Jack Vettriano The Mad Hairdresser study

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Librarian was squatting down on the floor in a long, high cellar. Miscellaneous items had been scattered on the floor in front of him; there was a cartwheel, odd bits of wood and bone, and various pipes, rods and lengths of wire that somehow suggested that, around the city, people were puzzling over broken pumps and fences with holes in. The Librarian was a thumb in the direction of the door. 'I'd make them say sorry, if I was you.'
There was a creaking, metallic noise, followed very closely by a scuffling outside as the wizards trampled one another in their effort to get away.
The Librarian had bent the pipe into a U‑shape, apparently without effort.
Glod went to the door and looked out. There was a pointy hat on the flagstones, trampled flat.
'That was fun,' he said. 'If I'd just asked them where the Librarian was, they'd chewing the end of a piece of pipe and looking intently at the heap.'That's him,' said one of the wizards, giving Glod a push.The dwarf shuffled forward. There was another outburst of muffled giggling behind him.He tapped the Librarian on the shoulder.'Excuse me–’'Ook?''Those guys just called you a monkey,' said Glod, jerking

Diego Rivera Detroit Industry

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looked down at Glod.
'Just three of you?' he said.
'Yes.'
'When I agreed to . He stared at it as Lias patiently stacked up his stones.
'Oh, just a bit of fruit and old eggs,' said Glod. 'People probably get a bit boisterous. I shouldn't worry about that.'
'I'm not worried about it,' said Imp.
'I should think not.'
'It's the axe marks and arrow holles I'm worried about. Gllod, we haven't even practised! Not properlly!'
'You can play your guitar, can't you?'
'Wellll, yes, I suppose . . .'five dollars, you said you had a big band.''Say hello, Lias.''My word, that is a big band.' Dunelm backed away. 'I thought,' he said, 'just a few numbers that everyone knows? Just to provide some ambience.''Ambience,' said Imp, looking around the Drum. He was familiar with the word. But, in a place like this, it was all lost and alone. There were only three or four customers in at this early hour of the evening. They weren't paying any attention to the stage.The wall behind the stage had clearly seen action

Mark Rothko Violet Green and Red 1951

Mark Rothko Violet Green and Red 1951Mark Rothko Untitled 1962Mark Rothko Untitled 1960Mark Rothko Untitled 1949
Angua froze. Carrot's face took on the usual vaguely puzzled look of someone whose ears have just heard what their brain is programmed to believe doesn't exist. He began to blush.
'Gaspode!' snapped Angua, dropping into Canine.
'I know what I'm doin'. A Man, a Woman. It is Fate,' said Gaspode.
Angua stood up. Carrot shot up too, so fast that his chair fell over.
'I must be going,' she said.
'Um. Don't The door slammed. Angua leaned on it.
It'll end up just like it did in Pseudopolis and Quirm and—
Angua?' said Carrot.
She turned.go—''Now you just reach out,' said Gaspode.It'd never work, Angua told herself. It never does. Werewolves have to hang around with other werewolves, they're the only ones who understand . . .But . . .On the other hand . . . since she 'd have to run anyway . . .She held up a finger.'Just one moment,' she said brightly and, in one movement, reached under the bed and pulled out Gaspode by the scruff of his neck.'You need me!' the dog whimpered, as he was carried to the door. 'I mean, what does he know? His idea of a good time is showing you the Colossus of Morpork! Put me—'

Salvador Dali The Cellist Ricardo Pichot

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making shadow pictures, Detritus.'
'Oook.'
'What him say?'-
'He said "Do Deformed Rabbit, it's my favourite",' Carrot translated.
Rats rustled in the darkness. Cuddy peered around. He kept imagining figures, back there, sighting along some kind of pipe . . .. 'Carrying a human's corpse through the streets right now would not be a good idea, I thought. Especially this one.'
'I thought some of that, too,' Detritus volunteered.
'Right enough,' said Carrot. 'Well done, men. I think we'd better . . . leave it for now, and come back with a sack later on. And . . . don't tell anyone else.'There were a disturbing few moments when he lost sight of the tracks on the wet stone, but he picked them up again near a mould-hung wall. And then, there was the particular pipe. He'd made a scratch on the stones.'It's not far along,' he said, handing Carrot the torch.Carrot disappeared.They heard his footsteps in the mud, and then a whistle of surprise, and then silence for a while.Carrot reappeared.'My word,' he said. 'You two know who this is?''It looks like—' Cuddy began.'It looks like trouble,' said Carrot.'You see why we didn't bring it back up?' said Cuddy

