#Indian Family Tree

[bonefall]

There's speculation that Floatshimmer's kits are Graysky's, since one of the kits are silver like him, you know, the dude that was made a warrior when she was a kit.

To be fair, Graysky is ridiculously young as well. He might have been described as being ready to be a warrior at the start of ASC, but he was born in Lost Stars and is only a little over a year old at the end of the last arc.

EVERYONE got hit with the Time Travel Beam... in fact. Funfact: RiverClan actually has always had a weird issue with their allegiance cats aging really fast.

Anyway, digressing. If it does pan out to have Graysky as the father...

Eventually I like the idea of Floatshimmer and Graysky being a couple (their names make me think of bright sunshine on a cloudy day, making the waves of the lake twinkle with light), but absolutely not while they're so young. Both of them need at least another year or so.

(At the earliest, have their kits mid-arc, ideally later.)

That said, I'm still willing to shuffle them both a bit to be closer in age. I'm growing interested in the idea that they're like, the cat equivalent of 18 and 19-ish. Young, dumb, impulsive, ended up with kittens looong before they were ready and it's impacting their relationship negatively.

Still deciding, though.

[rrcraft-and-lore]

[twistingtreeancestry]

Day of Commemoration for the Acadian Expulsion

Image Description: A black and white portrait of the Ovillier Guillot and Eve Vice family, circa the early-to-mid 1900s. Top (children), left to right: Eunice Guillot 1922-Dec; Joseph Guillot 1926-2014; Lenus Guillot 1923-1960; Beulah Guillot 1918-1991. Bottom (parents), left to right: Ovillier Guillot 1897-1967; Eve Vice 1897-1950.

The two daughters wear similar dark, button-down dresses with white doll collars. The mother wears a dark, button-down open-collar blouse or dress. The two sons and the father wear white dress shirts covered by fastened suit jackets complete with ties.

Image by [[TBD]].

— — — — — — — — —

Pictured above is my 3rd great-uncle Ovillier Guillot and his family. He is the 4th great-grandson of Jean Baptiste Guillot.

Today is the Day of Commemoration for the Acadian Expulsion.

While I have quite a few direct ancestors who lived in Nova Scotia and ended up in France at the time of the expulsion, there's only one family unit that I have been able to confirm was expelled.

That was the family of my 8th great-grandfather Jean Baptiste Guillot, born in Acadia in 1720 with his body given to the Atlantic Ocean in 1758. His family was expelled from Cobequid, Acadia, Nova Scotia to France during the brutal "Great Expulsion" by the British, who wanted to squelch any potential threats from the Acadians and the Mi'kmaq during the French and Indian War.

His son (my 7th great-grandfather) Charles Olivier Miquel Guillot was only 13 in 1758 when they had to take the long, arduous 75-day journey to France. His father Jean, along with 4 of his brothers, never made it off of the ship.

Charles grew up in France where he married and had 3 children of his own. They left France in 1785 to board one of the seven ships paid for by Spain, Le Saint-Rémi, to take them to Lafourche Parish, Louisiana.

Many members of the Wabanaki Confederacy (I believe predominately it was the Mi'kmaq militia), in addition to other affiliated Indigenous tribes and Acadians, who rallied a resistance were slaughtered or expelled. They refused to swear loyalty to the British crown and surrender to British colonists, refused to convert from Catholicism to Protestantism, and refused to allow themselves to be displaced without a fight. Numerous battles took place to stop the deportation with wins and losses across the board.

While no one has one lineage, I was raised as a proud Cajun despite having often felt ashamed of being Cajun for various reasons (like my accent). I even tried my hardest over twelve years to banish anything that could link me to my roots, not knowing the history behind a part of my ethnicity and culture.

Digging into my ancestry has been a wild ride, and there were many things found within my lineages that were not honorable in any way, but this chunk of my history? This has made me proud to be Cajun again.

I wish I had respected it more when I was still able to be immersed in it. I wish I had asked my pawpaw to tell me more stories. I wish I had kept up with Cajun French (AKA Louisiana French). I wish I hadn't let my cultural heritage fall through my fingers.

Many blessings to those who fought and lost their lives against the British colonists in an attempt to secure the freedom of not only themselves but of future generations to come.

[Disclaimer: I am still only beginning to educate myself about this event and am utilizing my current understanding of how events unfolded and who was involved. I apologize in advance for any misconceptions or misinformation regarding the historical accuracy of my comments.]

[votermood]

ajit pawar biography in hindi: जान���ं महाराष्ट्र के प्रमुख नेता और राजनीतिक strategist अजीत पवार के जीवन, उपलब्धियों और उनके राजनीतिक सफर के बारे में।

[roesolo]

While You Were Dreaming - Alisha Rai does YA!

While You Were Dreaming, by Alisha Rai, (March 2023, Quill Tree Books), $19.99, ISBN: 9780063083967 Ages 13+ Best-selling romance author Alisha Rai released her debut YA novel, While You Were Dreaming, and it is so good! Sonia is a teen living with her undocumented sister, Kareena, after her mother is deported. Sonia lives in constant fear of her family’s circumstances being discovered, and she…

[hardlyinteresting]

Stop in the middle

Jake Seresin x reader

Two sides of the same coin; they were joined at the hip; partners in every way but the romantic. The words “I love you,” had passed between them many times, but neither of them had been brave enough to say, “I’m in love with you”.

So much wine by Phoebe Bridgers  Somewhere else by Indians Abbey by  Mitski

Warnings: The reader is referred to as she/her, (call sign Angel), with no physical description, crash landing, wilderness survival, major injuries (non-graphic description), discussions of death, happy ending though (I promise!), hurt/comfort, idiots in love, possible Navy inaccuracies, (please let me know if you'd like me to add anything else)

Word Count: 4.7K Masterlist | talk to me about Jake and Tyler

This is as good a place to die as any, she thinks.

 Laying in the snow she watches the sun rise inch by inch over the tree line. The sky bathed in a soft orange glow that warms her skin for what she can only assume will be the last time. He’ll hate her for leaving him without saying goodbye, but her voice has already left her and her arms are too weak to shake him from his slumber.��

In the distance the cotton fluff clouds rest on the peaks of the mountains; tremendous contrast so perfectly balanced. She feels each of Hangman's breaths expanding the firm plane of his chest as her breathing grows slower. Two days ago she never would have imagined dying in the arms of Lt. Jake “Hangman” Seresin. 

---

They had taken off at the barest crack of dawn breaking. 0600 hours. It was supposed to be a simple recon mission. Take off from the carrier. Fly over. Survey the valley below—report anomalies. Continue the flight path, and land at a nearby ally airbase. Refuel. Return to the carrier. They'd been tasked with flying similar paths for the last two weeks as part of a larger peacekeeping and security effort. As far as deployments go, they were lucky to have been selected to be the joint task force; and more fortunate to not be engaged in active combat. 

Though Hangman would loathe to admit it with his two confirmed air combat kills, she knows herself that no pilot wants to be under enemy fire or in a position to take a life; it's an unfortunate consequence and frequent reality of the job. 

In the time they’ve known each other, she’s heard Jake speak frequently about his mother and her homemade pie waiting for him in Texas. He tells stories about the boys he used to play football with in high school, and family reunions with little nieces and nephews running about barefoot. She’s heard him making plans to buy a home and settle down. He dreams of a future. Anyone paying attention knows that beneath the outwardly cocky exterior, and adrenaline rushes, he's afraid of dying. 

It wasn't enemy fire that took them down two days ago, but rather sudden major malfunctions that left them without any navigation system, defective coms, and an aircraft almost completely unresponsive to pilot commands. Their saving grace had been Hangman's quick thinking to point them towards a clearing in the tree line, and her decision to dump their fuel as they descended rapidly toward the ground. Flying too low to eject safely they braced themselves for impact, an apology for something he could not have stopped on Jake's lips. 

The sounds of alarms and rapid beeping tones woke them. The smell of burning jet fuel startled them into action again. Jake's head stayed lulled forward his eyes slipping shut again before his limbs burst into action with a level of urgency that forced her to react with equal fervour. She watched wide-eyed as Hangman pushed open the canopy pulling himself up and out of his seat, rolling sideways out the opening. Only in watching his exit did she notice the awkward angle the jet had landed at. The nose crumpled by the force of the impact, their wings clipped and lost somewhere in the trees or across the clearing; the body had slid half on its side, a couple hundred feet through revealing mud beneath and leaving a wake of burning grass melting through the powder white snow. A sharp pain threatened to make her lose her breakfast as she clambered from her seat and the tangle of buckles and straps that had saved her life. She tumbled with purpose but little grace out into the frozen valley. 

“Alright?” Hangman asked standing with his back straight as she doubled over trying hard to catch her breath. She nodded but he didn't make any effort to speak or move giving her a moment to collect herself. 

