#thanks for passing by!! and YOUR art always looks like a smooth apple!! >;)c round smooth and perfect to bite into muah muah<333333< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[yuriyuruandyuraart]

ahh no wonder yer art always feel like a fuzzy peach then :]

it's all scripted and edited.......it's all fake UnU </3 except when my computer's too old and slow to open up photoshop which is like. almost always now so i have to rely on my artist brain to draw the fuzz myself hhh xD fuzz DIY<33333

[writtenonreceipts]

a prompt?

single parent trope for feysand, pretty please?

more prompts for this would be great, otherwise you get my rambling mind and we all know how that goes...

Find my main masterlist here

#

An Intimate Display of Insecurities and Hopelessness

The air-conditioning was out.  Again.  And Feyre had already stripped down to a tank-top and shorts.  The heat was miserable.  

“Sweet mercy,” she muttered as she stood in front of the large fan she’d bought yesterday to try and keep things cool.  It wasn’t working.

Feyre brushed her hair from her sweaty brow and bit back a curse.  This day was not going at all the way she’d wanted it to.  It had taken her far to long to get anything started, not to mention coordinating with Elain on how she wanted to participate in the shop.

It was only three days to her deadline to get her shop up and running.  Three days to get pallets made, canvases designed, and interior design finished.  All in one-hundred-degree weather and boob sweat.

She turned back to the mess of her shop.  This was going to take more work than she had time for.  Or sanity.

The front door opened behind her with a clatter.  Feyre wasn’t that concerned about it, knowing she was getting some things delivered.

“Just leave the deliveries on the floor,” she said, not looking back.  She was trying to have a vision of what she was going to accomplish, a vision that would be epic and glorious.

“Excuse me?” 

Feyre spun at the smooth voice and nearly stumbled.  The most attractive man she’d ever seen was standing in her shop.  His black pants were crisp and cleanly lined and his black shirt was rolled up to the elbows, displaying his tanned skin.  He was tall, lean, and with his black hair swept neatly back.

Feyre felt sweat roll between her breasts.  Oh hell.

“Feyre Archeron?” He asked and took a step forward while holding out his hand. “Rhysand Avitas.  I’m the new building manager.”

A dozen curses ran through her head as she did her best to wipe her sweaty hand on her shorts inconspicuously.  Because of course she knew who Rhysand Avitas was.  Everyone in their small town did.  He was the son of the police chief and now the youngest elected mayor in Valeris history.

He had also been just a year ahead of Feyre in school.  So she knew the kind of person her was.  At least, she thought she did.

“Rhysand, of course,” she said as she took his hand. The heat didn’t seem to effecting him.  Jackass. “Sorry, I guess I lost track of time.”

Indeed, it was half-past two right when she’d told his assistant that he could come by the shop.  And see that everything was in order for her opening deadline.  Except she hadn’t really expected him to show up.  

“Not a problem.” He smiled in such a charming way that Feyre found herself wanting to hate him.

But Feyre already did hate him.  He had bought the building just two days after her father’s death.  Just two days after the building was up for sale.  She hadn’t even had the time to get funds together to convince the bank that she could buy the lease herself.  Now, she was going to have to open her shop under him.

In school he had been captain of the football team, president of the ASB club.  He had been the kind of person Feyre had never wanted to interact with.  High and mighty, proud and cruel.  He’d worn a mask of indifference to anyone beneath him, she was convinced.

Feyre cleared her throat. “Things are a little messy right now, but it’ll be ready for opening day on Monday.”

Rhysand nodded as he walked around the shop.  Bits of wood crunched under his too fancy shoes and dust clung to his pants when he brushed up against one of the pallets that Feyre was still trying to decide how to convert into a display case.

“You’re a painter, correct?” he asked.  He looked over his shoulder at her and Feyre was taken aback by his eyes.  Bright blue—so bright that she could have sworn they were violet.  And damn her if she didn’t want to at least try and draw them.

“Yes,” she replied. “My sister does some gardening and does floral arrangements and I’m planning on having her sell some of her work here as well.”

“I remember,” he said, “Mrs. Ellis always made sure all of her classes knew about her protegee.”

Feyre rolled her eyes.  The high school art teacher had been someone no one really liked.  Aside from her.  Maybe it was just because Feyre had wanted someone to pay attention to her, but the woman had always been nice to Feyre.

“My work wasn’t that good back then,” she said.  And it was true, it had taken years of study and experimentation to get to where she was now.  Ten years after those miserable high school years and here she was, finally maybe a little bit confident with what she could do.

Rhysand said nothing, only observed.  “And you’re sure you’ll be ready by Monday?  No offense Miss Archeron, but it seems like a lot needs to be taken care of.  You assured the bank, and my assistant, that your shop was worth allowing in the complex.”

Feyre’s mouth pursed as she watched his man before her.  With his impeccable clothing, that silver watch on his wrist, it was hard to imagine that he’d had any hardships in his life.

“Yes, and I keep my word,” she said, her voice cold enough to rival any a/c.  “What I would like to know is why the air conditioning still isn’t fixed.  It’s been this way for a week now.”

“It’s being looked into,” Rhysand said. 

His gaze turned sharp as he looked her over again.  Something passed over his face that Feyre didn’t care to try and understand.  She just wanted this man out of her shop so she could get back to work.

“Was there something in specific that you wanted to discuss?” she asked, “or were just interested in questioning my ability to run a shop?”

He smirked at her and shook his head. “You always did have that fire in you, didn’t you?”

Feyre was ready to tell him to get out when a soft cry caught her attention.  She held up a finger to silence him as she listened.  Maybe she’d imagined it.  Hell, she hoped he’d imagined it.  Unfortunately the cry came again.

“Just a minute,” she said.

She hurried to the back of the shop where a door led into what would be used for the breakroom.  It was a few degrees cooler back there, which was why she’d set it up for it’s current use.

Sitting up in the pack-and-play was her daughter.  Seren with her golden hair and large blue eyes looked up at her and cried again.

“Momma!” 

Immediately, Feyre scooped her daughter up.  Seren latched on with a snake-like grip.  Her arms wound around Feyre’s neck tightly.

“Hi baby,” Feyre murmured.  “Why are you awake?”

It had only been a half hour since Feyre’d put her down, she’d been hoping for at least one hour of uninterrupted work.

Seren said nothing and only whimpered into Feyre’s neck.  As Feyre whispered to her daughter to sooth her, she went back out into the main part of the store to find the diaper bag she’d packed that morning.  In one of the insulated pockets, she found a bottle of apple juice.

“Here, honey,” Feyre said.  Seren snatched the bottle and began drinking, tears still rolling down her cheeks. “Okay, there we go.  Momma need to talk to Mr. Avitas okay, can you let me do that?”

