#mosaic tile splash

[sadis-gate]

Dining - Kitchen

White cabinets, a metallic backsplash, raised-panel cabinets, granite countertops, and a mosaic tile backsplash are examples of inspiration for a transitional eat-in kitchen remodel.

[tjaylea]

Transitional Bathroom Inspiration for a sizable transitional kids' bathroom remodel with multicolored glass tile, white walls, and marble countertops

[eluascinnamon]

Kitchen - Transitional Kitchen

An illustration of a mid-sized transitional u-shaped kitchen pantry design with beige flooring, shaker cabinets, and quartz countertops, as well as stainless steel appliances, a peninsula, green backsplash, and ceramic backsplash.

[rendezvousordie]

Pantry Orange County Small elegant u-shaped medium tone wood floor kitchen pantry photo with a farmhouse sink, shaker cabinets, light wood cabinets, quartz countertops, multicolored backsplash, mosaic tile backsplash, stainless steel appliances and white countertops

[nsfshews]

Boston Bathroom Powder room design with a vessel sink, wood countertops, medium-tone wood cabinets, beige walls, and brown countertops in a small, modern bathroom with multicolored tile and ceramic mosaic flooring.

[mchaib]

Traditional Bathroom

[cathtatedaily]

Open Living Room

[90days-90reasons]

Contemporary Living Room - Home Bar

[verpuerto]

Tropical Bathroom - Kids

[livums]

as herself. {🌹}

Hi! 

I’ve been adjusting my strategy for writing The Romance of the Demigods, and I think the best way for me to go is to write out of order, wherever the passion takes me. So... I started writing something that I think I prefer to the original opening of the story (the scene that used to be the opening will still happen, just... after this one). 

Anyways I hope to show off more of Kesh’s personality in this scene (which is why I think it makes a better opening). Anyways. more of it to come but here is the veeeery beginning. ok i love u bye.

Kesh was still growing accustomed to walking around as herself.

Her grin was as wide as her stomach was twisted. The dazed wind of late summer that ambled through the market alley did tug through her rusty curls, and at points blew them right into her dark eyes, as if to remind her that she was really doing this. That when she sauntered past the stalls and the wares therein, what the merchants and townsfolk would see when their eyes drifted over her (for truly she looked nothing special) was not the skin of one invented or imitated, but the light brown into which she had been born. And the freckles that stippled her arms, her neck, and her cheeks, blushing from the glee, had been splashed there by no intention save the Sun’s itself (or Himself, for they were in Host country).

She had always thought she’d sooner pick a pit to drown in than find herself strutting around in her true face not a full day’s ride (even on a shitty horse) from the capital. But Cora had a way of speaking the most outrageous designs into something that resembled reason. Or, at the very least, into something that seemed more worthwhile than lethal. He and his tongue of many talents.

Kesh could not help herself. Every twenty paces or so, she cast a look over her shoulder, just to see that he was still with her. And there he was, every time. Sometimes, she caught his gaze following her—a green that reminded Kesh of lying beneath a tree and looking up into leaves through which sunlight might peek. To this, to his watch, she was more than accustomed.

This time, when she looked back, his eyes were turned elsewhere. Far away. Shifting, as if searching the middle distance for something unseeable. Lost in thought, no doubt dreaming up lyrics. She wondered if he’d sing any more about her—those were her favorite.

Kesh could summon no reason not to take advantage of Cora’s reverie. With a deft turn on her leather-clad heel, she slipped unnoticed into the stream of market-goers meandering back the way she’d come.

It was done easily enough. It always was. Bouquets of clustered bodies were a home to her—safe harbor from eyes that would pry and seek in malice. Kesh rarely felt safer—one tile in the mosaic, one fish in the shimmering school. She would even, at her cheekiest, exit a throng of townspeople appearing wholly different than when she’d entered. And they would revile her if they ever knew, but while they didn’t, they were as shelter in a rainstorm.

The sky rumbled lazily above the city. She’d not been in Cill Tossach for much longer than three days.

Kesh took her sweet time sneaking up on him. Cora looked different from behind—broader, stiffer. Even beneath his tunic, she could see his shoulders held tensely straight and back. The littlest things about him now became foreboding, even the way his black hair curled just below the nape of his neck—that very lock she had twisted about her finger many a languid morning. Without sight of the faraway kindness in his eyes, he looked the kind of person Kesh felt in her gut and her spine it would be wisest to dodge.

He did not hear her in the afternoon bustle. Kesh threaded an unhurried trail in his wake, running her tongue along the edges of her teeth as she considered how she might reveal herself to him.

After several moments of good-natured stalking, she spied the unease that had settled over him. Cora’s hands worked into fists that flexed and rolled in growing distress. His head swung on his neck to face in one direction, then another.

Her nose wrinkled in amusement, and a grin bloomed beneath. He was looking for her.

Kesh spent a breath imagining those eyes of his in such a frenzy—she would normally have to work much harder for him to let her see his agitation. She might have swooned.

An indulgent moment slunk by before Kesh forewent her stealth.

When an arm soft and sure snaked its way round his waist, Cora visibly jolted. Kesh let her hand rest against his hip, her thumb hooking through the leather that belted his verdant tunic. By the time those eyes came to rest on her, she was beaming. He was not.

“Gods a—bove, Kesh…” He caught himself, for they were in Host country.

“Hail, troubadour.”