Sucking in the ice-cold air she ignored the searing pain tearing through her rib cage. Her attention drifted from herself back to Jake who swayed on his feet, the soft crunch of snow sounding beneath his feet as he tried to find a place to stand steady. Watching him pale she only grew more convinced Jake was concussed. 

“Are you alright?” She asked.

“Dizzy for sure”. 

“Well, we'll thank our lucky stars we crashed in allied territory. Once we find shelter, I'll run a concussion protocol for you.” 

Their non-functioning radios had left them no way to communicate their mayday calls. They had tried in vain to transmit their approximate coordinates as their headsets filled with static. Their navigation system ran haywire, the coordinates too impossible to be accurate in any case. 

His brows furrowed as he turned to survey their crash sight. His usually bright smile had been pulled into a firm line that confirmed to her they'd be stranded for a while. 

A gust of wind reminded them of how exposed they were in the clearing. While enemy scouts wouldn't be an issue, the potential for hypothermia would be. 

“Map. Compass. Let's grab the chutes from the seats as well,” she suggested. Hangman was uncharacteristically quiet in his agreement, giving her a nod of affirmation as they collected what they could from the jet. 

The sun was still high in the sky above them providing decent light though filtered through bare branches and evergreen limbs. Somewhat guarded from the biting wind they allowed themselves to settle for a moment hoping to find their bearings and build a solid plan for their survival. 

Before they began to plummet they had been about a quarter of an hour's flight from the air base on the other side of the valley. Plotting their estimated crash site on the paper map they found themselves nearly 250 miles away from their destination, walking sun up to sun down would still mean a 2-and-a-half day walk. 

“Look alive sunshine,” she teased as Jake's eyes began to droop. He'd let out a laugh his smile surprisingly bright as he tilted his head back to look at her. “You're so bossy,” he complained. 

“I'm about to get bossier, I've got to make sure you don't have a concussion”. 

“Yes ma’am,” he saluted. 

“Don't sass me Seresin,” she warned, though she tried to keep the tone playful. 

For years they'd played this game; pushing each other's buttons skirting around the edges of flirtation and toeing the line of verbal bullying. Ribbing him was how she had learned to be affectionate towards him. Giving him a hard time made him flustered, or it made him laugh, and either reaction was a well-welcomed sight that had left a fluttering in her chest. The lighthearted back and forth they'd learned to communicate through made it easier to ignore the sidelong glances, and yearning that had begun to take shape beneath the surface. 

“Alright,” she sighed, pulling the tiny flashlight out of her belt, “eyes on me”.

“They usually are,” he smirked. 

With the light, she checked his eyes and got promising results: no abnormal dilation. Both pupils were even and responsive to light. “Today's date?” She asked him. 

“February twelfth”.

“Your date of birth?” 

“October twenty-first. Nineteen ninety”.

“Any headache, nausea, persistent dizziness?” 

He responded no to all the symptoms and she allowed some relief to fill her knowing the initial symptoms had dissipated and not worsened. Finally, she held one finger up waiting for his eyes to focus. “Follow me,” she said her hand moving to the left, his eyes followed. 

“I'll follow you anywhere,” he said as her hand moved to the right. 

“Don't flirt with me, Hangman”. 

“Wouldn't it be stranger if I didn't? I’m just proving I’m not concussed”. His point was somewhat valid but she didn't let him know she thought so, continuing her evaluation in silence.

He's like this with everyone. She'd been telling herself the same thing for years. You're not special. He'll flirt with anyone. A painful truth that's helped her ignore his beautiful green eyes and warm countenance. 

---

Laying on her back in the snow drawing her last breaths now she wishes she could see those eyes one more time as her vision begins to blur. The blue sky swirls into the emerald pines, the colours lightened by the soft sunlight. The colours like sea glass make her think of him and tears begin to gather behind her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she wants to say but only a pathetic whimper leaves her. She wonders if she would have been kinder to him if she had known she was going to die. Would she have been more honest with her feelings? Or pushed them down deeper in some foolish attempt to protect him? The sun continues to rise and she knows he will wake soon. Selfishly, she hopes she’s drifted off before then, unwilling to see him hurting on her behalf. 

---

“Not concussed, but still a pain in my ass,” she had teased him, pushing his hair off his forehead, double-checking for any wounds. He took her words as permission to keep moving. Each of them threw a parachute pack over their shoulders and continued their walk northeast through the woods. 

By 1900 hours the sun had begun to dip beneath the horizon, and the sky above turned a deep blue dotted by tiny spangling stars. Breathtaking and brilliant it had been easy to forget, just for a moment, where they were. She slung the chute of her shoulders towards the ground hissing at the movement. She hadn't had the time to check herself over. Best case her ribs were bruised, at worst she'd find out they were broken, and there would be nothing to help her until they had access to a medical bay anyway. 

“Are you sure you're okay, Angel?” Hangman asked, using her call sign letting her know he meant business. He was not asking as a friend, he was asking as her teammate. 

“Yes,” she lied. The pain was tolerable, only worsening with sharp or sudden movement. Nothing she couldn't handle, and nothing she would force Jake to worry about. 

“Are you sure? I wouldn't be opposed to stripping you down to check for injuries,” his flirtations softened the conversation in an attempt to get her to tell him the truth. 

“In your dreams,” she responded instead, moving along the base of a nearby tree in hopes of gathering some firewood and kindling.

“Quite frequently, actually,” the wink he shot her way repeats in her head even now piercing through the fourth wall of the masquerade they had built, an honest and boyish confirmation that their feelings for each other were something beyond friendship. 

The plethora of fresh fallen snow meant finding water wasn't an issue of concern. Finding food would be more difficult and that first night under the stars they sat watching the flickering flames of the fire they had built, their empty stomachs rumbling with nothing to fill them. 

Stretched between two trees, one of the parachutes they liberated from their wreck was used as a windscreen, protecting them from the cold. The second one lay draped around their shoulders as an extra layer. 

Proximity wasn't an issue for them. They had spent enough time in cramped cockpits together to be familiar with the sounds of each other breathing. They had sat shoulder to shoulder in briefings enough time that she had memorized the smell of his cologne. And yet, when he put his arm around her to pull her closer in their makeshift cocoon her heart stuttered. How could his hands be so strong when her own wouldn't stop shaking? How could a simple touch warm her from the inside out? His fingers brushed along her side with no real pressure, but still prompted a gasp to escape her. Tears left glass trails on her cheeks in the firelight. 

She tried to turn away from him, to feign sleep but he wouldn't have it. “Hey,” Jake caught her attention, waiting for her to look at him before he continued, “We're going to be okay”. 

She believed him. 

---

Everything about their uniforms has been painstakingly designed to keep them safe. 100% cotton undershirts and pants because the material won't melt to their skin in the event of a cockpit fire. But the surprisingly soft base layers have never stopped the blaze burning inside her. From the moment she laid eyes on Jake Seresin she knew he'd be the beginning and the end of everything. He pushed people away with his cocky attitude, somehow convinced that his refusal to be vulnerable would keep him safe from forming meaningful bonds; that he might get further ahead if he had fewer people to let down. But, he'd let her in. He'd let her break down his walls and climb over the fences he'd tried to put up. She'd held him when he got the news his father had died. On a ship thousands of miles from his home he'd told her about his brother dying when he was a child, and growing up in his shadow. He told her how badly he wanted to make his parents proud and how lonely he had made himself in the process. He'd kissed her forehead as they parted that night, and her world changed forever. 

What had been an embarrassing schoolgirl crush she couldn’t shake had become a push-and-pull relationship neither of them could do without. She knew how to put him in his place when he took a joke too far. He knew how to goad her into showing everyone what she was capable of, refusing to let her slip into the background when he knew she deserved more. 

Two sides of the same coin, they were joined a the hip; partners in every way but the romantic. The words “I love you,” had passed between them many times, but neither of them had been brave enough to say, “I’m in love with you”. She wishes she would have said it. Lying at death’s door she remembers being told that you often regret the things you haven’t done more than you regret the things you did. “I’m in love with you, Jake Seresin,” she whispers to the wind. 

---

Their second day of walking was far more painful than the first. Jake had startled himself awake, his eyes wild as he fought to remember where it was they had ended up. The acceptance of their reality hadn't seemed to comfort him and he grew uncharacteristically quiet as they packed up their makeshift camp. The pine trees towering above them had been kind enough to shed some of their cones while they had lay sleeping in shifts. Though they hadn't offered many, they were able to harvest a handful of pine nuts between the two of them for breakfast. It was nowhere near a meal, but the snack had managed to quiet their angry stomachs for a few minutes.

The ache in her side had grown to become a constant agony. What had started as a negligible strain was now a torment that threatened to collapse her with each footfall. Despite the subzero temperatures, a sweat had broken out across her brow, and the heat spreading up the back of her neck left her wanting to strip off her cold weather jacket and flight suit. 

“Have you ever had rabbit?” Jake asked around noon. His footsteps had slowed enough for her to catch up with him. His voice had startled her after all the silence. 

