#Shovel and Pail

[aclue-aclue]

Blue's Alphabet Book for gameboy color

[psychedelic-charm]

The Periwinkle stuffie is the perfect present for Heather!

Blue’s Clues pngs by me! 🐾

(please reblog if using)

[daikenkki]

It All Started with a Paw Print by AnimationFan15

[ramona-quinn]

🫧⏰️🦆🪣☎️

GIFs are not mine! I found them on the Blue's Clues wiki

[artofmyart]

Sketchaday #shovel

Plastic beach shovels for children.

[heidispikecat6]

Chuck Jones Styled Shovel and Pail

[flyingspicerack]

Anyway hi im home

Im alone for the evening cause my roommates are hanging out with ppl... But i wanna socialize........

[vissy1]

Alright, Here are my 47 new OCs! But this time, It will be clocks, pails, and even shovels! Now let's start with the clocks.

Samuel is a Basketball Colored clock who likes to play Basketball.

Rosie is a striped Sky Blue and Light Blue clock who make plants at the garden.

Bob is an angled Red and Green clock who works on VeggieTales.

Darren is a DNA Production Background colored clock who can do funny things.

Michael and Kristian are Light Mint Green (Michael) and Light Sand Yellow (Kristian) clocks because they're Tickety's Silly Cousins, which is way better than Lilly and Billy. They love to do funny pranks, make jokes and people laugh out loud.

Andrew is a striped green clock who likes to be an actor.

Arthur is a UK flag but with yellow, red, blue and gray colored clock who likes to do the same as Arthur Read does.

Cary is a Cube Red-Dark Tan Yellow clock who likes to develop something using AI.

Griffin is a vertically striped Blue and Light Blue clock who likes to do gaming stuff.

Ian and Anthony are Striped Striped Yellow-Turquoise (Ian) and Turquoise-Yellow (Anthony) clock who runs Smosh together.

Balton is a sided zigzag Light Blue-Bubblegum Pink clock who test out crazy things everyone never tried before.

Johnny is a rocket-shaped Red-Yellow clock who plays with toys.

Carl is a darker tan yellow-dark green clock who loves crossiant (as a dessert).

Jackson is a Red-Yellow clock who likes to be friends with Vissy.

Roxanne is a sunburst Purple-White clock who strips hard.

Allison is a flower shaped Magenta-Red clock who loves to hatch eggs.

Ella is a grid Red-Rose clock who makes something out of wood.

Jenny is a Sky Blue-Light Blue clock who can fly high through the sky.

Sherry is a sunburst Magenta-Brown clock who flirts with handsome male clocks.

Usher is a wavy brown clock who likes to feed pets.

Xavier is an X Blue-Cyan clock who acts like a villian.

Bella is a Light Orange-Orange clock who likes to be Talking Bella

Kya is a star Yellow clock who likes to do the same as Lapis' clocksona does. Plus, Kya was Lapis' prototype clocksona.

And now let's go for pails.

Jared is a grid dark green pail who develops YouTube in 2005.

Dane is a white with black square pail who kills bootleg plushies.

Walden is a zigzag dark aqua blue-orange pail who reads people's minds.

Quincy is a yellow-green-blue pail who likes to do the same as Quincy from Little Einsteins does.

Dave is a vertically striped turquoise-navy blue pail who likes to rap hard.

Penny is a circle illusion green-purple pail who loves to draw.

Laura is an orange-violet pail who likes to do the same as Laura The Carrot does.

Israel is a striped white-blue pail who's always Jewish and lives in Israel.

Zachary is a navy blue with colorful shapes pail who loves to watch Blue's Clues and its spinoffs.

William is a vetically shapes Red-White pail who works at the theater.

Joseph is a green with a basketball pail who likes to do the same as Joseph from SML does.

Cody is a Cody's Clothes that doesn't look like it colored pail who likes to do the same as Cody from SML does.

Randy is a zigzag turquoise pail who likes to be friends with Pail and Tickety and be best friends with Ronny who has the same color as him.

Norman is a light navy blue with infinity shaped orange pail who does naughty stuff like Lilly and Billy did.

Tony is a black with a green star pail who likes to be best friends with TAT Clock.

And finally, We go for shovels.

Jack is a striped black-orange shovel who likes to eat burgers.

Andorra is a purple with pink heart shovel who turns anyone into anything.

Vicky is a green with spikey orange on top shovel who does the same as Vicky from The Fairly Odd Parents does.

Joey is a Sky Blue-Blue shovel who does nothing but being a GoAnimate/Vyond User.

