#Tranquil Water Illustration

[lonelyloverliv]

Trapped Elegance: Koi Fish in a Plastic Soy Sauce Packet

This digital illustration captures the serene beauty of two koi fish elegantly swimming within the confines of a transparent water bottle. The artwork creatively juxtaposes the natural grace of koi fish against the artificial boundaries of a plastic bottle, highlighted by a vivid red cap. The koi are depicted with intricate detailing in white and speckled patterns of pink and black, floating amidst subtle blue water swirls that enhance the tranquil yet confined ambiance. This piece uses Adobe Illustrator to achieve precise details and vibrant colors, making it a stunning example of modern digital art and environmental commentary.

[artbycaryn]

'Dreaming of Waterlilies', 6x6", 2024 by Caryn Liu

Large prints now available

Etsy | Website

[designstack]

Urban reflections. Drawing.

Urban Life Architecture Drawings. More art from Cox Soniel, on our site.

https://www.designstack.co/2024/04/urban-life-architecture-drawings.html

[veronicaphoenix]

until the stars stop shining | noah sebastian

previous part to all that's left, but it can be read as a one shot.

summary: noah and his girl spend an evening by the lake | words: 1.2k | reading time: 5mins

tags & trigger warnings: fluff, fluff, fluff. noah is an illustrator, reader loves baking cookies, mentions of noah having been reader's first, and that's it—they love each other a ton.

This is for the anon that asked for something sweet and fluffy after i posted All That's Left. I hope this does it. It's not actually a standalone work, but a sort of flashback belonging to the same story where All That's Left happens. I have a full plot developed in my head, but I can't tell if I'll ever write it and post it, so here goes this little thing where you get to know a little bit more of those characters and the story.

Thank you for all your constant love and support <3

 ͢ until the stars stop shining

Noah leaned back in the Muskoka chair, one leg lazily stretched out, balancing his sketchbook on his lap. He was shirtless, only wearing his bathing suit. For over an hour, he had been sketching, savoring the tranquil solitude offered by the lake, the warm caress of the late afternoon sun, and the rustling of leaves. Early fall was the perfect time for moments like this, when nature felt intimate and unhurried. Most of the tourists had long gone, leaving behind only the soft chorus of birds and the quiet murmur of waves licking the shore.

The breeze teased the pages of his sketchbook, carrying with it the crisp scent of pine needles and the rhythmic whisper of water against the rocks. Noah’s pencil glided in slow, thoughtful strokes as he tried to capture the scene before him, but his thoughts drifted constantly to his girl.

The door to the cottage creaked open right then, and she stepped outside. She carried a wooden tray filled with oat cinnamon cookies, their powdered sugar dusting glinting in the soft afternoon light. The sweet, comforting aroma mingled with the crisp air, making Noah smile to himself even without glancing back. 

She padded softly down the dock, her bare feet almost silent against the worn wood, and placed the tray on the armrest of his chair, her fingers grazing his shoulder in a brief, affectionate touch.

“I baked something,” she said, her voice carrying that familiar warmth. Of course she had. Baking was her favorite thing to do.  “Something sweet for my favorite artist.”

Noah grinned as he finally looked at her, his eyes catching on the spot of flour smeared across her nose. She had no idea it was there, and he decided not to tell her—she looked adorable like that.

“You need to refill your energy after working so hard for hours on end,” she pointed out as she glanced at the open sketchbook on his lap. 

Instead of reaching for a cookie, Noah broke off a small piece and gently brought it to her lips. Her smile widened as she took a bite, the sweetness melting on her tongue. A moment later, he let out a soft chuckle, reaching to brush a crumb off her lip with the pad of his thumb. His eyes lingered on her for a beat longer before dropping back to his half-finished sketch.

“I’m not half as good at drawing as you are at baking,” he admitted.

She tilted her head, glancing at the sketch. “This one looks pretty good to me, Noah.”

He smirked, a playful gleam in his eyes. “Wait until you see the one I did last night, after you fell asleep on the couch.”

“Why do you find it so entertaining to draw me?”

His gaze softened as he looked back at her. “Because you’re my favorite subject.”

That’s when he bopped her nose, making the flour stain disappear.

Her grin was bright and effortless as she leaned over the back of his chair, wrapping her arms around his neck. She rested her chin on his shoulder, close enough to feel his warmth. “And you’re my favorite person to bake for,” she whispered.

Noah’s cheeks flushed slightly at her words, a rare blush coloring his usually composed expression. She kissed the warm skin of his left cheek, lingering for just a moment before pulling away with a satisfied smile. She wandered toward the edge of the dock, her bare feet padding softly against the wooden planks. She sat down, her legs hanging off the edge.

Noah watched her for a moment, admiring how the wind gently tousled her hair and the way the light danced off her skin. The contentment in her posture, the way her eyes reflected the colors of the setting sun—everything about this moment felt perfect.

“You ever gonna let me teach you how to swim?” Noah asked.

She hesitated for a moment, her gaze fixed on the water before she responded quietly, “I don’t know... I’m still a bit scared of it.” She dipped her feet a little deeper, letting the cool water lap around her ankles. “But... I love being here. With you.”

The memory of that first visit just the two of them was vivid in both their minds. This was Jolly’s cottage, the same place where Noah and her had meet back when she was still fourteen and he was eighteen. They had spent countless of weekends and birthdays and fourths of July in this very same place. But nothing had been as special as the weekend Noah convinced Jolly to let him stay with her, alone. It had been six years since then, and even now, the memory of taking her virginity—in Jolly’s bed—was still as clear as water.  

Noah watched as the wind played with her hair, blowing soft strands across her face. He picked up his sketchbook again, unable to resist capturing her in this moment—the peacefulness, the effortless beauty. His pencil moved in quick, steady strokes as he sketched her sitting at the edge of the dock, her feet in the water, the sun casting an orange glow over the horizon. He knew that one day, he would marry this girl. There was no question in his mind.

Once satisfied with the drawing, Noah quietly set his sketchbook aside and rose from the chair. He walked over to her with slow, deliberate steps, his heart swelling as he took in the sight of her in this perfect, secluded spot. Without warning, he bent down, pretending to lift her by the underarms as if he were about to toss her into the water.

