#Birch Water Market

[adityarana1687-blog]

Birch Water Market To Reach $2.61 Billion By 2030 | CAGR 7.9%

The global birch water market size is expected to reach USD 2.61 billion by 2030, growing at a CAGR of 7.9% from 2024 to 2030, according to a new report by Grand View Research, Inc. Key factors propelling the market include rising health consciousness, growing awareness of birch water's potential benefits, and a shift towards clean-label, eco-friendly products. The market is characterized by ongoing product innovation, with companies introducing flavored varieties, functional blends, and sustainable packaging solutions. Expanding distribution channels, including mainstream retail and e-commerce platforms, are making birch water more accessible to a wider consumer base.

One of the primary drivers of the birch water market is the growing health consciousness among consumers worldwide. Birch water is perceived as a natural source of hydration, rich in electrolytes, antioxidants, and various minerals. Its low-calorie content and potential health benefits, including detoxification properties and skin health improvement, appeal to health-conscious consumers looking for functional beverages. The rising prevalence of lifestyle-related health issues and the subsequent shift towards preventive healthcare have further boosted the demand for natural, nutrient-rich drinks like birch water.

The market is also significantly influenced by the global trend towards plant-based and sustainable products. Birch water aligns perfectly with the increasing consumer preference for eco-friendly and ethically sourced beverages. The sustainability aspect of birch water production, which typically involves tapping birch trees during a specific season without harming the trees, resonates with environmentally conscious consumers. This has led to many brands emphasizing their sustainable harvesting practices and eco-friendly packaging in their marketing strategies.

Product innovation plays a crucial role in driving market growth and attracting a broader consumer base. Companies are constantly introducing new flavors and functional blends to cater to diverse consumer preferences. Some brands are incorporating additional ingredients like fruit juices, herbs, or other botanical extracts to enhance flavor profiles and nutritional benefits. There's also a trend towards developing birch water-based products beyond beverages, such as skincare items and food products, further expanding the market's reach.

The birch water market's growth is further facilitated by expanding distribution channels and effective marketing strategies. While initially confined to health food stores and specialty shops, birch water products are now increasingly available in mainstream supermarkets, convenience stores, and online platforms. This wider availability, coupled with targeted marketing campaigns that educate consumers about birch water's unique properties and benefits, is helping to increase product visibility and consumer adoption. As the market continues to evolve, we can expect to see more partnerships between birch water producers and larger beverage companies, potentially leading to even broader market penetration and continued innovation in the sector.

Request a free sample copy or view report summary: Birch Water Market Report

Birch Water Market Report Highlights

Unflavored birch water held a 64.4% revenue share in 2023. It appeals to health-conscious consumers who prefer products free from artificial additives. The minimal processing retains its natural nutrients, aligning with the clean-label trend. Its authentic taste and versatility for mixing with other drinks add to its popularity.

The beverages application segment accounted for 80.7% of the market in 2023. This dominance is due to the rising preference for natural and healthy drinks. Birch water's detoxifying properties and rich nutrient content make it a popular alternative to sugary and sports drinks.

Offline channels held a 60.6% revenue share in the market in 2023. Physical stores allow consumers to experience the product before purchasing. In-store promotions and immediate availability boost sales. Knowledgeable staff and the credibility of retail chains further enhance consumer trust.

Europe had a 38.4% revenue share in the market in 2023. The region's tradition of natural remedies and increasing awareness of birch water's benefits drive demand. Preference for organic, eco-friendly beverages and innovative product formulations support market growth.

Birch Water Market Segmentation

Grand View Research has segmented the global birch water market based on the type, application, distribution channel, and region.

Birch Water Type Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

Unflavored

Flavored

Birch Water Application Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

Beverages

Cosmetics & Personal Care

Pharmaceuticals

Birch Water Distribution Channel Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

B2B

B2C

Supermarkets & Hypermarkets

Convenience Stores

Online

Others

Birch Water Regional Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

North America

U.S.

Canada

Mexico

Europe

UK

Germany

France

Italy

Spain

Asia Pacific

China

Japan

India

Australia & New Zealand

South Korea

Central & South America

Brazil

Middle East & Africa

UAE

List of Key Players in the Birch Water Market

Sibberi

BelSeva

Treo Brands, LLC

Birch Tree Water Co.

Sealand Birk

Sapp

Nature on Tap

DrinkBirk

TreeVitalise

Byarozavik

[homunculus-argument]

To me, the interesting thing about travelling is noticing the things that nobody seems to photograph. What kind of birds dig through the trash here, what kind of weeds grow on peoples' lawns. The time we went to Arizona, we walked to the nearest grocery store (y'all aren't kidding about "unwalkable cities" btw) and one thing I noticed was how different city landscape there looks when it's run down.

In Finland, neglected pavement turns bumpy and cracks as the water in the ground beneath freezes in the winter and thaws and runs out again. Wild flowers grow through it, even brave saplings of birches and rowan trees. Moss starts to grow on the shaded walls of buildings where it isn't washed off, growing over graffiti. Seagulls and jackdaws swoop over town market squares, squirrels skitter across roads and at night, you see rabbits and hares.

In Arizona, the places that aren't maintained are taken over by sand and dust. The merciless sun scorches everything that's left outside, brightly coloured plastic fades into pastel shades and into white, as if the land itself prohibited these colours. Shaggy bushes and even cacti grow on neglected yards. I saw long-beaked birds, the like of which I had never seen before - the only sign of animal life.

I had never considered how desperately cities where I live long to return into being forest land, before I saw a city that was determined to remain a desert.

[raisindave]

[Chapter 75] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

The air burns in your lungs, and every bounding step sends shockwaves of tension through your knees and hips, a consequence of a sedentary work week- not to mention a rowdy previous night. Sweet spit pools under your tongue, but this impromptu jog was a necessary response to electric muscles. You'd be a fool to think your paradoxically exhausted and alert mind could get any sleep, and some fresh air would probably do you some good. Puffs of misty breath were illuminated by passing streetlights, your muscles screamed for relief that your racing mind couldn't afford. The sun hadn't even risen yet, and it won't for a while. It's hard to say if you got any rest last night, but you'd memorized the wallpaper pattern well enough to see it when you blink. 

Going for a jog with everything you own on your back is oddly freeing in a way. Like you could slip into the woods without a word and live like a nomad in the Germanic birches and pines. Escape duty, shed discipline. Responsibility would slide off you like rain off a wing. It makes you wonder if you could do it. Slink away from it all, dye your hair, and find a small Swedish commune that might take you in, rural enough to be free from CIA surveillance. Settle down with some Scandinavian man who warms your back at night and spend your days selling goat's milk soaps at farmer's markets. 

No, that's not you. 

You're too loyal—Loyal and stubborn. A slave to what's familiar, as counterintuitive as this career may be to that ideal. Loyalty is a flaw and a blessing in equal measure, a double-edged sword. But what are you loyal to if you're not even loyal to yourself?

A glance at the stony plaza that'd been the bane of your existence for the last few days was now almost entirely stripped of all military presence. Pop-up tents and armoured vans that hosted chin-scratching commanders now sit as they once were; jagged cobblestone sidewalks with orange leaves peppering every other stone. It's like you were never there. But that's the goal in the end: To sweep high-strung military situations out of the public consciousness as soon as possible, and carry on being the invisible, omnipresent, but lethal phantom guarding the streets against a greater evil. Maybe Ghost was onto something when he got that callsign. 

This state is always the most unsettling in every mission. The bad guys are gone, the good guys are gone, and you sit in this odd liminal space where life has paused for an indeterminate amount of time. It makes you wonder about the first line cook or waitress to step into that restaurant after you'd occupied it. Would they be able to sense the tension and panic you felt while sitting at those tables where they'd served thousands of guests? Would the line chefs be aware of how many hundreds of times you'd paced through their workspace, raking your mind for a glimmer of insight? No, no they wouldn't. You're just a pawn, transitory and unfamiliar. Leaving behind no impact save for the ones your higher-ups choose to acknowledge you for. 

Laswell didn't have you on some private jet like last time, it looked like a much larger plane, the kind you'd been on dozens of times before. It's not quite a 747, but maybe a bit smaller. Either way, you seemed to be the first on the plane out of your colleagues, but the flight attendant didn't blink twice when you crossed paths to find your seat well before the scheduled takeoff time. You didn't even care to change your clothes after your jog, only slung on a hoodie and settled in by the window for a long flight. That half-eaten chocolate cake and a mess of sheets, a puddle of water in the bathroom, and that dumb fucking yellow box were all left behind. Whatever the contents of that box were would be left to the cleaning staff to interpret; you could only hope it's not a gun, knife or, maybe a skinned cat, or some other macabre item you'd expect from someone that wears a skull mask every day. 

Baritone voices caught the peripheral of your hearing, and Price and Gaz came down the aisle with the rest of them, carrying on their conversation as they stopped beside you. A few other people were on the flight by now, tinkering overhead lighting illuminated about a dozen other patrons in suits and hoodies. Time stood still when Price stopped to sniff the air, honing his attention on Ghost, who sat, ever the tempered one, eyes straight and alert like a good little soldier while Price inspected. You'd snapped out of your trance when he grumbled something about Ghost smelling like his 'nan,' your blood ran cold. On top of that, you only connected the odd look Soap gave you after about thirty seconds of staring into oblivion, probably noticing how oddly you flickered to attention at that moment. Ghost looked grumpy and sunken, but it's hard to say. The fucker is always grumpy and sunken. You'd only caught a glimpse of white on black when he slung his pack into the overhead compartment. For now, you sat in silence as your other coworkers filed in, dodging eye contact as you both waited to have all your personal space sapped by Gaz or Soap or Price or whoever. 