“I can't say that I have,” she answered. A gunshot pulled her from her thoughts and she realized she hadn't ever answered out loud. Jake stood a few feet ahead of her, his service pistol in his hand. The world around her was spinning. The trees blurring together as a sudden wave of nausea filled her. She could hear her name being called; muffled and distorted. Jake. His face soon filled her line of vision. 

“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you,” he told her, but her mind still struggled to put the pieces together. For a moment it felt like she was underwater, all her breath gone from her lungs and all she could feel was the scalding pain burning from the inside out. Momentarily she entertained the idea that it was her who had been shot until she spotted the rabbit lying lifeless in the snow. 

“We need to eat,” Jake spoke again, “you're going quiet on me and I don't like that-- we’ll get some energy in you again before we keep moving”.

The very idea of eating anything threatened to leave her dry-heaving, but she took advantage of the moment to rest. He didn't mention her lack of assistance building a fire or preparing the rabbit, but she watched with incredible focus his hands moving with precision and surprising gentleness for the task at hand. 

She can recall him telling her stories about his childhood, standing on step stools to reach the countertop in his mother's kitchen rolling out pie crusts and later on slicing apples. He once told her that it was his mother who had taught him patience and gratitude while they baked together; two traits he had neglected to exhibit far too often in his adult life. 

She listened to him thank the rabbit for its life as he cut away pieces to feed to her. There was an unmistakable love in the way he moved, his eyes cast over his shoulder to check on her. Slowly, she realized that she was not doing a good job hiding her suffering. In a fleeting thought, she imagined Jake having to carry her lifeless body for the rest of their journey. In their line of work, it had never been considered morbid to have funeral plans from a young age. Flying with him for years she had learned to trust him implicitly, despite the call sign he'd earned and worked tirelessly to recover from she knew early on that he'd do right by her. Challenging authority, but always following the rules; complete and unwavering dedication to whatever task he had at hand; precision and perfection in the execution of his duties be it laundry or taking down a fighter jet midair. As her energy continued to leave her she took comfort in knowing her life would be in Hangman's hands. 

“I'm not hungry,” she said to him. 

“You need to eat,” he insisted again but didn't push any farther. With a longanimity he forgot he possessed, and a magnanimity he couldn't credit himself for carrying he cared for her; making the executive decision to make camp early as her seemingly catatonic state worsened. She managed to chew and swallow bites of the gamey meat, her body grateful for the nutrition.  

Night fell too soon after and the sound of the wind in the trees and the rustle of creatures that may have been lurking left both of them far more on edge than they had been the night before. 

“Scoot closer,” she whispered to him, and he complied without complaint. Neither of them was warm, but their proximity to the fire helped them imagine they could be. His shoulder bumped hers and she leaned her head against him. “Put your arm around me?” She asked. He complied again this time with more hesitation. 

“You know if you wanted to snuggle with me you could've just said so,” he teased though she could tell his heart wasn't in it. 

“I'm scared,” she confessed, a half-truth. She was terrified, feeling her heart rate starting to slow by the minute, her vision slipping in and out of focus. 

“We're going to make it home,” he whispered, both arms wrapped around her now, his lips pressed to her hairline. Tears blurred in her eyes and she gave up fighting back a sob, body shaking and heartbreaking. “I won't let anything happen to you,” he said so sincerely. She cried harder knowing she had already broken that promise for him. 

She had realized she'd lost feeling in her fingers and toes when he'd begun to trace shapes on her back. Her digits buzzed with needles and pins and her limbs had began to feel heavy. Bile rose in her throat choking her as she scrambled to get her distance before dinner made a reappearance. Jake didn't make a fuss, or make his worry known, but she could tell that her perturbation had begun to seep beneath his calm, cool, mien. His hand shook as he rubbed her back hoping her coughing fit might free her off the anxiety and discomfort that had overtaken her. 

She can remember almost every time Jake Seresin has touched her. The memories float suspended in golden warmth, kept safe from the things theyve done, and the things they’ve seen. She holds those moments of fleeting, passing goodness, near to her heart. The smallest reminders that Hangman has a heart; and it’s full of love to give, and on some occasions, she has allowed herself to believe she could be worthy of that love. 

He used to sit beside her in the mess hall no matter how many seats were available; his broad shoulders bumping her own, his elbow knocking at her ribs, their hands brushing as he slid his mashed potatoes onto her plate and she slid her green beans onto his. Silent and symbiotic in their bond, determined to look out for one another. 

The first New Year's Eve they were able to spend together off base was spent with as many friends as possible and too much liquor to handle. Neither of them got a midnight kiss because she was spilling her guts in the alleyway behind the bar, Jake by her side saying “I told you not to do shots after drinking a glass of wine”.  But his satisfied smirk was overshadowed by the genuine concern in his eyes and the steady warm hand he'd placed on her back. “There you go, you'll feel better once you get it all out”. He was drunk himself, his words half slurred but no less encouraging. She had thought then that he was seeing her at her worst. She knows now that she was wrong. 

By some miracle they had been deployed together more often than not. At first it was pure coincidence, but over time it became clear that together they were a dynamic duo with a combined force and efficiency they're commanding officers could not deny, and were often interested in capitalizing on. They had become two halves of a whole, a packaged pair anyone would be disinclined to separate. Still, they had not been permitted to bunk together, and neither of them had ever been interested in breaking the rules of the institution so they never pushed it. But on nights when the creaks and groans of the 900,000 pound ship kept her awake, and the rocking of the waves around them was too much to ignore she knew she'd be able to find him lurking around the corridors as well.

 “I couldn't sleep,” she'd say. “Me neither,” he'd respond. Sometimes, when the world felt too heavy on his shoulders and they'd been away from home for too long they'd find their way to the floor together, his back pressed to hers, their arms circling their knees, and he'd sync his breathing to hers convincing himself that so long as she was their he had some piece of his real life with him. A part of Jake Seresin that wasn't just a pawn in battles bigger than him, he was a man with thoughts and feelings, and dreams outside of his role worth achieving. 

---

This is as good a place to die as any, she thinks.

The parachute that isn't being used to block the wind is still draped over the two of them and she hopes it keeps Jake warm until he wakes. His walk to the base will take him longer now dragging her weight behind him, he'll need his sleep. 

She lets the sound of the wind lull her and she finds that she's not afraid anymore. Just sad; angry even; but not afraid. Her pain is excruciating, and she’s honestly welcoming the relief of a permanent slumber. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. The wind gusts come steadily, growing louder and ever closer. 

Jake stirs beneath her, sitting up her head falling to his lap. “Well would you look at that! No more walking for us,” he grins. Her eyes have shut but she can hear it in his voice, the boy like wonder bursting  the surface. “Angel, wake up,” he shakes her shoulder. The joy that had filled him moments ago has been replaced with a more serious tone, “they sent a chopper for us, honey,” he says, shaking her again, “you've gotta get up,” he pleads with her, but she cannot answer him. His hand is surprisingly warm on the side of her face, and the world goes dark and silent. 

Death is softer than she expected. It's dark still, but her head is resting on something plush, and there's a feel of woven fabric at her fingertips, it reminds her of the blanket Jake's mom had sent to her last Christmas. Her back and her legs feel stiff and she makes no attempt to move them uninterested in exploring this darken world she's found herself in. Her ribs ache but far less than they did back in the snow, the pinch she feels with each breath is like an echoed sound, a pallid reminder of her last moments. 

There's a humming; a mellifluous tune. It drifts in and out, bookended by murmuring she cannot decipher. Come back to me. The words become clear. Angel. Guilt fills her, petulant and helpless as emotion overwhelms her. She wants to move towards the voice, to apologize for leaving but she's not sure she can. I need you honey. 

Jake. Oh, it's so clear now. Jake. 

“Hey, hey, you're okay,” Jake's hands brace her shoulder, and just above her knee willing her to stop flailing her panicked limbs. Her eyes shoot open to meet his; golden green and brimming with tears she wishes she had the strength to stop. The insistent beeping that had filled the room quiets as she relaxes back into the pillows. 

The Navy infirmary isn't anything fancy, but it's far more comfortable than the nights she spent with her back up against the bark of a tree. She has so many questions but they fade out of her mind as quickly as they spark in. Blips of clarity overriden by the need to speak to Jake who is looking at her with more wonder than she's even seen. The man has seen the world from 40,000 feet but he's looking at her like she hung his stars in the sky. 

“Jake,” she manages. 

“Yeah, Angel”. 

Her throat feels like sandpaper, her voice scratchy and raw with disuse, but she fights through it, 

“I'm in love with you,” she says, sucking in a breath that makes her cough. Her lungs feel like they're on fire and she works desperately to inhale and exhale as the ache in her side is reawaken. 

Jake offers her water that manages to swallow down, and when she takes a few shaky breaths without wincing, he sets the paper cup aside. 