She yelped in surprise, her heart leaping as she felt her feet lift off the dock. “Noah!” 

Before she could fully react, Noah pulled her back into his arms, turning her around to face him. She clung to him, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, her arms tightening around his neck, her pulse racing from the surprise.

“Don’t you dare!” she gasped, breathless from both fear and thrill, burying her face against his neck.

Noah laughed with her, holding her close, feeling her warm breath against his skin. “I wouldn’t let you go that easily,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

Still holding her, Noah carried her over to the blanket they had left spread out on the dock earlier. He gently laid her down, her body sinking into the soft fabric, and then settled beside her. 

“Don’t you ever,” she started to say, “ever, let me drown, Noah Sebastian.”

“Never ever,” he promised, showing her his pinky finger. 

She laced it with hers and finally, she let out a heavy sigh and cuddled closer to him, nuzzing her cheek against his bare shoulder. 

They lay close, facing each other, their fingers lazily tracing along each other’s arms and faces. Neither spoke for a long while. Her fingers trailed down his chest while his hand rested lightly on her hip. Above them, the stars began to appear, one by one, until the sky was a dark, glittering canvas. The moon’s reflection shimmered on the water.

“How long will you love me?” Noah asked, his voice barely louder than the breeze.

She gazed at him, eyes warm and steady. She placed the most tender of kisses on his lips.

“Until the stars stop shining.”

[pmamtraveller]

GUSTAV WERTHEIMER - THE ENCHANTED SLEEPER, 1902

The artwork includes historical and mythological allusions, especially those related to mermaid legends. The title suggests the concept of a "sleeping beauty," similar to legends, where individuals are put under a spellbound sleep until they are woken up. The scene shows a nude woman lounging on the boat next to a man who is already sleeping - a very tranquil moment.

"The Enchanted Sleeper" by Gustav Wertheimer can be likened to his other paintings featuring sirens, like "The Kiss of the Siren" from 1882. Both pieces portray the female form in a captivating and alluring way. "The Enchanted Sleeper" highlights a peaceful, surreal state, in contrast to "The Kiss of the Siren" which shows a lively interaction where a nude woman is pulling a sailor into the water. This difference emphasizes Wertheimer's skill in portraying feminine allure in various ways, switching between peaceful charm and energetic allure when illustrating sirens.

Wertheimer began his studies at the Academy of Fine Arts Vienna under Joseph von Führich . Since May 10, 1870 he studied in the technical painting class of the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in Munich with Wilhelm von Diez . After graduation, he worked in Munich. In 1881, he moved to Paris, where he remained until his death. In Paris, Wertheimer experienced his greatest successes and also received honorary awards at the Paris World's Fair in 1889 and 1900.

[squids-and-waffles7]

thinking about the possibility of belos ending up in the inbetween realm after being stomped and finally getting what he deserves... 

[ ID: A digitally illustrated comic mainly featuring Philip Wittebane from The Owl House. The first panel on the first page is a birds eye view of the inbetween realm, with cubes floating everywhere and a slight disturbance in the water below. The second panel is a close up of that disturbance, which looks to be a whirlpool of some sorts. The third panel follows that, and Philip’s hand is shown forming on the water, with a ““splat” beside it. The fourth panel is a behind view of Philip kneeled over, head to the ground and face obscured. He is in his human form, like how he is seen in Elsewhere and Elsewhen, and is breathing heavily. The fifth panel is still of Philip kneeling, except he has popped up his head and is looking around. He asks, “What is this” but is then promptly cut off by the next panel, which shows a grimwalker hand rising out from the water with a splash. He looks at this with a confused look.

The first panel on the second page is a close up of Philip’s face, a concerned and fearful expression on his face. He blurts out the word “No”. The second panel is spliced into three pieces, and each shows more dead grimwalkers rising from the water. The first shows another hand, the second a fully formed grimwalker with a broken mask crawling towards and reaching out to Philip, and the third yet another hand. The third panel is of Philip trying to back away by crawling while more grimwalker hands shoot up around him. He shouts at them, “G-Get Away!” The fourth panel is a view of Philip crawling back from behind, and a head of a grimwalker can be seen behind him. He yells again, saying, “I said-” but is cut off by the fifth panel where the grimwalker behind him suddenly grabs his arm. The sixth panel is of him looking over his shoulder, surprised. The seventh panel is an above shot of Philip sitting on the water, grinwalkers surrounding him and grabbing each of his limbs. The water swirls below him in a whirlpool motion. He shouts, “Get off me!! Go!!” The eighth panel is a closeup shot of an arm grabbing his shoe and pulling him down, the ninth panel showing the fear in his eyes.

The first panel on the third page is a wide shot of Philip being dragged down under the water, his arm straight up desperately trying to grab something. The water cascades around him, pushing him down even more. The second panel is a closeup of Caleb’s eyes, which are glaring with anger. The third panel is a below view of Philip being dragged down, with Caleb’s hand still tightly grasped around his foot. The fourth panel is a closeup of Philip’s eyes, which are staring in fear. The fifth panel is from Philip’s POV, where Caleb is seen still pulling him down by his ankle, glaring at him. Other grimwalkers are beside him, hands reaching up towards Philip to also help drag him down.

The first panel on the fourth and last page is of Philip being dragged down, a fearful and almost angry expression on his face. He screams, “Caleb! Let-” but does not finish his sentence. The second panel is of Caleb still glaring at him, not saying a word. The third panel is Philip looking at his brother with an unreadable expression on his face, as though he just realized something. The fourth panel is an above shot of Philip finally being dragged down into the depths Dr. Falcilier style, arm out stretched and he sinks. Broken masks of grimwalkers can be seen below him, pulling him down too. The last panel shows the surface of the water in the inbetweens realm, the surface still and finally tranquil. The word “Fin” is written at the bottom of the page. End ID. ]

[santoschristos]

“The world rests as the lotus in the palm of my hand, the cosmos revolves around my finger like a discus. I blow the music of life through my conch and wield my mace to protect all creatures.” – Krishna Upanishad This material world is the dream of Maha-Vishnu. When one imitates Krishna, they enter the dream of material creation. --Srimad Bhagavatam 4.29.83.