Only when the pilot chimed in on the intercom did you get a grasp of where you were even going. Seol, Korea. What is she bringing you to Korea for? You haven't a clue. Hopefully, she knows you don't know a word of the language, and you could only pray that she won't give you a week to master it. Especially with the knowledge of how poorly that went last time. The plane accelerating glued you to your seat, and you got to watch this humming German cityscape spark to life in the early morning hours. It didn't take long for you to sleep, eventually drifting off as Gaz sat with folded arms beside you, snoring. 

Eventually, the familiar falling sensation made you jolt awake, and time passed in a ritualistic haze. A mechanical walkway invited you to leave the plane, and you hurried to follow along with your colleagues' broad strides. However, they disappeared in a hurry, taking a route that looked more like an employee corridor, leaving Price to nod in the direction of the rest of the passengers. You obediently followed his gesture, not that you had much of a say. Laswell greeted you at the airport, or rather, she sat at one of those airport cafes, blonde bangs bowed down to a manilla folder next to her coffee. The cast she'd worn for the past few weeks was off, now free from the reminder of your little stay in Al Mazrah.

"What's the sitrep? " You pulled out the chair across from her.

She didn't seem startled or surprised by your presence, only lightly flipped the folder shut, stray paperclips poking out from a series of cluttered pages. Bony fingers knit together, and she seemed just as calm and casual as ever. 

"There is no sitrep," she shrugged, and your heart sank for a moment. 

A million and more thoughts surged through your system, immediately defaulting back to something you'd done. Just as you began to suspect that CIA technology had read your mind, and she caught on to your fantasy about fleeing to Sweden, she spoke again.

"The boys are off to another mission. You'll be on standby," she took a long drag from her paper cup. 

"Am I being benched?" The question lept from your chest before you could even process the words. 

"What?" an odd amusement lit up her cheeks. "No- like I said, just on standby. We're just not currently in need of a linguistic specialist, that's all."

The words soothed your mind, and the humour of your assertion caught up to you. A guilty mind made you eager to get defensive. What the hell is wrong with you?

"Don't look so glum, I'm here too," she cooed, reclining in her seat as crowds of people with trailing suitcases flurried past. "We're keeping you at a hotel in Seol, it's an award-winning highrise in the downtown district. I know how you like to keep up with your studies, and there's a library just across the street."

The sentiment would be relaxing, soothing even, if it weren't for a single phrase snagged in your mind.'Keeping you.' Maybe it's as simple what she described, and perhaps she just chose a poor choice of words. You've seen constant action for so long that you've developed velocitation from moving from mission to mission so rapidly that sitting on standby feels odd. It's about time, really, as building tension doesn't recede with this new environment like it usually would. 

These streets seem so alive compared to the uneasy situation you were retreating from, bustling civilians seemed like a foreign sight; it's like you're used to worried eyes and mothers shielding their children as you pass. No Humvees or helicopters in sight, just neat grey suits and kind-eyed women sweeping their storefronts. You can't help but expect the other shoe to drop, and a sense of skepticism of their nonchalant posture muddies your darting gaze. You both walked past a precious little billiards bar sat on the corner that caught your eye, its neon pink sign reading 'Sakura' in flickering letters. You'll have to check that place out if you get the chance, but it's hard to say how long you'll be on 'standby.'

"Have you been here before?" you asked idly, unable to resist glancing at every flashing sign you pass. 

"Twice, but not for leisure," she turned you down another street of neon signs and high-rises. Low dark clouds suggested you were about to get some weather, and the thick smell of rain hung in the air, "there's a CIA base nearby."

"It seems like the kind of place best explored after working hours," you sigh. 

You filled the space with idle small talk to diffuse the unsettling suspicion that something was off. It crept on your nerves like a horror movie or that feeling in a thunderstorm where the air is thick and ready to ignite. Here you are, now particularly isolated from people you only hardly knew to begin with, slinking through unfamiliar and lively streets toward a destination you'd have no hope of finding without Laswell's guidance. 

But as your little outing came to a halt, a wall of glass and steel opened its doors to welcome you. It was just like she said. Beautiful. A glass hotel with stylized hexagonal windows jutted out over an affluent cultural district, blue ceramic tiles slid down the side of rooftops, meeting vivid paper lanterns of red and pink, like an effortless blend of historical and contemporary architecture. Something old and new, borrowed and blue. You couldn't help but be thankful for the shelter and cool air conditioning as warm autumn rain started to patter on the sidewalk behind you. 

This new hotel room was a significant upgrade from the last, though that's not a hard metric to beat. It nearly took your breath away when you stepped out of the elevator and past a cold metal door. The surge of rich colours, dim, sultry lighting, and fuscia and neon hues on dark, luxurious textures mingled with your senses. Even the air smelled expensive, like roses and cashmere. A glass chandelier hung like bubbles over a dining set, and stylized chartreuse sculptures only vaguely resembled chairs gathered around a glass dining set. Rich cyan floors squeaked under your boots, echoing through a hotel room that looks more like a modern art museum.

"You'll be in the penthouse, but don't be too flattered- it's the only room we could get on short notice," she snorted, turning to face you as you gaped. "Here - let me see your phone."

You blinked, almost unsure of what she'd just requested. It'd be easy to forget you even have a phone, not just the dinky burner she uses to summon you to work. From the bottom of your pack you hunched over, you wrenched out the sleek cellphone she'd given you as a replacement for your previous one. Essentially a brick, it held no familiar phone numbers or passwords, leaving you locked out of your lifeline to your personal life. She took it in her pale palm and tapped at the screen, watching her enter a new contact into the device. 

"Text me if you need anything, I'll be right around the corner," she flicked the phone back into your fingers, now with a single contact named 'Kate.'

"Yes, ma'am," you spoke through a tight smile.

"Anything," she spoke sternly, nodding and disappearing past the glossy steel door with a click. 

And just like that, you're alone again. A different flavour of alone-ness than usual. They can sweeten the pot with fineries, but an underlying rage poisons what should be relaxation. It was hardly dinnertime, but you couldn't stomach the food that sat in a tray with condensation dripping from the lid. Frustration made you apathetic. You walked like a mindless zombie toward what must be the bedroom after the initial door you opened proved to be a grand bathroom. Maybe it's the change in climate that's giving you a headache.

Impossibly soft crushed cotton sheets were left with trails from your wandering hands, and cyan sheets on a sleek yellow bedframe looked like something worth more than your yearly salary. Whatever your salary even is. Tall concrete walls and slick floors would otherwise be contemporary and soothing if it didn't feel like a stone box. Suddenly, the air was tight in your lungs, and claustrophobia began to make your chest thunder. A grand window wasn't any relief, only reminding you how long the fall was down to those slanted tiled roofs. From poverty to luxury, from frenzy to tranquillity. It's not hard to understand why you feel like an impostor in this satin undersheet. 

You're being punished for getting involved with an unavailable man and separated from him as it would be in any workplace relationship in the military. The only proof that any of that happened is a manifesting bruise on your upper arm and a consistent low ache in your abdomen, painful reminders in a metaphorical sense of a heavy heart. No matter how much you might argue that you're not interested anymore, you've crossed that line, and you can kiss this task force goodbye. 

You'll miss Soap and Gaz, and Price is a sweetheart once you get over his gruff outer shell, but in the end, you can't help but feel your passion fade. It doesn't have to be permanent, and maybe your emotions are getting the better of you. It's been a year of constant service; it's no wonder you're being stretched thin. What's worst of all is you can't properly place your discontentment, making any diagnosis useless. You just need a reset to get away from these perfumed sheets along your shoulders. Laswell gave you her contact, but it's not easy to communicate your complex emotions, especially in this career where you're expected to be stoic and unyielding. What have you gotten yourself into.

Are they knowingly stationing you in places where they know you don't know the native language so you can't travel far? Maybe, maybe not. Is a weak sleep schedule and weeks of physical and mental exhaustion making you feel a heightened sense of paranoia? Maybe, maybe not. Are they putting strips of tape over your hotel doors to track if you leave, thinking you didn't notice it as Laswell stepped out? That much is for sure. 

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Apologies for the late chapter, we’ve got more chapters coming soon. I didn’t want to publish an (in my opinion) uninspired chapter, I couldn’t settle with what I’d written originally, deadline be damned. If you’re wondering where I’ve been for the past few weeks: Here

Master List

[lostinwildflowers]

The Farmer's Daughter

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: You and Jake go way back to his roots in Texas, with things ending in a rough manner. Now, he comes home to the farmer's daughter whose heart he swore he would never ride, or fly, off with.

Word Count: 4.0K

Warnings: Angst, Harsh Language, Hangman was lowkey a jerk, Cowboy!Hangman

A/N: *I will say if you are not a fan of ranch/farm life, this may not be for you!* But, I'm finally back to write something! I'm sorry it has taken so long but I have been so incredibly busy, but I hope this will be a good enough apology! COWBOY HANGMAN!!! -Birch&lt;3

Part 2 - The Aviator's Cowgirl

Wind roars across the grassy plains of the valley, ruffling the dense coats of various colored cattle. Some were red, some were black. Others were red and white, while others were roaned and speckled in color.