Seren nodded and the almost two-year-old tucked herself right against Feyre’s neck.

Pressing a kiss to her daughter’s forehead, Feyre turned back to Rhysand who stood right where she’d left him.  The hard look in his eyes was gone and whatever hard-ass talk he was no doubt going to deliver evaporated.

“It seems I was wrong,” Rhysand said, “you do have some help, don’t you?”

Seren wiggled in Feyre’s arms to get a better look at the man, her bottle sticking in one cheek.

“Momma,” Seren said, her voice just slightly muffled.

“Yes, you are my big helper,” Feyre agreed, “even when you get into my paints.”

Seren beamed up at her. “I help.”

Feyre snorted a bit of laughter.  Help.  Sure.  There were some painted handprints on the wall that aid otherwise.

“Did you have any other concerns you needed to address, Mr. Avitas?” Feyre asked.

He seemed so taken aback that Feyre had had her daughter in the back room napping that it took him a moment to speak again.  It would have been amusing if the man hadn’t been so annoying to begin with.

“She looks just like you,” Rhysand said.

That was the last thing Feyre’d expected.  She quirked a brow at the man.  She knew it was true.  Seren, thank the heavens, looked like an Archeron.  There was barely a trace of her father.  Something Feyre would give thanks for every day.

Feyre heart gave a painful squeeze.  Of course that was what he meant.

She met his gaze, holding it for a long moment.  Her hold on Seren tightened automatically, something she always did when she remembered her baby’s father. 

“Yes, she does,” she whispered.  Feyre wondered what Rhysand could possibly know.  When she’d moved back to Valeris two years ago, just after she’d found out she was pregnant, she scrubbed her life clean of that man.  Rhysand couldn’t possibly know who the father was.  Even if he did, he shouldn’t care.

“Right,” he muttered and ran a hand through his hair. Once again, an un definable look flashed over his features, and disappeared just as quickly.  “I’ll see what I can do about the air-conditioning.”

“Good,” Feyre said, “I’d hate to have to delay opening.”

And much to her surprise, Rhysand laughed.  “Of course not.  That would be rather inconvenient, wouldn’t it?”

He turned back to the door and looked as though he would leave without saying anything else, until he paused. He seemed to be having an internal dilemma when he looked back to Feyre.

“If there is anything I can help with, let me know.”

The words were halting and careful.  Feyre wasn’t sure how to read them, how to respond.  So she only nodded.

#

i wanted to add more to this for the first part, but well here we are...

tags

@aelinchocolatelover // @more-espresso-less-depresso-xx // @bamchickawowow // @ireallyshouldsleeprn // @courtofjurdan // @sassys-world // @sleeping-and-books // @superspiritfestival // @chieflemming // @julemmaes // @lysandra-ghost-leopard // @firestarsandseneschals // @emikadreams // @rapunzel1523 // @booksofthemoon // @highladysith // @fangirlprincess09 // @rowaelinismyotp // @vanzetanze // @jlinez // @cassianscool // @stardelia // @my-fan-side // @sjmships // @tillyrubes10 // @acourtofsjmtrash // @hellasblessed // @rhysandswhore  //  @story-scribbler  // @post-it-notes33 // @live-the-fangirl-life // @strangevil321 // @whythefuckdoiexist // @pastasiren // @beanco8 // @lemonade-coolattas @foreverfallingforthestars // @surielandiareendgame // @feysand-loml

[pascalpanic]

Pilot’s Hands (Frankie Morales x f!reader)

Summary: Frankie takes you up flying in his helicopter. You can’t help but focus on those goddamn hands of his.

W/C: 2.4K

Warnings: SMUT (18+), finger penetration/fingering, language, lots of dirty talk and innuendos, please forgive the multiple puns I made, a singular smack to the ass. afab reader. talk of flying in helicopters and being rlly high above the ground. reader is nervous about heights.

A/N: Frankie smut is the best smut. This was requested by @notabotiswear!! I hope it’s what you were feeling, love!

Your hands grip the chair as the helicopter slowly lifts from the ground. There’s an urge deep inside of you to jump from it now, while you’re low, so that nothing can happen, that you can’t be lifted up. You want to scream and shout and rip these headphones from your ears and make it all stop, but you don’t. You grip the seat even harder and squeeze your eyes shut as you feel the pressure in your ears start popping and changing.

The anxiety eases instantly as you look to your left. There sits Frankie, guiding the helicopter. He looks absolutely fucking gorgeous, as usual. Today he wears a warm flannel over a t-shirt with his favorite beer’s logo. On top of his brown waves, which were extra unmanageable this morning, sits his favorite ball cap. He’d spent an unhealthy amount of time picking out just the right outfit today, since it was technically a date.

You smile a little at how focused he is. There are lines of concentration between his two thick eyebrows, his stubbly jaw clenched in concentration. His large hands navigate around the dashboard, controlling the massive machine as it pushes you up into the sky. It’s soothing when he’s the one doing it.

Frankie has always talked to you about his love of flying. It’s something you’ve never quite understood. He talks about it like it’s beyond any other experience. Flying is his happy place. He’s never more content than when he can control the big machine and soar through the sky. You’re the opposite. Flights usually required you to take an anxiety med and pass out. The feeling of being so far above the ground makes you panic and fills your brain with the worst possible scenarios.

There’s something better about it when the man you’d trust with your life- are trusting with your life- is the one piloting the machine. He sneaks you a smile as he notices you staring, but in an instant is back at the controls. You giggle and lean back in your chair, enjoying the view. Frankie’s got you.

The ascent continues. You’re still gripping the sides of the chair with all of the force your hands can create, and the anxiety seeps in. You close your eyes and force yourself to focus on your breathing. Even this high in the air, Frankie is your solid ground. You reach over and grab his thigh, knowing his hands are too busy to hold. Your fingers dig into his leg, but it’s no distraction.

Finally, Frankie slips one hand beneath yours and laces your fingers together. “Open those eyes, baby,” he asks, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “We’re at the cruising altitude.”

Your eyes open and are filled with nothing but blue sky surrounding you. Looking to the sides, you can see your city surrounding the two of you. Everything looks so small. You’re unconsciously beaming, and when you turn to look at Frankie, he’s grinning back. “Cool, right?” He asks with an equally big smile.

“The coolest,” you nod in agreement and laugh. It’s astounding, really.

“Just one second, babe,” he tells you and drops your hands, pressing some buttons and flipping some switches. His hands are skilled, flying across the controls with practiced ease. His voice is smooth and even in tone as he talks to someone in his headset. He continues even as he talks to the controller, reaching over you to hit a far button.