Stuart is a yellow-red shovel who invents something dangerously expiremental.

Peter is a grid dark aqua blue shovel who makes early CGI animation.

Halden is a grey with black swirl on top shovel who likes to play retro games.

What do you think of these new OCs? Which one is your favorite?

[mailsinmailshere11]

Now these are just cute

[aclue-aclue]

Joe, you have a bed!

[darksilvania]

Fossil TINKATINK, Fossil TINKATUFF & PTENKATON (Fairy/Rock)

And here are the next fossil forms, this time is the TINKATON line, who now uses the many fossils from the ravine to create digging tools.

Their hands and feet are covered in dirt from digging so much in search of more bones, and with time this dirt has become a protective layer, like boots and gloves.

TINKATINK uses the skull of an Austriadactylus and a fossilized egg as a shovel and pail, the sand around its feet resembles flip-flops

TINKATUFF uses the skull and bones of a Pteranodon Sternbergi as a pickaxe and the dome of a Pachysephalosaurus as a helmet

PTENKATON has made a Jackhammer out of several bones, with the skull resembling that of a Tropeognatus, and the dome of a Stygimoloch as a helmet

They have an ability called "Earth Mover" that boost the power of ground type moves, so, despite being rock types they have acces to all the "bone" and "drill" moves

[daikenkki]

Blue's Big Treasure Hunt by joeysclues

[spurbleu]

where the aster grows

neighbor!price x fem florist!reader

ch 2. impressions s. you threw a pail at your neighbor

You’ve got a good throw.

Perhaps not the first thing John should notice about the situation, given the fact he can feel the quiet familiarity of blood dripping down his temple, or the throb that follows its decent. But as you corner yourself by one of the labor tables, a road deer gasping for the air stolen by his entrance, it’s really the only thing he can think about.

“Who the hell are you?”

Guilt bubbles at the surface of his mouth, but it doesn’t take him long to remember himself. He’s no stranger to recoveries, and this entire first impression lacked any remnant of manners. But it’s never too late to find them.

He would also like to avoid meeting his end to a garden shovel, of all things.

John clears his throat, running a hand up the column of his neck.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you- my name is John Price; I live next door.” He’s got a voice for times like this- lowers it a half octave, baritone an inch slower than his usual cadence. Uses it for spooked civilians, or soldiers blinking back death. Wouldn’t call it comforting, but it’s close. Enough that after he uses it, your shoulders unhook themselves from the lobe of your ears.

He adds a slouch. A neutral position, drawing commonality between polar opposites. It’s as non-threatening as he’s able to look. “I’m Penny’s owner.”

Anxiety melts like molasses. Starts at your neck- stretching into a polite slouch. The aim of your arm dissolves by your side. Your breath slows, and for a moment so does time. Your eyes are blown wide, silting sunlight and the last bits of apprehension towards his stranger.

They are the brightest color in the room.

“P-Penny?”

He smiles. “The cat?”

As if on cue, a bolt of fur scampers to his boots- doing calculated twists between his ankles. He picks her up gently and scratches the spot behind her ear. “She lives part time in this store. With the owner when I’m gone. Must have snuck in here,” he holds her in front of his face with a stern expression, “been lookin’ for an hour. You devil.”

He steals a glance at you, past Penny’s head. The guilt swarms his throat for a second time, seeing your fear replaced with absolute mortification.  

“I- oh my god. You’re bleeding. I threw a pail at you.” Your face flushes. Cute. “I am so so sorry.”

John chuckles. “Don’t be. I made such a fuss opening the door I can imagine I scared you,” glad you have good aim sits on his tongue, but he bites it when he soothes his mouth into a gentle line. No need to soil the impression any further, now that he had just ironed out the broken silks.

“I don’t think I got your name...?”

A beat.

You offer it like its acid on your teeth. Spits it out with the last bits of terror, like a cavity that burns. But unlike the delivery, it’s soft. Curves along the line of your jaw, relaxes around your silhouette in a film that’s drunk on horizon’s champagne. Spills onto the white tiles of the floor by his feet.

Doesn’t even realize that he’s saying it back to you until he catches its last syllable on the back of his teeth. He blinks. “It’s…nice to meet you.”

John categorizes silence into two boxes.

Treasured. Costal nowhere. One in the morning. A city where all anyone does is sleep. The drag of his cigar. The pockets amid time and place that remain nameless. It gives a finite peace that John runs dry.

And then there’s this.

Stiff. Premeditates chaos. The quiet before a grenade, the cotton ears after. The hospital when someone dies, and the emptiness they leave behind. The death of conversation between a beautiful woman, and her impolite neighbor.