The cows were quietly cruising through the glen, making their way down south toward the greener pastures. Spring was finally on its way, with warmer, sunnier days followed by even oranger sunsets.

Many of the calves clung close to their mothers after the spring calving, not wanting to be too far from the herd. Some of the cows were bolder, leaving their calves further away, then having to call and bellow to find their distant young.

It was one of the most beautiful things, living out on a cattle ranch. There was no sign of the city in any direction, and you got to raise the food that would supply you and your family through the seasons. Some may call it cruel, but others would say you were using what God gave you to live on.

Hours spent in the fields were not wasted on you. Plowing the land and fertilizing the dry, cracked soil, were not foreign ideas to you. Sowing seeds into the prepped ground, watering them to give them a chance at survival.

To you, there was no other life than being a rancher.

Being a rancher had its perks- making the best friends a man could have. The dogs, of course. The horses, even more so. And yet, nothing could beat the compassion and care of a friendly neighbor.

Growing up on your homestead, the next closest ranch was a few acres away. They never were close enough to see any of their cattle or pigs, and you had only been to their house as a kid.

Being a kid seemed so long ago.

Now, you spent most days sitting on the back of your palomino mare, Sandy. Days like today were spent watching your herd move down the mountain and into the plains of the valley. You didn't always use to be alone when you pushed the herd.

Occasionally your father would join you, but he had other matters to attend to, and your brothers always seemed to join him. Not that you cared, as riding horses was perhaps your favorite aspect of being a rancher.

You would check fences, push the cows, and ride up to the top of meadows to watch the sunset over your home. To you, there was nothing like the connection you had while riding a horse, and you wouldn't have given her up for anything.

At one point in time, you would have given every possession you had up for a certain cowboy.

Tall and muscular, with blonde hair, and green eyes. The classic, square-jawed look of a cowboy. A sharp tongue paired with an even quicker wit, combined with a charming personality and smile was the death of you.

It didn't help he was always willing to help out. Roping the calves for the brandings, fixing up the four-wheeler that seemed to stall every time you got it out. Even going as far as to bring your mother some of their fresh apples in the fall when your trees gave out.

He was kind-hearted, chivalrous, and down-to-earth. He was the definition of God's cowboy.

Jake Seresin.

The first time you ran into him was when you were at the farmer's market in town. Your mother had given you a specific list of items to get for her homemade chicken casserole, as she was busy picking up your younger sister from her riding lesson.

The stalls at the farmer's market were not unfamiliar to you, as you had tagged along with your mother many times as a child. The sellers were always kind to you and had Texas-sized personalities to go along with the enormous amounts of ingredients and produce they sold.

"Good morning, Mrs. Bell," you call as you walk up to the older lady's stand, looking over her collection of fresh berries and vegetables hand-picked from her garden.

A white head of hair popped out from the back of her tent, a wide grin on the older lady's face as she replies, "Oh, good morning, dear! Help yourself to whatever you need, I'm just having some help unloading my crates."

At that, Mrs. Bell disappears, and you giggle at her antics as you start to bag up a few peppers and tomatoes from her stand. It was a fairly quiet morning, so you took a moment to look around your surroundings.

A few older gentlemen were setting up their meat stand. You could see cuts of chickens, turkeys, and wild geese sitting on ice just as they worked on the larger carcasses of steers and barrows.

Your concentration is broken when you hear rustling at the back of the tent, and you turn around, clenching the bag of veggies close to you.

A boy donning a tan Stetson appears in front of you, his muscular arms holding a large crate of cucumbers as he slid through the folds of the white tent. His green eyes lock onto your own (colored) ones, and in an instant, his boyish charm captivates you in the form of a beautiful smirk.

"Good morning, Miss...?" he asks, a slight drawl to his rich voice as you take him in. He's wearing his cowboy hat, yes, but his hair was shaggy under the hat, a dirty blonde that you knew his friends probably teased him for.

He wore a simple navy t-shirt, as the morning was already warm. You allowed yourself to rest your eyes on the snug Wrangler jeans that hugged his waist, accentuated by the large and shiny belt buckle that finished off his look. You almost could have bet he wore a pair of boots too, but you snapped out of your daze before you could finish thinking about it.

"Y/n," you usher out, warm with embarrassment as he sets the crate down in the open spot in front of you. His green eyes are as sharp as jade when he regains eye contact with you, and his head tilts a little as he repeats, "Y/n...?"

You groan internally as you scold yourself for being so starstruck. You blink once to regain your cool, before shifting your weight and responding, "Y/n L/n. And who are you, cowboy?"

A low whistle slides out from his pink lips before he chuckles out, "Pretty name for an even more gorgeous girl. And as long as I can get your phone number, you can call me anything you want."

Being six feet underground had never sounded better at that moment, as his shameless flirting had your cheeks burning and your will to live dropping. You were thankfully saved from responding when Mrs. Bell popped up next to him and scolded, "Jake, you leave my favorite customer alone!"

You glance back over at him, quirking an eyebrow and you ask, "Jake, is it?" You whistle back at him and say, "Kind of a basic name for a basic cowboy, huh?"

Mrs. Bell folds her arms, watching the two of you with a knowing look in her eye. The cowboy, Jake, lets that wide smirk back onto his face and repeats, "It's a great name, for a great cowboy. I think it'd sound good next to your name too."

You do your best to ignore his flirtatious comments, and you look at Mrs. Bell and show her your bag of veggies. "Just three red peppers and four tomatoes," you say, willing the butterflies out of your stomach.

The older lady gives you a wink as she rings you up, and briefly turns to Jake and says, "Be a dear and go finish getting the rest of my crates, please."

He gives her a respectful nod and catches your gaze again, this time with a softer smile. Jake tips his Stetson towards you and murmurs, "Have a nice day, Miss. L/n."

You swore you were as red in the cheeks as the vegetables your mother was making you buy. Thanks, Mom, I'm pretty sure I'll never be able to look Mrs. Bell in the eye ever again.

The next time you met the blonde-haired cowboy was just at the start of summer, kicked off by the county fair you were always a part of. It was either submitting some of your favorite photographs from the ranch or helping your little sister prep her show steer for her 4-H competition.

And this time, Jake caught you at a shaved ice stand just after 6 o'clock in the evening, with the rays from the sun starting to fade into a mirage of colors across the fairgrounds.

He slid into the line behind you, as you were the only one crazy enough to get shaved ice in the evening as it cooled off. That smirk ended up on his lips again, and he announced himself with an order, "Make that another of whatever Miss. L/n is ordering, please."

You whip around at the drawl to his voice, cash in hand as your eyes widen. No. No. No. This is the worst time for this cute cowboy to be seeing me. My hair certainly has fuzz in it from our steer, my clothes are covered in mud, and I don't have any makeup on. Shit.

And Jake? Looked phenomenal. Wearing his Stetson, of course, with a tight white t-shirt that clung to every single unholy part of his body. The thin material led down to a deep blue pair of Wranglers, along with his buckle and boots.

He looked like a walking model from Ariat or Kimes, and here you were, looking like you had just finished wrestling a lamb from its ewe mother through a bale of straw.

"J-Jake," you stutter out as the attendant goes to make another shaved ice. His grin only widens when he realizes how caught off guard you are and he chuckles, "You miss me or something, sweetheart?"

You can't help the warmth that floods your face, and you know it's not from the sun, especially with the evening cooling off. Sweetheart? He certainly knows how to lay it on thick.

"I didn't realize you came to the fair," you opt to say, trying to ignore his flirty comment. He leans up against the side of the shaved ice stand as his green gaze latches onto your own and states, "Honey, I've been coming to this fair before I could go mutton-busting."

A giggle falls from your lips as you picture a little Jake riding on the back of a sheep, clinging on for dear life. He chuckles at your response to his comment, his gaze flashing up to the cashier as he fishes a $10 from his wallet. You finish giggling right as he passes the cash to the attendant and you frown.

"We're paying sep-" "It's alright, Miss. L/n, I got it," Jake says smoothly, grabbing both cups of the watermelon-flavored shaved ice and handing one to you. He shoots a wink at you as his fingers brush your own, and you once again find yourself fighting pink from your cheeks.

"Y/n," you say once you grabbed your shaved ice and spoon from him. He quirks his eyebrow at you but doesn't say anything. You roll your eyes and repeat with a shrug, "Y/n, you can call me by my first name."

Jake smiles at you, this time very genuine as he nods, "Alright, Y/n," he tests your name out, "Would you care to join me at the tractor pulls tonight? I know where the best seats are."

It's your turn to flash him a wicked grin and say, "Hell yeah, we need to go make fun of my brothers!" At that, you peel off away from him, leading the way toward the pulling lanes with a maniacal giggle. Jake can only smile and shake his head as he follows your figure.

What had he gotten himself into?

It didn't take long after the fair for the two of you to really hit it off. Casual hangouts turned into dinner dates out at the local diner. Short texts turned into long, midnight calls asking each other about how your day was, even if every day was almost the same.

Days turned into weeks, which turns into months as Jake spent time with you. He would spend any chance he could with you when he wasn't working or helping Mrs. Bell. He'd pull into your driveway, picking you up in his red and white '77 Ford truck, the pinstripes of red on it soon became one of your favorite colors.

