wishes from your great-great-great-great uncle, although I don't suppose you remember me. Coming up.
Other ancestors were climbing on past Teppic as he rose from hand to hand. Ancient fingers with a grip like steel clutched again, you said. Now come on!'
Teppic scrambled to the top of the pyramid, supported by the last two ancestors. One of them was his father.
'I don't think you've met your great-grandma,' he said, indicating the shorter bandaged figure, who nodded gently at Teppic. He opened his mouth.at him, hoisting him onwards. The pyramid grew narrower. Down below, Ptaclusp watched thoughtfully. 'What a workforce,' he said. 'I mean, the ones at the bottom are supporting the whole weight!' 'Dad,' said IIb. 'I think we'd better run. Those gods are getting closer.' 'Do you think we could employ them?' said Ptaclusp, ignoring him. 'They're dead, they probably won't want high wages, and-' 'Dad!' 'Sort of self-build-' 'You said no more pyramids, dad. Never
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Mary Cassatt Young Mother Sewing
street, turned his face to the sky and hissed. 'Tell me what you can see!'
Gern squinted.
'I can see the stars, master,' he said.
'What are they on, boy?'
Gern relaxed slightly. 'That's easy, master. Everyone knows the stars are on the body of the goddess Nept who arches She was enormous, her statistics interstellar. The shadow between her galactic breasts was a dark nebula, the curve of her stomach a vast wash of glowing gas, her navel the seething, dark incandescence in which new stars were being born. She wasn't supporting the sky. She was the sky.
Her huge sad face, upside down on the turnwise horizon, stared directly herself from . . . oh, bloody hell.' 'You can see her, too?' 'Oh, mummy,' whispered Gern, and slid to his knees. Dil nodded. He was a religious man. It was a great comfort knowing that the gods were there. It was knowing they were here that was the terrible part. Because the body of a woman arched over the heavens, faintly blue, faintly shadowy in the light of the watery stars.
Gern squinted.
'I can see the stars, master,' he said.
'What are they on, boy?'
Gern relaxed slightly. 'That's easy, master. Everyone knows the stars are on the body of the goddess Nept who arches She was enormous, her statistics interstellar. The shadow between her galactic breasts was a dark nebula, the curve of her stomach a vast wash of glowing gas, her navel the seething, dark incandescence in which new stars were being born. She wasn't supporting the sky. She was the sky.
Her huge sad face, upside down on the turnwise horizon, stared directly herself from . . . oh, bloody hell.' 'You can see her, too?' 'Oh, mummy,' whispered Gern, and slid to his knees. Dil nodded. He was a religious man. It was a great comfort knowing that the gods were there. It was knowing they were here that was the terrible part. Because the body of a woman arched over the heavens, faintly blue, faintly shadowy in the light of the watery stars.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Salvador Dali Bacchanale
They looked in gloomy silence at the waxen visage of the pharaoh. So did the pharaoh.
'Nothing wrong with my chin.'
'You could put a beard on it,' said Dil eventually. 'It'd cover a lot of it, would a beard.'
they'll notice. But they won't say anything. They expect us to, er, improve matters.'
'After all,' said the chief sculptor cheerfully, 'you don't think they're going to step up and say "It's all wrong, he really had a face like a short-sighted chicken", do you?'
'Thank you very much. Thank you very much indeed, I must say.' The pharaoh went and sat by the cat. It seemed that people only had respect for the dead when they thought the dead were listening.
'I suppose,' said the apprentice, with some uncertainty, 'he did look a bit ugly compared to the frescoes.'
'That's the point, isn't it,' said Dil meaningfully. Gern's big honest spotty face changed slowly,'There's still the nose.' 'You could take half an inch off that. And do something with the cheekbones.' 'Yes.' 'Yes.' Gern was horrified. 'That's the face of our late king you're talking about,' he said. 'You can't do that sort of thing! Anyway, people would notice.' He hesitated. 'Wouldn't they?' The two craftsmen eyed one another. 'Gern,' said Dil patiently, 'certainly
'Nothing wrong with my chin.'
'You could put a beard on it,' said Dil eventually. 'It'd cover a lot of it, would a beard.'
they'll notice. But they won't say anything. They expect us to, er, improve matters.'
'After all,' said the chief sculptor cheerfully, 'you don't think they're going to step up and say "It's all wrong, he really had a face like a short-sighted chicken", do you?'
'Thank you very much. Thank you very much indeed, I must say.' The pharaoh went and sat by the cat. It seemed that people only had respect for the dead when they thought the dead were listening.
'I suppose,' said the apprentice, with some uncertainty, 'he did look a bit ugly compared to the frescoes.'
'That's the point, isn't it,' said Dil meaningfully. Gern's big honest spotty face changed slowly,'There's still the nose.' 'You could take half an inch off that. And do something with the cheekbones.' 'Yes.' 'Yes.' Gern was horrified. 'That's the face of our late king you're talking about,' he said. 'You can't do that sort of thing! Anyway, people would notice.' He hesitated. 'Wouldn't they?' The two craftsmen eyed one another. 'Gern,' said Dil patiently, 'certainly
Jack Vettriano The Singing Butler
They said you had one chance in two unless you drew old Mericet as examiner, in which case you might as well cut your throat right at the start.