Vishnu’s Dream: The Creation of the Cosmos

I. Introduction

In Hindu mythology, Lord Vishnu is one of the principal deities, revered as the preserver and protector of the universe. He embodies the principle of preservation and is essential in the cosmic cycle of creation, preservation, and destruction. The concept of creation holds immense significance in Hinduism, as it illustrates the cyclical nature of existence and the continuous renewal of life.

One of the most fascinating narratives within this context is Vishnu’s dream, which serves as a creative force leading to the birth of the cosmos. This article delves into the various aspects of Vishnu’s dream, exploring the symbolism and implications of this profound mythological theme.

II. The Cosmic Ocean (Kshira Sagara)

The Kshira Sagara, or the Cosmic Ocean, is often described as the primordial ocean from which all creation emerges. This ocean is not merely a body of water; it symbolizes the vast, unmanifest potential from which the universe is born. In Hindu cosmology, the ocean is a representation of the infinite, the formless void, and the source of all existence.

Vishnu’s association with the Kshira Sagara is significant. He is often depicted resting on the serpent Ananta Shesha in this ocean, symbolizing his eternal nature and the tranquillity that precedes creation. The ocean serves as a reminder of the need for balance between chaos and order, a theme prevalent in Hindu philosophy.

III. Vishnu’s Divine Sleep (Yoganidra)

Yoganidra, or divine sleep, is a crucial aspect of Vishnu’s role in creation. During this state, Vishnu enters a deep, transcendental sleep, which is not merely rest but a profound state of cosmic consciousness. This divine sleep represents the potentiality of creation, where all forms and phenomena exist in a latent state.

The implications of Yoganidra in the creation process are significant. It is during this sleep that the universe is conceived in Vishnu’s consciousness, setting the stage for its eventual manifestation. This connection between sleep and the subconscious creation highlights the idea that all creation begins in the mind, emphasizing the power of thought and intention.

Vishnu’s Dream --Mahaboka

[missedmilemarkers]

🦆 Mysteries of the Mallard Family

Hello, nature enthusiasts! 🌳 Today, I had the chance to capture some wonderful moments of a Mallard family in one of Colorado's urban parks. Each image reveals a unique aspect of their serene lives. 🦆✨

Nature’s Camouflage 🌾

In this shot, the mother Mallard blends effortlessly into the lush reeds by the pond. Her ability to camouflage highlights the adaptive beauty of wildlife in urban settings. The calm water and green surroundings create a peaceful scene.

Peeking Through the Green 🌿

Here, a curious Mallard peeks through the dense foliage. Her inquisitive gaze and the gentle ripples in the water emphasize her exploratory nature. The vibrant greenery around her showcases the rich biodiversity of the park.

Tranquil Reflections 🌊

This image captures the serene waters of the pond with a close-up of the Mallard. The reflections and the stillness of the water create a tranquil atmosphere, illustrating the beauty of urban wildlife in its natural habitat.

📢 Join the Conversation!

Did you enjoy these glimpses into the life of a Mallard family? Like, reblog, and follow @missedmilemarkers for more wildlife stories and stunning photography. Your support helps share the beauty of urban wildlife! 💖

[comparativetarot]

Woman of Music. Art by Ed Buryn, from The William Blake Tarot of the Creative Imagination.

(Water of Fire — Matter of Passion) This card is from a design to Gray's poem, "The Progress of Poesy," illustrating the lines: Awake, Æolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take: The laughing flowers, that round them blow, Drink life and fragrance as they flow. Mt. Helicon's anciently famous springs of Aganippe and Hippocrene (hippo=horse + krene=spring, because unearthed by the winged horse Pegasus), are the home of the Greek muses and thus the birthplace of music and poetry. Their waters inspired whoever drank them, and the fragrant flowers surrounding them were reputed to deprive snakes of their venom. Helicon was named after the goddess Helice, a virgin form of Hecate (see II—Mystery) whose name means 'willow' in Greek, for willows were planted by streams and their wands used for divination. This Grecian muse is Helice, and like her namesake willow, she merges with the stream — right foot forward to indicate her spiritual qualities. The 'trembling strings' of her lyre (from Æolus, the wind-god) are the song of the wind in her branches. The humanized flowers along the rills of the stream all drink and toast the inspirational waters, a metaphor for Gray's "rich stream of music." The muse or Woman of Music is here associated with fire (in the border), air (the Æolian wind), water (the springs), and with earth (the living flowers). She is the Enchantress who channels and integrates energy, thoughts, feelings, and spirit. Her "living music" is "loud" and clear. Compare this card image with the Queen of Cups in the traditional Tarot. This is the part of yourself or another who listens to the inner chords for life's ecstatic moments. You seek pleasure and tranquility, are naturally graceful and gentle, and enjoy all the senses. This person excels at 'diffuse consciousness' — an instinct for taking everything in without focusing on anything in particular. She may be very psychic, and easily reflects other people's feelings and projections. In the face of harsh realities, she may escape into solitude, addictions, or anodynes. Loving life, she is likely to vigorously laugh with joy, or unashamedly wail with sorrow. In the creative process, this is when you vibrate in tune with everything around you, sensitively aware of life energy in all its forms, from which you create something new through the filter of your own consciousness. KEYWORDS: EMOTIONAL DEPTH • FLOWING PSYCHIC SKILLS • SOURCE OF INSPIRATION TO OTHERS • ENCHANTING PERSONAL MANNER • MULTIPLE AFFINITIES AND TALENTS •

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

I RAN . I SPRINTED.

SCORPIO X GALE AND WASHING THE OTHER'S BODY

POSH YOU’RE SPOILING ME SO GD HARD ILYSFM 😭😭💍💍

Gale x M!Durge OC / NSFW

Massive TW’s: Dead dove do not eat. References to and implications of: self-mutilation, self-harm, misogynistic language, cannibalism, amputation torture and imprisonment, vomit, rape. It’s all contained within the { } brackets used to represent Dark Urge thoughts, for ease of skipping.

If loving Gale of Waterdeep could overwrite the hideous violence of Scorpio’s every waking and unwaking thought, his mind would remain as tranquil as unbroken water to the moment of the universe’s last breath.

{Beat it, break it, bend back those pretty fingers until they snap--TEAR OUT THE TONGUE AND SWALLOW IT BLOODY, CARRY ALWAYS ITS SAD-FUCK LOVE-WORDS, AND SHIT THEM OUT.}

Love can do many things, but it cannot heal something as horrifically broken as that—try as it might.