Her toothy grin failed to disarm him. Cora exhaled soundly through his nose, and said nothing where he might typically berate her for disrupting his artistic musings. Kesh saw myriad expressions tug almost imperceptibly at his eyes, his nose, his lips. The musician was, for once, largely inscrutable to her. She was proud of herself, however, for noticing the half-moment of his eyes darting towards the middle of the crowded thoroughfare. He was trying to understand what he’d missed. He hadn’t recognized her walking the opposite direction—in her woolen skirt, in her plain bodice clasping a homespun shirt low against her torso.

And when his eyes ran over her face—her face—she saw how it unsettled him. Kesh refused to stand in silence for much longer. “It was your idea,” she said, punctuating her reminder with a bump of her hip against his.

With one hand, Cora tucked behind his ear a strand of his dark hair. In better light, strands of it shone cherry.

“Aye. So it was.” His shoulders rolled a shrug he was not relaxed enough to truly mean, and he continued walking.

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The Romance of the Demigods taglist: @aalinaaaaaa​ @sarahlizziewrites​ @thecrookedwriterspath​ @inkspellangel​ @crystal-librarian​ @hallwriteblr​ @bluberimufim​ @wip-nook​

General taglist: @enchanted-lightning-aes

[hommiesweet]

Using Mosaic Tiles to Add Value to Your Property: A Comprehensive Guide

Imagine walking into a home where the first thing that catches your eye is a stunning mosaic tile entryway, its intricate patterns telling a story of craftsmanship and elegance. This is the power of mosaic tiles - small pieces of art that can transform a space and significantly boost a property's value. Let's embark on a journey to discover how these tiny treasures can make a big impact on your home's worth and appeal.

The Timeless Appeal of Mosaic Tiles

Mosaic tiles have been adorning homes for thousands of years, from ancient Roman villas to Byzantine churches. Today, they're experiencing a renaissance in modern homes, bringing a touch of timeless beauty to contemporary spaces. A trip to your local ceramic tile shop will reveal an astounding array of options, from classic designs to cutting-edge patterns.

According to a recent National Association of Realtors report, homes with high-quality tile work can see up to a 5-7% increase in value. That's a significant return on investment for a relatively simple upgrade. But how do you choose the right mosaic tiles for your home?

Choosing the Right Mosaic Tiles for Your Home

When you step into a ceramic tile shop, the choices can be overwhelming. But fear not - choosing the perfect mosaic tiles for your home is an adventure in creativity. Consider the material - ceramic, glass, stone, or metal - each brings its own unique character to your space. Think about size too; while all mosaic tiles are small, they can range from tiny 1/4 inch pieces to larger 2 inch squares, each creating a different effect.

Color is another crucial factor. Light-colored mosaic tiles can make a room feel more spacious and airy, perfect for small bathrooms or kitchens. Darker tones, on the other hand, can add depth and coziness to larger spaces. And don't forget about patterns - from simple geometric designs to complex pictorial scenes, the pattern of your mosaic tiles can set the tone for the entire room.

Lastly, consider the grout. It's not just the glue that holds your tiles together; it's an design element in its own right. A contrasting grout color can make your mosaic tiles pop, while a matching color can create a more subtle, unified look.

Where to Use Mosaic Tiles for Maximum Impact

Now that you've chosen your perfect mosaic tiles, where should you use them to add the most value to your property? Let's take a tour through a home and explore the possibilities.

We'll start in the kitchen, where a mosaic tile backsplash can be the star of the show. It not only protects your walls from splashes and spills but also adds a pop of color and personality. According to a study by Houzz, 87% of homeowners upgrading their kitchens chose to install new backsplashes, with mosaic tiles being a popular choice.

Moving to the bathroom, mosaic tiles reign supreme. They're water-resistant, easy to clean, and can add a spa-like luxury to your space. Picture a shower enclosure with shimmering glass mosaic tiles, or a vanity backsplash that catches the light just so.

In the entryway, mosaic tiles can make a lasting first impression. A beautiful mosaic floor or accent wall sets the tone for your entire home, welcoming guests with a touch of artistry.

Don't forget about outdoor spaces! A plain patio can be transformed into a Mediterranean-inspired retreat with the right mosaic tiles. They're durable enough to withstand the elements and can add a touch of sophistication to your outdoor living areas.

Finally, consider giving your fireplace a facelift with mosaic tiles. A tiled surround can turn a boring fireplace into a stunning centerpiece, making a big impact in your living room with a relatively small investment.

The DIY Route vs. The Professional Touch

For the handy homeowner, installing mosaic tiles can be a rewarding DIY project. Many ceramic tile shops offer DIY-friendly options, such as mosaic sheets that make installation easier. The process involves preparing the surface, planning your layout, applying adhesive, placing the tiles, grouting, and finally cleaning and sealing.

However, if you're not confident in your DIY skills or you're dealing with a large or complex project, hiring a professional can ensure a flawless finish. Many ceramic tile shops can recommend reputable installers in your area. According to HomeAdvisor, the average cost to install mosaic tiles ranges from $10 to $30 per square foot, including materials and labor. While this might seem steep, remember that quality installation can significantly impact the value added to your home.

Maintaining Your Mosaic Masterpiece

To keep your mosaic tiles looking their best and maintain your property's value, regular maintenance is key. Think of it as caring for a work of art - which, in essence, it is. Clean your tiles regularly with a pH-neutral cleaner, avoiding harsh chemicals that can damage the tiles or grout. Reseal grout lines annually to prevent staining and moisture penetration. And if you notice any loose or damaged tiles, address them promptly to prevent further issues.

The ROI of Mosaic Tiles

While the upfront cost of mosaic tiles might be higher than some alternatives, the return on investment can be substantial. A study by Remodeling Magazine found that minor kitchen remodels, which often include new tile work, can recoup up to 80% of their cost at resale.