She gives him a gentle nod, refusing to meet his gaze. He doesn't let it slide, his forefinger tilting her chin up so she can't hide from him. She envies his confidence, his ability to simplify a scenario. 

“I'm in love with you,” he tells her too. 

[literaryvein-reblogs]

100 "Beautiful" Words

for your next poem/story

Accouchement - the time or act of giving birth

Allemande - a dance step with arms interlaced

Anent - about, concerning

Anthophilous - feeding upon or living among flowers

Aphyllous - destitute of foliage leaves

Apophenia - the tendency to perceive a connection between unrelated things

Apoplectic - extremely enraged

Badinage - playful repartee; banter

Belaud - to praise usually to excess

Chromophil - staining readily with dyes

Coeval - of the same or equal age, antiquity, or duration

Cognoscente - a person who has expert knowledge in a subject

Cruciferous - any of a family of plants including the cabbage, turnip, and mustard

Deliquescent - tending to melt or dissolve

Diallelus - a reasoning in a circle

Elide - to leave out of consideration

Emulous - inspired by or deriving from a desire to emulate

Epergne - an often ornate tiered centerpiece consisting typically of a frame of wrought metal (e.g., gold) bearing dishes, vases, or candle holders or a combination of these

Epexegesis - additional explanation or explanatory matter

Fructify - to bear fruit

Funambulism - a show especially of mental agility

Galbulus - a spherical closed fleshy cone of thickened or fleshy peltate scales

Grenadine - an open-weave fabric of various fibers

Haematite - a reddish-brown to black mineral consisting of ferric oxide, constituting an important iron ore, and occurring in crystals

Hyaline - something that is transparent

Ianthine - having a violet color

Impresa - a device with a motto used in the 16th and 17th centuries; emblem

Ineluctable - not to be avoided, changed, or resisted

Indite - to put down in writing

Jacinthe - a moderate orange

Jiqui - a Cuban timber tree with hard wood very resistant to moisture

Kincob - an Indian brocade usually of gold or silver or both

Kvell - to be extraordinarily proud

Labret - an ornament worn in a perforation of the lip

Lachrymator - a tear-producing substance (such as tear gas)

Latericeous - of the color of red brick

Legerity - alert facile quickness of mind or body

Limnology - the scientific study of bodies of fresh water

Logorrhea - excessive and often incoherent talkativeness or wordiness

Maieutic - relating to the Socratic method of eliciting new ideas from another

Maquillage - makeup

Marmoreal - of marble

Matronymic - a name derived from that of the mother or a maternal ancestor

Mazarine - mazarine blue; a deep purplish blue

Mirifical - working wonders

Nacarat - geranium lake (i.e., a vivid red)

Nephology - a branch of meteorology dealing with clouds

Notabilia - things worthy of note

Obnubilate - becloud, obscure

Obstreperous - marked by unruly or aggressive noisiness

Oenology - a science that deals with wine and wine making

Ombrophilous - capable of withstanding or thriving in the presence of much rain

Organdy - a very fine transparent muslin with a stiff finish

Palafitte - an ancient dwelling built on piles over a lake

Pareidolia - the tendency to perceive a specific, often meaningful image in a random or ambiguous visual pattern

Peregrinate - to travel especially on foot

Peristyle - an open space enclosed by a colonnade

Perse - of a dark grayish blue resembling indigo

Personalia - biographical or personal anecdotes or notes

Phylactery - amulet

Piacular - sacrificial, expiatory

Pleonasm - the use of more words than those necessary to denote mere sense; redundancy

Poetomachia - a contest of poets; specifically: a literary quarrel of Elizabethan dramatists

Prasine - having the green color of a leek

Prestidigitation - sleight of hand

Psilanthropy - a doctrine of the merely human existence of Christ

Psychomachy - a conflict of the soul

Quaesitum - something sought for; end

Quatenus - in the quality or capacity of

Rebarbative - repellent, irritating

Rhapsodize - to speak or write in a rhapsodic (i.e., extravagantly emotional) manner

Rheophilous - preferring or living in flowing water

Rupestrian - composed of rock

Salmagundi - a heterogeneous mixture; potpourri

Sanative - having the power to cure or heal

Sciaphilous - thriving in shade

Subitaneous - formed or taking place suddenly or unexpectedly

Tellurian - a dweller on the earth

Tergiversation - evasion of straightforward action or clear-cut statement

Terpsichorean - of or relating to dancing

Threnody - a song of lamentation for the dead

Tilleul - a pale greenish yellow that is very slightly paler than primrose green

Tmesis - separation of parts of a compound word by the intervention of one or more words

Toadstone - a stone or similar object held to have formed in the head or body of a toad and formerly often worn as a charm or antidote to poison

Toxophilite - a person fond of or expert at archery

Transmogrify - to change or alter greatly and often with grotesque or humorous effect

Ubiquitarian - belief that as Christ is omnipresent his body is everywhere (as in the Eucharist)

Urtication - to induce hives

Vicissitudinous - marked by or filled with vicissitudes (i.e., the quality of being changeable)

Videlicet - that is to say; namely

Visitant - visitor; especially: one thought to come from a spirit world

Wallydraigle - a feeble, imperfectly developed, or slovenly creature

Waltherite - a mineral consisting of an ill-defined carbonate of bismuth having green to brownish green doubly terminated prismatic crystals

Xyloid - resembling wood

Xylomancy - divination by means of pieces of wood

Xystus - a long and open portico

Yfere - obsolete: together

Zoism - phenomena of life are due to a peculiar vital principle

Zymology - a science that deals with fermentation

Zymurgy - a branch of applied chemistry that deals with fermentation processes (as in wine making or brewing)

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, please tag me, or send me a link. I would love to read them!

More: Lists of Beautiful Words ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[mamawasatesttube]

kiran singh goes "oh? you want to learn about different cultures on earth?" and forces kara zor-el to watch the baahubali franchise. it is not a cultural exchange so much as it is... well, i hesitate to say psychological torment, but it's close

i know they've never interacted on page or anything but hear me out. i think another fantastic option for "women kara zor-el could kiss" is kiran singh (solstice). she's literally got sunlight powers she NEEDS to kiss a kryptonian. also her parents are archaeologists and i think science guild kara, who wanted to study earth culture to help facilitate kryptonian relations with earth before kandor got mcfucked, could appreciate that and enjoy hanging out with the whole family. women. ive heard of them

[fatehbaz]

Despite its green image, Ireland has surprisingly little forest. [...] [M]ore than 80% of the island of Ireland was [once] covered in trees. [...] [O]f that 11% of the Republic of Ireland that is [now] forested, the vast majority (9% of the country) is planted with [non-native] spruces like the Sitka spruce [in commercial plantations], a fast growing conifer originally from Alaska which can be harvested after just 15 years. Just 2% of Ireland is covered with native broadleaf trees.

Text by: Martha O’Hagan Luff. “Ireland has lost almost all of its native forests - here’s how to bring them back.” The Conversation. 24 February 2023. [Emphasis added.]

---

[I]ndustrial [...] oil palm plantations [...] have proliferated in tropical regions in many parts of the world, often built at the expense of mangrove and humid forest lands, with the aim to transform them from 'worthless swamp' to agro-industrial complexes [...]. Another clear case [...] comes from the southernmost area in the Colombian Pacific [...]. Here, since the early 1980s, the forest has been destroyed and communities displaced to give way to oil palm plantations. Inexistent in the 1970s, by the mid-1990s they had expanded to over 30,000 hectares. The monotony of the plantation - row after row of palm as far as you can see, a green desert of sorts - replaced the diverse, heterogenous and entangled world of forest and communities.

Text by: Arturo Escobar. "Thinking-Feeling with the Earth: Territorial Struggles and the Ontological Dimension of the Epistemologies of the South." Revista de Antropologia Iberoamericana Volume 11 Issue 1. 2016. [Emphasis added.]

---

But efforts to increase global tree cover to limit climate change have skewed towards erecting plantations of fast-growing trees [...] [because] planting trees can demonstrate results a lot quicker than natural forest restoration. [...] [But] ill-advised tree planting can unleash invasive species [...]. [In India] [t]o maximize how much timber these forests yielded, British foresters planted pines from Europe and North America in extensive plantations in the Himalayan region [...] and introduced acacia trees from Australia [...]. One of these species, wattle (Acacia mearnsii) [...] was planted in [...] the Western Ghats. This area is what scientists all a biodiversity hotspot – a globally rare ecosystem replete with species. Wattle has since become invasive and taken over much of the region’s mountainous grasslands. Similarly, pine has spread over much of the Himalayas and displaced native oak trees while teak has replaced sal, a native hardwood, in central India. Both oak and sal are valued for [...] fertiliser, medicine and oil. Their loss [...] impoverished many [local and Indigenous people]. [...]