He’s good to just steer now, you can tell, and you wrap both of your arms around one of his. He signs off from the call and looks over at you, then down at the arms on your hands. “You need something to hold onto?” He asks, leaning over and kissing your head briefly.

“You look sexy flying,” you chuckle and slide your hands down to his, holding it happily as you look around. “You’re just… so good at it,” you shrug and look around the cockpit.

He laughs softly. “I wonder how it happened,” he teases, pulling his hand back to he can use it to navigate. “Are you okay? Sure you’re not too anxious?” He asks. His eyes aren’t on you- they can’t afford to be right now, while you’re in the air- but his words are sincere.

You nod, beaming. “I trust the pilot more than I ever have.”

He shakes his head and smiles, adjusting his cap before flipping a few more switches. “You just keep telling me, okay? Let me know if you wanna be done early.”

“I think I can handle thirty minutes in the air, watching you be all cute and smart.”

“Smart? I don’t know about that one, baby,” he shakes his head but smiles down at the gauges he checks.

For a few minutes, it’s silent between the two of you. The hum of the engine and the spinning blades fills the space between you. You’re content to look around while Frankie pilots the two of you, snapping photos. At one point, you sneak a few photos of him, giggling at how cute he looks. You lean over and kiss his jaw through the stubble, which makes him grin and blush slightly. “Babe, I’m working,” he whines, but it’s all teasing, you both know. Frankie loves nothing more than some physical affirmation.

You chat quietly when he has the time to do so, when the machine doesn’t require as much of his attention. He’s fantastically skilled at multitasking, you notice, which makes you smirk a little. He’s so fucking good at what he does, those calloused hands dancing around the dash like a skilled piano player reciting a sonata, like an artist creating a masterpiece. And you suppose, to Frankie, flying is like an art.

“Do you know any tricks?” You ask at one point.

Frankie nods. “I can do barrel rolls and shit. I don’t think you’d want to feel that,” he chuckles, his hand resting on top of yours, which sits on his thigh.

“Oh fuck, not now,” you laugh softly. “But that’s really cool.” And hot, your primal brain, the one that seeks the best mate, tells you.

As the time in the air dwindles down to a stop, Frankie once again has to pay full attention. You return to your previous position: gripping your chair. Your hands aren’t as forceful now, far more trusting of Frankie and his skills. You can even look around as the world grows bigger and bigger as you approach it. Not long after, the helicopter lands, and you let out a deep sigh of relief. “Wow,” you laugh, a little bit of anxiety still in your voice. “Now I can tell you everything that I wanted to say in the air.”

Frankie looks over at you, tilting his head in confusion. “And what was that, exactly?”

“That you look so fucking hot,” you grin at him. “You do, really. You know what the fuck you’re doing, and that’s hot. And your hands, you’re so good with them,” you muse as you pick one up and play with the thick fingers attached.

This time, Frankie’s smiling. “Oh yeah?”

You nod happily. “Mhm. Just look so good when you’re using them. Makes me think of other things they’re good at.”

He’s a little red, but he grins. “Really?”

“You know that. I’m never quiet about how good you are with them, am I?” You tease and laugh.

Frankie’s face tinges with red, and his Adam’s apple bobs hard with a gulp. “Don’t do this to me yet, baby,” he chuckles and shakes his head. He removes your headphones once the blades have stopped rotating, then his own, and unstraps the both of you.

Frankie gets out then helps you down from the chopper. One of the other men who works at the field comes over to say hello, and he snaps a photo of you and Frankie for you.

The picture is perfect: the blue skies in the background contrast the dark metal of Frankie’s helicopter. He has both arms around you, and you have one hand pressed to his chest. You’re both grinning, both wearing flannels and each in one of his ball caps: you stole one this morning before you left his house.

He walks away after you both thank him, and Frankie leans in close. “Gotta get some shit done in the hangar. Won’t be more than ten minutes. Go wait for me in the car, baby girl,” he murmurs in your ear. He gives you a little smack on the ass, which makes you start to scamper off.

You grab his keys from his pocket, then toss a flirty smile over your shoulder as you walk to the parking garage.

-

Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting shotgun in Frankie’s truck. He removes his cap and runs a hand through those curls before putting it back. You watch it, noticing the way the knuckles bend and fold. He looks over at you and notices the expression on your face. “You still thinking about them, baby girl?” He asks with a growing smirk.

You nod, the wetness in your panties growing. “Mhm. Think you could pilot me?”

Frankie rests a hand on your thigh, tracing circles into the skin. “Unzip those jeans for me, baby. Let’s find out.”

You’re in a parking garage, and no one else is around. It’s early on a Saturday morning, but the risk is just as exciting. You do as he says, and Frankie slides his fingers beneath your panties.

The pads of his ring and middle fingers start at the top of your folds, tracing down the damp skin until they reach your entrance. “Fuck,” he groans at how wet you already feel. His fingers swirl around just millimeters inside of you, taking the wetness and removing his hand, bringing it up to your mouth. “Gotta get them ready for me first, honey. You’re already plenty wet, but I wanna make it good for you.”

You oblige and take his fingers in your mouth, sucking on them dutifully and moaning around them. They’re so thick and strong, and the thought makes you spread your legs wider. “Good girl,” Frankie almost growls before bringing his fingers back down to your entrance and slipping them inside of you.

You cry out, your hand gripping the side of your seat once more; this time, it isn’t from anxiety, but from pleasure. They scissor you open slowly, those thick digits reaching deep inside to that spot you can never quite reach with your own. “Ah, fuck,” you whimper as the heel of his palm grinds against your clit. “I was thinking about this the whole time we were flying, Frankie. Your fingers and how good they feel inside me.”

He bites his lip, curling his toes in effort to not get hard right here and now. As much as he loves doing this, loves the risk, this is all the two of you can afford. It’s too late: he’s already got a semi tenting in his jeans.

“Yeah? That’s what you were thinking, dirty girl?” He almost purrs, his voice deep and desperate. “I’m trying to keep us from falling and dying, and all you could think about was how good it feels when I do this?”

As he says this, his fingers curl deep inside you and brush against your g-spot. “Fuck, yeah,” you nod, panting now. You’re sweating, probably through your t-shirt, but you don’t care. It feels too good. One hand of yours grips his wrist, as if it could keep him from pulling away. As if he ever would in the first place.

“Such a good girl, so wet for me,” he groans as he forces himself to stop his hips from bucking into the air, against nothing. “I could do whatever the fuck I wanted to you and you’d let me, couldn’t I?” He murmurs. “You’d even let me fuck you in that helicopter. No anxiety when you got my dick inside you, huh?”

You nod. “You could, yeah,” you groan, your other hand digging into the leather seat. “Anything you want, you got it,” you nod. “Feels so good, anything you do does.”