Moreover, homes with unique, high-quality features like custom mosaic tile work tend to sell faster. In a competitive real estate market, these distinctive touches can give your property a significant edge. It's not just about the monetary value - it's about creating a home that stands out in potential buyers' minds.

Eco-Friendly Options and Current Trends

For the environmentally conscious homeowner, many ceramic tile shops now offer eco-friendly mosaic tile options. These can include recycled glass tiles, tiles made from sustainable materials like bamboo or cork, or locally sourced stone tiles to reduce transportation emissions. Using sustainable materials not only adds value to your home but also appeals to the growing market of eco-conscious buyers.

As for current trends, geometric patterns are having a moment, as are neutral color palettes with pops of bold color. Large-format mosaic designs are gaining popularity, and metallic and iridescent finishes are adding a touch of glamour to many homes. Staying current with these trends can help ensure your home feels modern and appealing to potential buyers.

Conclusion: Small Tiles, Big Value

From ancient art form to modern design staple, mosaic tiles have stood the test of time. Their versatility, durability, and sheer beauty make them an excellent choice for homeowners looking to add value to their property.

Whether you're planning a major renovation or just want to update a small area, mosaic tiles offer endless possibilities. With careful selection from your ceramic tile shop and proper installation, these tiny pieces of art can have a big impact on your home's value and appeal.

Remember, the key to success with mosaic tiles is quality - in materials, design, and installation. So take your time, plan carefully, and don't be afraid to seek professional help if needed. The result will be a beautiful, valuable addition to your home that you'll enjoy for years to come. After all, in the world of home improvement, sometimes the smallest details can make the biggest difference.

[dragkbluire]

IT IS I! THE WIZARD!

I have a new stand ideaaaa!

Lonely Dancers!

Lonely dancers is heavily inspired by an 80's disco and the song 'Lonely dancers' by Conan Grey!

Lonely Dancers is more feminine, their skin white but with those reflective squares over ut like a disco ball! They wear a jacket that is black but has neon paint splashes on it and they have on purple tights. Their eyes are LED lights flashing however color their user is feeling and their hair is neon purple but smoking up!

Their main ability is called 'DDR'! To explain imagine you're on a floor made up of tiles. we'll, Lonely Dancers can turn that floor into a 'Simon says disco' floor thing! it'll turn either one or two of those tiles into a glowing tile and you have to have one or both of these tiles. If your foot or feet do not touch these, prepare for a shock! The more tiles you miss, the worse the shock will become! You can get shocked to death of you miss enough tiles! And these tiles depend on the floor you're on. it can be any kind, from bathroom/mosaic tiles to large ones to wild shapes- It depends on how the floor is made!

Their second ability is their smoking neon hair. If the user is in a closed area (a room for example) they can use the ability called Evacuate the dance floor. The hair acts like carbon monoxide does. It fills the room up (And the speed depends on how big the room is, the smaller the room, the faster It fills with the gas) with the neon gas hair, suffocating the target. The user can choose who this effect- so this ability is great for worming out an enemy stand user in a building. but this ability can be useless if a window is open as the Gas will pour out of the window and is useless outside.

They are somewhat strong, their punches aren't that effect but their legs are STRONG. they dance a lot so of course they got strong legs. it's a stand that can't go far from their user but their effects are at a farther distance than that. Speed they are quite the fast one, they dance around their enemies, they got some fancy footwork! it's basically a dance fight when she's in battle!

Bamb! Lonely dancers!

Lonely Dancers by Conan grey below!

https://youtu.be/1RF2AGOlMoU?si=vj9NF8BBQLHeKim9

I'M FINALLY FREE!!!

So ... I tried to do it xD

I had to do it xD

I'm sorry if it's not exactly what you imagined, but it was interesting trying to draw the stand with only the description!!

The song is not exactly my style, but it's a good song!!

Also, it's ability reminds me of those puzzles in Undertale and I have to say, yep, that's a powerful stand, one I don't want to be near if it is an enemy xdxd

I really love the way you imagine stands. You're so creative!!! They really feel like they should be on a Jojo's part!!

[desos-records]

Chapter 3: Little Talks

First | Prev / Next

Ghost possession doesn't happen often, but fatality rates are high. Even if an agent does survive, there are the aftereffects to worry about.

After surviving a possession, Lucy Carlyle struggles with recovery, delving ever deeper into the memories of Visitors and, in the process, stumbling into the world of blackmarket Sources.

Meanwhile, George Karim races to learn the truth behind ghost possession in order to protect Lucy and save future agents.

And Anthony Lockwood must face his own past with the London underworld if he wants to save his friends and himself.

-

Little fragments of Lockwood's childhood appeared wherever Lucy looked in the little attic room. While clearing out the wardrobe, she found quilts sewn with iron threads and decorated with cartoonish lions and unicorns, done in the agency colors of Rotwell and Fittes. Silhouettes of animals made from colorful silver-glass hung from strings by the window, catching the morning light and throwing cheerful shapes over the walls. A small rubber duck with glasses and a pith helmet guarded the shower. She found toy rapiers while poking through boxes one sleepless night.

The other boxes held old mosaic tiles or bits of statues—ears, noses, fingers—wooden flutes or maps of countries she'd never heard of. What had Lockwood's parents done for a living anyway?

Usually it helped, having concrete proof of her present, when she caught herself slipping into the past—hers or, more often these days, someone else's. But nothing seemed to help her against Annabel Ward.

Lucy struggled to breathe through shallow lungs. She leaned against the cold wood of her attic room door and slid down until she landed, curled up in the space between it and the stairs. Even many hours later, the thick hands of Annabel's killer still pressed around her neck. 

