#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.

[indiancraft1]

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[rrcraft-and-lore]

[twistingtreeancestry]

Day of Commemoration for the Acadian Expulsion

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: जानें महाराष्ट्र के प्रमुख नेता और राजनीतिक strategist अजीत पवार के जीवन, उपलब्धियों और उनके राजनीतिक सफर के बारे में।

[herpsandbirds]

FROGS OF ASIA

for @women-in-autistem

Wallace’s Flying Frogs (Rhacophorus nigropalmatus), family Rhacophoridae, found in SE Asia

The species is capable of using its extensive toe webbing to glide or parachute from trees in its dense forest habitat.

photograph by Yuji Abematsu

photograph by Chunchun Maru

Resplendent Shrubfrog (Raorchestes resplendens), family Rhacophoridae, endemic to the Western Ghats of Kerala, India

ENDANGERED.

photograph by Mohammed Salman

Indian Black Narrowmouth Frog aka “Space Frog” (Melanobatrachus indicus), family Microhylidae, Munnar, Kerala, India

photographs by Hadlee Renjith 

Indian Bullfrog (Hoplobatrachus tigerinus), male in breeding colors, calling, family Dicroglossidae, India

photograph by Susheel Shrestha 

Asian Yellow-spotted Climbing Toad aka Boulenger’s Tree Toad (Rentapia hosii), female, family Bufonidae, found on the Malay Peninsula, southern Thailand, Sumatra, and Borneo

photograph by TC Geckos (@tcgeckos)

Blunt-headed Burrowing Frog (Glyphoglossus molossus), family Microhylidae, Loei Province, Thailand

photograph by Rushen 

Malayan or Long-nosed Horned Frog (Pelobatrachus nasutus), family Megophryidae, found in southern Thailand and Peninsular Malaysia and parts of Indonesia

photograph by alexericsonlee

Banded Bullfrog aka Asian Painted Bullfrog (Kaloula pulchra), family Microhylidae, Nong Phai, Phetchabun, Thailand

photograph by Thai National Parks 

[coolwyous]

┈─★ 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨'𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 ( 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙜𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙧 .)

         ⊹ ࣪ ˖ your family sends you to spend the summer at your uncle’s ranch to disconnect before you start college. the last thing you anticipate is to fall in love with one of the cattle wranglers, a quiet yet vibrant farmhand named megan 'the kid' skiendiel.

         ˎˊ˗  🌾  ⊹ ࣪ ˖  🔓୭˚.  ⠀ ᵎᵎ ⠀ 🗝️

   ➴ pairing: cowboy! megan skiendiel x f!reader

          ➴ genre + wc: 9k, modern cowboy!au, city girl falls for country girl, megan is soooo bf in this, slow burn, explores themes of grief, friends to lovers, slice of life, small town vibes, fluff, heavy angst.

   ➴ you might want to tune in...: 𝗢𝗦𝗧: golden hour - kacey mustgraves. ♫ 𝗔𝗖𝗧 𝗜: featherstone - the paper kites. ♩ 𝗔𝗖𝗧 𝗜��: feathered indians - tyler childers. ♫ 𝗔𝗖𝗧 𝗜𝗜𝗜: frances - role model. ♩ 𝗘𝗡𝗗 𝗖𝗥𝗘𝗗𝗜𝗧𝗦: harvest moon (spotify version) - lord huron. ♫

         ┈─★ a/n: i wanted to try something different and idk where i got the cowboy inspo from, but it was a blast to write. i strongly recommend listening to the music inspo as it helped me get into the small town folksy mood. hope you guys enjoy!

  cw:// farm life = mentions of animals getting injured but nothing graphic and no deaths i promise!! implied underaged drinking, some suggestiveness.

three months on the family ranch, and then you never have to hear about it again as you whisk away to college. your grandpa had never believed in the importance of education, and this was his requirement before he agreed to pay for your tuition to the very impressive university you had managed to get into. you’re annoyed that instead of partying it up with your friends, you’re spending the summer in the middle of nowhere, montana, on a ranch in the side of a mountain where the nearest town is 1 hour away and barely even has a walmart. 

“you’ve grown since we last saw you,” your uncle beams, stepping out of the beat up pickup truck to pick you up from the airport. it’s a 6 hour drive from the airport to the ranch, and you feel yourself tune him out immediately as you count down the days to your freedom.

you lull in and out of sleep on the car ride there, your uncle switching between chatting your ear off and stretches of silence. 

