#bonedog

[princessmeril]

My beautiful Bonedog embroidery commission from @linsaangs arrived! I can’t get over how incredible it looks!

[gabbagebin]

Zobbe Sketch Page

I want to kith,,, [unpaid promo] Check out Spectrum of Hybrids! The itch.io page

Posted using PostyBirb

[greatnesswof]

Skulldog!! 🦴

VK / Telegram / YouTube

[fictional-llamas]

A princess turned "nun" makes the decision to free her sister from an abusive husband. The only problem is how do you kill a king without starting a war? She enlists the help of a dustwife and her demon chicken, a dog made of bones, a man who willingly trapped himself in a fairy ring, and her own fairy godmother. This strange group travels to the northern kingdom with the goal of assassinating a paranoid king without being detected.

I really loved this book, it is probably the first fantasy book I've read that has a 30-year-old woman as the protagonist, and one that is described as round faced and stocky rather than thin as a needle. Don't worry, the dog doesn't die (again), but the chicken REALLY is a demon.

[sevibloom]

thinking about my pretty princess sevika

[novasteri]

I like Kenshi

[lunalovesangst]

I was re-watching I'm Thinking of Ending Things (which, if you haven't seen, you really should) and I'm at the part where Lucy is reciting the poem Bonedog and it may be that I'm currently obsessed with TUA but.....

Is it just me or is the poem giving Five?!?

For example:

Coming home is terrible [...] whether you have a wife or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you.

Like try telling me that isn't about Dolores. Try it and see what happens.

One note in this post and I'll write another one with more details of the poem and its correlation with Five's time in the apocalypse and his return to 2019.

[alvallah]

BONEDOG | by Eva H.D.

Coming home is terrible whether the dogs lick your face or not; whether you have a wife or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you. Coming home is terribly lonely, so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything’s worse once you’re home.

You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks, long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing because you did not want to return. Coming home is just awful.

And the home-style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect, and made from a different material than those you left behind. You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots, seamy suit of clothes dishrag-ratty, worn.

You return home moon-landed, foreign; the Earth’s gravitational pull an effort now redoubled, dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead. You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of…

Anyway…

You sigh into the onslaught of identical days. One might as well, at a time…

Well… Anyway… You’re back.

The sun goes up and down like a tired whore, the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older. Nothing moves but the shifting tides of salt in your body. Your vision blears. You carry your weather with you, the big blue whale, a skeletal darkness.

You come back with X-ray vision. Your eyes have become a hunger. You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone. Everything you see now, all of it: bone.