What he can do is wash the man’s body after he was denied his fatal destiny, saved with another bout of begging. Scorpio’s mouth always felt wounded, lacerated, packed with salt—but he’d swallow the blood that came with speaking if it meant he would not watch Gale destroy his only life in the gut of Moonrise.

Gale is manic with possibility, drunk on dreams of Karsus’s horrid crown. He rambles, stammers, and trips over his words. Scorpio doesn't have enough energy left in him to combat the ideas, not yet. In the Last Light, he draws a bath for the man, and draws the man to the bath, urging him into the water to ride out the last shadow-cursed night of these lands, knowing soon they will need a new name.

"Tip your head back for me, love," Scorpio urges him, pressing his deft fingers into the taut muscles at the back of Gale's neck, rubbing them deep and firm--{fulcrum lies between the vertebrae, such an easy snap for well-muscled hands; can keep it living, can make it a doll for fucking and feasting, a banquet of tower-tender-flesh}.

Gale is still going on and on about Karsus--extolling his might, bemoaning his mighty failures--and he listens almost unconsciously to Scorpio's cue, sinking back. As soon as the steaming water hits his neck, the muscles that Scorpio rubs to just before the point of pain, he shudders and groans, "Oh. Wow, that's--that's something else, isn't it?"

His eyes, warm and sweet and deep-dark as a spaniel's, clear, and Scorpio chuckles at the man's sudden presentness. Wonders, truly, if Gale's eyes searching the room is a sign that he's got not a fucking clue how he arrived to this particular moment, and that he'd checked out the moment he'd acquiesced to Scorpio, once again, begging for his life.

{It obsesses over the silver-spark, magic cunt of a goddess that loves to die. It does not love you! It will NEVER love you! Chop the arms, chop the legs, consume the meat before it. It will never leave you, you won't let it. It will always be exactly where you left it, and the sweet-cunt goddess will never look at it again.}

"Miles away, weren't you?" the golden tiefling hums instead, bowing his head to press his lips to Gale's temple after a moment-long flinch of suppressing the deafening voice of the Urge.

But he is only suppressing himself, isn't he? Trying to fight himself into silence, because Scorpio is barely a tattered ideal, a concept he must come close to losing with every blow that lands upon him. He is the Dark Urge, and it is the only thing he's carried since his awakening.

“Mmm. I was,” his lover chuckles, and it slips into a sigh, soft as mink fur, exhausted as a dying sun. “Come to think of it, I can’t tell you how long I’ve felt miles away. It’s strange—hah—but I feel so close to understanding—to knowing exactly what I must to. It’s…as if I can reach out my hand, and feel it just beyond my fingertips.” To illustrate his point, that’s exactly what he does, outstretching his elegant hand, water rolling down his arm, his eyes gone faraway once more.

{It is a waste of man-flesh. Pathetic, desperate, dreaming. It soaks in failure until the skin sloughs away, and it will not step away from its fetid pool.}

Somehow, that molar-gritted whisper is more upsetting than all the others. Scorpio squeezes his eyes shut, fighting it, but he feels his fingertips pressed perfectly into the points needed to break Gale’s neck with the least amount of effort while leaving him living, and his mouth floods with saliva for want of red meat.

He snaps his hands away completely, folding them in his lap, head cracking as far from Gale as he can force it. Pops ring up his neck as the joints are forced past stiff stagnation, pain radiating down his trapezius muscles, becoming caught between his shoulder blades.

“Scorpio?” comes Gale’s voice, as if dazed from idle imaginings, “Are you—?”

“M’fine. I love you. Please,” the Dark Urge grunts, heart pounding rich, vile blood, chest heaving with a more worthy, certainly more dead stranger’s air (did he kill them, what did he do to them?), “don’t go after that fuckin’ crown. Least don’t talk ‘bout it tonight. My brain is burning and scarabs run under my skin, leaving tracts of infection, I should like to tunnel it out, strip the dermis down to the nerve, tan it to foul leather, suck down the ichor of the vat and vomit the piss of my stomach bile.”

Gale’s eyes widen and his entire body draws up and back, alarmed, disgusted, and Scorpio’s old ghosts want him to mutilate himself—open his old wounds, draw out the cancerous blood. There was a wound he kept tucked under his ribs, a little hidden punishment, one that he’d dredge the scabs and clots out of with his claws, until he’d cut through the muscle and into his guts, and another at the delicate crease of his thigh and pelvis, always aching infected, darkened with again-and-again-and-again abuse, his fingers can still find it, he doesn’t have to look—

“Scorpio.” Gale’s voice is firm, and his hand on Scorpio’s wrist is tender, drawing Scorpio away from attacking his own body. “That was a bit gruesome, now wasn’t it? But I understand the point you were trying to make, and I acknowledge it wholeheartedly!”

Gale’s tone is a put-on joviality, a layer of crackling clown paint over a weeping, would-be martyr. For a skin-splitting moment, Scorpio is disgusted by the man he loves. Scorpio is disgusted, and disillusioned, and disturbed—by his weakness, his softness, his ability to bullshit and play-act and make nice, lacking the bloodlust and resolve to slit throats for his cause.

A name echoes in his head, one that looks like golden talons, and it is gone again.

Then Scorpio is simply tired. “Sorry. I.” He turns his head, shame and fear of himself twisting his stomach into bleeding knots. “Sorry.”

“It’s been a long day,” Gale soothes him. He snorts, a wry, bemused smirk pulling his lips. “I’d rather wager it’s been a long life.”

“I love you,” Scorpio responds, the only words he can scrape up in his pathetic, awful hands. “I want to wash your hair.”

“And I love you,” Gale presses, the smirk softening into a crescent smile. “I would love that. Then, perhaps I’ll trick you into the tub, hm? You could do with a good scrub. I’ll have that gorgeous face spick and span in no time, and you’ll only further your position as the most beautiful man in the Inn.”

Scorpio can’t bring himself to meet Gale’s eyes as his hands slip away, reaching for a shampoo bar, working up a lather. Gale does not look away from him, his eyes a war of worry and distant thoughts. If there are any kinder gods in the realms, Scorpio hopes that they will give Gale the mercy of not being the one to kill him when the time comes that the golden tiefling can no longer fight his nature.

