It was on a midnight dreary,
When I sat alone and weary,
Battling with my favorite air
On the lute to my despair,
That an inkling of a presence
Like the echo of an essence
Did assemble in the room
Rising softly from the gloom.
I had tried with all my might
And attracted by my plight
It seemed to creep up from behind
A face austere but also kind
With pointed beard and longish hair
And an eager watchful air,
And I knew the very name
That would put my play to shame.
“Master, will you pardon me,
For the mess I made of thee
And your work of inspiration.
Oh, my hands bring desecration
Onto every single part.
Surely this will break your heart!
It was on a midnight dreary,
When I sat alone and weary,
Battling with my favorite air
On the lute to my despair,
That an inkling of a presence
Like the echo of an essence
Did assemble in the room
Rising softly from the gloom.
I had tried with all my might
And attracted by my plight
It seemed to creep up from behind
A face austere but also kind
With pointed beard and longish hair
And an eager watchful air,
And I knew the very name
That would put my play to shame.
“Master, will you pardon me,
For the mess I made of thee
And your work of inspiration.
Oh, my hands bring desecration
Onto every single part.
Surely this will break your heart!
A ‘Kaiseradler’ story by Duncan Meredyth
The airship came down like a wounded whale, shearing roofing shingles and trusses off several houses and flattening a wooden storehouse, its centrally positioned steam engine crashing through wooden pillars like cannon shot through brittle bushes. The damaged hull, pierced and perforated by 75 millimetre-shots and harpoons, broke apart completely and folded. Small fires flared while the two pursuing rigid airships, sleek cylinders build for speed and firepower, started their descent. The town of Colmar, jewel of Alsace-Lorraine, awoke to life in the midst of night this January 21st, 1905.
Something that happens once in a while - which some say is a compliment of sorts. Someone collecting your artwork to embellish a website, his online profile, maybe printed matters, too. They even may use it for a book or cd cover. Why not? They have found it 'somewhere on the internet'. It happened that someone ripped off pictures from deviantART, printed them and sold them as his own work for lots of money during an art market in England. This is not a compliment. This is criminal.
I'm not a professional artist. Sometimes I work for money, sometimes just for the fun of it. Either way, there is work involved. Hours of drawing, colouring, and