Look, if you don’t do shit like this, why even be an ancient historic college?

My best craft advice is "Put a giant worm in it." You can never go wrong with a giant worm. Sci-fi: Giant worm on an alien planet Fantasy: Giant worm in mountain sitting on a pile of gold Horror: Giant worm (eats people) Romance: Giant worm causes third-act breakup Mystery: Giant worm investigates

How it feels to be left behind by Ai:

Celebrate your differences. If you have weird antlers, an extra tentacle or two, or a third eye where no one should have an eye at all, don't hide it. Show the world your true dark beauty.

First, lemon balm and lavender for the bees. Their scents linger in the hidden corners of the garden with swirls of green and blue, colour filling the air like sun through stained glass. You try poppies next, and swathes of brilliant orange streak toward the sky. Apples blossom softly pink, radiant.

oakfuls of crow-calls I’m walking the long way home my boots full of stones

ARE YOU SERIOUS

If you are pro-Ai, then PLEASE block me as well. Yes, I am a luddite. I just bought a book on ye olde craft skills, for gawds sakes. Go on, race off into the glittering future of tech scams and fake shit. Leave me behind. Let me rot in the past. I want to die here, covered in art.

A young mother is reaching out to her own, with good news. The little one, barely a century old and still nursing, is shy; her song still too small to reach across many light-years. But with a little gentle encouragement from her mother, she manages a soft greeting to her deeply proud grandmother.

But if all the real artists give up and vanish, who will the Ai artists steal from?

#dailyhaikuprompt #wisteria twisting wisteria... such a reminder of aged bones

This is it. The perfect photo.

Far beyond the trodden roads, beyond even the narrow trails cut into the mountainside by the shaggy-haired goats, is a long and narrow field of wildflowers that follows the curve of the slope, where lightning crackles among the blooms, patient as a spider in its web.

Call me old-fashioned, but I truly believe soup is meant to be made in a cauldron over an open fire under a full moon with the sound of wolves in the distance.

You take in a bag of wool to wash and card for a neighbour, who offers in payment anything you find in the fibres. You humour them—the feel of wool in warm water has always soothed you—but then you find a few strands coloured brilliant violet, tangled around a silver charm of a curling ram’s horn.

You take in a bag of wool to wash and card for a neighbour, who offers in payment anything you find in the fibres. You humour them—the feel of wool in warm water has always soothed you—but then you find a few strands coloured brilliant violet, tangled around a silver charm of a curling ram’s horn.

Three days of clear skies is enough to dry up the muddy road, and so you head into town, your handcart laden with spice mixes, sheafs of pressed paper, and a few small brooms. And of all the things you trade for—necessities and the few indulgences—the jar of fresh bitter greens is your most prized.

I walked the woods, by the old railroad trail, when last I visited. Echoes of old engines, of metal wheels singing on metal rails, of the thump of the hammers that drove the spikes that held the rails to the ties rang in my ears. That was home, not the house I slept in, not the people who shared it.

Three days of clear skies is enough to dry up the muddy road, and so you head into town, your handcart laden with spice mixes, sheafs of pressed paper, and a few small brooms. And of all the things you trade for—necessities and the few indulgences—the jar of fresh bitter greens is your most prized.

You wear the talismans of your heart like armour, trusting in them to keep you grounded: -a long skirt embroidered with spiderwebs and daffodils, sewn in summer sun -a small river stone pendant that whispers stories of movement and change -the memory of a kiss, from the one who loves you as you are

Wild Flower Eater. © Kelly Louise Judd

To the east is a series of ponds where the water is always perfectly still, no matter the wind or weather. Folk steer clear, mostly, but last solstice you crept close, following a story you’d heard from the starlings, and in the wee dark hours saw a different sky of stars reflected in each one.

To the east is a series of ponds where the water is always perfectly still, no matter the wind or weather. Folk steer clear, mostly, but last solstice you crept close, following a story you’d heard from the starlings, and in the wee dark hours saw a different sky of stars reflected in each one.

The stairs are worn smooth down the centre, rough stone inlaid with spiderwebbing lines of quartz that catch and carry the light from the surface. You count sixteen silent steps down, and trail a careful hand along the rounded earthen ceiling. At the bottom, a curved room—empty of all but echoes.

The first few raindrops land with audible clicks, like small jaws snapping shut. You rush inside to throw open every window in your cottage and watch as an undulating wave of birds heralds the coming of the storm. They screech inside, fighting and frantic, as the fanged rains descend.