He smirks. “Maybe I’ll have to try that sometime, huh? Have you keep my cock warm while I fly?”

“Anything,” you repeat breathless, shuddering beneath him. The heel of his palm grinds harder into your clit and it’s all too much. “Frankie, baby, gonna cum, almost there.”

“That’s it, baby girl,” he nods, working his fingers harder. “Cum for me,” he demands, and who are you to disobey such a wonderful order?

Your walls clamp down hard on his thick fingers, the pleasure overwhelming you. “Frankie!” You cry out, head falling into the headrest of the seat.

Everything in your body is pulsing, desperate, pumping red-hot blood that feels like it’s infused with some kind of illicit drug to produce such a high. You whine his name again and again until it’s all too much, and you squeeze his wrist gently, asking him to be done.

He complies, tracing his fingers through your folds before they press against your lips again. “Clean me off, baby.”

You nod and take them in your mouth, lavishing them with your tongue the way you would with his cock, which you’re now growing more and more desperate for.

He pulls them out with a pop and dries them on his flannel, smirking over at you. “Goddamn, honey,” he murmurs as he looks at how wrecked you are just from his fingers. Before you can say anything, Frankie whips the truck into drive and peels out of the parking spot.

The sound of squealing rubber startles you, making you jump and squeal as you button your jeans and zip them. “Frankie!” You gasp and smack his arm. “What the fuck was that?”

His eyes are dead-set on the road, determined not to look at you, not to detract from his mission. “I’m getting us home as soon as I physically can so I can feel that around my dick,” he says, teeth grit in concentration.

He’s rock hard, you can see, and you offer a soft rub into his crotch. “Oh, baby,” you chuckle excitedly, staring at the road ahead of you. It’s going to be a long ride home for the two of you.

It’s safe to say that your anxiety over flying has lessened.

-

taglist:

@remmysbounty @mishasminion360 @softly-sad @blo0dangel @luxurybeskar @binarydanvvers  @sleep-tight1 @apascalrascal @randomness501 @spideysimpossiblegirl @notabotiswear @pedro-pastel @sanchosammy @lv7867

[royalcordelia]

This Bed of Recall and Recollections (1/1)

Summary: Most of the time, it’s convenient to have your husband as your doctor, except for the times he condemns you bedrest. A very pregnant Anne decides to open her chest of old memories to pass her bedrest time. (A future shirbert drabble). 

Notes: Happy belated holidays @cresmix​! Here’s a little somethin’ somethin’ for you because you and your kind heart deserve it. This was a request that @shirberts-sherbert came up with, so thank you for the idea. (Also y’all follow me because I write well, not because I photoshop well, but I gave it 110%. Even if it does look a lil funky lmao). 

***

Anne knew there were bright sides to her current situation. The bed was impossibly soft underneath her, but stiff enough to support her weight against the headboard. She didn’t have to wear shoes in bed, either - an added plus. Just the thought of jamming her swollen toes into her dainty slippers as she had during the past several months had her cringing. 

You were given your imagination for times like these, she scolded herself. There are plenty of lovely things about being on bedrest. Why, I’ve had time to read all the books on my list, and then some! A bitter voice in the back of her mind reminded her that she’d read all the books on her list already - twice, some of them three times! Gilbert promised to bring home some new reading material soon, but he’d been so busy at his medical practice, that she’d long since stopped asking if he bore her any surprises. 

Now there’s a bright side worth thanking the Lord for, she decided. Not every woman, exhausted with the many weights of pregnancy, got to have her husband as her doctor. Anne argued that Gilbert was better attuned to her symptoms than any of his patients. Perks of sharing a bed with him, she supposed. There was no husband around with more compassion and love for his ever-glowing wife, even with the unpleasant oddities it brought to their relationship. 

But it also meant that when her blood pressure had spiked to dangerous heights, Gilbert had said with very firm stringency that Anne S. C. Blythe - Queen of Conquering Obstacles and Goddess of Fortitude - was condemned to bedrest. At least until the new member of the house arrived. When the decree had been made, Anne was wise enough not to argue. 

“Every time a man speaks like he’s got a sour cranberry on his tongue, it means he means business,” said Susan, their beloved housekeeper, to Mrs. Doctor Dear later that night. “And that you may tie to.” 

Anne knew her husband better than that, though. Gilbert’s word, of course, did mean business, but she knew that a tiny part of him still held onto a poisonous drop of guilt. Susan might have claimed to know the Doctor better than most, but Anne was the one that Gilbert laid his head upon, weeping into her chest that it was his fault their first baby had died. If I had just paid better attention...There must have been something I missed. How could I? My own daughter? Not even Anne’s softest touches through his hair or the honesty of her own unnecessary forgiveness could take away all of his remorse. When she’d informed him of their second chance, he’d been even more attentive than he’d been the first time. 

Thus, Anne was growing into a prisoner in her own bed. Her loving, caring husband, her jailor. 

With a sigh, Anne turned her gaze toward the window. Her soul sighed. It was golden hour, the most beloved time of day, when the PEI sun took a few moments out of its busy day to say hello to her. It always looked so sweet over the garden, the early spring buds glistening as if they had been touched by Midas himself. Against the bedposts, Anne tried to imagine the soft moss underneath her fingers or the richness of the soil of her flowers, but the mental image fell flat. 

Her window, though...Her window was only a few feet away from the bed. If she could just take a glimpse at the garden, maybe her heart wouldn’t feel so starved. 

The coolness of the floor felt wonderful underneath her heat swollen feet. With a careful hand behind supporting her back, Anne gently rose up for the first time in days. Her vision swirled, but she ignored the momentary vertigo and began to creep forward with astonishing stealth. If Susan heard her up on her feet, there’d be hell to pay, especially when Gilbert got home. Just as Anne was able to take a self-indulgent glance at her garden, a familiar voice broke through the bird-song silence. 

“Sweetheart, what on earth are you doing up?” 

Anne jolted, and she staggered like a drunken fool for balance. Gilbert was at her side before she could see him fly over to her, one hand in hers to keep her steady, the other against her back. She could sense a scolding on the tip of his tongue, but he bit his lips against it as he guided her back to bed. Settling at the edge of the bed together, Gilbert rubbed her knuckles with a tender touch. 

He could’ve begun his love-driven admonishment, but instead, he said, “A parcel came from Green Gables today. I stopped in town to pick it up.” 

Just the mention of home was enough for some of the weight on her shoulders to dissipate. Her gaze drifted from the wrapped box at the end of the bed back up to the hazel warmth of Gilbert’s eyes. He gave her his daily “ I’m home” kiss and helped her shift back into her perch on the bed against the headboard. 