India’s national forest policy [...] aims for trees on 33% of the country’s area. Schemes under this policy include plantations consisting of a single species such as eucalyptus or bamboo which grow fast and can increase tree cover quickly, demonstrating success according to this dubious measure. Sometimes these trees are planted in grasslands and other ecosystems where tree cover is naturally low. [...] The success of forest restoration efforts cannot be measured by tree cover alone. The Indian government’s definition of “forest” still encompasses plantations of a single tree species, orchards and even bamboo, which actually belongs to the grass family. This means that biennial forest surveys cannot quantify how much natural forest has been restored, or convey the consequences of displacing native trees with competitive plantation species or identify if these exotic trees have invaded natural grasslands which have then been falsely recorded as restored forests. [...] Planting trees does not necessarily mean a forest is being restored. And reviving ecosystems in which trees are scarce is important too.

Text by: Dhanapal Govindarajulu. "India was a tree planting laboratory for 200 years - here are the results." The Conversation. 10 August 2023. [Emphasis added.]

---

Nations and companies are competing to appropriate the last piece of available “untapped” forest that can provide the most amount of “environmental services.” [...] When British Empire forestry was first established as a disciplinary practice in India, [...] it proscribed private interests and initiated a new system of forest management based on a logic of utilitarian [extraction] [...]. Rather than the actual survival of plants or animals, the goal of this forestry was focused on preventing the exhaustion of resource extraction. [...]

Text by: Daniel Fernandez and Alon Schwabe. "The Offsetted." e-flux Architecture (Positions). November 2013. [Emphasis added.]

---

At first glance, the statistics tell a hopeful story: Chile’s forests are expanding. […] On the ground, however, a different scene plays out: monocultures have replaced diverse natural forests [...]. At the crux of these [...] narratives is the definition of a single word: “forest.” [...] Pinochet’s wave of [...] [laws] included Forest Ordinance 701, passed in 1974, which subsidized the expansion of tree plantations [...] and gave the National Forestry Corporation control of Mapuche lands. This law set in motion an enormous expansion in fiber-farms, which are vast expanses of monoculture plantations Pinus radiata and Eucalyptus species grown for paper manufacturing and timber. [T]hese new plantations replaced native forests […]. According to a recent study in Landscape and Urban Planning, timber plantations expanded by a factor of ten from 1975 to 2007, and now occupy 43 percent of the South-central Chilean landscape. [...] While the confusion surrounding the definition of “forest” may appear to be an issue of semantics, Dr. Francis Putz [...] warns otherwise in a recent review published in Biotropica. […] Monoculture plantations are optimized for a single product, whereas native forests offer [...] water regulation, hosting biodiversity, and building soil fertility. [...][A]ccording to Putz, the distinction between plantations and native forests needs to be made clear. “[...] [A]nd the point that plantations are NOT forests needs to be made repeatedly [...]."

Text by: Julian Moll-Rocek. “When forests aren’t really forests: the high cost of Chile’s tree plantations.” Mongabay. 18 August 2014. [Emphasis added.]

[herpsandbirds]

May I present you with a charming frog?

South India, I don't really know the species :/

Frog ID - South India:

Hello, yes, I believe this is the Indian Tree Frog (Polypedates maculatus), family Rhacophoridae.

Without seeing the underside and inside of the legs, I'm not 100% confident, but this species is very common across most of India.

Polypedates maculatus - Wikipedia

[owlets-outlet]

this is a hill i will *fucking* die on.

people of color existed in medieval europe and therefore it is FUCKING realistic to have a poc character in your GODDAMN fantasy movie

the proof is going to be very czech-centric because *i* am czech.

1. okay, this one is cheating a little, but. saint maurice. he was a 3rd century knight and hes the first black person to be painted in czechia. (14th century paintings of patron saints to be displayed in the roman emperors private chapel)

he didnt live in europe, but i think its important to point out that the first depiction of a black man was a very positive one.

2. trade routes to the middle east and asia were one of the biggest pillars for the medieval european economy, culture and politics. i feel like the Silk road is really famous, yet people forget about it whenever poc people in medieval settings get brought up, which is so strange. do you think merchants on the silk road were all white 😭😭😭 you think the great emperors zhang qian looked like mark zuckerberg??

3. mongolian invasions. yes, plural. you think they all just. plundered and left??

4. roma population. do you think romani are white?? theyre ethnically indian. they arrived to europe as early as the 5th century.

5. this one is more of a personal anecdote, but my family recently did a family tree. and my mothers' side has persian ancestors that came to europe in the 15th century.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 4: Read Between The Lines]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Boulevard Of Broken Dreams” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.6k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

It is your first week of basic training at Great Lakes on the north side of Chicago, and as you lie in the top bunk of your assigned bed you wonder what the hell you’ve done. You enlisted right out of high school, eighteen, no driver’s license, no work history, never been more than fifty miles outside of Soft Shell, Kentucky. The drill sergeants are always yelling and you’re bad at push-ups; you can’t understand the recruits from big cities like Los Angeles, Miami, Las Vegas, Detroit, Houston, and they don’t seem to get you either, and aren’t interested enough to try. Sometimes you wish you hadn’t signed that five-year contract, but where would you be if you weren’t here? Home is not words but textures, colors, fumes that still burn in your sinuses: cigarette ash on rose pink carpets, red embers glowing in the wood stove, Hamburger Helper and Mountain Dew, coffee creamer in Hungry Jack potatoes, laughter and heavy footsteps and slamming doors, scratch-off games, dogs barking, collecting coins from couch cushions for gas money, scrubbing clothes in the bathtub when the washer quits, Mama taking gulps from her favorite cup—plastic, Virginia Beach, filled with equal parts Hawaiian Punch and vodka—when she thinks no one is looking, blue shows flickering on the television, Family Feud, Maury, Good Morning America, WWE SmackDown. For as long as you can remember you’ve known you couldn’t stay. Now you’re getting out, but nothing in life is free.

You are at Class A Technical School in Gulfport, Mississippi, and even though it’s hotter than some noxious, volcanic hellscape—Mercury, Venus, Io—you are beginning to like it. You taste the salt of sweat when you lick your lips, sugar in the sweet tea they serve in the chow hall. There’s a magic in building something where there was only empty space before, in patching roofs and painting walls. Here being quiet and watchful is exactly what they want from you: head down, hammer striking nails, measurements and angles and long hours under the sun with no complaints. You’re not just running away anymore. You are creating something new.

You are sitting beneath swaying palm trees and a full moon on Diego Garcia, draining cans of Guinness with Rio, and he’s telling you things he shouldn’t, too personal, too honest: Sophie wants to try for a baby next time he’s home on leave, and part of him wants that too but he’s terrified. As thunder rumbles in the distance and raindrops begin to patter on the waves of the Indian Ocean, you tell Rio you think he’d be a good father. He wonders how you figure that, and you say because he’s not like any of the men from home. He gives you one of his crooked smiles—a flash of teeth, knowing dark eyes—and doesn’t ask what you mean.

But of course, when you swim up from the inky currents of sleep you are in none of these places. You are curled up on the floor of a bowling alley in Shenandoah, Ohio, cheap worn black carpet peppered with stars and swirls in neon green, pink, blue. You stretch out with a yawn. Someone has left a Lemon Tea Snapple within reach; you twist it open and guzzle it, hoping to extinguish the pounding in your skull, a rhythmic thudding of warm maroon, half Captain Morgan and half misery. The music isn’t helping. From the green Toshiba CD player, a man is singing in Spanish. Aegon and Rio are sitting at the nearest table and playing Uno.

Aegon says as he ponders his cards: “You know Enrique Iglesias, right Rio?”

“You are so racist.” Rio puts down a wild. “And the new color is red. Racist.”

“So what’s he saying?”

“Aegon, buddy, I told you, I was born here. My grandparents came over in the 60s. I don’t speak Spanish.”

“You can’t understand any of it?” Aegon is skeptical. He plays a skip, a reverse, and a seven. “My dad never taught me a word of Greek but I can recognize plenty of phrases. Vlákas means idiot. Spatáli chórou is a waste of space.”

Rio sighs, relenting. He puts down a two. “The song is called Súbeme La Radio, Turn Up The Radio For Me. Bring me the alcohol that numbs the pain… I don’t care about anything anymore…You’ve left me in the shadows…”

“Damn, now I’m sad. Draw four, bitch.”

“When the night comes and you don’t answer, I swear to you I’ll stay waiting at your door…” Rio studies his cards. “What’s the new color?”

“Green.”

“Yes!” Rio slams down a skip. “Fleeing from the past in every dawn, I can’t find any way to erase our history…”

Everyone else is awake already. As muted late-morning daylight streams in through the small tinted windows, Aemond is weaving between tables, pointedly checking on each person. He glances at you, says nothing, turns around and walks the other way.

“That’s tough,” Rio says sympathetically, popping open the tab on a can of Chef Boyardee and shoveling ravioli into his mouth with a plastic fork.

Aegon gives you a smirk. “You want to fake date now?”

“I’ll think about it.” No you won’t.