Edgar Degas The Orchestra of the Opera

Edgar Degas The Orchestra of the OperaEdgar Degas Song of the DogEdgar Degas Beach SceneEdgar Degas Ballerina and Lady with a Fan
you've seen a lot of corpses, right, when you've been ministering to the fallen—'
Corporal Nobbs nodded. They both knew that 'ministering' meant harvesting any personal jewellery and stealing their boots. In many a faraway battlefield the last thing many a mortally wounded foeman ever saw was Corporal Nobbs heading towards him with a sack, a knife and a calculating expression.
'Shame to let good stuff go to waste,' said Nobby.
'So you've noticed how dead bodies get. . . deader,' said Sergeant Colon.
'Deader than dead?'
'You know. More corpsey,' said Sergeant Colon, forensic expert.
'Goin' stiff and They strolled onwards.
'Bit of a poser, that is,' said Nobby.
'You're right. I expect the captain'll be very interested.'
'Maybe he was a zombie?'purple and suchlike?''Right.''And then sort of manky and runny . . .''Yes, all right—''Makes it easier to get the rings off, mind you—''The point is, Nobby, that you can tell how old a corpse is. That clown, for e.g. You saw him, same as me. How long, would you say?''About 5' 9", I'd say. His boots didn't fit, I know that. Too floppy.''I meant how long he'd been dead.''Couple of days. You can tell because there's this—''So how come Boffo saw him yesterday morning?'

Caravaggio The Conversion on the Way to Damascus

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can't see it myself.'
'I think I can. And you like the city, sir.'
'Well, yes. But if it was a choice between banishment and having my head chopped off, just help me down with this suitcase. No, we're well rid of kings. But, I mean . . . the city used to work.'
'Still does,' said Carrot.
They passed the Assassins' Guild and drew level with the high, forbidding walls of the Fools' Guild, which occupied the other corner of the block.
'No, it just keeps'The Post Office,' corrected Vimes. 'My granddad said that once you could post a letter there and if d be delivered within a month, without fail. You didn't have to give it to a passing dwarf and hope the little bugger wouldn't eat it before . . .'
His voice trailed off. going. I mean, look up there.'Carrot obediently raised his gaze.There was a familiar building on the junction of Broad Way and Alchemists. The façade was ornate, but covered in grime. Gargoyles had colonized it.The corroded motto over the portico said 'NEITHER RAIN NOR SNOW NOR GLOM OF NIT CAN STAY THESE MESENGERS ABOT THIER DUTY' and in more spacious days that may have been the case, but recently someone had found it necessary to nail up an addendum which read:DONT ARSK US ABOUT: rocks troll's with sticks All sorts of dragons Mrs Cake Huje green things with teeth Any kinds of black dogs with orange eyebrows Rains of spaniel's. fog.Mrs Cake>'Oh,' he said. 'The Royal Mail.'

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You’ll have to come in to keep it calm, then,” he said. “I’ve never shod a stallion like this’n without two men and a boy a-hanging on to it.”
“It’ll do what it’sslung over his shoulder.
“They told me the unicorn had turned up again!”
Another board splintered.
“In there?”
Nanny nodded.
“She dragged it all the way down from the woods,” she said. told,” Granny promised. “It can’t cross me.”“It murdered old Scrope,” said Nanny Ogg. “I wouldn’t mind him killing it.”“Then shame on you, woman,” said Granny “It’s an ani-mal. Animals can’t murder. Only us superior races can mur-der. That’s one of the things that sets us apart from animals. Give me that sack.”She towed the fighting animal through the big double doors and a couple of the villagers hurriedly swung them shut. A moment later a hoof kicked a hole in the planking.Ridcully arrived at a run, his huge crossbow

Piet Mondrian Gray Tree

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she said, “I expect they would. Dwarfs and trolls hate them, too. But I think they don’t hate them as much as I do.”
“You can’t fight them all,” said Ponder. “They’re swarm-ing like bees up there. There’s flying ones, too. The Librarian says they made people get fallen trees and things and push those, you know, those stones down? There were some stones on been in trouble just now if the Librarian hadn’t been up in the trees.”
“But I haven’t got an army. So I’m going to have to try by myself, aren’t I?”
This time Magrat managed to spur the horse into a gallop.the hill. They attacked them. Don’t know why.”“Did you see any witches at the Entertainment?” said Magrat.“Witches, witches ...” muttered Ponder.“You couldn’t have missed them,” said Magrat. “There’d be a thin one glaring at everyone and a small fat one cracking nuts and laughing a lot. And they’d be talking to each other very loudly. And they’d both have tall pointy hats.”“Can’t say I noticed them,” said Ponder.“Then they couldn’t have been there,” said Magrat. “Being noticed is what being a witch is all about.” She was about to add that she’d never been good at it, but didn’t. Instead she said: “I’m going on up there.”“You’ll need an army, miss. I mean, you’d have

