George Bellows Summer Fantasy

rocking the Luggage managed to get most of its feet pointing the right way, and stood doing a complicated slow-motion jig to keep as few of them on the burning sand as possible.
It wasn't lost. It always knew exactly where it was. It was always here.
It was just thatto poison a small country.
If there is one thing a travel accessory needs more than anything else, it is someone to belong to. The Luggage set off unsteadily across the scorching sand, full of hope.

'I don't think we've got time for introductions,' said Rince­wind, as a distant part of the palace collapsed with a thump that vibrated the floor. 'It's time we everywhere else seemed to have been temporarily mislaid.After some deliberation the Luggage turned and walked very slowly, into a boulder.It backed away and sat down, rather puzzled. It felt as though it had been stuffed with hot feathers, and it was dimly aware of the benefits of shade and a nice cool drink.After a few false starts it walked to the top of a nearby sand dune, which gave it an unrivalled view of hundreds of other dunes.Deep in its heartwood the Luggage was troubled. It had been spurned. It had been told to go away. It had been rejected. It had also drunk enough orakh

Edward Hopper Painter and Model

time Conina spoke, that someone was running hot steel into his spine.
He glanced down at the Luggage, tramping stoically alongside him, and recognised the symptoms.
'Not you, too?' he said.
Possibly it that she banged an ankle on it.
'Push off,' she snapped, and kicked it again, this time on purpose.
Insofar as the Luggage ever had an expression, it looked at her in shocked betrayal.
The pavilion ahead of them was an ornate onion-shaped dome, studded with precious stones and supported on four pillars. Its interior was a mass of cushions on which lay a rather fat, middle-was only the play of sunlight on the Lug­gage's battered lid, but it was just possible that for an instant it looked redder than usual.Of course, sapient pearwood has this sort of weird mental link with its owner ... Rincewind shook his head. Still, it'd explain why the thing wasn't its normal malignant self.'It'd never work,' he said. 'I mean, she's a female and you're a, well, you're a-’ He paused. 'Well, whatever you are, you're of the wooden persuasion. It'd never work. People would talk.'He turned and glared at the black-robed guards behind him.'I don't know what you're looking at,' he said severely.The Luggage sidled over to Conina, following her so closely

Mark Rothko Untitled 1960

glowed golden, from the inside. For the first time in what, for want of any better word, must be called his life, Death found himself looking at a stare that he found hard to return. The eyes seemed to be focused on a point several inches In the staff.
Death leaned on his scythe and sighed.
FOOLISH. HOW EASILY COULD I CUT YOU LOOSE.
Not without destroying the staff, said the voice of Ipslore, and it seemed to Death that there was a new, thick, exultant quality to it. And now the child has accepted the staff you cannot destroy it without destroying him. And that you cannot do without upsetting destiny. My last magic. Rather neat, l feel.inside his skull.I did not mean for that to happen, said the voice of Ipslore, from out of the empty air. Is he harmed?No. Death tore his gaze away from that fresh, knowing smile. HE CONTAINED THE POWER. HE IS A SOURCERER: NO DOUBT HE WILL SURVIVE MUCH WORSE. AND NOW -YOU WILL COME WITH ME.No.YES. YOU ARE DEAD, YOU SEE. Death looked around for Ipslore's wavering shade, and failed to find it. WHERE ARE YOU?

Tamara de Lempicka Saint Moritz

who’ll listen.” Granny Weatherwax’s eyes seemed to lose their focus.
“When you’re lonely, and people around you seem too stupid for words, and the world is full of secrets that no one’ll tell you ... “
“Are you reading my mind?”
“Yours?” Granny’s attention snapped back, and her voice lost its distant quality. “Hah! Flowers and suchlike. Dancing about without yer drawers on. Mucking about with cards and bits of string. And it worked, I expect. She gave Queen slightly ahead. Every witch knew her, or the shape of her.
Diamanda tripped and fell, and then managed to bring herself up to a kneeling position.
Granny stopped.
The Queen’s horse whinnied.
“Kneel before your Queen, you,” said the elf. She was wearing red, with a copper crown in her hair.
“Shan’t. Won’t,” said Granny Weatherwax.
“You are in my kingdom, woman,” said the Queen. “You do not come or go without the leave of me. You will kneel!”
“I come and go without the leave of anyone