Frustration boiled in her gut. If she had to relive a death loop, could she at least remember what the man looked like? All she had to go on was a looming silhouette. The outline of him cut into her eyes, superimposed over Lockwood's pale face.

you love me, don't you? you love me

She remembered saying it and desperately wished she could just be embarrassed about it. Instead, she felt everything Annabel felt, a sickening need to placate the man's every outburst, a blind, obsessive, careless love, and a fear running deep through her like cold water under ice. Betrayal tore through her chest, or maybe that was pain from lack of oxygen.

They weren't real feelings—she repeated that over and over to herself. Or not her real feelings. She damn well wasn't going to placate him about anything. She certainly wasn't afraid of him. And she wasn't in love with Lockwood, just like he wasn't in love with her.

Besides, Anthony J. Lockwood fit right in with all those polished people in the society pages he read. Lucy could just imagine that Headline Hero smile of his lighting up a magazine. Whether Lockwood & Co ever got off the ground or not, she knew he would be shaking hands with Fittes and Rotwell and whoever else one day. 

She was no starlet, just a nobody from nowhere. Her self-cut bangs, wrinkled skirts, and Northern accent made her stick out, and not in the right way. She knew that. Not that she envied Annabel Ward, mind. She'd much rather be a nobody than end up dead in a chimney with all the gory details splashed over the papers.

you'd never hurt me

Annabel's doubt twisted her stomach even as she said it, but Lockwood would never strangle her and brick her up in a chimney. She trusted him like she trusted the sun to come up in the morning—more so, given the dark London winters.

It was not real. She knew that. Even through the cold, twisting ghost fog turning the light of the library a plasm green, she'd seen the expression on Lockwood's face when she touched him. He flickered like a broken magnesium flare, sparking with shock, concern, unease. Light fractured over his eyes—ordinarily dark and warm, always reminding her of returning safely home following a difficult case—carrying a hollow kind of pain she couldn't place.

She'd asked him if she hurt him and for the most part she'd meant the long, jagged gashes Annabel Ward left in the arms of her killer. Part of her also meant that flash of pain she saw in his face, the hitch she heard in his breath.

Tears cut burning tracks down her face that would. not. stop. no matter how she screwed her face up or brushed them roughly away. A frightened ache of betrayal, laced with delayed anger, twisted through her, infecting every vein and artery.

She leaned her head back against the door, hands curling into fists so hard her nails dug crescent moons into her palms. Agents controlled their emotions above anything else. She could beat this if she just tried hard enough.

But she couldn't breathe. Her hand came up to rest against her throat like she was still trying to break the man's hold. Strangled sobs leapt out of her no matter how she braced her teeth together.

Back home, Lucy never cried. Not if she could help it, not where anyone could see or hear her.

Stop sniveling, her mother had said once, or I'll really give you something to cry about

Now, tears spilled down in heavy waves. She bit into her fist trying to keep her heaving breaths quiet. As she shivered under the weight of them, she suddenly realized that these tears did not belong to her and so she could not stop them.

A knock vibrated the wood behind her and she shot to her feet, stumbling against the stairwell walls as her head spun. Distantly, she understood she was hyperventilating, but she could not work out how to break out of it.

"Luce?"

Fear struck her hard as lightning at the thought of Lockwood—anyone, but especially Lockwood—finding her like this. Some agent she was, he'd bench her for sure, probably turn her out when he found out how she couldn't control her emotions like a proper agent. He'd already overlooked her lack of a Grade Four. Who would trust a cowardly, blubbering girl like her to back them up on nasty cases like Annabel Ward? The cases that earned the money and prestige the agency desperately needed to stay afloat.

What would he do when she wasn't useful anymore?

The memory of her mother's cold, dead eyes glaring at her from the doorway washed over her. She could almost feel her cheek still stinging.

"There's doughnuts. As promised."

Lucy shook her head and rubbed her hands hard over her face to shake herself free. How long had she been sitting there, drowning?

"Be—" She took a heaving breath, digging into her lungs in search of air. "—be right there."

Silence for a moment, except that she swore she could almost hear Lockwood thinking on the other side of the door. Her mind warred with itself. She wished he would leave, wanted him to stay, could not bear it if he opened the door.

"Is everything alright?"

Her gut churned with fear now that she'd been found out, but she managed to pull words out from her closing throat. "I'm fine," she said.

His disbelief had a sound to it, she thought, the hum after a bell stopped ringing. She shook from the effort of keeping herself from bolting and never coming back.

"Can I come in?"

Anthony Lockwood had many different tones of voice, more than most in Lucy's experience. He had the confident, steady rhythm of an agency leader, the low, charming roll of a rising star, the battered, limping voice of an exhausted teenager. She'd heard it all.

All except this one.

He spoke softly, but not in the hurried way he might on a case. The warmth of it sank down into her bones. It reminded her of his steadfast hold when their hands found each other during cases, the reassuring squeeze he sometimes gave her.

Not everyone is out to get you, Norrie would tell her.

Lucy opened the door.

The instant concern in Lockwood's face—like he'd found her bleeding instead of crying—only made another wave of tears spill over her cheeks, running down to her jaw. She caught them before they dripped off her chin and turned her face away, blinking furiously, trying to clear her watery vision.

"Sorry," she started, "Just—"

"Lucy." He reached out like he might take her hand—hers were still braced in shaking fists—but he hesitated.

The gentle way he handled her name pushed all the fear out of her lungs. She could take a deep, steady breath without her ribs feeling like they might crack.

Fuck it.

She put her arms around his shoulders and rested her head against his collarbone. Her tears bled into his jacket. For a moment, he stood there rigid, tense as hugging a ghost lamp. Doubt crept in around the edges, but she didn't move.