You would take him out on the trails of your family's farm, trotting through the creeks, loping through the pastures. Jake was a cowboy, yes, and knew how to ride, but nothing made you happier than seeing him get along with Sandy, your mare.

He would even take you down to his family's farm, driving out into the pastures to watch the sunset over his fields of horses. Many nights would lead to the two of you cuddling up on the bed of his truck, surrounded by a blanket and a stray pillow or two.

You never had been more in love than when Jake pulled you into his arms and made you dance under the stars with him to Carried Away by George Strait. It was that very night Jake kissed you for the first time, and you could swear he knew exactly what he was doing when he claimed your heart as his own.

From then on, you were his, and he was yours. Everyone was ecstatic you had found a respectful man, although a bit of a tease, to stand by your side. Jake devoted himself to you and working on his father's farm, promising you a life of happiness.

It was almost expected that you were going to marry Jake someday. He had the same values as you and wanted a nice little family of a few crazy boys and some pretty little girls. He wanted to teach them how to ride, how to rope.

He wanted you to make dinner for him when the days got too long for him to help, and for him to clean the dishes while you put the kids to bed. Jake could picture his future so easily with you, you weren't ever like anyone he'd ever met before.

That's why two years into your relationship with the cowboy, he got you a promise ring for your anniversary. It was a simple silver band, as he knew you worked with your hands every day and would likely abuse a ring with a large stone on it.

Jake held the ring in his right hand, asking for your left one slightly. You couldn't help but cry and laugh at the same time as you nodded, giving him your hand to slide the ring onto.

You wrapped your arms around his neck in a tight hug, his hands landing on your waist before wrapping snugly around your body. His grip was firm and unwavering, a solid constant in your life.

"I want you to think of me when you wear this ring, okay?" Jake whispered softly in your ear, holding you close to him. You sniffle and pull back, giving him a nod with watery eyes.

"I'll always think of you, Jake."

And the next day he was gone.

"Go on, git!" you yell at a loose heifer running away from the herd. You groan as she runs off into the woods, and you push the sorrel gelding you were riding into a trot to go after her. The rest of the herd started grazing as you left them, the wind whipping through the dried grasses around you.

It was a cold day in Texas. Your grey felt cowboy hat did its best to keep the wind off of your face, and even with your warmest jacket and wild rag tied around your neck, you still felt chilled and numb to your core.

It had been a hard few months when Jake disappeared without a trace. Mrs. Bell had no one to help her at her tent in the farmer's market, so you picked up the slack to help her.

Your dad grew sick and couldn't run the farm as readily, so you, your brothers, and your sister had to step in, while your mother took care of him. That meant you spent more time in the saddle, working all the horses and pushing the cows to the hay and silage for the winter.

Your gloved fingers reach for the rope tied to your saddle horn, and as you made your loop, your (colored) eyes found the young heifer again. You slow the gelding you were riding down, Ringo, he was called, as you come up to the small cow.

You could tell she was frightened, so while she didn't run, you gently threw the loop over her head and dallied the rope to your saddle horn. You glance over your shoulder, ensuring the rope was secured around the heifer's neck before dragging her out of the woods and back to the herd.

When the herd comes in sight, confusion floods over you to see Sandy, your palomino mare, being ridden. It wasn't your sister, she had her own bay gelding she liked to ride.

And it wasn't your brothers, as they preferred the four-wheelers. There was only one other person who rode your horse other than you. It was a cowboy. And not just any cowboy.

It was your cowboy.

The silver band on your left ring finger seemed to freeze over with a gust of wind, even though it was covered by your gloves. You can feel tears threatening to burn the edges of your eyes, but you ignore them.

It was him.

Trotting around the edge of the herd, keeping them close together, Jake steered Sandy perfectly, riding her with a practiced ease, like he had never left. You continue to drag the heifer up to the edge of the herd, where he finally catches sight of you.

You can't stand to look at him, and you leave your rope dallied to your horn as you swing your chap-covered leg off of Ringo and onto the ground. Tears stream down your face as you try not to sob, and you walk over to the scared heifer.

You slide the rope off of her neck, and she gets up and runs off to join the herd. You can hear Sandy's footsteps stop next to Ringo, and you hear Jake's feet hit the ground.

Sobs silently wrack your body, and you close your eyes and cover your face as you hear him approach you. He doesn't say anything, but you know he's standing directly behind you, waiting.

A gust of wind blows through, making you gasp for air as it seems to leave your lungs. The tears on your cheeks feel like they freeze to your skin as your vision blurs and a loud cry falls from your lips.

And that's enough for Jake.

He takes two large steps forward, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist from behind. His large frame helps block the wind, yet his touch makes your cries get more violent.

You turn around in his grasp, your gloved fists coming up and punching him in the chest. You're sobbing and thrashing, completely overcome with emotion.

Jake doesn't budge though. He's harder, firmer under your touch than you remember. From the blur in your vision, you can just barely tell that his shaggy locks have been cleaned up into a tight, slicked-back look under his Stetson.

How you had missed that damned straw hat.

"How could you?!" you scream as you lash out at him, a sob leaving your lips at the end of your cry. Jake just holds you tighter, and he takes his chances and pulls you into a close hug, wrapping his arms around your waist to stop your onslaught of attacks.

Your hands get trapped against his chest, yet your whimpers don't end. You can just barely hear Jake shushing you, the sound of his voice blending in with the whisper of the wind floating over you.

"How could you?" you mumble, your voice breaking at the end of your question. Jake pulls you impossibly closer, the felt hat on your head getting bumped off center, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

"I never meant to leave you," he states, his voice different than how you remember it. There was no familiar twang to his voice, it was harder, more neutral. He didn't sound like himself. You push off of him, fighting through the new strength he seemed to come back with.

You push your hat back down onto your head, brushing away the tears from your eyes and cheeks with the backside of your gloves. You stand back and take him in. He's wearing the clothes of the man you loved, but he certainly didn't look like the Jake you remember.

He was broader than before. Wider from shoulder to shoulder, no doubt covered in more muscle. He was clean-shaven, with no sign of the stubble or beard you grew to love on him. Even his eyes had harshened, they weren't as sweet or soft as you recalled.

"How could you leave me like that?" you ask quietly again, not happy with his answer. "You left me after that night, Jake. You LEFT me after you gave me this damn ring!" At that, you pulled your left glove off, the silver band immediately catching the cool light from the overcast sun, gleaming as if it were brand new.

You could feel a wave of new, hot tears burning at the edges of your eyes, but you pushed them down and continued, "I waited every day, Jake. For a call, a text, or a letter in the mail. And I got nothing." Your voice dropped deadly quiet on the last word, a lone tear streaming down your cheek.

You couldn't read the emotion on Jake's face, as it was perfectly masked. You huff once to catch your breath and then you yell, "Say something, dammit!"

Another gust of wind blows through, and Jake glances down at his boots before regaining eye contact with you. The jade color of his eyes had dimmed, and when he gazed at you, you didn't know how to feel.

"I never stopped loving you, Y/n. I had to leave, even though I really didn't want to," he starts. He takes a step toward you, but you take another step back, your arms wrapping around yourself protectively.

Jake can feel his heart crack at the way you're looking at him. It was never supposed to be like this. You seem to glare daggers at him and whisper, "You always have a choice." He swallows thickly, averting his gaze, and continues, "Not this time, I didn't."

You groan in frustration and whip around in a circle, heading back for the horses, but Jake catches your free hand in his own. His rough fingers catch your left hand, the feeling of his skin on yours enough to make you stop in your tracks.

"Y/n, please wait," he calls out. You immediately snap back, "I waited 6 damn months, Jake! You just up and disappeared! No one would tell me where you were or what happened to you."

You rip your hand out of his, quickly shoving your gloves into the pocket of your jacket. You pull the promise ring off of your ring finger and looking him in the eye, you slam it up against his chest.

With tears in your eyes you whisper, "I'm tired of thinking about you Jake, because every time I think of you, I think about how you left me with nothing."

He doesn't move as you pull away from him, grabbing the reins of both Ringo and Sandy, you mount the gelding you had been riding. With your rope recoiled and Sandy next to you ready to pony, you look back at him.

"I'm sure you can find your own way out of this damn pasture," you say coldly as you lope off, Sandy trotting next to you as you bypass the herd of cows.

And as you ride off toward your homestead, tears streaming down your cheeks, Jake is left standing in the pasture with snow falling around him, holding the ring that had previously bound him to you.

Tag list: @xxdragonwriterxx @tejxswini @mysterystarz @mortedeveles @vs-redemption @kal0psi-a @gin-no-g @starstruckkittensweets @kitacharm @shirari @animated-moon @mitzwinchester @elitparadox @yumeyooa @angels-main @anlian-aishang @notroosterbradshaw

(If anyone would like to be removed, please just let me know<3)

[dk-thrive]

If I Had Three Lives

If I had three lives, I'd marry you in two. The other? Perhaps that life over there at Starbucks, sitting alone, writing - a memoir, maybe a novel or this poem. No kids, probably, a small apartment with a view of the river, and books - lots of books, and time to read. Friends to laugh with, and a man sometimes, for a weekend, to remember what skin feels like when it's alive. I'd be thinner in that life, vegan, practice yoga. I'd go to art films, farmers markets, drink martinis in swingy skirts and big jewelry. I'd vacation on the Maine coast and wear a flannel shirt weekend guy left behind, loving the smell of sweat and aftershave more than I did him. I'd walk the beach at sunrise, find perfect shell spirals and study pockmarks water makes in sand. And I'd wonder sometimes if I'd ever find you.

