Trois petits pois

«The Secret of the Evening Lake»

Sometimes we all long for a little more silence and peace, especially when life feels full of noise, emotions, and endless thoughts.For me, the most comforting subject to paint is always sunsets and sunrises. I love the way warm glowing colors meet cool shadows, creating those brief moments when everything feels balanced and calm.While working on this painting, I kept thinking it needed something more. I tried adding people, then birds, then tiny insects. Later I experimented with shimmering lights, almost like fireflies dancing above the water. In the end, I stopped before fully developing them.At some point I realized that this landscape didn’t need anyone or anything else. Its quietness was already enough.So I left it exactly as it is.Wishing you a moment of stillness, peace, and the chance to spend time either with yourself or with the people who make you feel at home.

This Tumblr post is the first time someone has explained to me *why* I couldn’t feed them before those instances.

every single time i have had to say, "i understand that if he had food or water, he could aspirate it into his lungs under anesthesia. i am not lying to you." THEN someone would make a little note and i would stop being repeatedly asked.

not a single time was that risk explained to me. the only reason it came up was because i already knew. i still don't understand why it isn't standard pre-op counseling or pre-op check information, when me as a parent acknowledging the actual risk also put THE MEDICAL STAFF at ease because i conveyed that i had informed understanding as reason to not lie about giving my kid food.

Pretend I am training you for your first day at my taproom, and consider the following examples:

1. "Please make sure to wash the glassware before you put it in the sanitizer machine."

2. "Please make sure to wash the glassware before you put it in the sanitizer machine. I know it looks and acts like a dishwasher, but it isn't, so don't. "

Or

3. "Please make sure to wash the glassware before you put it in the sanitizer machine. I know the sanitizer machine looks and acts like a dishwasher, but it isn't because a dishwasher will empty and refill between cycles. This machine doesn't do that, it recycles the same sanitizer solution over and over. So if you put a dirty glass in, not only will the glass still be dirty but all the other glasses will get dirty too and we'll have to empty and refill the machine. Which you really do not want to do because thing takes almost an hour to come back up to temperature, and thats a gigantic pain in the ass when you get in the weeds. So just remember to wash the glasses first, okay?"

Now tell me: which one of those are you gonna remember?

Hojo, Lucrecia, and the Body as a Crime Scene Vincent Valentine’s story is often framed as a tragedy of guilt. He loved Lucrecia. He failed to stop Hojo. He could not prevent Sephiroth’s creation. He was shot, experimented on, transformed, buried, and left to wake decades later inside a body that was no longer fully his own. By the time Dirge of Cerberus: Final Fantasy VII places him at the…

It’s my birthday today and… I do not like my body very much - a 10p. mini comic. 

tw/cw : dysphoria, talk about eating disorders, internalized fatphobia, nudity

Notes :

- english is not my first language.

- DO NOT ask me why I still use she/her

- DO NOT give me unsolicited advices about losing weight, gaining muscles. I will block you.

- DO NOT comment on the way I draw my body and about how I perceive myself. I will block you.

- DO share your experiences with gender expressions and share your best outfits !

- Be kind.

A slightly redrawn and edited version of the Dream Library stack (version 3 if you’re counting).

Since I first drew this, my first wish has come true with the final Book of Dust novel having come out (not what I expected, but I liked it)! Which would you most want if you could pick one?

(Currently part of a half price print sale on my shop!)

For Sas, another story about helping.

#

There is a statue on the cliffs overlooking the harbour, of a man shading his eyes with one hand and looking out over the sea.

They say that when invaders came, a man went up to the cliffs, and prayed to the gods. He offered them his own life to save his people. The gods accepted his sacrifice, and a great fire burned across the water, sinking all the ships. The man became stone, and ever since then he has stood on the cliffs, looking out at ships that sank long ago.

There is a statue that stands in the center of the town, of an old woman with both hands held up before her, palm out.

They say that when invaders came again, a woman stood in the middle of the square, and ordered them to halt. She reminded them of the great fire that sank the ships years before, and called on the gods to strike down any man who took one more step, though it cost her life. The gods accepted her sacrifice, and the invaders who stepped forward became water, running back down the hill towards the sea and soaking the boots of the men behind them. The survivors fled in fear, and the woman became stone, her feet set among the cobbles, her hands raised to stop invaders long gone.

There is a statue that stands by the road that runs past our village, of a young woman holding a basket.

They say that when brigands came upon the village in the teeth of a hard winter, starving and desperate, a woman saw them coming and offered them the food in her basket. They mocked her, saying that so little would not feed them for a day. She, too, called on the gods, and she, too, was answered. She made a bargain with their leader, that every man would turn back when he had all the food he could carry. From that one basket, she filled every bandit’s hands and sacks with food until he could carry no more. When she had filled even the leader’s hands, she bowed her head and became stone, her basket empty at last. The bandits kept to their bargain, and never troubled the village again.

We all know these stories. We all know why those people became stone, stone that does not weather.

No parts of it extended beyond the lines, and the paper ticket was clearly displayed, impaled on a horn.