Please, please—find me like you always do, she wanted to say.

Slowly, he moved. He placed one arm across her shoulders and the other around her lower ribs—hesitant and so, so different from careless, confident Lockwood. He held her with almost no pressure at all, as if afraid she might break or bolt.

After a moment, when it proved obvious she wouldn't do either, he relaxed and pulled her closer. His hands pressed into her back, warm and secure. She could feel him breathing and tried to match the steady rhythm.

This was real. He was real. Not the shadowy hands and leering figure. This boy with his stupid, posh voice and his Greek fire smile and his big, old house filled with memories and the smell of burnt toast.

"It's okay, Luce," he said softly, voice humming against her ear. His head leaned comfortably against hers. "I've got you. You're safe here."

She couldn't bring herself to say anything. Whatever she thought of sounded just the wrong side of sincere. Besides, she didn't have much more energy than it took to hold onto him and breathe.

"Nothing like that will ever happen again. I promise." He squeezed her gently, only letting go when she stepped back and not a moment before.

[prawnlegs]

not to steal @owlbelly‘s thunder, but I wanted to make a Kelsingra moodboard because it took me a while to reconcile the mental image of it as this somber black stone city with the fact that it supported a culture that prioritized luxury and ease and ornamentation. [ID: A Kelsingra moodboard for Realm of the Elderlings. From left to right: A ghostly long-exposure image of dancers, a stone gazebo on a river, detail of ornate ceiling mosaic, the eye of a black stone statue, liquid silver splashing, vague elongated human shadows, statue detail of a dragon wing, tiled steps into a pool or bath, and black marble pillars supporting striped arches]   (all royalty-free images from Unsplash)

[karanthos-blog]

A new Beginning! Lost Legends!

Fantastical Stories and many other upcoming projects from Phoenix Star, that you might enjoy!

To begin with… Thank you for stopping by! If you like the content, be sure to check out the Patreon!

https://www.patreon.com/phoenix_star

https://www.deviantart.com/saltome

Right now, there are several short stories that I will post over time. So, look forward to that!

Let's start with Lost Legends 3: Beatrix Sallow and the Wine Cellar Caper ->

By. R. E. Levy

"Hello, Mr. Teapot. How are you this afternoon?" Beatrix pulled the fine china down from the cabinet, standing on her tip-toes to do so. "Oh, I'm lovely, thanks for asking," she responded to the silence of the inanimate object. "And how is your wife, Ms. Sugar Bowl?" Beatrix asked, retrieving the other piece of the set. "I see…" she replied stoically. "Thank you for telling me."

The kitchen of Lord Griswold's mansion was empty, save for Beatrix, and in fact, the silence that permeated it traveled throughout the entirety of the enormous house. At one time, it had made her anxious, but now she talked to the tea sets, which made the immediate loneliness a little more bearable. Beatrix had never liked other people much anyway, or at least that was what she told herself.

"Not too hot for you, Mr. T?" she asked as she filled the wide white belly of the teapot with the floral brown of earl grey.

"Oh, no, only one for me, Mrs. S. I shouldn't indulge," she said, placing one sparkling white sugar cube into the bottom of a thin porcelain cup.

The tea steamed as she poured it over the sugar cube, the confectionary quickly melting away and disappearing entirely into the brew.

"No, I haven't had any word from Lord Griswold in quite some time, Mr. Creamer," she paused as if listening to a response, dribbling the tiniest splash of milk into her tea. "You're right. It is a bit disconcerting."

She sat down at the table, the white linen of the tablecloth brushing her stockinged legs.

"I appreciate your concern, Mr. C," she nodded solemnly, "But Lord Griswold entrusted the care of his estate to me and only me. He trusts me," she took a long, loud sip, "If he didn't, why would he have left me here?" the tenor of her voice lost some of its confidence, "Alone?"

There was a long, tense silence.

"I am very capable," she said with a giggle, patting the teapot lid, "thank you for noticing."

Beatrix set the cup of tea down and smoothed the folds of her black skirt beneath her hands, hearing only the swaying tick of the grandfather clock in the corner. For whatever reason, she ended the conversation with the fine china there. There were no more awkward questions from Mr. C, no more fawning compliments from Mr. T, and certainly not a peep out of Mrs. S. Beatrix simply drank the pot of tea in the still quiet of the mansion.

There was no loneliness in her expression, however, and from time to time, she would hum a tune to herself or swing her feet under the table, her demeanor something like a child waiting for the return of a parent on an errand. When the tea was gone, she carefully cleaned up, washing out the serving dishes and then drying them meticulously until they practically sparkled with the effort. Then she slid the tea set back into the cabinet, placing it precisely where she had found it as if it had never been used at all.

"Time for more work," she said with a light sigh, tightening the strings of her apron at the small of her back.

Beatrix skipped out into the foyer and inspected the intricate tile mosaic that made up the entryway to Lord Griwold's mansion of an estate.

"This could use a good scrub," she proclaimed, her hands on her hips with determination. Beatrix procured a mop and a bucket, filling the thing to the brim with hot, soaping water.

She struggled back to the entryway, some of the stuff slopping over the lip of the bucket and splashing at her feet.

"Ugh," Beatrix said distastefully, "too much work."

She set the bucket down, and with a wave of her hand, the sudsy container of water was levitating in the air. "That's better!" she said gleefully.

Beatrix moved from one corner of the room to the next, sweeping the broom almost as if she were dancing with it. The tile beneath her feet sparkled and shined. She used the same magic to empty and return the bucket to its place with a twirl of a finger, wringing out the mop and setting it inside the broom closet.