“I know that bedrest isn’t the most stimulating activity in the world, so I asked Marilla to send this,” Gilbert continued, placing the parcel in her lap. 

“What is it?” Anne asked, though she had already started tearing the brown paper away. She gasped when she found the wooden box underneath, fingers grazing over the grained smoothness. “It’s the box I kept when we were in college.” 

“I remembered you had a memory box, but you never told me what was in it. I hoped whatever was inside, it could be enough to convince you to sit in bed.”

Anne lifted the lid away and the contents of box overflowed onto her lap. 

“It’s so full because I kept every single letter you sent me over four years. But there’s some sketches from when I asked Cole to teach me how to draw. Oh, and look, a few pictures too.” 

Gilbert settled at her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“If it’s every letter I sent you in college, that’s more reading than all of the Jane Austen books put together. We better start now if we want to finish by the time our new gentleman arrives.” 

Right on time, Susan rapped against the door with her elbow, a tray of tea and biscuits in her hands. 

“I put the tea on the stove as soon as the doctor came home. These are the last of the biscuits you like, Mrs. Doctor, but I’m baking more tomorrow. And there’s a piece of my cherry pie for you, Dr. Dear.” 

Anne grabbed Susan’s hand before she could walk away, and pressed a firm kiss to it. 

“You’re a blessing untold, Susan, thank you.” 

When they were alone again, Anne grabbed the first thing she could find: a letter. The bluish hue of the envelope and the familiar scrawl told her what she already knew. This letter had been one of the later ones she’d received during their fourth year of college. The blue envelopes had been Gilbert’s way of trying out professional stationary, and each letter was monogrammed at the top with the initials GJB. As for the nearly illegible scrawl of her name and address, that was a bad habit he’d picked up from his medical professors. 

“When did I send that one?” he asked, peeking over from his own reading. 

“The April of 1904. I remember it without even needing to check.” 

It took a moment, but Gilbert suddenly remembered what the letter said. He could picture exactly what his desk and room looked like the day he wrote it with the clarity of a photograph. Long lost in fireplace ash, there were several burned attempts that had come before the finished product that Anne know held in her hands. 

“This is a question I had every intention of asking in person, but I find my patience has evaporated with the months our of separation,” Anne read softly. “Say that there was a velvet pouch in my pocket. Say that it contained a peridot ring that my mother once bore on her own hand. (Breathe, darling, I’m not proposing over correspondence. What I mean to ask is - ) Would you find yourself open to the idea of wearing it in the foreseeable future? If there was a fellow who had a question to ask - a plead, a beg really - would you be ready to answer the next time you saw him?” 

The ring of his tender descriptions now rested on Anne’s hand, a little tight with her swollen fingers, but still glistening and lovely just the same. Gilbert took the hand and pressed a kiss to the stone that his father had chosen for his mother, the same stone that was a perfect green on his redheaded wife.

“Do you remember what I replied?” she asked, nuzzling her cheek against his touch. 

“Not exactly,” Gilbert admitted with a fond smile. “I think as soon as I read your response, my entire brain stopped functioning and I all but floated around Toronto for the next month.” 

Her shoulders shook against him as she chuckled. 

“What’s that you’re looking at?” Gilbert revealed the journal that had been placed in his lap. Its leather was the same color as Anne’s girlhood horse, Belle and was tied around the middle with a strap. “Ah, the proof of my stint with art.” 

“You were genuinely talented!” Gilbert argued. To prove his point, he flipped open the sketchbook to one of the middle pages. “This one is my favorite.” 

Of course it was, she thought with an amused smirk. He had skipped over the pages where she’d sketched pink carnations - briefly wondering if he recognized they were the ones he’d brought her during one of his visits - and focused on the page where Anne had drawn one of the Blythe-Lacroix apples. 

“Anne Blythe, Gilbert S. C. Blythe…” he read with interest. “If I didn’t know better, Mrs. Blythe, I’d say you were in love with me!” 

“Oh, be quiet. If I didn’t doodle my feelings like an infatuated schoolgirl, I’d have dropped out of Queen’s and transferred to Toronto.” 

“You wouldn’t have found arguments from me,” Gilbert said with a shrug. 

Anne nudged him with her elbow, but kept flipping through the box with interest. Mostly, she found letters. To his delight, it seemed that not a single one had been lost over time. Each one was a treasure, and she’d treated them as such. Some of his more romantic ones appeared to have more wear, as if she’d found them in her hours of loneliness and reread the words in his voice. There were tear smudges, small rips in the corners, memories of smiles, and residual pining that never actually went away. Some of Gilbert’s later letters admitted the way he’d desired her, craved her touch and counted the days before he could love her in the ways he was meant to as a man. It made Anne glad that Marilla had always respected her privacy. If Rachel Lynde had read those letters and found Gilbert Blythe longing to kiss the soft skin of Anne’s breast, she likely would’ve shipped the young girl to France or England herself. 

Lost in her amusement, Anne almost didn’t hear Gilbert sigh beside her. He held an old photograph in his hands, one that she groaned at the sight of. She’d sat for several portraits during her lifetime, but never before did she feel as unattractive as she did in the one he held.

“I ought to have just thrown that in the fire,” she commented. He gaped at her in surprise. 

“What do you mean? Why have I never seen this one?!” he exclaimed. His eyes roved over the picture, and suddenly he felt like the eighteen-year-old boy losing his breath at the sight of her. In the portrait, Anne wore a demure, neutral smile on her lips and wine red blossoms behind her ear. And her hair ...Gilbert suspected that if Aphrodite or Hera were really out there, they envied the ocean waves of her auburn hair. “Anne, this is breathtaking.” 

Anne paused before finally answering in a rush. “I originally planned to send it to you because you’d been asking for one, and I know how much you like my red hair so I asked the man to hand color for me.” 

“I think he did a fine job!” Gilbert added, still confused. 

“He did a fine job commenting on my hair, too,” Anne stated bitterly. “He said he never saw such salmon hair in all his years. Salmon, Gilbert. There was no way I could send the picture after that.”

Gilbert laughed heartily at this, shaking his head at the stubborn rage of his beautiful, impeccable wife. 

“Well, darling, what’s mine is yours, and what’s yours…” He snatched the picture from her hands and stuffed it inside his jacket pocket. “Is mine! I’ll be holding onto this in my own memory box.” 

Anne might’ve argued, but he rose from the bed with a kiss to her forehead. In any other circumstances, she would have followed him until she could reclaim what was hers, but that would’ve involved rising like Christ from her bed. If she owed her husband anything after all the years he’d stayed loyal through her stubbornness and her flares of anger, it was to heed his word and remain in bed. 