— Sarah Russell, "If I Had Three Lives" in "IF I Poetry and Prose Series" (Silver Birch Press, October 16, 2016) (via Regina Rosenfeld)

[falconcoast]

genshin characters as things i vividly remember |part ii

a/n: rehash of this post.

warnings: none xo

characters: scaramouche, ayaka, miko, ei, tighnari, kaveh, cyno, baizhu, al-haitham.

scaramouche;

rina sawayama songs (specifically dynasty and hold the girl). cellos. inciting chaos for the thrill of it. clenching and unclenching a fist. loosening a jaw you didn’t know was tightened. traveling somewhere new. arguments that you know you can win. orchid flowers. when a bird passes by you really quickly and rustles at your hair. letting go of old grudges.

ayaka;

december snow. smoothing down a bird’s feathers. when water is almost frozen. pulling your hair into a tight up-do. silver mirrors and jewelry. soft pink lipstick. people-watching. when you walk out of a party to go somewhere quiet. suit-skirt combos. fixing your posture before going on stage. the color of the sky during early winter mornings.

miko;

velvet pillows. roses. new books and bending the back of its spine to break it in. honoring traditions. bouquets and letters from suitors. the feeling of someone’s lips against your ear when they whisper to you. middle spring. afternoon classes. when a pet walks up to you and rests in your lap. moonlight shining in someone’s eyes. soft hair. delicately-done nails that make pleasing clicks.

ei;

golden thunder. rain so heavy it creates a stream down a road. the phrase “suffer the pain of discipline, or suffer the pain of regret.” absolute, midnight silence. gritted teeth. pure confidence. straightened shoulders. lilacs. softening when seeing your beloved. marble walls. letting a little one braid your hair.

tighnari;

freshly picked flowers. muddy boots. hikes. when an animal hops into your hand naturally. calloused hands. scars from running and tripping or climbing a tree and falling. superblooms. the scent of grass after it rains. pollen season. errand days. bickering with a younger sibling. the chirps of birds in the early morning. cedar trees. scolding someone while patching them up.

kaveh;

college students. meticulously doing your hair. pouting. putting your all into something you love. finishing a project and being happy with the result. daytime. chapstick kisses. hands-on learning. sunshine after the rain. kinetic sand. picnics. brushing your hair to one side. cold tea. daffodil blooms. birch trees.

cyno;

the cold shouldered friend warming up to you. busted knuckles. standing tall. eyes open wide. scorching heat. running on sand. blistering wind. watching from afar. warmth of the sun on skin. lightning hitting water. the hiss of an insect in the night. ink and parchment. tenderly sweeping someone’s hair out of their eyes.

baizhu;

well-cut lawns. letting your glasses hang low on your nose. humming. pilates. kissing a loved one when they’ve fallen asleep. the sterile scent of a doctor’s office. running water. dried flower leaves for tea. picking herbs at the farmer’s market. feeling of your toes in the grass. soft, west winds.

al-haitham;

scoffing at your enemies. the illiad and the oddessy. stationary. ap literature summer reading lists. burning the midnight oil. holding your hand over someone else’s when you’re teaching them how to do something. texas instrument calculators, not casio. study sessions where you get nothing done. the dad friend. looking to someone to only see them look at you already.

[hermesserpent-stuff]

HI! this is so chock full of spoilers for stolen heir. like 10 chapters ahead or so. but i had to write it and i had to share because viggo and ryker are my world when hiccup and dagur are not busy being my world

Hiccup puffs out his cheeks as he considers the Gronckle iron that he had gotten his hands on. It is both a fascinating and frustrating metal. It is very strong, but can be riddled with impurities, with its creators seeming to have no method of getting out the impurities. On top of that, it had to be melted at a consistently high temperature that was hard to maintain. Hiccup had made a ton of modifications to his forge on Áræði that let it burn hotter than any forge on Berk had ever managed. And since that one dream he had mixed in some offerings and specifically birch logs. It made any Gronckle iron that he melted down much purer. But he wants it to be more refined. He scrubs at his face with sooty hands, having just ended a session in his  far smaller smithy located at the back of their shop in the Northern Market. There had to be a…

Water.

What if he did the quenching process differently?! With pressurized water pushed through a hose that cooled the metal in a different fashion. And maybe some sort of filtration system to keep out soot and other undesirables! He grins and starts darting about for supplies. It comes together quickly and he turns a few knobs on the small forge to get it to heat higher. Not as efficient as his one at home, but it will melt what it needs to.

He is quickly working on making a small dagger to test the technique on, and is pleased with the results as he starts to hammer the metal into the shape he wants. He hears a knock on one of the nearby work tables, his brother's normal signal that he is there so as to not startle Hiccup.

“In a moment, I'm trying something new, Dagur!”

He chirps, adjusting the nozzle for the water and then working the modified billows to build up the water pressure for when he needs it next. Hiccup forgets that his brother might be waiting as he works, giving a final thought of if it was truly important, his brother would rouse him from his work, before fully losing himself in twisting knobs, hammering, billowing, and testing out his new water system. 

The dagger is a fairly standard design but far stronger and if Hiccup is not mistaken, definitely going to hold its sharp edges much longer than a standard blade. He holds it up to inspect it and gives a satisfied nod.

“Impressive. That metal looks far more refined than anything my village has managed.”

Hiccup startles and  drops the blade with a yelp, nicking his hand and falling back towards his makeshift water tank. A set of arms catches him. Not his brother. Hiccup is not sure who it is. He vaguely recognizes it as someone who had visited the Northern Markets fairly frequently, often near one of their largest buyers, Ryker. Ryker who is standing at the edge of Hiccup's little forge area that is divided from the main selling area by a bit of leather acting as a curtain. 

Hiccup turns bright red with embarrassment.

“Err, hello…”

“That looks like a nasty cut, my dear, you should treat it. Do you keep medical supplies back here?”

The man asks and Hiccup nods. Hiccup is gently placed back on his feet and he scurries to the medical box his brother always kept stocked.

“So, uh, sorry, for ignoring you! And how can I help you?”

Hiccup is not the strongest at interacting with customers. Most Vikings tended to favor and like Dagur's more abrasive interactions. But Dagur must have gone to go get something if these men are back here. Ryker is nice enough for a dragon hunter though, so Hiccup's eyes dart to him while speaking. But oddly enough, for a man who commanded others and took charge every other time Hiccup had seen him, Ryker looks to the other man and waits for him to speak. 

“I am Viggo Grimborn of the Acumens tribe. My brother here has been purchasing a lot of our weapons from you lately and I wanted to come and meet the mind behind them. I find many of you more inventive weaponry endearing and have a pet project I would like a second set of eyes on.”

Hiccup blinks and freezes mid wrapping. The chief of the Acumens. He knows the name Viggo Grimborn from many whispers in the market. And the man likes his weapons?

“What was your favorite?”

Hiccup blurts out and then just about bites his tongue off. Stupid. But Hiccup normally just sells axes, swords, and Maces. Ryker was one of the few to buy Hiccup's stranger weaponry. Viggo smiles and it is a lot like a smooth stone in a river bed. A little cold, but no cracks or faults present. And it could potentially warm if the water and weather allowed.

“I liked the bola launchers.”

Hiccup lights up. One of his earliest true inventions that he had been perfecting.

“Oh! Yes. Those are quite useful. Have they been giving you any trouble? I know the older models need a little calibration and beeswax to stay on target.”

Viggo's smile warms a little.

“The written instructions that came with them were quite useful. I particularly enjoyed the step by step diagrams for those of us who bore of words.”

The last sentence is paired with a teasing smile and a glance at Ryker who rolls his eyes. Hiccup finds himself settling, soothed by the approval and the brothers' interaction with each other. Hiccup finishes wrapping his hand as he replies.

“Oh good. I had hoped the doodles I did were helpful. They felt like such a flight of fancy at the time, and I didnt really put all the detail and time I could have into them…”

Hiccup scrunches his nose as he catches himself babbling. He closes his mouth with a click, and notes the odd look that enters Viggo’s eyes and then quickly fades. Shoot. He is going to annoy them with his talking and then he’ll never get to see the project that Viggo wanted consultation on. Which would be a shame, because it would be his first consultation, and maybe could lead to his first specialized request. At 14, it is a bit early in his smithing career to get a specialized request, but then again most 14 yearolds are apprenticed and not running their own forge. So really-

He bites the inside of his cheek to halt his flyaway thoughts and blinks hard to ground himself back in the room.

“Consultation?”

He squeaks out weakly and flushes deep red in embarrassment. At this rate they probably will get annoyed enough to stab him. He had seen it done to another merchant who refused to give a straight answer. Which vikings generally prefer. Straight and short and to the point, with out wandering too far afield-

“Yes. I have an idea for a type of ship, but I wanted to speak with an expert smith first.”

Hiccup preens a little at the implied praise and then takes a breath. Do not get too invested in the praise, people were always saying nice things to Dagur to try and get what they want out of him. He twists his fingers in his smith apron. 

“Uh, sure, I can take a look, but you might want to call on the blacksmith who comes to the Market from the Hysteric tribe. He makes some really good weapons and ship equipment. He definately knows more about ships than I do.”

Hiccup rocks awkwardly, prosthetic creaking very softly. 

“But he’s not half as inventive.”