John William Godward Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

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There was a scream, which went on for a long time.
And then the night rolled back in again.
After a few minutes there was a scrabbling at the lock, such as might be made by someone trying to manipulate a key held in several thicknesses of cloth, so as not to come into contact with the iron.
The door began to open, and wedged up against the bed.
“Will you not step outside, lady?”
The door creaked again.
“Will you not come dance with us, pretty lady?”
‘The voice had strange harmonics and an echo that buzzed around the inside of the head for several seconds after the last word had been spoken.
211
Terry Pratchett
The door burst open., on the floor. Then she staggered across to the door, which was missing its key. But there were two heavy wooden bars, which she slotted into place.
There was a wooden shutter for the window.
They’d never let her get away with it again. She’d been expecting an arrow but ... no, something as simple as that wouldn’t have been enough fun.
She glared at the darkness. So ... there was this room. She didn’t even know which one it was. Three figures slid into the room. One looked up the bed, and the others poked into dark comers. Then one of them crossed to the window and looked out.The crumbling wall stretched down to the thatched roof entirely unoccupied.The figure nodded to two more shapes in the courtyard, its blond hair glowing in the moonlight.One of them pointed up, to where a figure, its long white dress billowing in the breeze, was climbing up the wall of the keep.The elf laughed. This was going to be more enjoyable than it’d suspected.Magrat pulled herself over the windowsill and collapsed, panting

Marc Chagall The Wedding Candles

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you here for the wedding?”
“That’s right. I’m the Archchancellor of Unseen
University, this is Mr. Stibbons, a wizard, this—where are
you? Oh, there you are—this is Mr. Casanunda—“
“Count,” said Casanunda. “I’m a Count.”
“Really? You never said.”
“Well, you don’t, do you? It’s not the first thing you say.”
Ridcully’s eyes narrowed.
“But I thought “The Librarian,” he repeated.
“Yes. You said.” Shawn nodded at the orang-utan. “How d’you do?”
“Ook.”
“You might be wondering why he looks like that,” Ridcully prompted.dwarfs didn’t have titles,” he said.“I performed a small service for Queen Agantia of Skund,” said Casanunda.“Did you? My word. How small?”“Not that small.”“My word. And that’s the Bursar, and this is theLibrarian.” Ridcully took a step backward, waved his hands in the air, and silently mouthed the words: Don’t Say Monkey.“Pleased to meet you,” said Shawn, politely.162LQRQ6 ftttD LfiQ/£6Ridcully felt moved to investigate.

John William Waterhouse Psyche Entering Cupid's Garden

John William Waterhouse Psyche Entering Cupid's GardenJohn William Waterhouse Nymphs Finding the Head of OrpheusJohn William Waterhouse Juliet
she had the nerve to have a dagger-and-skull tattoo on her arm like Amanita did, even if it was only in ordinary ink and she had to wash it off every night in case her mother saw it.
A tiny, nasty voice from Perdita’s inner self suggested that Amanita wasn’t a good choice of name.
Or Perdita, for that matter.
And it said that maybe Perdita shouldn’t meddle with things she didn’t understand.
The trouble was, sheRaising power at the stones, for one thing. It really worked.
Currently she was showing them the cards.
The wind had got up again tonight. It rattled the shut-ters and made soot fall down the chimney. It seemed to Perdita that it had blown all the shadows into the comers of the room—
“Are you paying attention, sister?” said Diamanda coldly. knew, that this meant nearly every-thing.She wished she could wear black lace like Diamanda did.Diamanda got results.Perdita wouldn’t have believed it. She’d always known about witches, of course. They were old women who dressed like crows, except for Magrat Garlick, who was frankly mental and always looked as if she was going to burst into tears. Perdita remembered Magrat bringing a gui-tar to a Hogswatchnight party once and singing wobbly folk songs with her eyes shut in a way that suggested that she really believed in them. She hadn’t been able to play, but this was all right because she couldn’t sing, either. People had applauded because, well, what else could you do?But Diamanda had read books. She knew about stuff.