He hopes that Gale will not see him in such a sorry state.

[yonderoo]

🌱✨ Okay, fantasy enthusiasts, gather 'round! Let me tell you about this ethereal enchantress that seems plucked straight from the lore of ancient fairy tales. 💫

Picture this: an elegant, delicate creature flitting above a serene, water-lily adorned pond. Her wings, a shimmering gossamer masterpiece, capture the soft sunlight, casting subtle rainbows that dance on the water’s surface. They are effortlessly graceful, as if spun from the finest threads of moonlight and spider silk. 🌙🕸️

Her hair falls in gentle tendrils of silver and gold, a cascade that mirrors the flowing meadow beneath her. Adorned in a dress that appears woven from morning mist and the petals of woodland flowers, she embodies the very essence of nature’s magic. 🌹🍃

In her hand, she cradles a tiny book, its pages glowing with an otherworldly light. Could it be a tome of ancient spells, a diary of dreams, or a collection of celestial secrets? Whatever its contents, it’s clear this fairy is a keeper of wisdom and wonders, grounded in an ageless mythology yet forever suspended in a dreamy now. 📖✨

The scene is otherworldly—a tranquil illustration of nature’s harmony, untouched by time. Our fairy’s presence speaks of whispers in the breeze, hidden glades, and the silent language of the stars. Truly, she is an emblem of the mystic and the magical, a muse for poets, painters, and dreamers alike. 🧚‍♀️💫

[ogradyfilm]

Recently Viewed: Angel’s Egg

In the 1980s and 1990s, a lot of anime was produced exclusively for the booming home video market. Freed from the more stringent censorship guidelines associated with traditional distribution models (theatrical, television), these relatively low-budget “OVAs” became synonymous with “Mature Content,” a misleading label that in this context alludes to extreme violence and sexually explicit material (see: Demon City Shinjuku, Wicked City, Doomed Megalopolis)—superficial pleasures that are not totally without merit, but are nevertheless rather juvenile. Angel’s Egg, however, is genuinely mature; this hidden gem—which has only recently been rediscovered and critically reevaluated after being largely dismissed upon its initial release—is thematically rich, emotionally resonant, and exquisitely crafted. I don’t know if I even possess the language required to articulate what makes it so utterly compelling… but that will hardly discourage me from trying anyway.

The film begins with a tight closeup on a pair of small, delicate hands. Gradually, the thin wrists rotate, allowing the viewer to observe the creases in the pale flesh, the lines on the palms, the faint sheen on the nails; the joints audibly crack and pop as the fingers flex, curling into clenched fists. This minute attention to detail permeates every subsequent frame. Individual strands of hair billow gracefully in the breeze, mirroring the swaying motion of rustling grass. The reflections of gnarled tree branches ripple on the deceptively placid surface of a subterranean lake. Later, this same body of water slowly envelops our heroine’s calm, tranquil features as she sinks into its dark, icy depths.

Although director Mamoru Oshii (Ghost in the Shell) provides fluid movement and a hypnotic rhythm, Yoshitaka Amano (whose cinematic credits include Belladonna of Sadness, but who is probably better known in the United States for his Final Fantasy concept illustrations) contributes the vital framework, sculpting the visual style and establishing the oppressively bleak, haunting tone. His character designs, of course, are instantly iconic. The protagonist is particularly striking; her skin is so immaculately white that it almost appears to radiate light, starkly contrasting the dull, drab, monochromatic gray shade of the setting—a nightmarish realm of carved stone, shattered glass, and petrified bone wherein the inhabitants resemble the surrounding gargoyles and solid objects are indistinguishable from their own shadows. The backgrounds are equally evocative: barren, desolate wastelands stretch out for miles beneath the blood red sky, while the architecture is a surreal, chaotic amalgamation of Gothic cathedrals, industrial factories, and techno-organic horrors beyond human comprehension.

As for the plot… well, to be perfectly honest, it’s far too minimalistic to be properly summarized. Indeed, attempting to describe the story in literalist terms is inherently futile; the narrative is entirely figurative, revolving around such recurring motifs as feathers, fish, machinery, moisture, and incubation. Naturally, I have my personal theories regarding the intended “meaning” behind these cryptic symbols (they could represent the conflict between religion/spirituality and rationality/skepticism, for example), but I would prefer to avoid delving into concrete interpretation; to dissect the movie from an academic, intellectual perspective would merely diminish the captivating beauty of its ambiguous subtext.

Ultimately, Angel’s Egg is unlike anything that I’ve previously encountered. Sure, it’s possible to identify a few obvious artistic influences (H.R. Giger, Alejandro Jodorowsky, Andrei Tarkovsky), but such shallow Easter egg hunts are fundamentally reductive when applied to films as singularly unique as this. In an industry defined by repetitive formulas and generic archetypes, Oshii and Amano created a defiantly unconventional, experimental, avant-garde masterpiece. I’m glad that I was able to experience it on the big screen, alongside an enthusiastic audience—thank you, Japan Society!

[christinatravel]

Experience the tranquil beauty of an urban sunset captured from the beach. This serene body of water mirrors a city's distant silhouette, set against a backdrop of a softly glowing red sky at dusk. It's a moment of peace and beauty, illustrating the harmonious blend of nature and city life. Perfect for those who cherish the calming influence of nature and the vibrant energy of urban landscapes.

[kxlinthesky]

ESSENCE 7 SIDE STORY - Eden

A white room. A white place.

This tiny world, where time seemed frozen in place, was known as Eden.

And locked away inside, a young boy waited ever more for angels to arrive.

 When at last the boy escaped his gilded cage, what was it that he saw, and who was it that he met?

This is his tiny tale of adventure, searching for the “upside-down city” he so desperately yearned to see.

■■■■■■■■■■

I dream of an “upside-down city,” where an opalescent night sky dotted with twinkling orange-gold stars floats under the buildings instead of above.

In those dreams, I live in that city. It looks like the illustrations in books I read long ago. I can remember the smell of the cobblestones after rain, and the nostalgic familiarity of the windows shining with light. Crowds of people in colorful clothes live there, too, and four-wheel horse-drawn carriages travel in the spaces between massive brick buildings. The whole place feels like a toybox.