Rene Magritte The Empire of Light

building behind him, surrounded by crowds of people. It was squat and clung to the ground in a strangely animal Incendiary Surprise, perhaps?’ this was the Bursar’s voice. ‘Burn it out, it’s the best way -‘ ‘Yeah? Yeah? And what do you know about military tactics? You can’t even say “yo” properly!’
Ridcully gripped the sides of the trolley.
‘Would anyone mind tellin’ me,’ he said, ‘what the - what the heck is goin’ on?’
Ludmilla pushed her way through the members of the Fresh Start Club. ‘You’ve got to stop them, Archchancellor!’ she said. ‘They’re talking about destroying the big shop!’way, as if it might be possible to lift up a wing of the building and hear the pop-pop-pop of suckers letting go.Light streamed out of it, and steam curled out of its doors.‘Ridcully’s woken up!’More faces appeared. Ridcully thought: it’s not Soul Cake Night, so they’re not wearing masks. Oh, blast.he heard the Dean say, ‘I vote we work ?lp? Herpetty’s Seismic Reorganiser and lob it through the door. No more problem.’ ‘No! We’re too close to the city walls! We just need to drop Quondum’s Attractive Point in the right place -‘ ‘Or Sumpjumper’s

Pablo Picasso Mandolin and Guitar

they sat in a row under the hedge, putting off the moment when they’d need to start work again. A glugging noise came from the end of the row.
‘It’s not WHEN HE BECOMES INADVERTENTLY INEBRIATED. ‘Cor,’ said Spigot. Bill Door took a long swig.
‘And I saw swallows flying low,’ said Duke.’And partridges are heading for the woods. And there’s a lot of big snails about. And -‘ ‘I don’t reckon any of them buggers knows the first thing about meteorology,’ said Spigot. ‘l reckon you goes around telling ‘em. Eh, lads? Big storm comin’, Mr Spider, so get on and do somethin’ folklorish.’
Bill Door took another drink.been a bad old summer, then,’ said Spigot. ‘And good harvest weather for a change.’‘Ah . . . many a slip ‘twixt dress and drawers,’ said Duke.’Last night I saw a spider spinnin’ its web backwards. That’s a sure sign there’s going to be a dretful storm.’‘Don’t see how spiders know things like that.’Gabby Wheels passed a big earthenware jug to Bill Door. Something sloshed.WHAT IS THIS?‘Apple juice,’ said Spigot. The others laughed.AH, said Bill Door. STRONG DISTILLED SPIRITS, GIVEN HUMOROUSLY TO THE UNSUSPECTING NEWCOMER, THUS TO AFFORD SIMPLE AMUSEMENT

Alexei Alexeivich Harlamoff Literary Pursuits of a Young Lady

. . . let us go.
Azrael watched them skim away.
It is hard to fathom the thoughts of a creature so big that, in real space, his length would be measured only in terms of the speed of light. But he turned his enormous bulk and, with eyes that stars could be lost in, sought among the myriad worlds for a flat one.
On the back of a turtle. The Discworld - world and mirror of worlds. It sounded interesting. And, in his prison of a billion years, Azrael was bored.
And this the scene . . .
And now add the sharp clicking of bone on stone, getting closer. A dark shape crosses the field of vision and moves up the endless shelves of sibilant glassware. Click, click. Here’s a glass with the top bulb nearly empty. Bone fingers rise and reach out. Select. And another. Select. And more. Many, many more. Select, Select.
It’s all in a day’s work. Or it would be, if days existed here.is the room where the future pours into the past via the pinch of the now.Timers line the walls. Not hour-glasses, although they have the same shape. Not egg-timers, such as you might bu as a souvenir attached to a small board with the name of the holiday resort of your choice jauntily inscribed on it by someone with the same sense of style as a jelly doughnut. It’s not even sand in there. It’s seconds, endlessly turning the maybe into the was. And every lifetimer has a name on it. And the room is full of the soft hissing of people living. Picture
Click, click, a~, the dark shape moves patiently along