Mark Spain Burning Desire

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watch the figures for some time before you realized what it was about them that was strange—stranger, that is, than their clothing. The hot breath of their horses hung in the freezing air. But the breath of the riders did not.
“And this time,” said the figure in the center, a woman in red, “there will be no defeat. The land will welcome us. It must hate humans now.”
“But there were witches,” said one of the other riders. “I remember the witches.”
“Once, yes,” “For me, I rather fancy a mortal husband. A special mortal. A union of the worlds. To show them that this time we mean to stay.”
“The King will not like that.”
“And when has that ever mattered?” said the woman. “But now . . . poor things, poor things. Scarce any power in them at all. And sug-gestible. Pliant minds. I have crept about, my deary. I have crept about o’ nights. I know the witches they have now. Leave the witches to me.”“I remember the witches,” said the third rider insistently.“Minds like ... like metal.”“Not anymore. I tell you, leave them to me.”The Queen smiled benevolently at the stone circle.l Which is another country. 6LORDS fiNb LfiblES“And then you can have them,” she said.

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know, it's odd, isn't it," said St. Ungulant. "There's all this wonderful stuff to drink but every so often I get this, well, I can only call it a craving, for a few sips of water. Can you explain that?"
"It must be . . . "I think we could manage to put up with that," said Brutha, through dry lips. He backed toward the rope-ladder that was the saint's contact with the ground.
"Are you sure you won't stay?" said St. Ungulant. "It's Wednesday. We get sucking pig plus chef's selection of sun-drenched dew-fresh vegetables on Wednesdays."
"We, uh, have lots to do," said Brutha, halfway down the swaying ladder.
"Sweets from the trolley?"
"I think perhaps . . .a little hard to come by," said Brutha, still talking very carefully, like someone playing a fifty-pound fish on a fifty-one-pound breakingstrain fishing-line."Strange, really," said St. Ungulant. "When icecold beer is so readily available, too.""Where, uh, do you get it? The water?" said Brutha."You know the stone plants?""The ones with the big flowers?""If you cut open the fleshy part of the leaves, there's up to half a pint of water," said the saint. "It tastes like weewee, mind you."

Jean Francois Millet Angelus

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woman there appears to be holding a pen­guin," said Vorbis.
"Patina, Goddess of Wisdom," said Brutha auto­matically, and then realized he'd said it.
"I, er, heard someone mention it," he added.
"Indeed. And .
The Ephebians believed that every man should have the vote.[6] Every five years someone was elected to be Tyrant, provided he could prove that he was honest, intelligent, sensible, and trustworthy. Immediately af­ter he was elected, of course, it was obvious to every­one that he was a criminal madman and totally out of touch with the view of the ordinary philosopher in the street looking for a towel. And then five years later they elected another one just like him, and really what remarkably good hearing you must have," said Vorbis.Aristocrates paused outside an impressive doorway and nodded at the party."Gentlemen," he said, "the Tyrant will see you now.""You will recall everything that is said," whispered Vorbis.Brutha nodded.The doors swung open.All over the world there were rulers with titles like the Exalted, the Supreme, and Lord High Something or Other. Only in one small country was the ruler elected by the people, who could remove him when­ever they wanted-and they called him the Tyrant

Bill Brauer The Gold Dress

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between the sounds and the letters."
"You have beaten him for that, at least?"
"It seems to have little effect, deacon."
"How, then, has he become such a capable pupil?"
"He listens," said Nhumrod.
No one listened ," said Nhumrod. "The other novices make fun of him, sometimes. Call him The Big Dumb Ox. You know the sort of thing?"
Vorbis's gaze took in Brutha's ham-sized hands and tree-trunk legs.
He appeared to be thinking deeply.
"Cannot read and write," said Vorbis. "But ex­tremely loyal, you say?"
"Loyal and devout," said Nhumrod.
"And a good memory," Vorbis murmured.quite like Brutha, he reflected. It made it very hard to teach him. It was like-it was like being in a great big cave. All your words just vanished into the unfillable depths of Brutha's head. The sheer concentrated absorption could reduce unwary tutors to stuttering silence, as every word they uttered whirled away into Brutha's ears."He listens to everything," said Nhumrod. "And he watches everything. He takes it all in."Vorbis stared down at Brutha."And I've never heard him say an unkind word