Teppic had Mericet for Strategy and Poison Theory every Thursday afternoon, and didn't get along with him. The dormitories buzzed with rumours about Mericet, the number of kills, the astonishing technique . . . He'd broken all the records in his time. They said he'd even killed the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. Not the present one, that is. One of the dead ones.
Maybe it would this mathematician's particular species, what he was eating for his supper was his lunch.
Gongs around the Ankh-Morpork sprawl were announcing midnight when Teppic crept along the ornate parapet four storeys above Filigree Street, his heart pounding.be Nivor, who was fat and jolly and liked his food and did Traps and Deadfalls on Tuesdays. Teppic was good at traps, and got on well with the master. Or it could be the Kompt de Yoyo, who did Modern Languages and Music. Teppic was gifted at neither, but the Kompt was a keen edificeer and liked boys who shared his love of dangling by one hand high above the city streets. He stuck one leg over the sill and unhitched his line and grapnel. He hooked the gutter two floors up and slipped out of the window. No assassin ever used the stairs. In order to establish continuity with later events, this may be the time to point out that the greatest mathematician in the history of the Discworld was lying down and peacefully eating his supper. It is interesting to note that, owing to
Teppic had Mericet for Strategy and Poison Theory every Thursday afternoon, and didn't get along with him. The dormitories buzzed with rumours about Mericet, the number of kills, the astonishing technique . . . He'd broken all the records in his time. They said he'd even killed the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. Not the present one, that is. One of the dead ones.
Maybe it would this mathematician's particular species, what he was eating for his supper was his lunch.
Gongs around the Ankh-Morpork sprawl were announcing midnight when Teppic crept along the ornate parapet four storeys above Filigree Street, his heart pounding.be Nivor, who was fat and jolly and liked his food and did Traps and Deadfalls on Tuesdays. Teppic was good at traps, and got on well with the master. Or it could be the Kompt de Yoyo, who did Modern Languages and Music. Teppic was gifted at neither, but the Kompt was a keen edificeer and liked boys who shared his love of dangling by one hand high above the city streets. He stuck one leg over the sill and unhitched his line and grapnel. He hooked the gutter two floors up and slipped out of the window. No assassin ever used the stairs. In order to establish continuity with later events, this may be the time to point out that the greatest mathematician in the history of the Discworld was lying down and peacefully eating his supper. It is interesting to note that, owing to
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Apple Tree with Red Fruit
The dwarf watched them for a few seconds from the wings, his lips moving soundlessly. Then he scuttled back to the guardroom where the rest of the cast were still in the last hasty stages of dressing. He uttered the stage manager's traditional scream of rage.
'C'mon,' he ordered. 'Soldiers of the king, at the double! And the witches – where are the blasted witches?'
Three any gods that might be watching.
It was already going wrong. The earlier rehearsals had their little teething troubles, it was true, but Hwel had known one or two monumental horrors in his time and this one was shaping up to be the worst. The company was more jittery than a potful of lobsters. Out of the corner of his ear he heard the on-stage dialogue falter, and scurried to the wings.junior apprentices presented themselves.'I've lost my wart!''The cauldron's all full of yuk!''There's something living in this wig!''Calm down, calm down,' screamed Hwel. 'It'll all be all right on the night!''This is the night, Hwel!'Hwel snatched a handful of putty from the makeup table and slammed on a wart like an orange. The offending straw wig was rammed on its owner's head, livestock and all. and the cauldron was very briefly inspected and pronounced full of just the right sort of yuk, nothing wrong with yuk like that.On stage a guard dropped his shield, bent down to pick it up, and dropped his spear. Hwel rolled his eyes and offered up a silent prayer to
'C'mon,' he ordered. 'Soldiers of the king, at the double! And the witches – where are the blasted witches?'
Three any gods that might be watching.
It was already going wrong. The earlier rehearsals had their little teething troubles, it was true, but Hwel had known one or two monumental horrors in his time and this one was shaping up to be the worst. The company was more jittery than a potful of lobsters. Out of the corner of his ear he heard the on-stage dialogue falter, and scurried to the wings.junior apprentices presented themselves.'I've lost my wart!''The cauldron's all full of yuk!''There's something living in this wig!''Calm down, calm down,' screamed Hwel. 'It'll all be all right on the night!''This is the night, Hwel!'Hwel snatched a handful of putty from the makeup table and slammed on a wart like an orange. The offending straw wig was rammed on its owner's head, livestock and all. and the cauldron was very briefly inspected and pronounced full of just the right sort of yuk, nothing wrong with yuk like that.On stage a guard dropped his shield, bent down to pick it up, and dropped his spear. Hwel rolled his eyes and offered up a silent prayer to
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