"What's next?" she asked the empty mansion. "Mhhm," she nodded her head and began to walk up the grand staircase that led to the second floor. "A little dusting in the library sounds perfect. I might even read a book!" she ended the thought with a hapless giggle.

The double doors to the library always filled Beatrix with a sense of wonder. Their ornate, carved shape looked more like a painting than carpentry, and it was with a reverent hand that she pushed them open. One of her many tasks was checking each tome for book lice, and though it was a monotonous chore, it did allow her to get to know the selections of Lord Griswold's personal collection.

Today she started with the titles that began with 'E,' having finished up with 'D' the day before. The first book she pulled from the shelf was titled Eggsellent, One Chef's love affair with the Humble Egg. Intrigued, Beatrix flipped open the book and began to peruse its recipes. After her inspection revealed no sign of insect intruders, she snapped the book shut, ran her feather duster over it, and returned it to the shelf.

"I'll have to try making that quiche," she said to herself.

She moved methodically down the row this way, finding travel diaries, biographies of famous wizards, and even a field guide to exotic mushrooms. It was one of the less tedious tasks she had been assigned by Lord Griswold in her singular upkeep of his estate and one she not-so-secretly looked forward to every day. Perhaps it was the interruption of her favorite task that led to the events that followed.

Beatrix's focus and peace were shattered by a significant clamor coming from below. She thrust the book in her hand back onto the shelf and raced out of the library, pausing at the landing to the grand staircase. There was a prolonged silence, and then the ruckus came again. The simple black flats on her feet slapped against the stairs as she flew down them, careening toward the kitchen.

Beatrix skated into the room, gripping the wash sink for support as she slid to a stop and listened once more, just to make sure. The noise was louder here, a chaotic mixture of chatter and roughhousing. Beatrix paused her whole body tense with the act of listening. She took a steadying breath and approached the servants' stairwell that led down to the wine cellar. The racket pinged off the stone stairwell, bubbling up from below.

"Bandits?" she whispered to herself, "After Lord Griswold's rare collection of vintages? How did they get in?"

Carefully she began her descent, one step at a time, her ears piqued to any noise or talk that might reveal more about the intruders. There was a loud crash and the sound of shattering glass, and Beatrix pressed herself into the wall as a gruff voice broke over the chaos.

"Grub! Watch those damn clumsy hands of yours, dammit!"

"Sorry, sir!" came a higher-pitched, almost wheezy response.

Beatrix peered around the corner, her eyes adjusting slowly to the dim light of the cellar. A few torches had been lit, their flickering orange glow dancing shadows across the stone floor and walls. In the shadows moved odd shapes.

"These are the smallest bandits I've ever seen," she murmured as the intruders continued to argue amongst themselves.

Gradually, as her vision grew more precise, Beatrix realized that her newfound roommates were not actually human at all. The tallest of them, the one that had been referred to as "sir," could be nearly her height, she supposed, but all the rest would come up to her waist, at best.

"And they're…green," she said to herself, her eyes going wide.

One of the bandits came dangerously close to her as he stuffed bottles of wine into a large sack. Beatrix studied him, calling to mind the many scientific guides she had perused in the Lord's library. The creature's short stature and algae-green skin were not enough to identify his species, but the large, almost luminous eyes combined with blunted fingers that ended in sharp claws gave him away.

"Goblins!" she shrieked at full volume, and the thief closest to her startled with a loud yelp, the bag of wine he was holding splashing to the floor and spreading out in a purple pool.

"Who's there!" called the gruff, tall one, stepping fully into the torchlight.

Beatrix gripped the handle of her feather duster tightly in her right hand and moved out of the stairwell into the center of the room. "Mine name is Beatrix Sallow, and you are trespassing in Lord Griswold's wine cellar!"

The goblins around her began to snicker, the what she now recognized as a hobgoblin leader let out the loudest guffaw of them all.

"You're awful brave for a maid," he said, orange eyes glinting at her as his fanged mouth opened in a grin. "But we can't have you following us, now can we?"

The goblins surrounded them now, eager for whatever they assumed would happen next.

Beatrix pulled on the handle of her feather duster and watched at the blade inside it was revealed, gleaming red in the light of the torches. The hobgoblin took a step back in surprise, his cat-like eyes blinking rapidly.

"I said you're trespassing," Beatrix hissed before leaping at the leader.

The hobgoblin quickly drew his own weapon, a crude ax that met her blade mid-air, sending an aching vibration down Beatrix's arm. It did not deter her. She snarled and pushed forward again as the goblins around her recovered from their surprise and began to cheer for their leader.

"Get her, sir!"

"Snark! Snark! Snark!" chanted some others.

"Your name—" she gritted her teeth together as their weapons caught, "—is Snark?" Snark, the hobgoblin gave a guttural laugh as he forced her backward, "Your name is Beatrix?"

"Beatrix is a fine name!" she snapped back.

"Snark is a traditional Hobgoblin name! I am named after my grandfather," said Snark, brandishing his axe menacingly.

Beatrix paused, "Oh, that's very nice, actually."

"Thank—Thank you?"

"This fighting is getting us nowhere," Beatrix sighed and shook her head.

"Why—"

Snark was cut off as Beatrix waved her blade, a blue glow now suffusing the metal. The hobgoblin's body went rigid.

"You're going to take me to your leader," she said authoritatively.

"Boss?" asked one of the goblins in concern as he raced to Snark's side and began to tug on his coat.

"There's no problem here, Grub. This nice lady wants to meet the boss."

"That seems like a problem if I'm honest, sir," Grub pointed out.