“there’s wifi, and cable, but it’s shit when the storms roll over so don’t get your hopes up. oh, and the water’s cold sometimes, you just gotta kick the heater downstairs. if that don’t do it, meg’s got quite the head for fixing up the old pipes, just give her a yell,” he tells you at the end of the painfully long car drive, finally seeing the farmhouse come into view. 

you can’t deny the rustic charm of the old ranch house, a fully wooden two-story lodge with sprawling tall windows and a cozy porch wrapped around the front. a forest of pine trees surrounds the area, and past the line of trees, you can see the sprawling plains as far as your eyes can follow, knowing that’s where your family’s business lies in the pastures, a centuries old heritage of cattle ranching.

“the farmhands sleep downstairs, but you’ll be upstairs in the old guest room. you shouldn’t be bothered by them unless you run into each other getting some midnight snack,” your uncle tells you, hauling your luggage inside.

you thank him for his help and lug your suitcase upstairs, feeling the creak of the wood floors beneath your feet. 

quickly, someone passes by you on the stairs, grabbing the handle of your suitcase and swinging it up and over their shoulder in one easy motion. you gasp in surprise— your uncle isn’t that old, but the suitcase is still pretty heavy, and–

“that’s the kid for you,” your uncle interrupts your thoughts. “somehow always one step ahead ready to help.”

“don’t mention it,” the girl says simply, nodding her head at you with an awkward smile. she lugs the suitcase up the rest of the steps and leaves it by your door.

just as quickly as she came in, she’s gone, a flash of ruddy hair through the front door.

-

you try to connect to the wifi, and your uncle is clueless with the password. old pete is no good, which leaves your aunt and megan. your aunt doesn’t even try before offering up megan, who takes your phone and types in the password quickly and unceremoniously.

“thank you,” you tell her.

“don’t mention it,” she nods, and you wonder if the girl has literally any other vocabulary at her disposal.

the first few days are the hardest, getting used to the noises and the creaks and living with so many other people that are up at all hours of the night, tending to the ranch. you never realized how much goes into keeping it running so smoothly.

your uncle sings praises of his team one morning over breakfast, after megan managed to fix the fridge and save everyone a trip into the city to lug a new one.

“a cowboy’s gotta be tough as nails and strong as steel, and megan’s worth her weight in gold,” your uncle tells you, waving a fork in your face.

“not a cowboy,” megan says back simply, eyes fixed down on her meal. her tone implies they’ve had this conversation before.

“what are you then?” you ask. you like hearing something out of her mouth other than a dismissal or silence with a blank stare,

“he hired me as a wrangler.” she explains, nodding over at your uncle. 

“needed a new cattle wrangler after ole pete had his first stroke,” your aunt chimes in.

megan nods, picking at her scrambled eggs. “i somehow ended up becoming fence repairman, dog trainer, outdoor plumber–”

“all comes together to be one helluva cowboy,” your uncle jumps in. megan shoots him another look– respectfully in disagreement. you like how she toes that line. 

“so if you’re not a cowboy, then what are you, just a girl who likes to get dirty?” you question

“something like that,” she says, and you see her finally crack a smile. she excuses herself, washes off her plate, and grabs a faded denim jacket by the door, slipping into the brisk morning air.

she’s still smiling when you see her head to the stables. you consider it a win.

-

you try spending time in different spots on the property, but the sprawling acres and lack of navigational skills make it extremely intimidating. you follow the sound of running water and find yourself at a small river, ending in a pond. you settle on the grass by the edge of the water, trying to read the book.

you hear the whoosh of something falling into the water, and realize you aren’t alone.

the farmhand is across from you, back turned, skipping stones into the pond. you watch her next throw skip four, five, six times across the surface of the water before sinking in.

“hey,” you greet, making yourself known.

she turns with wide eyes, clearly not aware she had company. “sorry, am i bothering you?”

“no, stay,” you wave for her to continue. “you were here first.”

you two sit in silence, you reading, her skipping stones, until she breaks the silence first.

“you ever swam in a creek?” 

“no. have you?”

“i grew up on an island,” she shares, kicking a rock away with the toe of her boot. “water all round me.”

“so you can swim?”

“you can’t?” she laughs back.

she rolls her jeans up to her ankles and takes off her boots and socks before she wades a few steps in, leaning over to rinse her face in the running water as well. you can’t stop staring.

“so what now?” you ask, feeling stupid as soon as the words leave her mouth.

“i can tell you’re not used to just taking it slow,” she tells you, and you laugh at the realization that she’s right. “we just sun bathe and listen for brucey.”

bruce, the huge white shepherd that looks more like a polar bear than a dog. you look around and realize he’s nowhere to be found.