John will always put it out as quickly as possible.

“Well, I’ll get out of your h-“

“Let me help you.”

The silence fractures into small sounds. A wire snaps, wine cork pops, pin drops, among other fictions. The air that surrounds you beckons a peculiar clarity. Narrows when John sees you smile for the first time. What he did to earn it is beyond him. “Help me with what?”

You tap your temple. “Your head. I... You’re bleeding. I have an aid in the back,” the look he gives you must be telling, because then you say, “please.”

Christ.

“Alright.” Is all he can muster, albeit it comes out parched. You nod and scamper off to the back door.

Your absence allows him to soak the store in.

He’s been in plenty of times, so its layout isn’t alien. But he supposes that part of its charm is that it feels that way. Beyond familiarity. Every time he’s been in, he notices a new detail.

A freshly kilned pot. A corner section with seasonal flowers. You.

This time, he draws his focus to the carnations by the window. Red and alive, unfurls its buds with a grace he’s only ever seen in nature. He lets his hand come to lift the petals and smiles at himself.

He feels ridiculous, drawing so much depth from a flower, but its caretaker taught him the bizarre empathy.

The old woman would probably laugh at him.

“Uh…John, was it?”

He turns around, letting his hand fall back into his pocket. He doesn’t know why he feels caught, but the heat rises to his neck before he can stop it. “Yes.”

“Here,” You shove various gardening paraphernalia and metals from one of the work benches, push down to check its stability before stepping aside, “take a seat.”

The joke falls before he can stop it. “Aren’t we a little old to play doctor?”

Doesn’t regret it, because it makes you laugh. The hair on his neck rises, and he feels like a teen again, seeing a playboy for the first time. Since when did laughter have the same effect on him as cleavage?

Must have been sometime after 35.

He pulls himself onto the bench and grimaces when the oak whines. You snort. “Don’t worry. They hold anything.”

His eyes squint. “Didn’t you just check it?”

You bring your gaze down to grab an antiseptic wipe, a failed effort to hide your smile. “Nothing wrong with playing it safe.”

He hums. “Forgot I’m talking to the woman who throws pails at strangers.”

He flinches when you swipe chemicals across the cut. Undoubtedly to shut him up. “Maybe don’t break into your neighbors store.”

He rolls his eyes as you find a bandage. “I wouldn’t’ve if you weren’t holding my cat hostage.”

This gets you to step away. “Hostage? She was lounging in the window!”

“Clearly, she was trying to signal for help.”

A third, new silence bloats between you. He doesn’t have time to name it before it dissolves into eased laughter. You go back to applying the bandages while he vehemently ignores the soft feeling of your fingers against his face.

Kate’s words come back to him slowly. The same old song she’d been singing since she got married. Rhymes of settling down, making a home for himself, letting someone else take up the fight. He sees glimpses of these futilities every so often. Like he is now.

Niceties that fatten up the bones of his dreams and cushion the dull blow of walking into an empty home. Having someone there to wait for him. Normal. It bakes the room in a tenderness he can’t remember the last time he’s had.

But in the end, he knows none of this is real. Not in the ways Kate talks about.

Doesn’t stop him from noticing your barren ring finger, though.

“I think…I know why she got trapped.”

He glances at you as a response. Your shoulders have gotten noticeably heavy.

“My grandmother owned this place. She passed away last week.”

Oh.

“My dad must have closed up while she was in the hospital,” your voice breaks, before mending with a scoff, “he’s not very observant. Probably missed her,” she looks over her shoulder before scratching Penny’s cheek with a gentle somber, “glad there was an automatic feeder in the back.”

Despite being well acquainted with death, John Price never knows how to greet him.

Silence and wallowing are classics, but given the troughs under your eyes it would be both inappropriate and apathetic. He’d offer a cigar, but that’s only really been a hit with his soldiers, and he sincerely doubts you’d be the type grieve with tobacco.

So, he tries to picture your grandmother. A reflection of himself, 4 decades from now. Creased and warm. The way her cheeks folded around her smile. How her voice, too, was wrinkled. When she thanked him for lifting the new shipments or calling his cat Penny-girl. The subtle tremble of her hands, and youthful eyes that betrayed her age.

If grief is memory, that’s the best he can do. Looks harder, and he sees her resemblance in you.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he internally scolds himself for the cliché, but you seem to appreciate it, “I feel very lucky to have known her.”

That makes you smile. “Yeah, most people do.”

