Fairie Tales - Puss in Boots and The Frog Prince - Fathom, Count
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Not for the easily offended! Puss is not a kitty that is meek and tame and mild. Cunning and deceitful, cruel, erratic, playful, wild, but not without appeal and charm, not from our hearts exiled. Puss sees what's before him and the tools he has on hand. He's perceptive and he's capable, his every step is planned. Mistakes this Puss won't make after he's sure the lay of the land.¿¿ A Prince there was within a tale that once became a frog. Cast, he was, by Nuck herself into a fearful bog. Fallen much in stature now, from Prince to lowly cog within a social hierarchy, oppressed in evil's fog.…mehr

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Produktbeschreibung
Not for the easily offended! Puss is not a kitty that is meek and tame and mild. Cunning and deceitful, cruel, erratic, playful, wild, but not without appeal and charm, not from our hearts exiled. Puss sees what's before him and the tools he has on hand. He's perceptive and he's capable, his every step is planned. Mistakes this Puss won't make after he's sure the lay of the land.¿¿ A Prince there was within a tale that once became a frog. Cast, he was, by Nuck herself into a fearful bog. Fallen much in stature now, from Prince to lowly cog within a social hierarchy, oppressed in evil's fog. Does he learn his lesson from his hard and luckless fate? Will his curse by love's first kiss withdraw, conclude, abate? Until you've reached the end, my friend, your hunger will not sate. Tales they are of joy and fun, to pass a happy hour. A pleasant place, it is to be, within the fairie tower. For there we find the repose to expose our thinking power.
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Autorenporträt
Born of an evil seed in a foul land, Fathom yet grew a sturdy trunk of moral fibre in resistance to the cruel and wicked world. Lo! See, as his roots pull clear from the earth and move from their source far across the sea, to an oppressive, merciless foreign soil. There the tree is starved, his diet replaced with the meagre nourishment of crushed rock. The tree withers, twists and disfigures. The bark grows thick and gnarled, accustomed to the misery of harsh elements. Frightened that these elements would poison him, Fathom releases what little grip his roots had in the crumbling pebble of far away. Parched and shrivelled, across the arch of the earth, back to the place of his seed his tree does go.Truth be told, Count Fathom is not his real name. This is an invention, assumed for his protection and that of his family and friends. His real name is a closely guarded secret. A pact, a promise he has made that others need not suffer shame, or even the rain of malicious rock, for the horrors of the ink he spatters. He lies. He will not be held accountable for the views expressed in his work. He does not believe them. He lives in a colourful imaginary world, a world that accommodates fictitious dissimulation. The publishing is not for edification. He pursues amusement alone for those who choose to pass a pleasant hour within his prose. He hopes some will. He'll deliver on a promise. He'll make an oath. He'll take a vow. The weight he'll use to move you will contend with any cow. The words will charge with wild abandon, tip to toe across the page. Passion stirred from deep inside will break the bars of your heart's cage. You'll be made to feel the freedom that's denied our modern age. Here the promise he does make, the curse, the evil vow. You'll find within the horror of the truth about that cow.This man is disturbed. He is disliked. He is shunned with good reason. Those catching sight of him will move to the opposite side of the street and throw rocks. He knows well the thrill of a successful dodge, much blood loss suffered he while honing the skill. He has no title, no banner, no tribe, no purpose or plan. He is not trying to persuade, convince, or corrupt. He does not want to change or manipulate. He is not a saviour, a prophet, a martyr, or even a decent fellow. He should not be emulated. One is too many. Sometimes He's sorry, But sometimes he's just not. Both are sincere. He is in all respects similar to the other hairless apes, breathing through the few decades they have. This ape wants to scratch glyphs in wood that the others will interpret as real world events in their own minds, to give them a think, a pinch, and a giggle.He's huddled in a shell, a cave, a lair, a hollow, a hole. He must burrow deep into the earth to find what's hid below. Deeper than a mind can go, and melt in molten lead. There at last he can, indeed, have peace among the dead. Life is something to escape alive.