“he’s around, sniffing for anything that shouldn’t be here,” she reassures you, as if she can sense your confusion. 

she notices the book you’re holding, and points.

“will you read it to me?” she asks shyly, squinting as the sun hits her eyes.

“you like old classics?”

“your voice is nice. it might convince me.”

you give her a quick look over, and begin to read off the page. she stays across from you, but lays to fold her hands on her lap, kicking her feet up against a rock.

the two of you lay like that, you reading to her, until the sun goes down, and you walk to the lodge together as the sun sets. you check it off in your head. another day done with.

-

you fill your time with reading, studying, and after the pond day, seeking out megan.

you find her up against one of the posts, playing a beat up ukelele in front of a handful of the cattle.

“your guitar shrunk, cowboy,” you joke, pointing to the instrument.

“it helps me when i get homesick,” she smiles, before motioning to the cattle that have gathered near her. “i think the girls like it.”

“looks goofy,” you laugh, taking out your phone to capture the moment. “island girl playing her ukelele for the cows.”

she notices you take the photo, and motions out to the wooded area. “gets prettier when the lightning bugs come out.”

“i bet.”

you don’t ask if it’s okay, but you pull your book out from your back pocket and settle by her feet, sitting on the bottom most post. you get halfway through your book, and she starts to mumble-hum, the cows approaching even closer. 

some of them kneel to take a rest at your guys’ feet, just close enough for you to reach. megan keeps playing, keeps singing, and the birds almost seem to echo her. maybe this is what people mean when they talk about slowing down. you read at her feet as she makes beautiful music until the sun goes down, and you let her drive you back home on the ATV.

-

“i think tilla-girl’s smarter, but meg’s got a soft spot for the old one,” your uncle tells you, pointing out the window as he talks about the farm dogs. you watch as megan is playing her ukelele on the porch, laying with her head propped up on bruce’s stomach, the two seeming more than content with life just with the other’s presence. “nobody else her age works on this damn side of the mountain so she’s gone crazy and started talkin’ to the dog.”

you smile. 

“i’m glad she’s got you, at least,” your uncle adds. “i think you’ll make mighty fine friends.”

you peer out the window and catch megan’s gaze as she looks back at you. she looks away, and you swear you see her cheeks flush. you smile.

“i think so too.”

-

summertimes in the mountain means hot days and freezing nights. something you have to learn when you’re off with megan fixing up one of the old fence posts on the west side of the property and feel a chill as the sun starts to drop.

“it gets cold as fuck out here,” you comment, feeling your teeth chatter.

“i like it.” she replies simply, eyes fixed on twisting the wire up to tighten the fence.  “it was hot year round where i grew up.”

“you keep talking about an island,” you note. “hawaii? how did you end up here?”

“i was running from something. not sure what. kept taking seasonal jobs until i found one that i really liked, here on the ranch.”

“and you stayed?” you question.

“i think i’m made for small towns. not much to do, but not much to worry about.” she purses her lips. “it’s simple.”

“you’re a long way from home.”

“so are you, city girl.” the beat up denim jacket falls off her shoulders with a quick shrug, and in an instant, she’s draping it over your shoulders. the warm wool lining instantly stops your shivering body. 

before you can protest, she’s offering a hand out to you from on top of the horse. you can fight the jacket, or you can fight her helping you up, but you’re not quick enough to fight her on both.

you take her hand, calloused yet soft, and let yourself get hoisted up. 

you ride in silence– well, partial silence, as megan’s hums fill the air, and let yourself breathe a little deeper.

you’ll say it’s the mountain air you’re trying to take in. you’ll say nothing of how you’re taking in the clean scent of pine and campfire smoke radiating off megan’s jacket.

-

“what do you do for fun?” you ask, handing her a screwdriver as she slides back underneath the lifted truck. you hear her grunt, metal clanging, before she stretches her hand back out and motions to the rag. you hand it to her quickly.

“when i’m done working, i'll climb trees, ride on the trail, swim in the creek.” she lists them off casually, sliding back out and wiping her hands on her jeans to get the engine oil off her fingers. “get drunk and piss off your uncle. talk to the girls.”

the girls. you love knowing this is her nickname for the cattle.

“how often do you go to the town? i’m getting bored,” you tell her.

“maybe twice a week? an hour drive isn’t something to take lightly,” she tells you, almost sternly. she glances over at you, and you see her demeanor change. “i’ll take you once this damn engine is running back up.”

“what do you do there?”

“buy some beers, dance a little, maybe shoot pool. i’ll go to the rodeo if it’s in town. maybe get dinner at the diner if i’m feeling extra special.”

she slips back underneath the truck and tinkers about. you feel yourself grow curious.