“I want to go there, too. Where is it?” I would ask.

“I don’t know,” you would reply. You laughed at me, but I wasn’t kidding.

Because I’ve been waiting here for so, so long, for the angels to descend from the upside-down city to take me by the hand.

■■■■■■■■■■

Do you get this painful ringing in your ears when things get too quiet? The place where I am is like that. It’s a tiny room that’s all white – the walls, the ceiling, the door, everything, and it never changes. The desk, bookshelf, and bed are all lined up symmetrically, and the quill, books, water jug, and cookies lying on them are all white, too. Even the bit of sky I can see through the skylight is white. It’s all boring.

Aah, I just want to go back to sleep and dream about that city again. That place is such a delightful jumble of objects and colors that it makes being locked up in this tranquil room all the more suffocating. I’ve long since grown bored of this static, unchanging life I’m living. I just sleep the days away.

I don’t remember anything from when I was born.

In my earliest memories I was already living here, hearing caretakers tell me in toneless voices that I’m a “supremely precious existence.” They bring me books, and at three o’clock they bring cookies, too. But they also feel sort of floaty, like clouds – they don’t feel real. Everything in here is like that. It’s all shaped like how it’s supposed to look, but it’s been encased in this white something or other.

I don’t even know if the caretakers are machines or real people. Honestly, there might not even be more than one – all of them look the same, so for all I know they could all be the same person. They come in every day, and all they do is perform the same actions and repeat the same phrases.

“May you spend your day peacefully and quietly,” they say.

It’s been a long time since I realized that there was nothing reflected in their eyes.

Where is the upside-down city...? It’s not here, at least.

The air smells of sunshine. My hair flutters in the breeze. I can feel my feet thumping against the steady, firm cobblestones as I race along the pathways. And I can feel the warmth of a large hand gripping mine as we walk along... but none of that is real here.

When I opened my eyes to the white skylight overhead, my heart sank. When I looked at the clock, it was still too early for me to get up. But I slept more than enough – I wasn’t going back to bed. I took in my surroundings. Everything was dead quiet, same as every night. The silence weighed heavy on my ringing ears. I scowled, conjuring up images of my dreams to escape the familiar pain.

And suddenly, I came up with the most brilliant idea.

What if I broke the rules and went outside, to look for the city?

I could find that wonderful place out there, see it with my own two eyes. Warm anticipation welled up deep in my gut at the thought. I didn’t remember ever going outside before, but it was possible that my dreams were actually memories from when I was just a baby. It was honestly kind of odd that the idea hadn’t crossed my mind before.

I stole from my bed on silent feet and gently opened the door just a crack. On the other side was a hallway with a rounded arched ceiling, stretching in both directions as far as the eye could see seemingly without end. My legs froze. I was breaking the rules. My body was subconsciously warring with my mind.

For a while I stood there, completely motionless, hesitant, wavering. But eventually the excitement in my heart won out over the uncertainty, and I took my first bold step out of the door and headed down the hallway to the right.

I proceeded with caution, but no matter how far I walked I didn’t see anyone else. Maybe there weren’t that many people in the building. The thought reassured me, and soon enough my bare feet were positively flying down the endless white hall as fast as they could go. It wasn’t long before I ran out of breath, though – I was always running around everywhere in my dreams, but I’d never pushed myself like that in real life.

I had to pause to catch my breath. I’d ended up in some kind of atrium, where the ceiling was so high I couldn’t even see it. The gigantic white stone walls around me were dotted with dozens of passageways stretching out like wedges. It was a big area, but it had this cooped-up feeling to it, like I’d stumbled into a prison, that left me struggling to breathe.

There were plenty of paths to choose from, but I knew I was going to end up lost no matter what I did. I chose the route straight ahead.

– All I could hear was the tapping of my feet echoing in the vast space as I walked endlessly onward. The halls were dim, lit only by flickering electric lights spaced evenly along the walls. I kept glancing back over my shoulder, wondering when the caretakers would finally notice I was gone and come chasing after me.

My sense of time grew warped in this ever-repeating loop of identical halls with identical walls. Anyone who experienced it once would understand the fear brewing in my heart, not knowing if I was actually progressing forward or if I was going in circles. I began to grow discouraged when I continued to see no change in my surroundings, and the thought of turning back gnawed at my mind what felt like hundreds of times.

But finally, I spied it – an exit off in the distance, a literal light at the end of the tunnel. The faint shine peeking through the cracks dispelled any doubts I had. Secretly, I felt like crying at the sight.

I rushed up to the exit at the end of the hall and peeked through to see the largest space I’d ever seen in my life. The area looked to be some kind of place of worship, laid out in three aisles. Off to the right, in the depths by the altar-looking thing, a ten-meter-tall geometric monument hung on the wall. The chairs where people would sit were unreasonably massive. Only two people were inside, each standing guard at opposite ends of the room. I snuck forward through one of the side aisles, hiding in the shadows of the pillars, heading through a lobby on the opposite side of the altar, and eventually reached a door that looked like it led outside.

I scanned my surroundings as I opened the door, but as soon as I turned my eyes outside, I was blinded by overwhelming panic. The “whiteness” was suddenly assaulting my entire body. I somehow managed to swallow the scream that threatened to erupt and slowly, carefully, opened by stinging eyes a crack, and eventually, I began to make out a faint image wavering in front of me.

... An endless sea of white earth and white sky.

That was the first view I got of the outside.

Once I cautiously confirmed there was no one around, I dashed outside the building, feeling the loose earth scatter underneath my feet like sand and dust the backs of my legs. It wasn’t hot. I shouted in delight, unable to contain my excitement. I’d only ever seen a slice of sky through the skylight in my room, and now the whole wide open expanse in its infinite glory was mine to enjoy.

For some reason, laughter bubbled out of me. I pressed a hand against my pounding chest and darted up a sloping white hill.

■■■■■■■■■■

Everywhere I went in the outside world was a never-ending white desert under a colorless sky, occasionally interspersed with round pillar constructions that sprouted from the ground like peppermint. At first I was on guard every time I saw one of them, but no matter how long I watched them I never saw any signs of people, just the structures themselves jiggling around every so often as they changed shapes.