Hiccup turns bright red again and really wishes that he could stop getting embarrassed. 

“Okay. Alright. Err… I'm not used to consultations, to be very honest. I'm not sure…”

He tilts his head to the side as Viggo starts to look disappointed. He had heard Ryker mutter about his brother’s Maces and Talons obsession a little irritably in the past. 

“Maces and Talons!”

His outburst startles both men and he fiddles with his apron.

“I mean, I’ll look at the idea if you play me in Maces and Talons. And if you choose to hire me to try and construct anything, like test models, then we’ll talk about prices.”

Hiccup ends with false confidence, fingernails pressing into his palms to indent crescent moons where there are no wrappings, holding tight to the steadiness in his voice. Ryker grins and Viggo looks interested. 

“Alright. I saw a metal set on my way in here. Did you craft that?”

“Yes, and we can use it to play.”

Hiccup says with a firm nod to himself and he marches out to go and grab the board. Dagur and him had played a few times but they had grown used to eachothers play styles and Hiccup is eager to test out something new, especially because he cannot show his face a the Meatheads yearly tournaments. Too much risk of his father finding him.

[finishinglinepress]

FLP CHAPBOOK OF THE DAY: What Hummingbirds Do by Louise Cary Barden

On SALE now! Pre-order Price Guarantee: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/what-hummingbirds-do-by-louise-cary-barden/

WHAT HUMMMINGBIRDS DO celebrates the #natural world while sharing the small, significant moments of joy, love, and loss that make up a #life. In these #poems we climb a white pine with a nine-year-old girl and shoot spring rapids in a canoe with a young couple. We see the white birches of the narrator’s childhood home and the flaming wings of monarch butterflies in migration; we hear the wild calls of loons as they echo across a wilderness lake. And throughout this collection, we consider universal questions and choices we must make in marriage, environment, politics, and relationships in our search for fulfillment.

Louise Cary Barden, a 2023 New Women’s Voices semi-finalist, won the Lois Cranston Prize (Calyx Journal), Oregon Poetry Association award, the Harperprints chapbook competition, and others. Her poems recently appeared in such journals as Timberline, humana obscura, Willawaw and Cathexis Northwest. Her writing is imbued with imagery of the natural world as narrated by a self-avowed tree-hugger whose career indecisiveness has taken her from teaching college English to advertising and editorial copywriting and marketing management. Nature stayed at the center of Barden’s life from her childhood on Boston’s South Shore and education at Hendrix College, U. Arkansas (B.A. English), and U. Maine (M.A. English) through residences from Arizona and Wyoming to Maine and Tennessee. Barden and her husband settled in North Carolina for 40 years before retiring to Oregon, where she is still trying to learn to love the rain.

PRAISE FOR What Hummingbirds Do by Louise Cary Barden

“Barden’s poems revel in the anticipatory state of a held breath: listening to the lap of water or the call of a loon, watching a flock of ibises twist in the sky, remembering a moment of cradling sudsy dishes as a child. Lush and rich in the details of nature and memory, she will guide you gently back to awe, to wonder, to the small moments that make up a life.”

–Brenna Crotty, Senior Editor, Calyx,A Journal of Art and Literature By Women

Louise Barden is a poet who has mastered both narrative and lyrical poetry. In this book memories moves with ease from childhood to the recent past. Nature abounds in these poems, whether it is the exquisite details of her Grandmother’s garden, or her last chance to canoe a river before the seasons change, or seeing Ibis fill the sky for the first time. In her beautiful lyric, Early Daffodils, Barden writes:

“Love, show me how to rush into the world again,

how to pluck and gather such joy.

Teach me how go fill my arms with gold.”

This book is full of gold.

–Doug Stone, author of The Season of Distress and Clarity

In her What Hummingbirds Do, Louise Barden embroiders a tapestry “where day’s first light split[s] gold through hanging dew”, and yet “we stand trapped inside the great cone. the past.” She takes the reader through explorations, mostly in nature, and with a backward glance towards family—grandmother, mother, sisters—“where July birches lean out as if to see their own green whispers” (“Viewpoint”) and where her nine year old self climbs high to stand “on a branch so thin it bends under [her] feet” so she can “ride the wind . . .long enough . . . to glimpse the whole world” (“Into the world”). This gutsy kid appears again in “On Drifts” where she and her sisters navigate deep snow “with clumsy, careful breast strokes”—they “swam [their] way to Church.”

As the poems move into her adult life, her affinity for the natural world does not waver. She stops “frozen, gazing into a sky . . . split by patterned coils of moving wings,” her first view of migrating ibis (“The Dazzling Invisibility”). She shares her losses, confronts death, survives winter, “those dreary weeks at home” (“Under a Changing Sky”), until “the once grey air glows incandescent . . . reflections of a greater hand.”

In the prize-winning title poem, she walks with a woman newly met, another birdwatcher who enriches her knowledge of hummingbirds. “We walked slowly, exchanging details, as women do . . . what we do when men are not beside us . . . when suddenly the woman says “straight He’s having an affair. . . I had scant advice.” Intimacy without pretense. As with the rest of her poems, her truthfulness gleams as brightly as her diamonds in Walmart (“Reflections at the Checkout”). Without guile or artifice, and with a deep commitment to lush, lyric language and craft, Barden carries us to the finish. Mark this as a must read!

–Rachel Barton, author of This is the Lightness

Please share/please repost

#flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #poetry #chapbook #read #poems #nature #life #relationships

[orangetubor]

HAHAHAHA- round 3.

Love the geese. Question- ARE THERE DUCKS? Geese already have my heart <333 BUT DUCKS??

Also whats the deal on martian weather? Cause yeah pretty blue sunsets... But What About Other Sky Statuses? Storms?

And and crime? What's the deal w that? (cause I'm picturing a fish black market??? This is a dumb question so u don't have to answer it)

Also I WANNA HUG ALL UR OCS. (if they are comfy w that. That is. Anyways)

ROLLER SKATING WAITERS!!! Dude in another life I would SO want to be a roller skating GOD carrying like 4 plates through a funky space themed diner- I'm getting side tracked- BUT POINT IS- what's martian cuisine like? Do aliens (or part aliens) eat other food..? How does that work? (Curious.)

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE.

Signed

A detail loving twat.

Round three!

Geese and ducks, there are ducks elsewhere, but not necessarily on school grounds. (or at least, there aren't supposed to be) the geese are just a running gag I have originating from like. I don't even remember it was something to do with Jenny

Now: the weather

(you don't have to listen to that but if you do: turn your volume down) Obviously, glass dome, so the weather doesn't really affect the inside, however the storms are beautiful, lightning strikes and the whole sky is painted baby blue, but it doesn't rain. Not anymore. There is no patter of water on glass as you lie on top of a sky scraper looking up at the cloudy sky, but the condensation dripping on your forehead means you can imagine it anyway. The sun shines, the world is blue, and as it gets lower and lower against the red horizon you're bathed in a deep lilac. And at night, for all the effort of preventing light pollution, you can see the stars. The constellations look the same as on earth, as if by some sort of sisterly bond between the two sky's, and they're shining through the hexagonal glass plates, refracting into strange shapes.

As for crime, not much need for it as there's a universal base income, free housing, electricity is free, food is synthetically grown, so that takes out most of the survival crimes, as for murder. If you do it that's on you, you probably won't as it's a decently healthy environment and therapy is also, my goodness, free, so just. Don't do that.

Martian cuisine! (Also the diner is called Marsy's it serves breakfast type foods and employs mostly teens and the elderly) obviously it's just earth cuisine, but a little bit weirder. Festival foods like dango and crepes are big cuz there's a lot of festivals, when the years are 24 months long you really gotta make the most of em, but for day to day food things like stew, porridge, bread, pasta, fried rice, soup, it's just regular old food. There's weird stuff obviously like... Hold on I gotta think of something... Meat grape? Idk I saw a video where they turned a grape into meat. You can of course 3d print candy, so there's a lot of weird shaped sweets, and a lot of gimmick restaurants. You'll never believe what they're putting in sandwiches these days. Also bugs. They eat bugs. Bugs is goo 👍 sushi is also really popular cuz it's so efficient to grow, fish in the bottom rice on the top, can literally be grown in the same pond, so they do a lot of fish/rice combos

And for our lovely aliens, sahrah and her mum haaush, they can't eat tomatoes. Most things are fine except for like... Certain bug based food dyes? And birch sugar or whatever it's called. Haaush did a lot of experiments with this as she came there for science reasons, and then found herself a lesbian lover, as you do. She brought some food from her planet, and it has its own little room in the space domes. It's got things like. Fucked up carrot. Various other root vegetables. From an underground cave system you see.