“no dates?”

the noises stop, and there’s a brief pause, but she’s back to clanging in no time and slides back out, handing you the keys and motioning for you to get into the driver’s seat.

“not interested,” she wrinkles her nose. “too busy. crank the engine for me, would you?”

“too busy drinking and talking to the dog?” you tease, doing as she says. the truck’s engine sputters and then roars to life, and megan grins proudly at the feat. 

“see, now you’re gettin’ it,” she grins, before leaning over to wipe a glob of grease directly across your cheek. 

you scream and try your best to rub it off with your shirt sleeve, only smearing it further and now making a mess of your sleeve. megan doubles over in laugher, and you kick the car out of park and into drive, threatening loudly to run her down where she stands.

both your laugher combines into a melody that sings over the chirps of the birds. you’ll realize soon enough that the sound quickly becomes one of megan’s favorites. 

-

“hey city girl,” she greets offering you a high five. 

you’re suspicious. a month with megan is enough to know that the whole quiet thing is just a front. 

you eye her, but tolerate the hi-five. her other hand comes up quickly to wrap around your arm, and she takes two giant leaps back as if to get a running head start.

a giant, fat junebug clings to your wrist. you let out a scream and try to shake it off of you.

“megan, i’m going to kill you.”

she shrieks laughing, picking the bug back up from the ground and chasing behind you with it. you’ll fight her off with a stick if you have to. bruce and tilla start barking, clearly just riled up by all your antics, and you two get lost in your own little world until the sun falls.

-

“i hate country music,” you groan, exhausted yet again by your uncle’s insistence on playing the best of blake shelton throughout the house.

“me too,” megan wrinkles her nose.

“really?”

she nods, flashing her phone at you, connected to her headset. you see the album cover of a john mayer song. 

“more of a bluegrass girl myself,” she says, setting up the table for lunch.

“oh, those are basically the same thing,” you roll your eyes, assembling the silverware.

“‘bout as different as boot cut vs skinny jeans,” she teases.

“that’s not a half bad comparison,” you compliment her. “you’ve actually got something up in that brain of yours besides horseshoes and cow patties.”

“now you just sound like a stereotype,” she laughs, making a grossed out face.

“okay,” you balk. “sorry i don’t know shit about the modern cowboy archetype or whatever.”

she laughs and takes a beat, before helping you set up the plates for your aunt to start serving. “i’m going to the rodeo today. you can sit with me if you want to come.”

“the rodeo? what am i, eight?” you laugh.

“eight, eighteen, same difference. it’s your call city girl,” she sing-songs.  “i’m taking the truck at 5 on the dot. rodeo starts at 7 and i’m not gonna be late.”

she disappears after lunch, and you keep an eye on your watch. against your initial judgement, 4:55 you’re in the passenger’s seat, and megan pops into the drivers seat at 4:59 on the dot.

“hey city girl,” she beams, clearly pleased to see you.

“hi cowgirl,” you tease back, and the two of you chat mindlessly for the hour-long drive into town.

she buys you a beer as soon as you guys get into the arena, and you have a feeling this is the entirety of the town’s population. you’ve seen more people at a college football game, and yet the energy makes you feel so, so comfortable. megan leads you down to your seats and you’re mesmerized by the barrel racing, the hog chases, the lamb wrangling, all of it.

(or maybe, you’re mesmerized by how big megan is smiling, watching it all like a kid with bright eyes.)

there’s something mumbled over the speaker, and she hands you her drink to hold. “stay right here. i’m gonna be right back.”

you nod, figuring she means the bathroom.

only to feel your heart pound when you hear the announcement of “time to hold on for your life, amateurs!” pounds over the system. oh god.

they introduce the bull, a stocky red they simply call “crusher,” and then you see the lineup of denim-toting townies that are lined up behind the pen. one by one, they get announced, they try to hold on, and they get kicked off in seconds, the roar of the screaming crowd deafening you as you stand up to get a better view.

in the cow shute, mounting the titanic beast, is a ginger-haired girl that looks a little too comfortable tucking her cowboy hat snugly onto her head. the announcer bellows from above you.

“ladies and gentlemen, the returning record holder, the tough as nails, megan ‘the kid’ skiendiel!”

“no way,” you breathe quietly, grabbing onto the railings to get a better look.

the shute opens, and “crusher” comes flying out, megan tossing an arm behind her to maintain her balance. he kicks and buckles in a desperate attempt to get her off, but megan stays steady, rocking into each kick and leaning into the bucks to avoid the whiplash.

you gasp in awe as she makes it longer and longer, eventually tapping out when he yanks sideways and sends her swinging into a nearby barrel. the derby clowns run out to redirect her, and megan makes sure to snatch her hat up from the dirt before leaping back up over the fencing. 

you sprint over to her side of the fence, adrenaline pounding.