Still, with him gone, she missed his warmth and wondered if she might convince him to sit beside her just a little longer.

“You need to eat, my love,” he concluded. “I’m going to go help Susan with dinner. Drink some tea, alright? You need to be sure you’re drinking enough fluids.” 

“I’m hydrating for two, I know.” 

Right before he disappeared out of the room, he let his eyes linger on her - the loveliness of her white bed gown, the sunlight on her hair, the loving glint in her warm blue gaze. He could taste the words on the tip of his tongue, hundreds of I love yous that he could mutter with all the breath in his lungs. Instead, he exhaled a shaky breath and said, “Let me know if you find anything else of interest.” 

Anne nodded with a smile, finally looking the most comfortable she’d been in days. She reached back down to the very bottom of the box and pulled out the oldest letter she it contained. 

“My Anne, I cannot think of a more wonderful way to start a letter…”

[roselyn-ravenblade]

Finding the Muse

{Rp between @natereising and myself. Thank you for reading if you do! }

Sunlight shone through the thick canopy of leaves over Elwynn, golden spots illuminating lush grass covering the earth. Serenity marked the warm spring day, a chorus of songbirds heralding the afternoon.

Nathaneal tapped the point of his pencil on the page of his notebook, specks of graphite dotting the margin of the parchment. Lifting his gaze from his words, he turned his attention skyward. A soft sigh parted his lips as a breath of wind rustled his brown hair. The writer shifted against his grassy seat, drawing his legs in to cradle the notebook as he took pencil to paper once more.

Rosselyn plodded down the road away from the city gates and followed it through the greenery that was Elwynn Forest. Here, she straightened, a little more sure of step as she drew away from the congestion of people and their noise. Here, there were sweeter sounds of birdsong, here she could hear the breeze coming through the trees and could better appreciate it. Here the thoughts of a mother leaving her behind on a day where people celebrated their matriarchs did not weigh so heavily.

And here, there were friends in the most unexpected places. Observer that Rose was, she easily picked the familiar form of Nathaneal trying to find his muse in the grass, right down to the well-tailored suits that always were his signature. She thought to observe a little while longer as any artist might, focusing on the expressions of his face as he peered upward, the way that breath rose through his chest and parted his lips. As he'd lower his pencil back to paper, Rose dared a little smile and began to walk his way.

"...hi." Despite the number of letters and wealth of words they had passed between each other in writing, Rose stumbled on just exactly what to say verbally. She almost seemed hesitant to disturb him in the first place, but a little part of her wanted to catch the writer's attention before letting the observances make her feel too awkward.

The sound of the voice, regardless of how meek it was, caused the smooth arch of his script to lurch, a harsh line of grey striking through several words from the sudden jolt. Nathaneal looked up to catch Rose's gaze, a surprised expression softening to a smile. "He-hello," the writer replied. Slipping his notebook from his lap, he started to rise to his feet for a proper greeting.

There was a moment of doubt that made Rose step on her own foot, noticing how the writer had been startled. The same instinctual doubt she felt when her focus in art might idly glance her way, and she'd quickly try to find something else to look at, or flip over her sketch in an effort to not tip off that she was sketching them without their knowledge. 

Animals were easier to greet. People she at times couldn't figure out, even when she considered one a friend.

" 'ey there, then." She tried, complete with a raise of an arm and a short pass of a hand in a stiff wave. If she was going to be awkward about it, might as well go all the way. 

"Wasn't...really, looking t'bother. I...ehm...quite sorry. I can...go?"

"Oh, n-no no," he replied with a soft smile as he shook his head. Clasping his hands together in front of him, he bowed his head. "No b-b-bother at all."

Amber eyes peeked up quickly at the soft smile,  gradually reflecting it back in her small way. A little more certainty had been there in that mousy demeanor now that both eyes were open on Nate. Some security in herself that was returned without the formerly bandaged eye.

But perhaps it was something more as Rose nodded and invited herself to sit on a tree stump near where the writer had been musing. Free from crowds, the towering buildings and cobblestone streets, the artist was in her element.

"Had to get away from that, right?" she nodded back to the road she came from and smiled thinly with her little, guilty chuckle. “ I...sort’ve know how that all is."

The writer gathered up his supplies and moved closer to the stump Rose perched upon. Disregarding his well tailored suit, Nathaneal found a seat in the brilliant green grass beside her. His attention trailed to the road weaving through trees. "I've al-always preferred the b-beauty of na-nature to the chaos of hu-humankind." Green eyes sought the sparkling amber of her own, Nathaneal offering her a warm smile. "Present c-c-company excluded."

Rose at first beamed a little at the perception and acceptance, tugging a dandelion free from the grass. She began to free its wispy 'petals', but most clung to her fingers or just fell to the grass in ephemeral clumps instead of allowing themselves to be carried by the forest breeze. She was skeptical now in the face of such stubbornness, her gaze slowly falling from the warm smile to his hands with the same, doubting chuckle.

"I quite think that nature's just as chaotic. If...ehm...not more than people. Can't always just...sort've know what it's up to."

Nathaneal drew up his pencil and opened his journal to a blank page. "I w-w-wouldn't consider it c-c-chaotic, per se…"  He paused, attempting to formulate spoken word. Tapping the pointed graphite to the parchment, he sifted through the words, attempting to identify sounds and phrases that might cause him to stutter. With a soft sigh, he cast his gaze on the empty page and began to write, making sure his script was in view of Rose.

To me, chaos is irrational. Unpredictable. The capricious nature of humans, their words, their bustle through the busy city -- it equates to nothing more than white noise. Meaningless. Droning.

Nature is quite the opposite. While it seems just as changeable as man, there is a subtle beauty in each raging storm, in each dying tree, and in the wake of nature's fury. There is poetry all around us as long as we take time to listen.

Tilting her head to see the writing closer, slowly Rose's body followed with all the cautiousness of a doe, gauging Nate's manner in her approach in whether she should come closer, or back track. In the end, she still kept her presence to herself, as if he were holding an offering of an apple, but she wished to make no move for it that might cause either of them to flee.

Her eyes skimmed over the lines for as long as he would hold the pages still for her, staring still a long moment on the words as she considered with quick blinks. "...wow." She whispered after a long moment, "when you put it like that, I’m thinking just...everything is poetry."

Her words brought a smile to his lips, though her couldn't bring himself to look upon her. He stilled his pencil, forcing himself to use his voice. "P-p-people are of-often surprised that I h-have so much to-to say." Lifting his gaze to finally look upon her face, his smile softened. "I j-just rarely speak my w-words."

