blues (Audio)

(Source: youtube.com)

Cheesy beans on toast flavored crisps!

I’ve been dying to find these since we found out about them on the first or second day in the UK. And here, finally, at Heathrow, they are!

I amused the clerk with my squeal of delight when I located them.

They do indeed taste like cheesy beans on toast. It’s surreal.

larstheyeti:

I’ll be at Wizard World Chicago this week, stop by artist alley F45 and say hello! (I’ll have a couple sad gallbladders for sale by request only)
"the pest" via tapastic.com

larstheyeti:

I’ll be at Wizard World Chicago this week, stop by artist alley F45 and say hello! (I’ll have a couple sad gallbladders for sale by request only)

"the pest" via tapastic.com

(via OUR VALUED CUSTOMERS: To her friend…)
(via Driving all night. - Indexed)
kammartinez:

Just read and reviewed Shattered Pillars (Eternal Sky Trilogy #2) by Elizabeth Bear (click on the pic to get to my review).
Things really pick up in this novel, in terms of plot. Range of Ghosts was kind of slow, mostly focused on world-building, but since there isn’t as much world-building that needs to be done in this book, Bear really starts turning up the engines and things start going. You can tell, just from this book, that the last book is going to be pretty explosive - which I can totally appreciate and very much look forward to, even if some of my favorite characters die.
Just, you know. As long as it isn’t Bansh. Because that’d be a damn injustice if Bansh died. I mean, really, what did she ever do, aside from get Temur’s hide out of every single bit of trouble he and anyone near him has gotten into? Not her, not when it’s her master who keeps looking for ways to get himself and his friends killed. Like, really, Bansh disapproves of all this shenaniganry. I’m supposed to keep you alive, Temur and Co., but you keep making it so hard for me. What’s a steppe pony - a pregnant steppe pony, no less - to do?
(I also speculate that Bansh isn’t some ordinary horse - something to do with a remark Samarkar and later Temur keep repeating to themselves, both in the first book and in this second one - but I’ll wait and see how that turns out.)
Also: TSAREPHETH. FUCKING TSAREPHETH. I have very few “cities of my heart,” places either real or fictional that I’d offer sacrifices to the Elder Gods to inhabit, and Tsarepheth quickly became one of those cities when I first read about it in Range of Ghosts. And then— And then— ALSJDF;LKJAS;LDKJF FUCK.
ALSO TSERING. AND HRAHIMA. AND SAADET. AND EDENE, OMFG EDENE. GODDAMMIT ALL THE LADIES IN THIS BOOK ARE AWESOME. AND TEMUR. TEMUR, YOU WERE RAISED RIGHT. WHY ARE MORE MEN NOT RAISED LIKE YOU? 
I’ll get to the third book very soon, because I can’t really stay away. But The Magician’s Land awaits. And oh my God, but my heart is going to hurt, isn’t it?

kammartinez:

Just read and reviewed Shattered Pillars (Eternal Sky Trilogy #2) by Elizabeth Bear (click on the pic to get to my review).

Things really pick up in this novel, in terms of plot. Range of Ghosts was kind of slow, mostly focused on world-building, but since there isn’t as much world-building that needs to be done in this book, Bear really starts turning up the engines and things start going. You can tell, just from this book, that the last book is going to be pretty explosive - which I can totally appreciate and very much look forward to, even if some of my favorite characters die.

Just, you know. As long as it isn’t Bansh. Because that’d be a damn injustice if Bansh died. I mean, really, what did she ever do, aside from get Temur’s hide out of every single bit of trouble he and anyone near him has gotten into? Not her, not when it’s her master who keeps looking for ways to get himself and his friends killed. Like, really, Bansh disapproves of all this shenaniganry. I’m supposed to keep you alive, Temur and Co., but you keep making it so hard for me. What’s a steppe pony - a pregnant steppe pony, no less - to do?

(I also speculate that Bansh isn’t some ordinary horse - something to do with a remark Samarkar and later Temur keep repeating to themselves, both in the first book and in this second one - but I’ll wait and see how that turns out.)

Also: TSAREPHETH. FUCKING TSAREPHETH. I have very few “cities of my heart,” places either real or fictional that I’d offer sacrifices to the Elder Gods to inhabit, and Tsarepheth quickly became one of those cities when I first read about it in Range of Ghosts. And then— And then— ALSJDF;LKJAS;LDKJF FUCK.

ALSO TSERING. AND HRAHIMA. AND SAADET. AND EDENE, OMFG EDENE. GODDAMMIT ALL THE LADIES IN THIS BOOK ARE AWESOME. AND TEMUR. TEMUR, YOU WERE RAISED RIGHT. WHY ARE MORE MEN NOT RAISED LIKE YOU? 

I’ll get to the third book very soon, because I can’t really stay away. But The Magician’s Land awaits. And oh my God, but my heart is going to hurt, isn’t it?