(also I said it doenst rain anymore. That's because it doesn't rain on mars, very dry, however inside the dome... Shit gets damp)

[simplegenius042]

FC5 Silva Omar Aesthetics

Bold - YES

Italics - Somewhat

HOLLAND VALLEY.

red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms // jingling keys // crimson blood // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // cattails // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn

WHITETAIL MOUNTAINS.

fishing at dawn // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket // old field guide books// the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron // woodland paths crisscrossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of blue jays // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

HENBANE RIVER.

cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes // lace // burning incense // frogs in the reeds // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words // broken promises // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass // the faint sound of children laughing

JOSEPH’S COMPOUND.

babbling brooks // humming // whistling // dogs barking // grand oak trees // the faint sound of hymns // a crate of ripe peaches // melted wax candles // the smell of fresh newspaper clippings // caged birds singing // a warm embrace // wrought iron arches // flames reaching for the sky // gentle voices murmuring // your feet sliding in thick mud // pouring rain // vape smoke // the slight scent of sweat // ink on skin // the smell of wooden church pews // the rustle of hymnals // old book smell // slight hint of ozone from old electronics // bradford pear petals floating on the breeze

DUTCH’S ISLAND.

creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision // gleaming metal badges // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers // the sound of shattering glass // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels // faint scent of mothballs// the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // the sound of distant gunfire // tear stained letters // old family photographs // the smell of a mildewy basement

[brooklynislandgirl]

Advent Day XV ~ In the Lane, Snow is Glistening @lalamoon

Beth had promised Layla that they would do American Christmas with all the bells-and-whistles and in the same way she first experienced it, too. It helps that the morning had dawned cold and grey and wrapped in a blanket of thick fog that obscured city streets, the various harbours, and even most of the Verrazzano bridge. Beth wakes up early enough that she has the kitchen to herself. Though she's never made anything edible, breakfast isn't her purpose for being there. She takes down a specific copper tea pot inscribed with runes and fills it part way with water. She sets it on the stove and takes down a small broom made of hazel stave and birch branches for bristles. It radiates the same sweetness of cinnamon as her breath. She dances with it, not actually sweeping, as the kettle warms and only stops when it begins to whistle. A few moments later, the faint rain outside becomes a light snow fall that will continue until the day after Christmas. 'Tis the season, after all, for a little coincidental storm. By the time Layla makes her appearance ~a little groggy and with curls springing everywhere, which if Beth was honest about it, she's completely envious about it~ Beth is pushing a cup of coffee in her hand and smiling impishly. "So here da kine. We gonna start wi' coffee or chai an' pastries a' my hanai-sistah's shop. You gonna love her, really. We been bes' good friends since her freshman year a' Columbia. Mos' of her stuff is Kosher or Halal an' what no is…make you grateful for a small sin," Beth winks as if that is all the evidence needed. "Den I figure we can go shoppin' at Winter Village an' aftah, ice skating! Or we could skate first den shopping, so we don' leave our stuff unattended. Lunch…den more shoppin' at Union Square Holiday Market. We gonna wanna find dat guy dat sell roasted ches'nuts. Gonna wanna narrow down which of da half-dozen soup kitchens we volunteer at, deliver coats an' presents for da women's shelter in da kitchen, an' we're helpin out Sean Casey an' Social Tees animal rescues. Dey doin' free adoption an' spay-neuter program for da holidays. But really we can do dese t'ings in any order ja'like." She pauses as she reviews her mental list, trying to think if she forgot anything. "Oh, den dere's da big sleep. We do a giant cuddle puddle in da livin' room…right dere…" she points to the eight foot tree by the floor to ceiling windows. Some time during the night Andy had moved most of the furniture to accommodate the variety of air-mattresses, pillows, sleeping bags and blankets that they would all be using. She doesn't remember how or when the tradition started, only that it's been a feature all of her life and not one they were about to put the breaks on. "So if you nevah have pyjamas or some kine to wear, we should get you some or you can borrow a pair of sweats from Jay an' a tee-shirt from Panda…I mean…Andy." Beth pauses to take a breath again. "I t'ink dat's it, but really is up to you, ya know. Wanna make dis da bes' good Chris'mas you can have here."

[knitasha]

NaNoWriMo: The Vividorium

I'm woefully behind on my NaNoWriMo project, but still managing to write every day. I'll be happy if I can get to 7,000 tonight.

I'm still not 100% confident in my writing to post everything on here, but here's a small chunk. It definitely feels like I'm writing in a vacuum too much - writing about what is going on instead of showing what's going on, but I haven't figured out how to fix that yet.

Constructure criticism welcome!

---

Emelia had intended to make her way to the park where the Christmas Market was set up to get a first look of the area. Although the market opened at 12pm each day, she expected the crowds would wait until the evening to descend on the stalls when the sun had gone down and the lights would twinkle light stars across the whole park.

The travel notebook tucked into her purse had a list of the vendors she was most looking forward to seeing and she had included the broad type of item each booth was expected to sell as well as specific items she’d found on each vendor’s website that she was particularly excited about for her parents, brother, and friends.

The light was red as she came up on the next corner and she looked around appreciatively at the rows of shops lining the street as she waited for the crossing line to change when her eyes came to rest on a store tucked between a cafe and a pet supply store. A brightly colored sign hung from the wall - The Vividorium - and a beautiful, half-finished replica of Starry Night sat in an easel in the window along with an array of oil paint tubes and scattering of brushes.  

Making a split second decision, Emelia turned and jogged to crossed the street other pedestrians were already walking across, abandoning her original plans. She’d just pop in for a second and then could go on her way to the market.

The room insight was uncomfortably hot after the sharp chill she’d been walking through for the past 20 minutes and she quickly pulled off her gloves and stuffed them into her purse.

“Welcome in,” floated from the back of the store, “I’ll be out in a moment.”

“No rush,” she called back, running her fingers over the covers of the sketchbooks piled high on the table just inside. 

The narrow store was lined with tall birch bookshelves. The shelves along the right side held notebooks and canvases of various sizes. She was tempted by a lime green LEUCHTTURM dot journal, but remembered her last two failed bullet journals and left it on the shelf.

Along the left shelves were cups of pens, pencils, markers, and brushes by the window. Then came the paints - acrylics, oils, gouache, and watercolors in sets and individual tubes and pans with brightly colored wrappers formed rainbows along the wall.

Emelia had picked up a tiny travel palette of watercolors when the owner of the earlier voice emerged from the back.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Oh, no, thanks. I’m just looking.”

“That’s a nice set,” the woman gestured to the palette still in Emelia’s hands, “Good if you’ve got an eye for mixing colors since there aren’t too many in there.”

“Ah, yeah, I don’t really know much about painting. I’d love to learn, but there was never enough time. But now that I’m on vacation…”

It was all the woman, whose name turned out to be Joan, needed to hear and 20 minutes later Emelia exited the art store with a not-so-small paper bag in hand filled with a 100-color watercolor palette that was surprisingly small for containing so many colors, a set of metal travel brushes, a water reservoir, a booklet of watercolor paper to practice on, and a pad of blank postcards that Joan had insisted would be good for sending paintings to her family. Emelia wasn’t so sure anything she could create at this point would be worth sending to anyone, but Joan had been more than a little intimidating in her enthusiasm and Emelia wasn’t sure she would be allowed to leave without them.

[sam-glade]

Happy STS! What can you visually picture most clearly about your WIP, whether it's a location, a character's face, or something else?

Hi hi! Happy STS!

(let's pretend it's still Saturday somewhere in the world)

This is an awesome question.

The absolutely first thing that came to mind is the Eternal Woods. However, that feels like cheating because it's based on a real life location that I've been to. I'm still in love with it though, so I'm adding a description below the cut.

Other than that, I end up clearly picturing the very small details, not locations or faces as a whole. Say, the characters are at an old pub. I can visualise the pattern of ridges along the grain in the table's surface, sculpted and polished over the decades of greasy hands rubbing on the wood. Or the way water trickles from a drinking fountain at a square, with the spout blocked by caked on limescale.

Same goes for characters - I have a clear picture of Ianim's pointy chin and crooked smile, Gullin's sneer, or the way Rilna's cheeks dimple. (Or the way Lissan rolls his eyes entirely too often, because he has an attitude problem)

Thank you for asking💜

Lissan exited the gateway into a murky puddle. He stood in it, ankle-deep, thankful for the good quality boots that were a part of the uniform. Something gurgled nearby. He looked around, getting his bearings - he had indeed landed in the middle of an ancient forest, close to an overturned, moss-covered tree. He climbed onto it, slipping and almost falling off, when the moss turned into mush under his weight.

There was something growing in every available bit of space. The largest trees - oaks and ashes - were so large that five men would have trouble joining hands around them. Moss clung to every last bit of their bark, dripping wet. Between them, younger trees and bushes formed the understory, birches, silver firs, hornbeams, aspens… Clumps of hazels stuck out in places like huddles of people gossiping at a market. Then ferns created a dense layer, mixed with various berry bushes - some he thought he recognised, although they weren't bearing fruit yet. Closer to the fallen tree, patches of the forest floor showed, with snake grass, blooming violets, and bright mushrooms. Everything was growing, fighting for space and sunlight.

The woods had an intense smell. It was sickly sweet, coming from a mixture of wet vegetation, scents of various flowers, and decomposing animal corpses. Lissan took in a deep breath, fascinated by its richness.

The thick air was filled with sounds. Leaves rustled, branches knocked against each other and creaked, birds sang, the insects buzzed, and a woodpecker was busy atop some tree. Something gurgled again, more insistently this time - probably a swampling.

And the woods lived.

It was overwhelming. Whenever he thought he finally got used to the feeling, he noticed something new, a scent, a sound, a shade of green. It was a never-ending motley of sensations and signs of life.