You clear your throat, and John doesn’t miss how you swipe your cheek with the back of your hand. He opens his mouth to say something, before reminding himself that he is still a stranger. No outstretched hand or comforting words take up the space a loved one leaves behind.

He’s observed this truth dozens of times, in spouses, parents, children. News about his own failings as a captain to bring someone home. Although it’s unwarranted in the claustrophobic place he sits in now, that same guilt capsizes when he sees you sniffle.

“Anyway,” you start, “I thought you should know, given the fact you were neighbors and…” you pick up Penny, who purrs in your arms, “apparently shared custody of her.”

He enjoys the sight of his cat in your arms more than he cares to admit.

“Thank you, I’m sure Penny will miss her,” he lips quirk, “she always did spoil her rotten.”

You pull Penny out from your embrace, so she faces you. “Don’t worry, I’ll spoil her just as much as Ma did.”

John does not mask his surprise. “Will you be staying?”

You turn to him, a genuine smile playing on your lips.

“Yes, with the shop and the house,” somewhere behind him, a flower unfurls itself from the final folds of its petals when you stretch out your hand, “I’m your new neighbor.”

Spring begins when he shakes it, and John has never been more afraid of anything in his life.

[aclue-aclue]

THATS SO CUTE!

Brought some Blues Clues fan art for Steve to sign and he hit me right in the feels!

He was so sweet and I'm so glad he liked it, made sure to bring an extra copy just for him!

[rainylana]

Eddie at the beach headcaons

Eddie Munson x female reader

• he hates it lowkey, but only goes because you love it so much. you go all out and pack a picnic basket full of food and towels, sunscreen and even a pail and shovel as a joke.

• he hates the sand. that’s the worst thing about it. it gets everywhere in his hair and he’s always shaking his head like a dog trying to get it out.

• when dustin comes along they wrestle while you tan.

“eyes on me, henderson. not my lady.”

• he’s TERRIFIED of getting in the water and refuses to go in any deeper than past his knees. every time he brushes against seaweed or touches a seashell he screams like a little girl and runs out as quickly as he can.

• caused a fiasco because he yelled shark! and the whole beach flocked out of the water.

• likes it more when he lays on the beach towel with you and watches the sunset.

• burns so bad it’s not even funny, especially on his forehead.

• throws a fit when dustin knocks over his sand castle.

[sabookey]

There are two pieces of advice on first drafts that I constantly return to:

"The first draft is just you telling yourself the story." — Terry Pratchett

This was the first piece of writing advice that felt absolutely revolutionary to me on how I write. It's why this is my tag for first draft tips & encouragement.

I always really struggled with getting through a first draft. I'd come up with an idea, jot down some notes, write about three chapters and then get stuck. To this day, the first draft is always the hardest part to get through for me.

I know we hear the whole "the first draft doesn't have to be good" advice thrown around all the time, but I think a lot of people struggle to wrap their head around how to apply that, and this is where Pratchett's advice is so much more solid.

The first draft is just for you. No one else ever needs to look at it or even know it exists. It doesn't even need to have complete chapters or scenes or even sentences. Hell, I'm coming around to the idea that sometimes, the first draft doesn't even need to be much more than an outline. It's the underpainting, the pie crust, the foundation. Which brings me around to the second quote:

“I'm writing a first draft and reminding myself that I'm simply shoveling sand into a box so that later I can build castles.” ― Shannon Hale

This sounds flowery and again, I think that can be hard to translate into actionable things. But it's similar to what Pratchett said. What they mean is, no writer just spits out golden perfect sentences from nowhere. Good writing doesn't exist in the void, and good writers aren't just plucking sentences out of the aether fully-formed.

You can't revise a blank page. Blank pages are scary, and you need to just start throwing words at them.

Ever seen Princess Diaries? Remember the painting scene, where they're throwing darts to burst paint-filled balloons? Pretty quick that canvas is covered in splashy, messy colors. That's your first draft.

Throw words at the page. Who is there? What are they doing? What are they thinking or talking about? Start with just the dialogue if you need to.

Don't think about making good sentences, just tell yourself what happens. Take the bullet points from your outline and slap them in there if you need to.

Later, when it's time to work on the second draft, you can pass back over those scraps and vague collections of dialogue and feelings and hazy scenes. Nope, it's not pretty. But it exists. The basic shape of your story is there. The building materials, the sand, waiting in messy piles that you can run your fingers through. Add water, pick up your pail and trowel. Now you can start to give it more defined shape. It's easier when the page isn't blank, right? And later, you can come back with an armload of shells and pretty stones and decorate your new castle until it glitters.