Snark waved away the goblin, and Grub shuffled back to the small collection of goblins at Beatrix's back.

"You try anything, lady, and we'll getcha!" said one of them.

Beatrix turned and fixed the offending goblin in her sternest gaze. The creature squeaked in fear and ducked behind his compatriots. Snark turned and strode behind one of the large caskets of golden ale that lined the back wall. Beatrix followed and let out a gasp as the crumbled-away wall behind it was revealed.

"So that's how you got in," she whispered.

"Wasn't so hard," Grub chimed, "you should really tell your Lord to reinforce this foundation."

"Isn't up to code," said another.

Beatrix took in this information with a grave nod.

Grub skittered ahead, torch in his hand, leading the way down a crudely carved tunnel that Beatrix had to crouch to fit through. The air around her felt damp, and the loamy smell of dirt suffused the space.

"How far does this go?" she asked, her voice muted by the confines of her surroundings.

"Oh, it'll take us most of the afternoon," answered one of the other goblins. "Name's Loo, by the way," he held out one forest-green, gnarled hand.

Beatrix shook Loo's hand vigorously, "Nice to meet you," she replied, "I have to say that digging tunnels into cellars doesn't seem like the most efficient way to rob people."

"You think this is our first heist, Missus?" responded Loo with a wild cackle, "We've broken into half the manors in this county alone."

"Always through the cellar?"

Loo shook his head, "No, don't be ridiculous. This was just the best option for this particular job. Would have gone off without a hitch—" he raised his voice, "IF SOMEBODY HADN'T MADE SO MUCH NOISE."

Grub snapped his head around and glared at Loo.

"First time," Loo jabbed his thumb in Grub's direction and shook his head at Beatrix as if in commiseration.

"Ah," Beatrix sighed knowingly.

The odd group traveled in silence for a while, Beatrix's blade still glowing a subtle blue, maintaining her control over Snark. The tunnel began to widen slightly and slant upward toward the surface. Beatrix craned her gaze around the lumbering form of Snark and caught a glimpse of a light glowing beyond. As they neared it, the goblins around her began to grow agitated.

"I really don't think the boss is going to like this," she heard one whisper.

"Especially coming back empty-handed," said another.

"Snark is in charge. He's gonna take the heat, not us."

Snark, for his part, seemed unmoved. In fact, the hobgoblin was humming happily to himself as they approached what Beatrix could only assume was the exit.

A subtle heat radiated through the air now, and a distinct sulfur flavor to the atmosphere. Beatrix covered her nose with her hand.

"Where on earth are we headed?" she asked.

"You wanted to see the boss, so to the boss, we go," Snark said, his gravely voice mixing oddly with the sing-song tone of his words.

Beatrix covered her eyes with her other hand as she stepped out of the tunnel and out into whatever awaited them. The light was not altogether that bright; to her surprise, it only seemed so in comparison to the dankness of the path that had led here. She blinked, her eyes more comfortable now as she began to look around.

Beatrix and her green companions now stood in a large, cave-like structure. Massive stalagmites and stalactites dotted the cavern, covered in effervescent mushrooms that lit up the space like lanterns. The floor rippled with tiny rivulets of water streaming around their feet, a mist of unknown to her gas hovered in the air, the source of the sulfuric smell.

"Where are we?" she asked, her mouth parted in awe.

"Home sweet home!" Answered Grub.

"We're under White Peak Mountain," Loo replied more informatively.

"Really?" Beatrix asked, her eyes going wide with surprise, "We really traveled that far?"

"Time flies when you're walking through an endless tunnel of dirt," Loo snorted.

"I don't think that's how that saying goes," replied Beatrix in all seriousness; Loo's creased face furrowed further in frustration.

There was the sound of shifting rocks, and the ground beneath their feet began to tremble. Beatrix gripped her feather-duster blade tightly in her fist, prepared for what was to come. A large shape loomed out of the inky blue light, uncoiling itself like a rope.

"A dragon?" Beatrix stood her ground, watching as the goblins around her began to tremble visibly.

"The boss," whispered Loo as he ducked behind a stalagmite.

The dragon's massive, scaled head glittered like a thousand stars as it swung back and forth, its luminous red eyes searching.

"Snark…where is the loot?"

Snark, still unbothered, addressed the dragon. "We don't have any boss. This maid here wanted to meet ya, so we—"

Snark paused as the dragon lowered its head down to the hobgoblin's level and fixed him in a deep stare. "She's charmed you…interesting…"

"What—" Snark was cut off as the dragon's tail appeared out of the shadows and smacked him full-force in the chest. His body flew to the side, smashing into the rock and sending thousands of mushroom spores showering over him like snow. The hobgoblin slid down to the cavern floor with a groan.

"Tell me," the dragon addressed Beatrix now, and she felt the full weight of its ancient magical gaze, "how did a powerful sorceress such as yourself end up a simple maid for Lord Griswold of all people?"

Beatrix released her hold on Snark, the glow of her blade dimming as she replied in total confidence, "Not even going to introduce yourself? I expected more manners from such a distinguished beast."

The dragon cocked its head to the side in surprise. "My, we are cheeky," it said and then gave a loud rumbling laugh that broke off one of the stalactites, sending goblins scattering away as it smashed into the rock floor.

"You may call me Maulg," the dragon finally answered, "Mistress of the White Peak." "Honored to meet you," Beatrix gave a deep curtsey, "I am Beatrix Sallow."

"Are you going to answer my query now, Beatrix Sallow?" The dragon lowered her head

to the ground, staring up at Beatrix with a surprisingly docile, curious look in her red eyes.

"I lost a bet," Beatrix admitted with a light sigh.