Rose's eyes circled around his face as he struggled with his words relaxing her posture as she took certainty in her closeness to him. When he lifted his gaze a second time to smile at her in his admission, she shared in that little soft smile.   Another tiny chuckle slipped off her lips, eyes dropping back down to his written words. "Yeah. It's..heh. Always the quiet ones."

If his eyes lingered still on her, she'd take a few glances between his lips and his pages before giving a little encouraging nod. "I quite think you...ehm...you have a good voice." Lifting fingers, she tucked a messy mahogany curl behind her ear, eyes on his pages. "If it’s easier for you to....sort've put your voice on paper, I'll listen --erm." She squeezed her eyes tight once as she drifted back to the proper word. "I mean...'read'. Anything. Just...like everything. Heh."

The smile fell from his lips, Nathaneal acutely aware of the knot that formed in his stomach. Bowing his head, he cast his gaze to the words on the page in his lap. It took a moment to shove the self doubt from his mind before he started to accept her innocent compliment. After a sharp inhale, he attempted to speak.

 "I-I-I ha-hate my v-v-v--" he stammered, nerves making each word stick in his mouth. Teeth biting down on his lower lip, his face contorted as he attempted to spit out the word. His shoulders tensed, the writer tapping the point of his pencil against the parchment. Each gentle rap started to gain a bit more force until one strike caused him to slash a heavy line of graphite across one of his words. "Vvvoice."

Rose put up her hands with a little helpless gesture as she began to mumble out quietly in response. Her own voice never held the capacity for smooth sentences, pitch always drifting in and out of what was clearly audible. She always thought too long on what it was she was trying to say, and with the often inquisitive nature of her tone, she felt she always sounded like she didn't know what she was talking about. "Well I eh-heh. I don't quite like what I sound like really either. People have a way of just...looking at you that...well...you know," the weary little laugh breathed out of her from a lopsided smile into silence, shaking her head.

Roselyn watched the tap of his pencil, slightly cringing into her silence as he slashed the dark line against the paper. Tentatively reaching to touch the notebook as he held it, a more concentrated effort took her words as she spoke. "But...around you? I don't think I worry 'bout what I sound like quite so much..."

Where she touched and concentrated, a single peacebloom seemed to grow out of the divide between pages, reaching up until its soft white petals unfurled out to it's full bloom.

"So. Progress, hey?"

Her fingers upon the notebook caused the writer to tense further, yet with the sight of the blossom springing from the pages, awe washed away his nerves. Emerald eyes wide with wonder, Nathaneal held his breath as if the slightest exhale would snuff the beauty growing before them. "Amazing," he murmured upon a sigh, a warm smile finding its way to his lips. Glancing up to Rose, he offered her his smile before turning his attention back to the peacebloom.

"Not 'alf as amazing as what you do with words," Rose followed up in a quiet mumble, smiling as he admired the flower between his pages. It wavered with the slightest Elwynn breezes. "Flowers’re lovely, but they do die. But the words you write, they last. Is why I like art. Neat as a trick can be? I can make it last forever if I sketch it up. Or....if you write about it."

Nathanael lifted his hand to ghost a finger across a petal of the peacebloom. The flower wilted beneath his touch, the white blossom  yellowing until a stray breeze plucked the petals to carry them upon the wind. The bare stem curled in upon itself until it too lifted from the book to drift from the page.

"S-s-some last longer th-than others."

[marklipinski]

 If you missed our last Facebook LIVE live video, here it is!  Please feel free to leave a question or comment.  All are answered.  xoxom

Here are the links to the subjects we spoke about in this episode:

Not Kid(ney)-ing Around

As my search for a life-saving kidney continues, I find that I am now .2 points from having to start dialysis.  In my research, I have most likely decided on hooking myself up, through the stomach, each day and trying to maintain some kind of life from home.  Those who have been in end stage kidney failure tell me that I may actually feel better than I have been (and it’s been pretty grim on some days) and a friend who shall remain nameless [Marie Bostwick] pointed out that I am the biggest homebody in the universe . . . and it’s not like I ever go anywhere anyway. LOL

So I’m still on steroids so sporting a coffin neck is one thing, but now my chipmunk cheeks eclipse my coffin neck!  Shroud cheeks?    So, while I may look like this:

I feel like this:

MR. ELECTRIC CONTINUES ON HIS BOOK TOUR

Mr. Electric’s book, Who Broke the Vase? finally launched and is available in bookstores (local and big box, like Barnes and Noble, etc.)  and other booksellers (even Wal-Mart, etc) around the country!  If you would like an autographed copy of his book (personalized to you or yours) order yours here:  http://bit.ly/2nI6Rj6

       Who Broke the Vase? Quilt

The Who Broke the Vase? quilt is finally finished and beautifully quilted by my buddy Janice Jamison. The kit will be available for pre-orders by the end of this week (I’m just waiting for a final [brand new] back ordered fabric to be shipped)!  I’ll post here and on Facebook as soon as the quilt is listed in the Pickle Road Studios online store.  Because I’m not a brick and mortar shop, I’m  limiting the number of kit sales, so first come first served.

Up next, patterns for lots of different Who Broke the Vase? projects . . .

and

Mr. Electric;s newest book (published in October 2017), Who Am I?

LEARNING

Book Binding

I took a bookbinding class with Linda Lum DeBono  at the Printmaking Center of NJ located in Branchburg, New Joisey.

  At the Printmaking Center of New Jersey with quilter/author/fabric designer, Linda Lum DeBono.

The printmaking design and class studio…

Bookbinding II class at the Printmaking Center of New Jersey

Samples of the books I produced in the class…

Our teacher, Dave DiMarchi of 9 in Hand Press.

Linda Lum DeBono binding her book

L

Printmaking

Quilters Jill Edwards, Brad Pitt, and Meg Cox in the Printmaking on Fabric class at the New Hope- Solebury Community School in wonderful New Hope, Pennsyltucky.   This class is also taught by 9 in Hand Press owner, Dave DiMarchi.

The New Hope Solebury High School where our classes take place.

Some of the supplies we use in class

Take Our Poll

Our first attempt at printing on paper

My Ugly Angel experiment on paper and baby wipes…

My planned layout of cardboard cutouts that I was to print onto fabric

I dropped the damned apple onto the orange, then the time for clean up began.  Still not finished, but you get the drift.

Jill Edwards and Meg Cox giving their projects the side-eye.

MONDO BAG

Cover of the Quiltsmart Mondo Bag pattern!

A sample of the Mondo Bag I bogarted from Liza Lucy’s studio…

An inside view (it’s super roomy)

Here, Quiltsmart owner, Maddie (whom I love love love), gives a tutorial on how to make your own Mondo Bag using her Quiltsmart pattern!