Walnut trees are less familiar than oak trees, but it turns out they appear in plenty of superstitions, legends, and folk remedies. Let's get to know the walnut tree in this week's episode of Fabulous Folklore! pod.co/fabulous-fol...

You take a picnic to the old pear tree, where the ground is soft with moss and new grass, and fall asleep listening to the breeze whisper through its leaves. You wake to a small orange cat on your chest, kneading tiny tears into your shirt as it watches you with eyes as blue of a far off sea.

You take a picnic to the old pear tree, where the ground is soft with moss and new grass, and fall asleep listening to the breeze whisper through its leaves. You wake to a small orange cat on your chest, kneading tiny tears into your shirt as it watches you with eyes as blue of a far off sea.

You sew an extra pocket on your coat out of some scrap green corduroy, intending to use it for acorns and pretty stones. When you slip your hand in to check the last stitches though, you find a length of daffodil-yellow ribbon, a small disc of wax-wrapped cheese, and three roasted walnuts.

You sew an extra pocket on your coat out of some scrap green corduroy, intending to use it for acorns and pretty stones. When you slip your hand in to check the last stitches though, you find a length of daffodil-yellow ribbon, a small disc of wax-wrapped cheese, and three roasted walnuts.

You arrive at the shore just as the dawn boats come in, and get first pick of the morning’s catch. You trade a jar of honey and a bottle of star mead for three fat cod: one to roast for friends tonight, one for a stew for the hob family who live in the oaks, and one fresh for the shadow-striped cat.

an illustration titled "Six of Boons" from the Forest of Enchantment Tarot deck.

You arrive at the shore just as the dawn boats come in, and get first pick of the morning’s catch. You trade a jar of honey and a bottle of star mead for three fat cod: one to roast for friends tonight, one for a stew for the hob family who live in the oaks, and one fresh for the shadow-striped cat.

A blackthorn winter, a lambing storm, a foal-storm. I could hear the lambs, one field over, bleating & running to their ewes for cover & comfort under their woolley bellies. Sometimes, still, the weather & seasons remember their pattern.

You find a small jar of paint at the split oak where you often leave bits of honeyed bread or small trinkets. There’s a light inside that seems to shift like clouds, or a wave over sunlit sand. After some thought, you paint tiny flowers on the staircase and a field of stars on your bedroom ceiling.

Sparrowhawk chasing the birds based on an experience in our garden

You find a small jar of paint at the split oak where you often leave bits of honeyed bread or small trinkets. There’s a light inside that seems to shift like clouds, or a wave over sunlit sand. After some thought, you paint tiny flowers on the staircase and a field of stars on your bedroom ceiling.

Goodnight. Apple Tree: Seven for a Secret, Catherine Hyde.

‘Hemlock spiders share two unique features with their namesake, despite their huge webs mimicking leafless maples rather than the evergreen: a droopy apex of their web, ready to curl around anything that lands in its “branches,” and a powerful neurotoxic venom.’ -from “The Sundered Valley: A Study”

Immediately preordered from my local indie. This looks breathtaking.

‘Hemlock spiders share two unique features with their namesake, despite their huge webs mimicking leafless maples rather than the evergreen: a droopy apex of their web, ready to curl around anything that lands in its “branches,” and a powerful neurotoxic venom.’ -from “The Sundered Valley: A Study”

I drew a few pictures for @stoutstoat.co.uk's new book Carved in Stone (www.stoutstoat.co.uk/products/car...) it's probably the best-researched project I ever worked on, and also it looks beautiful. Lots of amazing artists worked on this! Anyway here are some pictish vignettes

Summer Sky, 1955 by Alfred Joseph Casson

A book exchange pops up without warning in the middle of a neighbour's barn. You stuff your pockets with every shiny trinket you can find and hurry over, jostling elbows with others hungry for new stories, and you trade a ring for one clothed in willow bark, about an owl emperor and a trickster.

A book exchange pops up without warning in the middle of a neighbour's barn. You stuff your pockets with every shiny trinket you can find and hurry over, jostling elbows with others hungry for new stories, and you trade a ring for one clothed in willow bark, about an owl emperor and a trickster.

Brown Hares, Andrew Hutchinson.

You curl into your window seat as the sun rises, feeling the balance shift from night to balance to light. The morning casts a golden sheen on everything—your wind-chapped hands, the clouded glass, the scattered sketches across your floor—and you breathe in relief for another equinox safely passed.

Depictions of owls in Hookland are claimed as avatars for their Queen. Every carved set of eyes, every stitched set of tufted ears, ever pair of painted wings. All are her agents. She peers at us from pictures, hears us at prayer. Those with secrets beg her mercy. – #CLNolan

important