"You…" Maulg arched her neck, raising her head back into the air and looking down over the whole cavern. "You lost a bet?"

"Mhm," Beatrix nodded. "Lord Griswold is a powerful wizard, you see, and nearly a century ago, he cleaned me out in a poker game."

"A poker—" Maulg seemed at a loss for words, and Beatrix rocked her small frame back and forth on her feet as she waited for a complete response. "How long have you been paying off this debt?"

"Oh," Beatrix's voice chimed lightly in the air, "Coming up on a century, I'm nearly finished with my work for him."

Maulg blinked, her tail slithering around a stalagmite and gripping it tightly in a coil. "I see…"

"So I would appreciate it if you could hold off any further raids on his estate until I am gone from the premise. Otherwise, I may have to kill all of your minions, and I'll admit I've grown fond of them."

"Awww," she heard Loo squeak from his hiding place.

The threat amused Maulg. "When are you free of your contract?"

Beatrix calculated something in her head, "A month and three days."

Maulg's head disappeared into the shadows, a low rumbling chuckle filling the air.

"Very well, Beatrix Sallow, this has been very amusing, I have to say. For that alone, I will abide by your proposition."

"Thank you," Beatrix gave another curtsey.

"I have only one request," Maulg reappeared, her neck snaking toward Beatrix until they were nearly touching noses. "Come visit me when your debt to Griswold is paid."

"Why, Mistress Maulg?" Beatrix asked, her eyebrows shooting up her forehead in surprise.

"Goblings are not… titillating company."

Beatrix giggled. "I think that can be arranged."

"Very well," Maulg slowly withdrew back into the shadows. "Escort her back to Lord Griswold's estate, boys, and see she gets there safely."

Loo and Grub reappeared quickly, Loo even going so far as to grab Beatrix's hand and pull her back toward the exit. "You heard the boss!"

Beatrix glanced over her shoulder as they reached the tunnel's threshold and waved. There was a brief pause, and then the tip of Maulg's tail waved back subtly in reply. Did you enjoy it? Be sure to like and comment and visit the links above.

Big hug,

Kara

[cabinscreaking]

Old Town Bar (1892)

45 E 18th Street New York, New York 10003

The saloon that opened in 1892 in the working-class neighborhood of 45 E. 18th Street was, outwardly, not exceptional. The three-story vernacular brick building was unadorned, other than a modest but handsome cornice.

Veimieskie’s did, however, have unusual and attractive features unexpected in a blue-collar saloon. A row of three arched wheel-cut sunburst windows over the entrance replaced the more usual stained glass. Inside, 16 feet above the 55-foot mahogany bar an elaborate and unusual pressed-tin ceiling mimicked the plaster parlor ceilings of residential row houses.

Oil Painting "Old Town Bar" by artist Sharon Florin

Upstairs a dining room served German-style food to both ladies and gentlemen – below the saloon was reserved for masculine patrons. A dumbwaiter hoisted hot food from the kitchen to the dining room, saving waiters the rush up a flight of stairs.

The saloon managed to remain nearly scandal-free; perhaps the most notorious involving a pair of shoelaces in 1905.

On the evening of June 10th of that year, 13-year old Isidor Rosenberg entered the bar to sell shoelaces. One of the patrons, John Kroll, an etcher from Brooklyn, took a pair to examine them then did not bother to return them to the boy. Isidor left the bar, sat on the curb outside and started crying.

Before long a sympathetic crowd had gathered, among them 25-year old W. J. Buckly who, pretending to be a police officer, attempted to drag Kroll away until two actual policemen, Patrolmen Lynch and Rogers, ran up. Buckly quickly hid in the cellar of the saloon where, after a time, the policemen found him “with the aid of lighted matches.”

According to The New York Times, all three were arrested – Kroll on the charge of “larceny of a pair of shoe laces,” young Isidor was charged with selling shoe laces without a license and sent to the Gerry Society (The New York Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children), and Buckly was arrested for impersonating an officer. As indoor plumbing was improved the men’s restroom was outfitted with immense porcelain urinals in 1910. The deep fixtures were designed and patented by Winfield E. Hinsdale in 1901 to suppress splashing.

With 1920 came Prohibition. In New York the threat of Prohibition was, for saloon keepers, mostly about whom they knew (and paid). The bar became Craig’s Restaurant and, essentially, continued business as usual. Al E. Smith – the dominate Democratic force in New York – stopped in regularly.

With the repeal of Prohibition came another name change, this time to The Old Town Bar. By the middle of the century it was owned by Henry Lohden who, other than hanging a neon sign out front, carefully retained the 19th Century atmosphere. Reportedly the attractive ceiling was last painted in 1952 while the bar was closed for election day. Since then layers of history have been permitted to accumulate.

In the 1970s former newspaper worker Larry Meagher became manager of Old Town and today it is managed by his two sons. Little has changed inside. The multi-colored mosaic floor comprised of thousands of octagonal tiles remains, as do the beveled plate glass mirrors behind the bar. The original gas lamps, now electrified, still glow and the dumbwaiter, now the oldest in the city, is still in use. And those giant porcelain urinals are still in place.

The bar was used for the title scene of the David Letterman Show opened each night during the 1980s and appeared in movies such as “The Devil’s Own,” “Last Days of Disco,” “Bullets Over Broadway” and “State of Grace;” and on television was used in “Sex and the City” and in “Mad About You” provided the exterior of Riff’s Bar.

Madonna sang down the length of the bar in her Bad Girl music video.

Among the handful of authentic, unaltered 19th Century saloons left in Manhattan, The Old Town Bar ranks as one of the best.