Helaena appears, a prairie girl vision in a modest blue sundress and with her hair tied back with a matching scarf. She reaches into her burlap messenger bag and offers you a choice between a ranch-flavored tuna pouch or a silvery pack of Pop-Tarts. “Strawberry,” she tells you.

“I’ll take the Pop-Tarts.”

Helaena gives them to you and then shakes a bottle of Advil. You’re so groggy it takes you a few seconds to figure out what she wants, then you obediently hold out a hand. Helaena lays two tablets in the center of your palm and moves on, soundlessly like a rabbit or a spider.

You wash the pills down with Snapple. As you nibble half-heartedly on a Pop-Tart—trying not to look at Aemond, multicolored sprinkles falling down onto the carpet—your eyes drift to the tattoo on the underside of Aegon’s forearm. It’s not over ‘til you’re underground. You’ve spotted it before. Only now do you remember where you recognize the lyric from. “Is that Green Day?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says, enthused that you noticed. “Letterbomb.”

“I love that whole album.”

“Me too. I could sing it front to back if you asked me to.”

“I’m not asking.”

Aegon cackles and resumes his Uno game with Rio. Baela is wearing denim shorts and a crop top, slathering her belly with Palmer’s cocoa butter from Walmart as she chats with Rhaena and eats Teddy Grahams. Daeron is waxing the string of his compound bow. Jace is gnawing on a Twizzler as he scrutinizes Aegon’s map, annotated with Xs and circles and arrows in sparkling gel pen green.

“I’m going to be a thousand years old by the time we get there,” Jace mutters.

Aegon hits the table with his fist. The discard pile collapses and cascades, an avalanche of Uno cards. Rio, undisturbed, continues contemplating his next move. “You know what, Jace? The cities are full of zombies, the interstates are blocked by fifty-car pileups, if we bump into anyone else who’s still alive they’re just as likely to rob and murder us as want to be friends, and on top of all that I’m trying to do you the favor of preventing you from getting so irradiated you turn into Spider-Man. If you have a better route in mind, I’d love to hear it.”

“Spider-Man…? You’re such a dumbass, what are you talking about?!”

Luke says from where he stands by a window: “Aemond, someone’s outside.”

“What?” Aemond stares at him. “Zombies?”

“No. People.”

Aemond bolts to the doors, the rest of you close behind him. Rhaena turns off the CD player. You, Rio, and Aegon squeeze together to peer out of one of the windows. There are men—three of them, no, four, all appearing to be in their forties—passing by on the main road through town. They are armed with what are either AR-15s or M16s, you can’t tell which.

Rio whistles. “If you get shot by one of those, the exit wound will be the size of an orange.” Everyone looks at him. This was not an encouraging thing to say.

You elaborate: “Thirty-round magazines. Semiautomatic, assuming they’re AR-15s for civilian use. I guess they could have gotten ahold of M16s somehow. Those have a fully automatic setting.”

“So regardless, we’re out-gunned,” Jace says.

“If they know how to use them. Some men think guns are wall decorations, like deer heads or fish.”

Aegon recoils. “Fish?! What the fuck. I’m glad the colonies left.”

“Maybe they’ll keep walking,” Daeron says hopefully. One of the men stops and points at the bowling alley, saying something to his companions. They laugh and begin crossing the small parking lot. They are less than two minutes from the door. “Oh, great…”

“There’s an emergency exit in the back,” Baela says.

Aegon snorts. “Yeah, that we stacked about twenty boxes of bowling pins in front of to zombie-proof.”

“We won’t be able to get out before they hear us,” Aemond says. Then he abruptly orders: “Grab your guns, let’s go. Helaena, Baela, Rhaena, you’re staying here.” Aemond’s remaining eye—briefly, reluctantly—skates over you as Rio, Aegon, Jace, Luke, and Daeron scatter to obey him. “You too.”

“But I’m the best shot.”

“I don’t want them to know we have women with us.”

“I’m of more use to you outside.”

Aemond rips his Glock out of its holster, pointing it at the floor. His frustration is palpable, an electric shock, heat that refracts light rays until they become mirages on the horizon. “You’re going to stay here, and if a stranger comes through those doors you’re going to kill them. Okay?”

His urgency stuns you; his eye is blue-white summer storm lightning. “Okay.”

“Now get back.”

You soar to the nearest table, duck under it, reach for your Beretta M9 and double-check the clip, fully loaded. You click off the safety.

“Aemond, wait, let me go first,” Aegon is saying by the door. “I’m better at de-escalation, I’m less…uh…intimidating.”

“Less socially incompetent, you mean,” Jace quips.

“I’ll lead,” Aemond insists. “Aegon can talk. Rio, you’re up front with me.”

Rio pumps his Remington 12 gauge. “I’d be delighted.”

Jace is amused. “I’ve been demoted, huh?”

“He’s bigger,” Aemond replies simply, then opens the door and vanishes through a blinding curtain of daylight. The others follow closely; Daeron, the last one out—his compound bow in hand, the strap of his Marlin .22 slung over his shoulder—shuts the door behind him.

Very faintly, you can hear Aegon: “Hey, guys! What’s happening? How’s the apocalypse treating you…?”

Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are under the table with you. They deserve to have options. You tell them: “If you want to go hide behind the lanes or try to get out the back door, now’s your chance.”

Helaena shakes her head, clutching your t-shirt: black, Star Wars, pawed off a shelf at the Walmart. “I want to stay with you.”

“Same,” Baela says determinedly, gripping her Ruger. She barely knows how to use it, but she’ll try. Rhaena is shaking, her eyes filling up her face, small fragile bones like a bird’s.

You can’t hear voices from outside anymore, but there are no gunshots either. You keep your M9 aimed at the doors, your breathing slow and deep, your heart rate low. Your hands are steady. Your eyes hunt for the slightest movement, for the momentary shadow of someone passing by a window. Against your will, your thoughts wander to Aemond. I hope Aegon is on his left side. Aemond can’t see there.

“Rhaena, get your gun out,” Baela says sharply. “Come on. Turn the safety off. What if you were alone right now? What if we weren’t here to protect you?”

Rhaena nods, fumbling to free her revolver from its holster. “I’m sorry…I’m trying…”

Now there is a stranger’s voice, gruff and deep. He must be just beyond the door, the farthest one to the right. There is a creak of hinges, a sliver of sunlight. “That’s just too damn bad, fellas. You got a nice little hideout here, and you’re gonna have to share it—”

The door opens. Two unfamiliar faces, too shellshocked to raise their rifles in time. You close an eye, line up your sights, fire twice, and that’s all it takes: one headshot, one in the throat, blood like a fountain, spurting scarlet ruin, thuds against the carpet strewn with neon stars, gurgling and spasms as their brains send out those final electrical impulses: danger, catastrophe, apocalypse. Rhaena is screaming. Helaena is covering her ears with both hands.

You run to the doorway; there are more booms of gunfire out in the parking lot. You cross into the late-morning light to see the other two men on the pavement: one with an arrow through the eye, the other with a gaping, hemorrhaging hole where his heart once was. Rio is admiring his work, holding his shotgun aloft. He scoops a handful of Cheddar Whales out of his shorts pocket and shovels them into his mouth.

“Goddamn, I love Remington Arms Company.”

“Oh, that was awesome,” Aegon says, wan and panting, hands on his waist. “Yeah, that was…that was…” He bends over and vomits Snapple and Cool Ranch Doritos onto the asphalt.

“Everyone okay in there?” Rio asks you.

“Yeah.” Behind you, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are stepping through the doorway. Your thoughts are whirling sickly: I killed someone. I killed someone. “They wouldn’t leave?”

“We told them the bowling alley was ours,” Aemond says, not looking at you. “We asked them very politely to keep moving. They chose to try to intimidate us into letting them stay. They weren’t good people, and these are the consequences.”

You click on the safety and re-holster your M9. You’re wearing Rio’s on your other hip. They seem to weigh so much more than they did ten minutes ago. I’m not supposed to be a killer. I’m a builder.

“Aegon, are you okay?” Daeron asks, a palm on his brother’s back.

Aegon retches again. “Shut up. You can’t even buy fireworks.”

“Zombies.” Luke is peering through his binoculars. “Not many, just two. Way up the road.”

“There will be more.” Baela’s cradling her belly; you don’t even think she’s aware of it. “They heard the gunshots, the sound carries for miles.”

“We’re leaving,” Aemond says. “Right now. Everyone get your things.”

As backpacks are hastily zipped and Daeron and Aegon stand guard in the parking lot, you kneel down beside the men you murdered and check their rifles. They are M16s, either stolen or illegally purchased: there’s a little switch by the trigger to choose between semi-automatic or the so-called machine gun mode.

“They barely had any bullets left,” you tell Rio. Just like us when we were trapped on that transmission tower.

“Yeah, same story for the other two guys. Four bullets in one magazine, a half dozen in the other. But it only takes once. We don’t have any ammo that will work with M16s, do we?”