Eventually I grew bored of the monotonous landscape, and as I walked along I couldn’t stop my doubts from floating to the surface. What time was it? Where could I find the city?

... What would I do if I couldn’t find it?

Would the caretakers’ frozen faces change at all if they knew I was missing...?

I was tired, spacing out, walking through the world with only my increasingly incoherent thoughts for company. But soon enough, I realized that the land around me was changing.

... The first oddity I noticed was “smell.” The scent of fresh grass laden with evening dew wafted through the air. It was the smell of a humid night.

It was a sensation I’d only known in my dreams. The vague, floaty sense pervading the world had suddenly gained something tangible, something to give it definition. A chill shuddered its way down my spine.

The next thing I noticed was “sound.” A rustling sound overhead, the sound of leaves on a tree swaying in the wind.

... Yes, trees were growing around me. I hadn’t noticed them at first. And when I glanced around, I could hear the faint chirping of insects. Everything together created this unshakeable sense of nighttime.

“... What is this place?”

I’d ended up in a forest in the dead of night, just like the places I saw in my dreams. I’d meant to go outside – was I just dreaming again? But even as I realized that the air around me, heavy with moisture, coiled around me like a shroud, I shook off my uneasiness and continued to climb the hill.

I had to see what lay ahead with my own eyes. And when I thought that I might see the upside-down city that very night, my frozen legs managed to push onward.

■■■■■■■■■■

What I found at the top was a strange silhouette of a building.

The weathered white rectangle was haphazardly constructed, like a child working with toy blocks, and above it stood a line of lonely looking radio towers pointed up at the heavens. I stared at it for some time, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, but looking closer I eventually spotted a small set of double doors at the bottom, in the same pure white color as the walls around it. There was no handle. I tried pushing on it instead. The hinges creaked.

Slowly, timidly, I pushed further, until the door opened just enough to peek inside. It was surprisingly bright on the other side, and wider inside than the outside led me to believe. White pillars stood scattered unevenly around the space, and a small, illuminated display twinkled in their midst. Heartened by the light, I slipped inside the mazelike building without further delay and began to slowly but surely creep my way forward.

What was this building for? I glanced around as I went. The pillars looked similar to the structures outside, and on closer inspection they were also slowly changing shape. Maybe I could learn more if I looked at my surroundings from the rooftop, where the radio towers were.

I kept my eyes peeled, wondering if there was any way for me to get up there, but it wasn’t until I faced forward again that I saw it, a tiny yelp escaping my lips. A spiral staircase reaching all the way to the ceiling had suddenly appeared while I hadn’t been looking.

“But this wasn’t here before....”

This day had been one odd thing after another, but I could still be surprised. I craned my neck, staring up at the spiral that slowly faded into darkness, too far for the light to reach.

The handrails creaked under my touch. I stretched myself up as far as I could, trying to see just how far it went, but even on my tiptoes I couldn’t see the end of the seashell-like spiral. It was paralyzingly high, that much was certain. Fear suddenly gripped my heart.

(Should I go back...? If I act innocent enough, I probably could. No one’s come after me tonight, thankfully... and I even left that kid alone in the room, too....)

But even with those thoughts swirling in my head, my legs still unconsciously rose onto the first step. The handrail curved like a living, breathing being, and it had a lavish mosaic pattern on it, but it was still old, and it groaned with every step.

Trembling, I continued my journey up. Somewhere in the middle I couldn’t help but peek down and saw the yawning pitch-black pits of Hell opening below, forcing me to hurriedly avert my gaze back up. The entire day had been nothing but stressful. It was just one unending nightmare, and frankly, I was getting sick of it. All I wanted was to go see the city. Onward and upward I climbed, growing more desperate by the minute.

Finally, though, I saw the top of the staircase. I climbed the final steps to find a short pathway leading to yet another set of double doors. I ran up without thinking, pressing a hand to my chest with a relieved sigh. I threw my entire body against the heavy doors, and when they opened, a gentle breeze kissed my face as the world opened up before my eyes.

A sea of stars stretched in all directions above me. From the roof of the white building, the uniform indigo sky had transformed into a brilliant gradient of azure and jade green. The heavens above glittered like blue topaz, the stars twinkling like pearls reflecting light.

And sitting there in the center of my vision was the thing I’d been searching for all this time: the upside-down city.

“... I finally found it!”

My heart throbbed in my chest at the sight. I couldn’t help the shout of delight that unconsciously spilled out of me.

The world overflowed with color. The city bustled with energy, with people the size of poppy seeds and horse-drawn carriages flitting back and forth between oddly shaped roofs. But... no, the city was floating in the midst of such faraway stars. There was no way I could see all that.

But even still, from somewhere in that faint, flickering upside-down city, I could catch a whiff of a creature that didn’t exist here.

I knew that place. Because – because I wanted to return to that place. I’d always wanted to return.

“    ”

I heard a voice calling. It said a familiar name.

... Name? But I didn’t have one of those. I stretched my hand up to the heavens, to the city, my chest aching with longing and pain....

“... Gin?”

And a tiny voice reached my ears.

I gasped, lowering my hand and twisting my head around frantically. Whatever sound I was going to make next died in my throat, strangled by a rolling wave of shock. I had been on the roof of the white building just now, but suddenly, everything around me had changed.

– Well, no, not everything. The glittering sky still looked the same. But at some point, the rooftop had vanished, replaced by a field of short, swaying grass. Cicadas sang gentle songs in the evening light. A dirt path wound ahead of me, faintly damp – maybe it had just rained – and amid the fluttering stalks of golden grass stood evenly spaced poles, large and ash gray.

And in the middle of the dew-laden, shining field, was a boy with golden hair that I knew oh so well, quietly looking my way.

“You came...?” I rushed up to him, thinking he’d followed me out of the room, but then I saw the triangular ears poking from his head and skidded to a halt. Were those – were those animal ears? And looking closer, this boy’s eyes were the color of pomegranate, not the shade I was familiar with.

... No, this wasn’t him. I eyed him cautiously. The boy with animal ears opened his mouth and spoke once more.

“I see... so this place can recreate the memories of whoever enters it.”

“... What are you talking about?... Who are you?”

“Sorry. I thought you were someone else. My memories must’ve interfered with yours when I called out to you.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying, but... I know someone who looks a lot like you, too.”