“d’ya see me?” she beams as soon as she spots you approaching, climbing back over to the rafters. she’s breathing heavily, and the smile on her face breaks briefly as she stretches out her back. “damn, that hurt.”

“why would you do that?” you all but shriek, in complete disbelief. she looks around and points out the neighbors, the grocery store clerks, the police officers, all the familiar faces you’ve gotten used to, all cheering her on.

“not much else to do for fun around here,” she laughs, and you laugh with her, wondering what else megan hides beneath her surface.

-

two days after the rodeo is the first time she smokes around you, and you realize this girl might just have a death wish over her head.

“hasn’t anyone told you those are bad for you?” you wrinkle your nose, watching her take out another malboro from the brightly colored pack that she tucks back into her front shirt pocket.

“plenty of times,” she chuckles, kicking her feet up as you two hang out on the roof of the lodge, just outside your window. 

you give her a disgusted face and kick at her boot.

“quit them,” you say.

she holds the unlit cigarette between her teeth, eyeing you cautiously. your eyes hold each other’s gaze for much longer than either of you would admit. and then, in one simple motion, she takes the un-lit cigarette and flicks it between her fingers, sending it diving down off the roof.

“as you wish.”

“you’re gonna go get that, no littering,” you warn her, narrowing your eyes at her.

“of course i am,” she smiles, tipping her hat down in front of her eyes, and you start reading the next chapter of your book out loud.

-

you’re caught off guard at the next dinner time when you see megan folding up a few miscellaneous supplies and tucking them inside a duffel bag. you peek outside the window and see one of the horses saddled up, another bag already hanging off his back.

“why are you packing?” you question. you haven’t seen this before in your time on the ranch yet.

“bruce and tilla keep coming back the past few days looking like they fought something. i think something’s getting to the calves.” megan’s serious, but doesn’t sound anxious. she sounds calm, focused, like she knows what comes next.

“so…?” you ask. “that means…?”

“just gonna go spend a night in the fields, with the girls,” she tells you. “keep an eye out overnight.”

you feel your stomach sink at the thought of her outside overnight.

“no way megan. whatever’s getting the cows could get you,” you say worriedly.

“i’ve got two giant dogs and a flare. i’ll be okay,” she reassures you, a smile on her face. 

“you can’t go by yourself.” you shake your head, not understanding how your uncle could ever let her do something like this. “that’s so dangerous.”

“i’ve done it a million times before, and your aunt and uncle and ole’ petey have to stay to watch literally everything else,” she laughs. “i’ll be okay, y/n. it’s a quick ride back.”

“at least take an ATV.”

megan shakes her head. “the motor spooks the girls. horses keep them calm.”

you can’t shake the fear that grips you.

“let me come with you,” you blurt.

“you hate the fields,” megan laughs.

“show me what’s so good about them,” you push. 

she looks like she’s about to shut you down again, but you reach to grab her arm before she can deny you. you give her a pleading look, and she eyes you up and down. she’s silent, contemplating.

“you won’t get your own tent,” she finally warns.

“that’s fine.” you feel your heart settle, even slightly, but you’re still in shock at the whole ordeal. “he really lets you do this by yourself?”

“you say it like he’s my dad.”

“does he?” you press.

“y/n, he pays me for this kind of stuff. that’s the whole point of being a farmhand or a wrangler or a cowboy, or whatever. it’s what i’m good at,” megan laughs. “go pack a bag. i’ll go get you your own horse.”

-

admittedly, the trek to the fields was extremely easy when all you have to do is just sit and hold onto a horse without falling off. the dogs follow at your footsteps, and megan has your horse led by hers, so it’s almost like taking an uber into the middle of the woods and emerging on the side of a mountain at sunset. she checks a few things on her phone, before leading your little troop onto a grassy hill overseeing the nearby herd.

you dismount, and she ties up the horses and moves to unpack the supplies first.

“no campfire?” you ask, looking out at the sunset and knowing the temperatures will drop soon. you’re grateful she insisted you take one of her spare coats.