Franz Marc Fate of the Animals

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unfolding in a poem of applied leverage, and in a movement as unstoppable as the dawn of intelligence brought it a moment of almost complete silence.
But only almost complete. Both of them thought they heard, a long way off but very distinct, the sound of running feet fading into the distance.
They found an echo in the outside world. The ape glanced around, and then pushed Coin hurriedly to one side as something squat and battered and with hundreds of little legs barrelled across the stricken courtyard and, without so much as pausing in its stride, leapt into the down very heavily. There was a squashy noise and an offended screech, and the burning pressure on Coin's leg vanished.The dark column wavered. There were squeals and thumps coming from it, distorted by distance.Coin struggled to his feet and started to run back into the dark, but this time the Librarian's arm blocked his path.'We can't just leave him in there!'The ape shrugged.There was another crackle from the dark, and then

Franz Marc Reh im Klostergarten

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They watched the toiling figure of Rincewind for a while, and then Conina said, 'If it comes to that, I think I lack a certain something when it comes to hairdressing.'
They both stared fixedly at the sleepwalker, busy with their own thoughts and red with mutual embarrassment.
Creosote cleared his throat.
'If it makes anyone feel better,' he said, 'I sometimes perceive that my poetry leaves a lot to be desired.'
Rincewind carefully tried to balance a large rock on a small pebble. It fell off, but he appeared to be happy with the result.. It etched itself on their eyeballs before fading away.
After a while there was a distant rumble.
'Some sort of magical weapon,' said Conina, blinking. A gust of warm wind picked up the mist and streamed it past them.
'Blow this,' said Nijel, getting to his feet. 'I'm going to wake him up, even if it'Speaking as a poet,' said Conina carefully, 'what would you say about this situation?'Creosote shifted uneasily. 'Funny old thing, life,' he said.'Pretty apt.'Nijel lay back and looked up at the hazy stars. Then he sat bolt upright.'Did you see that?' he demanded.'What?''It was a sort of flash, a kind of-’The hubward horizon exploded into a silent flower of colour, which expanded rapidly through all the hues of the conventional spectrum before flashing into brilliant octarine

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Rincewind stared.
'What is it?' he whispered.
'I think it's a all religious. For one thing, the participants were enjoying themselves. Almost certainly, they were enjoying themselves. Yes, they must be. It would be pretty astonishing if they weren't.
'They're not dancing, are they?' he said, in a desperate attempt not to believe the evidence of his own eyes. 'Or maybe it's some sort of acrobatics?'
Conina squinted upwards in the hard, white sunlight.temple of some sort,' said Conina.Rincewind stood and gazed upwards, the crowds of AI Khali bouncing off and around him in a kind of human Brownian motion. A temple, he thought. Well, it was big, and it was impressive, and the architect had used every trick in the book to make it look even bigger and even more impressive than it was, and to impress upon everyone looking at it that they, on the other hand, were very small and ordinary and didn't have as many domes. It was the kind of place that looked exactly as you were always going to remember it.But Rincewind felt he knew holy architecture when he saw it, and the frescoes on the big and, of course, impressive walls above him didn't look at

James Jacques Joseph Tissot Too Early

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'Proper magic.' Rincewind stifled a belch.
'Oook.'
Rincewind all this levels and grades business, you know. They had sourcerers in those days. They went out in the world and found new spells and had adventures-‘
He dipped a finger in a puddle of beer and doodled a design on the stained, scratched timber of the table.
One of Rincewind's tutors had said of him that 'to call his understanding of magical theory abysmal is to leave no suitable word to describe his grasp of its practice.' This had always puzzled him. He objected to the fact that you had to be good at magic to be stared into the frothy remnants of his last beer, and then, with extreme care in case the top of his head fell off, leaned down and poured some into a saucer for the Luggage. It was lurking under the table, which was a relief. It usually embarrassed him in bars by sidling up to drinkers and terrorising them into feeding it crisps.He wondered fuzzily where his train of thought had been derailed.'Where was I?''Oook,' the Librarian hinted.'Yeah.' Rincewind brightened. 'They didn't have

Bill Brauer Salsa Dancers

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saw a dark handle sticking out from the load of timber. He tried to pull at it with fingers now as substantial as a shadow.
HE SAID HE WOULD DESTROY IT FOR ME!
The Death of Rats shrugged sympathetically.
The new Death stepped through the wall, scythe held in both hands.
It advanced on Bill Door.
There to duck!
Bill Door dived through the wall again and pounded across the square. skull down, spectral feet making no noise on the cobbles. He reached the little group by the clock.
ON THE HORSE! GO!
‘What’s happening? What’s happening!’
IT HASN’T WORKED!was a rustling. The grey robes were pouring into the smithy.Bill Door grinned in terror.The new Death stopped, posing dramatically in the glow from the forge.It swung.It almost lost its balance.You ‘re not supposed
Miss Flitworth gave him a panicky look but put