“No, we definitely don’t.”

“Fantastic. Well, we’ll throw them in a Walmart cart and take them with us just in case.”

You’re staring down at the man you shot through the head. His eternal resting place is a puddle of blood and brains in a bowling alley in rural Ohio; surely no one deserves that. “He was a real person,” you say, dazed. “Not a zombie. Just a person.”

“Hey.” Rio grabs your shoulders and spins you towards him. From where he is helping Luke gather up the remaining food, Aemond’s head snaps up to watch. “You hurt him before he could hurt us. You did the right thing.”

“Sure.”

“I killed a dude too. I blew his heart right out of his chest. You think I’m going to hell for that?”

“No,” you admit, smiling. “And if you’d be there with me, I guess I wouldn’t mind so much.”

Rio grins, wide and toothy. “Well alright then. Let’s finish packing.”

The ten of you depart from Shenandoah, Ohio heading northwest on Route 603 just like Aegon marked on his map, Jace chauffeuring Baela in one shopping cart, Rio pushing another loaded high with food and M16s.

“It looks like rain,” Helaena says.

Everyone else peers up into a clear, cerulean sky, wondering what she means.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re a few miles north of Shiloh when the storm rolls in, cold rain and furious wind, daylight that vanishes behind dark churning thunderheads, jagged scars of lightning in an opaque sky. The road is only two lanes, surrounded by fields of wildflowers and ravaged crops and untilled earth; it would look like the patchwork of a quilt if you were gazing down from an airplane, but of course the FAA grounded all flights over a month ago when the world went mad: Revelations, Ragnarök, the fabric of the universe unweaving as death burned through families, cities, nations like a fever, like plague.

“Maybe we should cut across one of these fields,” Jace says, pointing. He is soaked with rain; it drips from his curls, runs into his eyes. Baela is in her cart again; each time she tries to get out and walk, she’s gasping and can’t keep up within half an hour. You’ve all taken turns pushing her, much to Baela’s dismay. She’d be humiliated if she wasn’t too exhausted to keep her eyes open.

“Here, let me do it,” you offer, and Jace gratefully relinquishes the cart. Baela gives you a frail wave of appreciation.

“We stay on the road,” Aemond insists, flinching as rain pelts his scarred face. “Farmhouses have driveways and mailboxes, we’ll pass one eventually. If we lose the road, we might not be able to find it again. We’ll end up wandering around in circles in the woods.”

“Just like the Blair Witch Project,” Aegon says glumly, his Sperry Bahama sneakers audibly soggy.

“There!” Luke announces, spotting something with his binoculars. “Up ahead on the left. Past the bridge.”

You can’t see what Luke does until there is an especially brilliant flash of lightning: a farmhouse, old but seemingly not derelict, and with a number of accompanying buildings, guest houses and stables and barns and towering silos.

“Home sweet home!” Rio says. “And I don’t care if I have to kill a hundred of those undead bastards to get in, it’s mine.”

“Well, hopefully not a hundred,” you reply, in better spirits now that a sanctuary has been found. Aemond keeps glancing back at you as you push Baela’s cart. If he wants to say something, he’s doing a good job of resisting the temptation. “We don’t have that much ammo.”

There is a concrete bridge over a river, probably unremarkable and only five or ten feet deep normally but now torrential with rain. Water rushes by beneath, a muddy incline on each side as the earth rises back up to meet the road. A reflective green sign proclaims that you are only two miles from Plymouth, which Aegon plans to skirt along the edges of. It’s a decent-sized town; he thinks you might be able to find a car to steal there, something with gas in the tank and keys on a hook just inside the house.

“I call the master bedroom,” Jace says craftily, rubbing his palms together. You’re near the center of the bridge now, another ten yards to go. “Nice big bed, warm cozy blankets, and I was up for half of last night keeping watch so tonight I am off duty, I am a free man, it’s going to just be me and my girl and eight glorious uninterrupted hours of sleep—”

Rhaena shrieks, and then you hear it over the noise of the storm, pounding rain and rumbling thunder: moans, growls, hisses like snakes. Not one zombie. A lot more than one. They’re crawling up from under the bridge, from the filthy quagmire at both ends. There was a hoard of them waiting, aimless, dormant, almost hibernating. But now they are awake. They are grasping for you with bony, dirt-covered claws. They are snapping with jaws that leak blood and pus and bile as their organs curdle to a putrid soup.

“Get off the bridge!” Aemond is shouting. He has his Glock in his right hand, a baseball bat in his left. He’ll shoot until he’s out of bullets, and then, and then…

Rio helps you get Baela out of the cart, then opens fire. His Remington doesn’t just pierce skulls, it vaporizes them. When he’s out of shells—there are more in his backpack, but no time to reload—he yanks the M16s out of the other Walmart cart and empties each of them, mowing down zombies as the rest of you scramble across the bridge. All around you are explosions of gunshots, thunder, lightning, zombie skulls crushed by bullets and blunt force trauma. Baela is firing her Ruger as you half-drag her, one arm hooked beneath hers and around her back. When the last M16 is empty, Rio starts clubbing zombies with the butt of it. You’ve all reached the north side of the bridge, except…

“Fuck off, you freaks!” Jace is screaming. They’ve backed him up against the guardrail, a swarm of ten or more. His Remington shotgun is out of ammo; he’s swinging it wildly, but he doesn’t even have enough room to maneuver. There are still more zombies emerging from under the bridge. You can hear them snarling and groaning. You swipe an M9 off your belt and put a bullet in the brain of a zombie as its fingers close around your ankle, then you start picking off the ones mobbing Jace. You aren’t fast enough. As they lean in to bite him, teeth gnashing at the delicious throbbing heat of his jugular, Jace throws himself over the barrier and into the surging water below.

“No!” Baela cries. She careens off the road and into the field, running parallel to the river as swiftly as she can. You are helping her, steadying her, firing at any zombies you have a clear line of sight on. The others are here too: slipping in the muck of the flooding earth, shouting for Jace. He surfaces through the frothing current, flails pitifully, disappears beneath the water again. You glimpse a white hand, a shadow of his dark hair, a kicking shoe. There are more zombies on the opposite side of the river, trailing after Jace, lurching and slobbering viscous, gory saliva. They cannot swim, but they can follow him until he washes ashore.

Jace bursts up through the waves, gasping. “Help! Aemond…Aemond, for the love of God, help me…” He blubbers and then is dragged under. Aemond and Luke are continuing frantically after him. Baela is hysterical, sobbing, trembling with adrenaline. Aegon is yowling as he swings at zombies with his bloodied golf club. Helaena is darting around almost invisibly, always cowering behind Daeron or Aegon or Rio.

You glance north towards the farmhouse, growing not closer but farther away. We can’t leave shelter. We can’t leave the road. You lock eyes with Rio. He’s thinking the same thing.

“Aemond, we have to go,” Rio says, but in the midst of the rain and the turmoil it barely registers.

“Jace, we’re coming to get you!” Aemond swears. The ground is increasingly sodden, deep, difficult to trudge through. Jace resurfaces, coughing and sputtering.

“Jace!” Aegon wails. He caves in the skull of a zombie who was once a registered nurse as Helaena crouches behind him. “Jace, I’m sorry! I’m gonna miss you, man!”

Jace splashes in the rising river, his arms flailing helplessly. He is being swept away far faster than any of you can move on foot. “Aegon, you dumb bitch!” Jace manages, then slips beneath the water and doesn’t reappear.

“Where is he?!” Baela is saying. “Aemond, where…?”

You are trying to soothe her, to bring her back to reality. She was always so pragmatic before; you have to wake her up. “Baela, listen, we can’t stay here, he would want you and the baby to be safe—”

“Aemond! Aemond, we have to go!” Rio catches him, wrenches him around, roars into his face as driving rain pummels them both: “We have to go, or we’re going to die here too!”

It hits Aemond all at once; he understands, horror and agony in his sole blue eye. “We have to go,” he agrees. And then louder, to everyone: “Get to the farmhouse!”

Baela collapses into the mud, howling, tears flooding down her face. “No, he’s still alive, he’s still alive, we can’t leave him!”

You and Rhaena are trying to haul Baela to her feet. Now Aemond is here, pulling you away from her—his fingers tight and urgent around your wrist—as he and Luke take your place. “Go,” he commands. “You run. Don’t wait for us. Rio?”

“I got her,” Rio replies, grabbing your free hand with an iron grip. Gales of wind rip at you; every millimeter of your skin is soaked with rain. As you flee across the fields towards the farmhouse, dozens of zombies pursue you. More are still staggering along the banks of the river, swept up in the hoards chasing Jace and the promise of his waterlogged corpse when it reaches its final destination. Daeron has run out of arrows and is shooting with his .22, which is very much not his preference. Aegon trips, getting covered in mud as he rolls, and Rio stops to help him. While he is distracted, you look back at Aemond. He, Luke, and Baela are moving quickly, but not quickly enough. A drove of zombies is closing in on them. You have a spare few seconds at last. You yank your backpack off, grab a box of ammo inside, and reload your M9.