“not yet,” she tells you. “we have to pick a spot with less grass. summertime means fire hazards.”

she’s so careful about the fields. you admire it, how she cares about maintaining the balance. you can see why your uncle trusts her so much. everything is in good hands when megan, steadfast, hardworking megan, is around.

you watch as she expertly sets up the small tent, the rocks to contain the fire, and scans around for a handful of fallen twigs. she sharpens her knife against the denim of her worn blue jeans and offers it to you along with a perfectly shiny apple. you take it, and enjoy the silence of the birds, the crickets, your crunches, and the flick of her firestarter catching flame to the tinder. you enjoy the silence together, letting the sun fall and disappear into another evening.

the full moon against the flickering campfire is nothing short of beautiful. she pulls her phone out of her pocket and plays her old john mayer playlist: melancholy, bluesy, and so, so peaceful against the hum of the crickets and owls behind you both. she cracks open a beer, and the two of you share it as the fire only roars bigger and louder.

megan’s swaying her head along to a song, and before you can stop yourself, you’re standing up and reaching for her hand. you pull her up, and you dance there together, spinning beneath the moonlight and the stars. stars never sparkle quite this bright where you’re from.

(or maybe, they just don’t sparkle this bright without megan’s beautiful dark eyes to twinkle into.)

you’re holding hands, still swaying, but keeping a respectable amount of space between the two of you. you feel brave, and snake your arms to wrap around her neck. she gives you a look, but accepts the gesture, holding her beer can to the side while her free hand stays respectfully around your upper back.

“what are you going to do after this?” you ask, looking into her eyes as you continue to sway to the faint music.

“maybe do one more night, just to be sure,” she hums.

“i meant when you’re done with the ranch.”

“oh.” her voice rustles. “i don’t know, actually. i love the ranch.”

“could anything get you to leave?” you ask, a curious prod into something more.

megan’s eyes meet yours, and they’re widening with something unfamiliar as they search your face. her hand stretches out, fingers taking up the space in the small of your back, and you feel her ever so gently pull you closer.

“maybe,” she says, a quiet contemplation, but she doesn’t elaborate.

“hm,” you muse simply.

“could anything get you to stay?” she asks quietly. her hands, ever calm, ever strong, are shaky now, reaching for you in the dim moonlight.

“maybe,” you answer simply, reaching back for her, and it’s enough for megan to take over for the rest.

-

her hands are still shaky seeking you out in the dark of the tent, but you find it so, so beautiful how your movements are illuminated by the moon and the campfire. she’s laid you down against the sleeping bag, her kisses wanting and eager against your neck. you guide her hands towards the buttons of your shirt, then reach for the buckle of her belt eagerly.

she breaks from her kisses against your neck to let out a strained sigh into your ear, hovering above you. her fingers hesitate to undo your button.

“i don’t, um, i don’t do this often,” she breathes, looking down as you’ve undone her belt buckle and reach for her zipper.

“that’s okay,” you reassure her, stopping your movements, reaching instead to cup her face in your hand. you smile, realizing you’re staring at more than you could have ever dreamed of wanting. “just means you’ll remember me more.”

she smiles, eyes scanning over you, before she musters up the confidence to start undoing your buttons with one hand much too easily, slipping past them and reaching now for the zipper on your own jeans. you feel your body shudder with anticipation as she presses a tender kiss into the crease of your jaw.

“i’ll have a hard time ever forgetting you, y/n,” she hums into your neck, before your clothes are long forgotten, and lose yourselves into the song of the crickets and the roaring fire.

-

maybe you’re starting to like this small town.

you build a routine. 

the two of you ride into town on friday mornings, your feet kicked up on the dash of the old pickup truck as she sings along to songs on the radio and you can’t stop admiring her beautiful face as she does so. her voice is soft, angelic, and the way she holds the steering wheel with one hand so she can interlace your fingers with the other makes your heart thud.

she buys you a lollipop at the corner store and you savor the crisp mountain air mixing with the sweet artificial cherry in your nose. she strolls behind you through the aisles of the gas station, a case of beers over her shoulder and a bag of sunflower seeds in her free hand. you look back and her eyes are always fixed on you, a smile each time you look at her. you wonder if you’ll ever need anything else.

you run your errands together and she never lets you touch a single door, never lets you lift a finger, never lets your hands get dirty picking up another bag of feed or a treat for bruce.

the sunshine beats down on your face, and she’s placing her hat on your head. you’re pretty sure you remember something about this being an old cowboy courting ritual, but you lose the question somewhere in the back of your mind each time megan slips and calls you “pretty girl” instead of “city girl.”

darla at the corner store eyes the two of you questioningly. she scans the beers, the candy, the snacks, and instinctively reaches for a pack of malboros. megan shakes her head, motioning for the old woman to put them back.

“since when’d you quit the smokes?” the woman questions, arching a faded brow.