[burrichgreer]

How To Make A Birch | Part 1

The city of Stratholme was the jewel of eastern Lordaeron. Strong, stone walls skirted its borders with sturdy towers perched atop the ramparts. During the day, banners and flags of the richest of blues danced in the wind, proudly bearing the sigil of their fine kingdom - the embellished, golden 'L' of Lordaeron. At night, torches lined the parapets, illuminating the outer walls with enough light to be seen from miles away. All who came to the fair city could find whatever they were looking for in abundance, be it entertainment, commerce, or refuge. At nearly every entrance to the city, bards could be found entrancing those passing through the gates with tales of heroic deeds and romance set to song. The Market Row bustled with the sound of enterprise from sunrise to sunset as merchants, shopkeepers and street vendors alike peddled their goods and services to any and all. And on the far side of the city, the port was almost constantly alive with activity, with ships of all varieties coming and going all through the day. There was always an energy about the city, a resilience and steadiness. After all, there was no better place to be than Stratholme City.

But that was before.

--

The ores splashed through the water, urging the small, fishing boat deeper into the dreary port with each stroke. A lone, cloaked figure sat in the vessel, looking very much on edge. His head turned up to the sky for a moment, even as he rowed along the dark waters. Any other day, there would be gulls calling in the distance and gliding on the breeze off the sea - but not today. The darkening sky was illuminated by the nefarious glow of the fire that still consumed the city. Instead of birds, there was only smoke and ash - so much ash that it looked like it was snowing.

As he neared the city, his gaze turned over his shoulder toward the approaching docks. Any other day, he would have seen dozens of ships, both human and elven, docked with crews scurrying about their business - but not today. There were only a few, lifeless boats still docked there. And while he had expected to find the docks abandoned entirely, to his surprise, he could make out the silhouettes of a dozen or so people still moving about! A desperate hope swelled inside him as he was hit with the thought that his mother and father may very well have survived what was now being called the mad-prince's Culling.

He pressed on, passing by the larger docks and making his way to a smaller, private landing that he hoped was still gated from the harbor - a more cautious approach, just in case those were remnants of the prince's forces left to hold the docks for some reason. There were only a few small boats making use of the dock. From the look of things, they belonged to a handful of survivors who were either brave enough or desperate enough to take to looting. He eased his way between two of the boats until the wooden edge of his vessel met the stone wall of the dock with a light thud and a quiet splash. After climbing up onto the landing, he made quick work of securing his vessel before rising to his feet and taking a look around. A group of rather gloomy-looking men loitered around the gate, each one with a grimace slightly more menacing than the one before. The boy tugged his hood down around his face as he stepped toward the gate, not caring one bit to linger in present company. Hoping to slip by the man at the gate without making a scene, he lowered his gaze and attempted to step by without a word.

A hand caught him by the collar before he could pass, "Boy." A gruff voice muttered, before the man tugged the younger man over to stand in front of him. "Where the hell do you think you're goin'?" The man demanded in an almost mocking tone.

"I'm looking for someone." The younger replied, his face still hidden in the shadows of the hood.

The tall man, whose face looked much like a horse's except somehow uglier, let out a noisy snort as his free hand shot up to toss the hood off of the boy's head, revealing the dirty but stern face of a teenage boy framed in a mess of blond hair. His green eyes were bloodshot and his brow was creased tightly as he stared straight ahead, refusing to dignify the would-be gatekeeper with a glance. The man studied the boy for a moment before remarking, "Stubborn little shit, eh?" A dry chuckle followed as he released the young Burrich Greer with a light shove in the direction of the gate. "Fine then. Light keep ya, if ya still believe in that horse shit." he said, punctuating his empty well-wishing with a grunt. If the other men on the landing had any concern for the boy, they didn't show it.

Burrich adjusted his cloak, pointedly pulling his hood back up before pressing an ear to the gate in an attempt to hear what was happening on the other side. Hearing nothing, he lifted the gate's bar and pulled it open, slipping through the passage to the larger harbor beyond without giving the men behind him a second glance.

Once he stepped clear of the gate, he was startled by a loud thud behind him. He turned and pressed on the gate - it had been barred once more. His jaw tightened as he squelched the desire to introduce the gatekeeper's horse-like face to his fist. And that train of thought might have continued were it not for the sudden realization that there was no going back now. He turned back to the harbor, brow knit as he willed himself to ignore that his heart felt like it was about to pound its way right out of his chest. He drew a deep breath and crouched down, finding a bit of security behind a stack of crates.

Any other day, he would have strode through the harbor like he owned the place. His father was Edmond Greer, after all. And Edmond Greer was one of a few unspoken leaders in this part of the city - a man people knew they could rely on - a steady, sharp, thinking man. Burrich had always enjoyed a small amount of unearned respect on the docks, just for being who he was - but not today. A haunting silence loomed over the harbor and there wasn't a single face to offer a smile or greet him as he peeked around the crates. And yet..

In the distance, through the haze of smoke and fog, he could see the silhouettes again - the same ones he had seen from the water. He hustled a bit closer, slipping behind a stack of grain sacks to get a better look. Now closer, he could see that they weren't wearing armor, nor did they carry weapons. That hope rose in him again. These were not soldiers. His heart continued to pound as he fed that seed of hope. Maybe the prince didn't make it this far into the city. Maybe some survived! What if his parents survived? What if they were out there looking for him right now?!

In a moment of reckless hope, the boy rose to his feet, lifted his hands in the air and called out to the strangers in the haze. "Hey! Its me! Burrich Greer! Are you alright?!" He moved out from behind the sacks to grab a nearby lantern that was still burning on its post, holding it up for a bit of light. "Have you seen my parents?! Edmond and Cadence Greer?!"

They didn't respond so he called a bit more loudly, his youthful voice echoing through the ghostly fog, "Hello?! I.. I didn't think anyone survived! Please! Have you seen my parents?!" Finally, he saw one of the figures turn in his direction as if he had heard the call. Then another. And another. Slowly, all of them turned in his direction and began to move toward him. Burrich smiled, an almost joyous laughter slipping from him as he began to make his way into the haze to meet them.

Any other day, he would have been met by men and women he had grown up around. The families who lived around and worked the docks were a tight knit community - with a flavor and culture all its own. There were very few people he didn't know and most people he could recognize by just the sound of their voices as he passed by.

But not today.

The hope that had driven him to make the journey here, that led him to open that gate, that had led him to call out to these strangers and hasten to meet them... it vanished the moment he heard them. Not the sound of familiar voices calling back to him with news of his parents. Not the sound of fellow survivors cheering at his safe return. No, all he heard was a chorus of groans. Dull, lifeless, droning groans that only grew in intensity with every step the figures took toward him. And in a moment, a single, terrifying thought took root in his mind that sent a chill up his spine and made his stomach sink like a brick. A thought he could not shake any more than the way his body suddenly froze in horror: whoever they were, whatever they were... they were hungry.

[dk-thrive]

If I had three lives...

If I had three lives, I'd marry you in two. The other? Perhaps that life over there at Starbucks, sitting alone, writing a memoir, maybe a novel or this poem. No kids probably, a small apartment with a view of the river, and books—lots of books—and time to read. Friends to laugh with, and a man sometimes, for a weekend, to remember what skin feels like when it's alive. I'd be thinner in that life, vegan, practice yoga. I'd go to art films, farmers markets, drink martinis in swingy skirts and big jewelry. I'd vacation on the Maine coast and wear a flannel shirt weekend guy left behind, loving the smell of sweat and aftershave more than I did him. I'd walk the beach at sunrise, find perfect shell spirals and study pockmarks water makes in sand. And I'd wonder sometimes if I'd ever find you.

— Sarah Russell, "If I had Three Lives." Inspired by line in the song "Melbourne" by the Australian Band "Whitlams." (Silver Birch Press, October 16, 2016)

[to-be-frank-i-dont-care]

1. embroidery or knitting

2. cloudy skies or clear blue

3. singing birds or water birds

4. coffee press or tea pot

5. matching or mismatched dinnerware

6. lambs or calves

7. keeping bees or chickens

8. wheat fields or cattails

9. woodland path or along a stream

10. picking apples or strawberries

11. frogs or wood mice

12. comfy sweaters or flowing sleeves

13. blue bells or pansies

14. trimmed hedges or overgrowth

15. piglets or foals :)

16. daffodils or tulips

17. log bridges or stepping stones

18. yellow or green hues

19. visit the library or the farmer’s market

20. crows or owls

21. gingham or floral patterns

22. hanging baskets or pots

23. farm in the meadows or lakeside cottage

24. pancakes or scones

25. birch trees or oak trees

26. toadstools or chanterelles

27. walking or cycling

28. straw hats or dungarees

29. wood benches or rope swings

30. crackling fire or babbling stream

cottagecore this or that (again)

1. embroidery or knitting

2. cloudy skies or clear blue

3. singing birds or water birds

4. coffee press or tea pot

5. matching or mismatched dinnerware

6. lambs or calves

7. keeping bees or chickens

8. wheat fields or cattails

9. woodland path or along a stream

10. picking apples or strawberries

11. frogs or wood mice

12. comfy sweaters or flowing sleeves

13. blue bells or pansies

14. trimmed hedges or overgrowth

15. piglets or foals

16. daffodils or tulips

17. log bridges or stepping stones

18. yellow or green hues

19. visit the library or the farmer’s market

20. crows or owls

21. gingham or floral patterns

22. hanging baskets or pots

23. farm in the meadows or lakeside cottage

24. pancakes or scones

25. birch trees or oak trees

26. toadstools or chanterelles

27. walking or cycling

28. straw hats or dungarees

29. wood benches or rope swings

30. crackling fire or babbling stream