Eee! Carnival fanarts!

effervescentmongoose:

Watching my sister play Red Dead Redemption and thinking about the khir from Elizabeth Bear’s “Carnival”. I WANT FEATHERY PET DINOSAURS.
This is just a first pass with super cursory research into theropod physiology. I imagine them even thinner/more greyhound build. Maybe slim down the heads?

Eee! Carnival fanarts!

effervescentmongoose:

Watching my sister play Red Dead Redemption and thinking about the khir from Elizabeth Bear’s “Carnival”. I WANT FEATHERY PET DINOSAURS.

This is just a first pass with super cursory research into theropod physiology. I imagine them even thinner/more greyhound build. Maybe slim down the heads?

mongooseland:

AHAHA
take this demo away from me

Reyes and Brady are wearing the same shirt. That’s awesome.

mongooseland:

AHAHA

take this demo away from me

Reyes and Brady are wearing the same shirt. That’s awesome.

Toad Words

ursulavernon:

            Frogs fall out of my mouth when I talk. Toads, too.

            It used to be a problem.

            There was an incident when I was young and cross and fed up with parental expectations. My sister, who is the Good One, has gold fall from her lips, and since I could not be her, I had to go a different way.

            So I got frogs. It happens.

            “You’ll grow into it,” the fairy godmother said. “Some curses have cloth-of-gold linings.” She considered this, and her finger drifted to her lower lip, the way it did when she was forgetting things. “Mind you, some curses just grind you down and leave you broken. Some blessings do that too, though. Hmm. What was I saying?”

            I spent a lot of time not talking. I got a slate and wrote things down. It was hard at first, but I hated to drop the frogs in the middle of the road. They got hit by cars, or dried out, miles away from their damp little homes.

            Toads were easier. Toads are tough. After awhile, I learned to feel when a word was a toad and not a frog. I could roll the word around on my tongue and get the flavor before I spoke it. Toad words were drier. Desiccated is a toad word. So is crisp and crisis and obligation. So are elegant and matchstick.

            Frog words were a bit more varied. Murky. Purple. Swinging. Jazz.

I practiced in the field behind the house, speaking words over and over, sending small creatures hopping into the evening.  I learned to speak some words as either toads or frogs. It’s all in the delivery.

            Love is a frog word, if spoken earnestly, and a toad word if spoken sarcastically. Frogs are not good at sarcasm.

            Toads are masters of it.

            I learned one day that the amphibians are going extinct all over the world, that some of them are vanishing. You go to ponds that should be full of frogs and find them silent. There are a hundred things responsible—fungus and pesticides and acid rain.

            When I heard this, I cried “What!?” so loudly that an adult African bullfrog fell from my lips and I had to catch it. It weighed as much as a small cat. I took it to the pet store and spun them a lie in writing about my cousin going off to college and leaving the frog behind.

            I brooded about frogs for weeks after that, and then eventually, I decided to do something about it.

            I cannot fix the things that kill them. It would take an army of fairy godmothers, and mine retired long ago. Now she goes on long cruises and spreads her wings out across the deck chairs.

            But I can make more.

            I had to get a field guide at first. It was a long process. Say a word and catch it, check the field marks. Most words turn to bronze frogs if I am not paying attention.

            Poison arrow frogs make my lips go numb. I can only do a few of those a day. I go through a lot of chapstick.  

            It is a holding action I am fighting, nothing more. I go to vernal pools and whisper sonnets that turn into wood frogs. I say the words squeak and squill and spring peepers skitter away into the trees. They begin singing almost the moment they emerge.

            I read long legal documents to a growing audience of Fowler’s toads, who blink their goggling eyes up at me. (I wish I could do salamanders. I would read Clive Barker novels aloud and seed the streams with efts and hellbenders. I would fly to Mexico and read love poems in another language to restore the axolotl. Alas, it’s frogs and toads and nothing more. We make do.)

            The woods behind my house are full of singing. The neighbors either learn to love it or move away.

            My sister—the one who speaks gold and diamonds—funds my travels. She speaks less than I do, but for me and my amphibian friends, she will vomit rubies and sapphires. I am grateful.

            I am practicing reading modernist revolutionary poetry aloud. My accent is atrocious. Still, a day will come when the Panamanian golden frog will tumble from my lips, and I will catch it and hold it, and whatever word I spoke, I’ll say again and again, until I stand at the center of a sea of yellow skins, and make from my curse at last a cloth of gold.

Terri Windling posted recently about the old fairy tale of frogs falling from a girl’s lips, and I started thinking about what I’d do if that happened to me, and…well…

I may have gone a little overboard on breakfast.

I may have gone a little overboard on breakfast.

One does not simply take a taxi into Mordor… okay,  you got me.  That’s exactly what we did.

One does not simply take a taxi into Mordor… okay, you got me. That’s exactly what we did.

#patmurphy and a Tiki Dalek. #INEBRIATE

#patmurphy and a Tiki Dalek. #INEBRIATE

softerworld:

A Softer World: 1141
(And we are the dreamers of dreams.)
buy this print

softerworld:

A Softer World: 1141

(And we are the dreamers of dreams.)

buy this print