“since god sent me a better reason than just old folks not likin’ the smell,” megan quips back quickly, grinning as she forks over an exact change in cash and pivots to pull you along.

you feel your heart thud in your chest and you follow her into the truck. you start to think you might just follow her anywhere if she asked.

-

“early risers now, the two of you! i barely hear y/n come down the stairs any more,” your uncle beams gleefully.

you and megan share a knowing glance as she fries up another egg for you. it’s been probably a week since you’ve stopped sleeping in your own bed, and started sleeping in hers. you don’t think it makes a difference to correct him, so you don’t. 

(you wonder if it’s too obvious that you’re wearing her flannel and she’s wearing your t shirt, but your uncle is too clueless to notice anyways.)

when he’s not looking, you press a kiss into the back of megan’s neck as she focuses over the stove. she shoots you a look, her beautiful brown eyes taking you in, and hands you a plate. 

the two of you take your food outside and eat side by side on the porch, and thoughts of “forever” foolishly fill your head. you don’t push them away.

-

“bullseye,” she grins, shooting another tin can off the fence with her bb gun.

“nice shot, john wayne,” you tease, your legs swinging from your spot sitting on the truck as you look up from your journal.

megan puts down the bb gun and pretends to take an arrow out of an imaginary quiver, and motions as if she’s shooting the arrow at you.

“did i stick you?” she asks, motioning to her pretend bow.

“your aim’s off,” you tease, squinting at her. “little more to the left.”

she tries again, exaggerating her movements this time, and you laugh.

“i didn’t take you as the hunting type,” you tell her.

“cupid let me borrow a few,” she says, jumping up to stand on the tire of the truck and reach up to kiss you.

“oh, yeah?” you hum against her lips.

“mhm.”

“you’d love video games,” you smile, wrapping your arms around her shoulders as she looks up at you. “they’d rot your brain.”

“not much up there left to rot,” she jokes. “i’m like a walking miracle.”

“all those cigarettes and beers,” you tease.

“not even. d’you forget what i do for a living? i’ve been kicked in the head, trampled, all the good stuff.”

“and yet you survived it all.”

“i must have known something good was coming,” she says simply, taking your hand in hers and kissing your knuckles.

your chest aches, and you realize you might’ve lied. her aim was dead on, from the first stupid cupid’s bow.

-

your birthday marks halfway through the summertime, splitting july right down the middle. 

it’s small, just the few of you on the ranch, a cake baked by a neighbor and fireworks.

megan, sweet, silly megan, has had one too many beers, and you love the way her little whisker dimples deepen with every exaggerated laugh you two share. 

tilla barks like a madman, bruce simply asleep under the table as the hours sink into the night, the bullfrogs from the neighboring creek adding to the cricket’s cacophony for the soundtrack to your evening. 

everyone else goes to bed, leaving just you and the ginger to celebrate under the glow of the porchlight.

“make a wish,” she tells you, holding up the candle to your face.

“done,” you grin, blowing it out away from her. 

“good. now come here, pretty girl,” she coos, pulling you to come drop into her lap as she sits in the rocking chair. you laugh and wrap your arms around her neck. “so fuckin’ pretty, how was i ever supposed to say no to you?”

“you weren’t,” you beam, batting your lashes up at her playfully as her hands roam across the soft skin of your thighs. you had worn your nicest dress for the occasion, and megan was struggling to keep her hands to herself. you loved the feeling, her strong hands, calloused from the hard labor she was never afraid of doing, yet soft enough to leave you with goosebumps after every touch.

“was that the plan this whole time?” she questions, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, up to your jaw, and whispering soothingly into your ear. “just s’posed to come and shake up my whole life?”

“can’t believe i didn’t know someone like you existed,” you breathe, taking her in.

“walking dirt magnet?” she arches a brow playfully.

“kind, strong, steadfast.” you tell her, admiring every feature on her face: those full lips, the dimpled cheeks, the creases by her smiling eyes, the round button nose.  “you make the world feel like a safe place.”

“i’d take care of you forever, if you let me,” she assures you. “happy birthday, pretty girl.”

(you won’t admit that it feels like a confession, and your birthday wish has practically come true. a promise of the future with this girl.)

you feel a warmth in your chest as you whisk her away to your bedroom for the rest of the night. you both ignore what this means for the time you’ve got left.

-

“so you’ve done wyoming, idaho, now montana.” you list the states on your fingers. “where to next?”

you’re skipping stones at the pond, megan’s tongue poking out of her mouth as she works to try and snatch up a frog from the riverbed.

“wherever i can hide,” she says simply.