A large scarf covered much of the boy’s face, but take away the ears and eyes and he really did look a lot like the one I lived together with in my room.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

The boy’s eyes, expressionless up until now, suddenly swam with unease. “... I’m looking for something I lost. Something I need to go back. But I’ve been looking for a long, long time, and I haven’t found it.” With his head hung low, his golden hair masking his scarlet eyes from view, he could have been his twin.

“Something you lost...? Do you want me to look with you?” He wasn’t the person I knew, but my mouth automatically opened anyway. The boy’s behavior reminded me so much of him, I couldn’t just leave him be.

But when I tried to shuffle closer, the boy simply gave a tiny smile and an even tinier shake of his head from within his overlarge scarf. He pointed up at the sky. “This is the edge of the world – a space where our worlds collided. You can’t stick around here if you don’t have the right qualifications... and besides, our time is up. Your ride’s here.”

“My what?”

Just then, a round geometric pattern expanded in midair, and a pillar of white light enveloped the area around me.

“... Thanks, my other –”

I thought I could hear his voice fading into the distance, but the light was too bright. My eyes screwed shut.

The last thing I remember from that day is looking up at a downpour of feathers in the world of white, and my fingertips brushing against tough skin.

[auburniivenus]

27.  NIGHTMARE :  for one muse to comfort the other after a nightmare.

Phobetor, the embodiment of nightmares, traverses the realm of the subconscious like an ethereal specter disguised in the nocturnal nuances of indigo. His ever-changing and protean countenance evokes the profound fears of humanity. Within the realm of dreams, he choreographs a grotesque ballet, inflicting night terrors on somnolent minds with an almost sadistic delight. Morpheus, the supreme architect of dreams, undertakes a dual function, possessing the capacity to manufacture both delightful reveries and sinister nightmares. His siblings, Phobetor and Phantasos, bring forth the phantoms of fear and surreal visions, creating a trinity that blurs the boundaries between dreamscape and inferno.

The ethereal threads of slumber wove a disquieting veil, transforming her subconscious into a theater for the phantoms lurking within the depths of her apprehensions. The moonlight, intermittently softly embracing her dormant body, now beheld the convulsions of her disoriented sleep. Tangled filaments of auburn hair outlined a visage marked by arched brows, a canvas painted with the hues of a disquieted mind. As she lay ensconced in the ephemeral sphere of dreams, a specter of unease cast its pallor upon her delicate features.

In the nocturnal realm of her psyche, the familiar landscapes of her daily existence distorted into absurd caricatures. Faces she held dear contorted into masks of sorrow and despondency. Tatsuki’s piercing gaze bore the weight of haunting wistfulness, and Ichigo’s visage, usually a bastion of strength, crumbled into an expression of profound heartache. Echoes of laughter, once boisterous and unhindered, now took on a dissonant cadence, an incongruous refrain that propagated through the corridors of her dreamscape. The vivid hues of her environs progressively deteriorated into a more somber pallet of grays and shadows. Orihime felt the tendrils of apathy twine around her, tightening with each passing instant. She journeyed through a phantasm of her imagination that paralleled a distorted portrayal of her apprehensions, a terrain where the boundaries between reality and nightmare became indistinguishable, forming a blurred haze.

In a delicate manner, she perceived the touch of his calloused fingertips as they gently rubbed against her shoulder in a caress analogous to a whisper. The contact, tender and comforting, illustrated the essence of his implicit commitment—a pledge to serve as the protector, shielding her from the nocturnal horrors that sought to ensnare her mental state. A murmur, scarcely audible, escaped his lips—a melody woven with serene reassurance. A spectral resonance penetrated the liminal space between dreams and reality. His voice, an unwavering beacon, reached her beneath the curtains of sleep, an anchor cast into the tempestuous seas of her delusions. His grasp, acting as an anchor, encircled hers, bridging the fleeting chasm between the dreamworld and the tangible domain.

As Ichigo’s whispered assurances permeated the camouflaged sanctum of her dreams, a subtle transformation unfurled across Orihime’s countenance. The furrowed lines of distress softened, replaced by the tranquil repose that accompanies the banishment of night terrors. Like a ship navigating turbulent waters, she emerged from the depths of her horrors, guided by the compass of Kurosaki’s touch.

With a breath that mimicked the release of a held sigh, her eyelids fluttered open, revealing the clarity of awakening.  “Ichigo.” Inoue whispered, sensing perspiration upon her comely visage. She positioned herself on the disheveled bed and reflected upon him, his attractive appearance illuminated by the moonlight filtering in through the partially ajar window. The remnants of the previous war persisted within the depths of her consciousness, and occasionally fear would manifest itself in her dreams. The repercussions of the conflict would require a considerable amount of time to diminish, resembling a wound that necessitates a significant healing period. “I’m glad you’re here.” Her sweet voice affirmed as her delicate arms encircled his figure, enveloping him in a embrace. “Never, never leave.” @ikurosakii

HER LOVER, HER SAVIOR.

[daliwu]

Ying

An art picture book, a collaboration between artist © DALI WU and author © Nate Ferreira, 2023.

19 mixed media artworks on paper. Colored pencils, colored ink, traditional Chinese painting mica pigments, Gansai Tambi. Each artwork measures 21 x 41 cm.

Ying unveils a whimsical collection of sketches, blending vibrant colors with traditional mica pig- ments. These artworks transport us to the enchanting landscapes of Yunnan and Guizhou, capturing moments of sheer joy and nature’s nurturing embrace. They narrate a tale of growth and discovery.

Each piece exudes the vitality and joy of life, as Ying dances amidst the breathtaking mountains and rivers, embracing the embrace of nature. The artworks showcase the harmonious and serene co- existence of mountains and waters, human and animals, animals and nature, etc, creating an atmo- sphere of tranquility. In these works, I seek to encapsulate the awe and curiosity of a youthful spirit journeying through nature’s vast expanse, illustrating a symphonic narrative of growth and wonder. My intent is to rekindle our collective appreciation for nature’s magnificence, hoping to inspire a more profound respect for environmental conservation and the delicate balance of our ecosystem. At the same time, I aim to depict the purity and adventurous essence of youth, letting viewers bask in the charm of personal growth and boundless potential.