Visit the Glorious Color website to get your complete kit to make your own version of the Mondo Bag

CLICK HERE TO GET YOUR COMPLETE KIT

eats

MARK’S OLIVE OIL COOKIE RECIPE

What you need . . .

4 cups all-purpose flour

1 cup sugar

2 teaspoons cinnamon

1 tablespoon baking powder

3/4 cup olive oil

1 teaspoon lemon oil

1 teaspoon orange oil

1 teaspoon almond oil

1/2 cup half and half or whole milk

2 eggs

1 cup confectioners’ sugar

1 teaspoon meringue powder

1/2 teaspoon vanilla

1/2 teaspoon flavored oil such as orange, lemon, almond, or anise, etc. (optional)

colored jimmies, colored non-perils, or coarse sanding sugar (optional)

warm milk or water

Directions . . .

Preheat oven to 375 degrees

You can mix this by hand but I use my KitchenAid mixer using the dough attachment. In the mixing bowl, mix flour, baking powder, cinnamon and sugar and mix it well.  Next, add olive oil, half and half, the flavored oils, and eggs. Turn on the mixer to a medium setting and mix the ingredients together until the dough forms into a ball and away from the sides of the mixing bowl.

Grab small pieces of dough and roll them into 1″ balls and place them on a parchment paper covered cookie sheet, about an inch apart. They’ll puff up just a tiny bit during baking. Before putting them into the oven flatten their tops a little by gently pressing the top of each ball with the bottom of a drinking glass – just a little. Bake for 9 -10 minutes.

To Make Icing: Blend vanilla, flavored oil (optional), meringue powder, and enough warm milk to the confectioner’s sugar to form a smooth icing.

Dip the cookies into the icing and dry the cookies on a wire cake rack or directly on waxed paper. While the icing is still wet sprinkle them with colored non-perils, jimmies, or coarse sanding sugar.

HOMEMAKERS COUNTRY QUILTERS

Website: www.homemakerscountryquilters.org

ON MY WAY HOME

My visit with Mother Therese of Jesus

This is the cloister.  It’s huge.  On the bottom left side of the photo, beyond the trees is the terra cotta roofed mausoleum where the nuns are buried.

Some of the Carmelites in the cloister ages ago. I am told that there are only 4 cloistered nuns in the compound, the youngest in her 70’s.

Guess who?  Kinda creepy to me, but many cultures take photos of their deceased loved ones.

The tomb

The Grille

The Turn

One of the most amazing windows inside the shrine.  Each piece was made in Germany and sent to the United States for this building.

The Walmart Fat Quarter and now 3rd degree relic

Kidney Mary and Bonnie on the day we visited the National Centre for Padre Pio in Barto, Pennsylvania, where I created a 3rd degree relic brown fat quarter.

This is the wildest book about “Incorruptibles”!  I bought it, read it, then gave it away at some point. Just adding it in case you’re interested or think I’m cra cra . . . or both.  You can also Google “Incorruptibles” fo,r more information

The Incorruptibles: A Study of the Incorruption of the Bodies of Various Catholic Saints and Beati

SPEAKING OF MIRACLES

Here’s a part of a note I received from North Carolina quilter, Jane Lemley, dated August 18, 2015:

‘. . . Also, wondering if you ended up with my wooden pen that you used to sign 3 issues of your magazine after the meeting.  My friend, Clare, borrowed my pen for you to use.  It wouldn’t matter except that it was my Mom’s and she has passed away.  If not, no worries…maybe it’s on it’s way back to her!

Thanks again for your wonderful program!  May Slow Stitching stay with us always.

Sincerely, Jane Lemley”

JANE!  I FOUND YOUR PEN in my PROJECTOR CASE!!!  

PLEASE CALL ME at (908)876-1208

IF YOU KNOW JANE, PLEASE LET HER KNOW! 

Look what else I found in that darn case!  LOL  No kidding…

I’m going to sew my SUPER FLY on (or else culturally appropriate Mrs. Roper)

CAPE MAY QUILT & FIBER ARTS SHOW

Historic Cold Spring Village Quilt and Fiber Arts Show

June 24th and 25th.

Historic Cold Spring Village; 720 Route 9; Cape May, NJ

I’ll be speaking there both days.  Mr. Electric will be at the Historic Cold Spring Village Country Store with copies of his book and book readings for the kiddies!

Visit the Historic Cold Spring Village website here: https://hcsv.org/

Both days will feature demonstrations and vendors of quilting, textiles, knitting, crocheting, basket weaving, broom making, wool dyeing, sheep shearing and more! On Saturday, visitors may vote for their favorite quilts in the Welcome Center at the Viewer’s Choice Quilt Show, and on Sunday continue to enjoy the display and see the winners.  A rare wedding quilt, c. 1714, handmade by Cape May Countian Sarah Spicer, will be on display in the Welcome Center for its annual appearance. The quilt was restored in 2012 through a grant from the Cape May County Culture and Heritage Commission. Regional vendors are attending with quilting and sewing fabrics, yarn, baskets, supplies, and equipment to help inspire the creation of an heirloom project.

NEW BOOKS

Zen Doodle Calm

It’s out in October!

SENT

Thanks for the laugh, Kathy.

I found out that The Jolly Taxpayer Hotel which was built in 1906 was taken down 7-8 years ago and is now the Jameson House, an office and condo tower that was built in 2011.

Before and after

Before

After

Oh, and it was never a gay bar LOL

CALL YOUR SHOP

Tell your local shopkeeper that the Auriful’s  BEST SELLING THREAD COLLECTION, THE BASICS COLLECTION, is on sale at Checker.  Have you shop order a few.  If you don’t have one, buy one.  You will not regret it.

Yes, I sell them in my online store, but I would love it if you supported (or at least tried to support) your local brick and mortar quilt shop!  xoxom

  CATALOGS & MAGAZINES

Uppercase Magazine

The newest Uppercase issue has arrived!  Get yours here 

Spoonflower Catalog

A catalog? Ask for one here 

Take Our Poll

Sew News

I love this magazine!  There is always something I’m interested in (and I don’t sew clothing nor do I consider myself a “sewist”).  Find out about Sew News here 

      SHOWS

Mary Schaefer

This is the Gwen Marston book I referenced this week.

`

Catch the show, The Mary Schafer Collection: A Legacy of Quilt History at the Mercer Museum

in Doylestown, Pennsylvania until August 13.

https://www.mercermuseum.org

SPEAK YOUR WORDS, OWN YOUR TRUTH

and PUSH BACK AGAINST INJUSTICE and BULLYING

FACEBOOK LIVE with Mark Lipinski and Mr. Electric, May 21, 2017  If you missed our last Facebook LIVE live video, here it is!  Please feel free to leave a question or comment.