Do your alien races have any kind of street art culture? I mean I assume so, especially for avians and their gnarly little punks, and I would be delighted to see the busy monstrosities that ferret murals would be, but STILL
I’m sure they all have some forms of public art, both legal and illegal, but. Aesthetically speaking bug ferret decorative architecture ranges from Victorian gingerbread trim everywhere, to dizzying Islamic tile patterns. Vandalism has to fight hard to be noticed, usually resorting to just being BIG and CLASHING. Ferrets are also very into textural art and and interactive art, this extends to murals, street art, and architecture in general.
Visual art is not the most common public art in centaur cultures. Instead people stand on street corners and sing, or shout poetry. This is also common in avian cultures.
… the house behind the tree by Frances Via Flickr: …. if only I could have picked up the tree and temporarily moved it. I was too lazy to clone it out in Photoshop. Love the trim and the shutters on this house. One other time when I visited this town, there was a mini-cooper parked in front. Made me love the scene even more. One of these days, a mini will be sitting in my driveway. Someone who lives nearby owns one and has a front tag that says “Wee”.
Wesleyan Grove, Oak Bluffs, Martha’s Vineyard by GethinThomas Via Flickr: Wesleyan Grove is a 34-acre National Historic Landmark District in Oak Bluffs, Massachusetts on the island of Martha’s Vineyard. It was the first summer religious camp established in the United States. It is famous for its many Carpenter Gothic cottages with Victorian-style, gingerbread trim.
The first so-called campmeeting in what became known as Wesleyan Grove was held in 1835. In subsequent years the congregations grew enormously, and many of the thousands in attendance were housed in large tents known as “society tents.” Conditions were cramped, with men and women sleeping dormitory-style on opposite sides of a central canvas divider. Society tents were arranged in a semicircle on Trinity Park. Over time, families began leasing small lots on which to pitch their own individual tents.
In the 1860s and 1870s, the family tents were rapidly replaced with permanent wooden cottages. At one time there were about 500 cottages; today there are just 318 and are referred to as the gingerbread cottages.
Via Flickr: “In about 1880, Benjamin Franklin Camp built this home for his bride, Annie Britt. They lived here for about 20 years, and then moved to High Springs to find more timber for their sawmill. The house was sold to B.F.’s nephew, J.A. Maultsby, who lived here until 1926.
It was then sold to Cockwood Flowers, who then sold it to Oscar and Aris Tillman in 1938. They hired a carpenter who worked for two years installing plumbing, electricity and a new roof, and the Tillmans moved in during 1940.
The house has two-story verandas on the front and back, and a bay window on the north side. This house was occupied by Mrs. Tillman until her death in 1983.
The three Camp brothers founded the town along the Peninsular Railroad in 1881. They sold subdivided town lots with deed restrictions which prohibited the sale of liquor. The Camps ran a saw and planing mill, general merchandise store, cotton gin, grist mill, orange groves and a thriving nursery. By the mid-1880s, Campville grew to a population of 250.”
Ladies and gentlemen, please collect your belongings,
watch your head and step, and take small children by the hand. We hope you
enjoy your day at the Magic Kingdom.
At the sound of the electronic chime, the monorail
doors slid open, and Lucas and Riley exited onto the concrete platform of the
open air station outside the park’s gates. They were already a few minutes late
for the 3:00 o’clock meeting time with the rest of their group, and they still
had to make it all the way to the castle, which was where they’d agreed to
The front entrance of the park wasn’t far from the monorail
station, and they made their way through it with a swipe of their wristbands.
On the other side of the turnstile, a wide sloping
bank lay sprawled at the base of a second-story railroad platform. Its beautifully
landscaped lawn surrounded a conformation of hedges and flower beds that had
been laid out to form a large medallion with the famous mouse ears at its
center. At the top of the bank sat a Victorian style train station,
adorned with gables and a high clock tower, and it was the first thing guests
were presented with when they walked through the gate.
A train whistle sounded as they headed towards
the short tunnel that passed under the tracks and into the park,
Lucas forcing a slight speed to their steps by his grip on Riley’s hand.
“We shouldn’t have stayed for the Bug
movie,” he fretted, as they hurriedly crossed the cobblestoned courtyard
to the underpass.
“Lucas, would you relax? I told you it’s fine.
They’re probably just waiting for us on a bench somewhere. It’s not like
they’ll mind the extra rest time. Well, the kids might,” she amended.
“But knowing my dad, he’ll probably just turn it into a lesson on patience
or something.” Her tone was half-humorous when she said it, but the
likelihood that it was true was actually pretty good.
“I know, I just don’t like to be late,”
he continued to fuss. “Especially when it involves your dad.”
Riley looked at him in affectionate understanding.
“It’ll be okay, I promise,” she soothed.
So, captainoftherollyjoger wanted a Captain Swan fic that featured a Newfoundland puppy in the snow, and clockadile agreed and I said I’d write the thing, so here is the thing (and sorry it took me so long!). Oh, and this is what the puppy looks like, it’s a Landseer Newfie
“This is payback.”
She stomped her feet and blew on her hands, red and chapped from the wind. She would have sworn that her gloves had been in the pockets of her coat, but when they reached the park and she went to pull them on, all she found was a few wadded up tissues and a Chapstick without the cap.
“Hmm?” Killian turned and looked back at her, “Payback for what, Swan?”
Emma yanked her hat a little further down on her ears and glared, “Everything.”
At the foot of the hill Henry was running through the snow, arms outstretched and laughing. He fell to his back and a ball of black and white fur jumped on his chest and started licking all over his face.
Five days ago she had finally moved into her own place, a two bedroom cottage with wide pine floors and gingerbread trim on the eaves, with a fine view of the harbour through the master bedroom window. Two days after that, Regina had shown up with what she claimed was a housewarming present, but Emma knew was one thing and one thing only.
I love New Orleans. It’s not perfect (see: summer), but of all the places I’ve ever traveled, it’s definitely my favorite. It’s like there’s something just in the air, and breathing it makes me feel good.
The fact that it’s in the 70s and I’m wearing shorts and t-shirts even though it’s practically November.
The sweet smell of flowers when I’m walking down the streets.
The Victorian houses, big and small, with their gingerbread trim and gaslamp porch lights.
The fact that people smile at you as you pass them on the sidewalk.
The music, the food, the constant celebrations, the embrace of what makes their city unique and special.
It feels promising. Whenever I visit, I step out the door and build fantasies of what my life could be like living down here, because somehow this city feels rife with possibilities for me, like there are fun experiences just waiting to be had. I don’t get that sense everywhere I go.
I know it wouldn’t be perfect, but I think it’s worth chasing! As soon as I get a living situation worked out (subletting, house-sitting or whatever works), I’ll be moving down here for the winter and spring.