“Chips?!” Rio calls over his shoulder.

“I’m fine.”

He knows you well enough to listen. The world goes quiet as your finger settles on the trigger. There’s a rhythm one slips into, an impassionate lethal efficiency. It’s easier to keep going than to stop and have to find it again. You fire over and over, dropping eight zombies. You sheath your M9 and whip Rio’s out of your other holster, the sights finding grotesque decaying faces illuminated by lightning. You pull the trigger: blood, bones, brains, corpses jerking and convulsing as they fall harmlessly to the mud. Aemond is here; when did he get here?

“I told you to run!” he’s shouting through the storm, furious. He’s shoving you towards the farmhouse. You resist him.

“Let me kill as many as I can—”

“Go! Now!” Aemond orders over the clashing thunder, and then sprints with you all the way to the front porch to make sure you listen. Everyone else is already there. Helaena has fetched a spare key from under the doormat and is turning it in the lock.

Daeron observes her anxiously. “We don’t know if it��s safe in there, Helaena.”

“Not in,” she says, insistent. “Through.” Through this building, and maybe through the next one too. The average zombie is not terribly clever. If they lose sight of you, without the benefit of the momentum of a hoard they are lost. Helaena opens the door. The living rush inside, and she locks it behind you. As you are bursting out the back door, you can hear zombies pounding their rotting palms against the front one. You soar through a stable full of dead horses and donkeys, leaving the doors open; this should keep the zombies distracted if they make it this far. Then you race to the farthest guest house. Luke, swiveling with his binoculars, spies no zombies approaching as you steal inside. There is no spare key this time; Rio punches out a first-floor window for you to climb through. Once everyone is inside, he and Aegon move a bookshelf to cover the opening.

You all stand in the living room, gasping and shivering, dripping rain down onto the rug and the hardwood floor. The air is dusty but clean of any trace of vile, swampy decay. Outside, thunder booms and lightning flashes bright enough to illuminate the lightless house. The sky is so dark it might as well be nightfall. Baela sinks to her knees, clamping both hands over her mouth so she won’t sob loudly enough for a zombie to hear. Rhaena and Luke are beside her, both weeping quiet rivulets of tears, trying to comfort her in whispers. Helaena is rummaging around searching for candles; she has already taken a lighter out of her soaked burlap messenger bag.

“Daeron, bro, come over here,” Aegon chokes out. He embraces Daeron, clutches him tightly and desperately, doesn’t let go. Rio is reloading his Remington 12 gauge.

Jace is dead. Jace is dead.

Aemond says to you, his voice low but seething: “What the fuck was that?”

You blink the raindrops out of your eyes as you stare at him, bewildered. “You needed help.”

“I told you to run.”

“I’m an asset, I have skills that can keep you alive, why am I here if I’m not going to be useful—?”

“You’re not in the fucking Navy anymore!” he hisses. “When I tell you to run, you run, you don’t stop, you don’t look back, because I can’t worry about you and take care of everyone else.”

“Nobody asked you to worry about me.”

“But I do.”

“Aemond,” Aegon pleads, waving him over. Aegon’s plump sunburned cheeks are glistening with rain and tears. “Man, it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters now. Please come here.”

“I’m going to clear the house,” Aemond says instead.

Rio raises an eyebrow at you—this is one fucked up guy, Chips—and then pumps his shotgun. “Me too.” He sweeps with Aemond through the main floor and then vanishes up the staircase.

Helaena is lightning candles she found in the kitchen and arranging them around the living room. Daeron starts gathering food from the pantry. Rhaena and Baela are murmuring to each other softly, mournfully. It doesn’t feel like something you should intrude on. Luke is peeking out of a window with his binoculars, vigilant for threats. Aegon sniffles, wanders over to you with large, sad, shimmering eyes, pats your shoulder awkwardly.

“Hey, Chocolate Chip. You doing okay?”

“No,” you answer honestly.

“Yeah. Me either.” Then he flops down on the hideous burnt orange couch and lies there motionless until Daeron brings him a can of Dr. Pepper. Aegon pops the tab, slurps up foam, and then begins singing to himself very quietly, a song so old you can remember your grandfather saying it was one of his favorites as a boy: A Tombstone Every Mile.

When Rio comes back downstairs—heavy footsteps, he can’t help that—you meet him at the bottom of the steps. “The house is good,” Rio says. “And Aemond’s in the big bedroom on the right if you’d like to go up there and talk to him.”

“I don’t think he wants to see me right now.”

“I could not disagree more,” Rio says with a miserable, exhausted smile. Then he goes to the couch to check on Aegon.

You pick up one of the flickering candles, white and scentless, and ascend the staircase. You find Aemond in the master bedroom, the same accommodations that Jace laid claim to when he was still alive. He is sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at the wall, at nothing. Tentatively, you sit down beside him, placing the candle on the nightstand.

“Aemond…what happened to Jace…it wasn’t your fault.”

“Criston said I was in charge, that’s the very last thing he told me. They might be the last words I ever hear from him, and I just…” His voice breaks; he wipes the rain and tears from his face with open palms. “I really wanted to get everyone home.”

“I’m so sorry about what I said at the bowling alley,” you confess, like it’s a dire secret. “I don’t want to fight with you, Aemond, I…I want to help you. I can see what you’ve done for everyone here, me and Rio included, and I believe in you. I want to be a part of this.”

He nods, an acceptance of peace, but he still doesn’t look at you.

“Can we start over? I’ll never bring it up again, okay? I wasn’t trying to guilt you or upset you or anything. I should have just dropped it. I overreacted. And I understand why being with someone like me maybe wouldn’t be…super appealing.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what’s it about?”

Aemond wrings his hands, shakes his head, at last turns to you, golden candlelight reflected in his eye, his scar cloaked in shadows. His words are hushed, clandestine, soft powerless surrender. “I’m already so afraid of losing you.”

He cares, he hopes, he wants me too? “I’m here right now, Aemond. I don’t know what else I can say. I’d promise you more if I could.”

He reaches out to touch you, to ghost his thumb across your cheekbone, wet with rain. Then he kisses you, so gently you cannot help but imagine the wispy borders of calm white summer clouds, the rustle of leaves as wind blows down the Appalachian Mountains. You don’t have to ask him what he’s thinking, what it feels like. You can read it in the startled, firelit wonder on his face.

You taste like the beginning of something, here at the end of the world.

[indiancraft1]

The Art of Macrame Cushion Covers: Add Boho-Chic Elegance to Your Home

If you’re looking to add a touch of bohemian elegance to your living space, macrame cushion covers are the perfect choice. Handcrafted with intricate knotting techniques, these decorative covers bring texture, warmth, and personality to any room.

In this blog, we’ll explore the beauty of cushion covers and why they are a must-have for your home decor.

Why Choose Macrame Cushion Covers?

Unique Aesthetic Appeal

The intricate designs of the covers instantly elevate the look of any room. Whether aiming for a bohemian, rustic, or minimalistic vibe, these covers blend effortlessly with various styles.

Handcrafted Elegance

Each cover is handcrafted, ensuring a unique piece with attention to detail. The artistry involved makes them a conversation starter and a testament to traditional craftsmanship.

Eco-Friendly Decor

Made from natural materials like cotton, macrame cushion covers are sustainable and environmentally friendly, making them a conscious choice for your home.

How to Style Macrame Cushion Covers

Living Room Accents

Place covers on your sofa or armchairs to add texture and depth. Pair them with solid-colored cushions for a balanced look.

Bedroom Decor

Use them as accent pieces on your bed to create a cozy, inviting atmosphere. Neutral tones work best for a serene aesthetic, while bold patterns can add a playful touch.

Outdoor Spaces

Enhance your patio or balcony with cushions to bring boho vibes to your outdoor seating area. Ensure they’re kept in a shaded or covered area to protect them from the elements.

Caring for Your Macrame Cushion Covers

Regular Cleaning

Dust your macrame covers regularly with a soft brush or vacuum to maintain their appearance.

Gentle Washing

Hand wash or machine wash on a delicate cycle using mild detergent. Avoid harsh chemicals to preserve the fabric.

Drying

Air dry your covers flat to prevent distortion of the intricate patterns.

Where to Buy?

Looking for high-quality macrame cushion covers? Visit Indian Craftt, your one-stop destination for authentic and handcrafted home decor items. Our collection features beautifully designed covers made with love and precision, perfect for elevating your home’s aesthetic.

Conclusion

Macrame cushion covers are more than just decorative pieces; they’re a blend of tradition, artistry, and modern design. Whether you’re redecorating your space or adding a few accent pieces, these covers are a versatile and stylish choice. Explore the beauty of macrame and bring a touch of handmade elegance to your home with Indian Craftt.