“what are you running from?” you ask, and it’s the first time you’ve ever approached the topic. you hesitate, but knowing megan has never been unkind about redirecting you, you simply suggest the goofiest things you can think of. “toxic ex? debt collectors coming for your kidney? embarrassing viral video?”

she stops, standing up straight, and wipes at her forehead with the back of her wrist. you can tell she’s debating something within her. her eyes don’t come up to meet you, but her body seems to hunch in resignation.

“dead mom,” she says simply.

“oh.” you feel your heart lurch. “megan.”

“that’s the first time i’ve said it out loud,” she admits, rinsing her hands off in the running water before taking her hat off to run her hand through her hair. she starts towards the truck, and you follow.

“i’m so sorry,” you tell her, and you wish there was a manual for what to say to people in times like this.

“it was two years ago. i just upped and left. my dad has been trying to get into contact with me about my inheritance, but i just don’t want to think about any of it.” her confession feels like it connects a million pieces, answers a thousand questions you have had of her, but all you want to do is comfort her as you see the toll it takes on her to loop you in. “sorry i don’t talk about it. hurts too much.”

“megan,” you tell her softly, your heart aching.

“no, you don’t have to be all sad. it’s perfect that i’m telling you. i feel ready.” she nods good-naturedly, hopping into the bed of the truck where the blanket is spread out. she drops with a thud and gets comfortable, before smiling up at you. “god she would have loved you, like fuckin’ crazy.”

“i bet i would have loved her too,” you tell her back gently, following to come sit next to her in the truck bed. you pause, reaching out to play with her fingertips, looking out at how she has her long legs splayed out straight in front of her. you come up with an audacious suggestion, one you won’t deny has been on your mind. “you should come to school with me.”

“no way,” she immediately recoils, wrinkling her nose. “i’m not a bookie. plus i’m way too old to be starting college right now.”

“you are absolutely not too old,” you balk. “plenty of people take a gap year or two. you’re so good and you know so much– about agriculture, about electricity, about the environment. i’ll have my grandad pay for your tuition or whatever. my family loves you, they’d be happy to. then maybe you can buy the ranch or something, and we can–”

“it’s not the money,” she shakes her head. she bites down at her fingernail– a bad habit she picked up since quitting smoking. “sorry y/n, i just i don’t want to stop.”

you can hear her implication. stopping means thinking, and thinking about anything else would hurt. you wish you could take her pain away from her.

“i won’t push you,” you tell her gently, pulling her finger away from her mouth and kissing it instead. “but i think you’d be amazing.”

“i don’t want this to end,” she says after a beat, and you can read it in her eyes.

“don’t think about that right now,” you murmur to her, reaching for her cheek to turn and capture her lips with yours. 

-

t minus one week until you leave. neither of you mention it.

you feel her stir and get out of bed much too early one morning, before the sun is even across the horizon in the window. you hear a faint whine, the creak of the wood as megan steps about, the shuffle of her boots slipping on over her feet. she steps outside the door, and you hear her return a few moments later, moving faster, footsteps louder. “baby,” you mumble groggily, reaching out to her. “come back to bed, please.”

“it’s bruce,” megan says, her voice gravelly, and her tone is enough to wake you fully and get you to sit up in the bed. her face is stony, eyebrows knitting together. “something real ugly got to him.”

you blink a few times to get your bearings, checking your phone to see that it’s barely past 1 am. you nod, getting up and reaching for her denim jacket to throw over your hoodie. “okay, let’s take him to the vet.”

“it um, doesn’t work like that,” she sniffs, and you can see her eyes watering. “vet lives two towns away, only comes into our town for clinic stuff on thursdays. y/n, he looks bad. i don’t feel good about it.”

“tomorrow— today is thursday. so we stay with him, then.” your heart aches for bruce, but even more so for megan, facing the reality of losing her best friend. you see the tears welling up in the corners of her eyes, and you can’t imagine what this is bringing up for her. you nod self-assuredly, the plan coming to you as you speak it, reaching for her hand. “we’ll take turns, meg. we’ll apply pressure, keep him warm, keep talking to him. we’ll leave at 5 and be there an hour early before the clinic even opens. it’s going to be okay.”

her eyes finally come up to meet yours, and she nods. 

you two work in shifts to do exactly that, tend to the old dog. he does admittedly look worse for wear, but you take turns speaking to him calmly and keeping him wrapped in the warmest clean blankets you can find. the first hour passes, and you reassure megan that she’s better off resting than she is trying to push through the whole night, considering she’ll have to be the one to drive them an hour to get to town.

“i did a quick scope out of the nearest pasture. this crazy old bastard killed a fuckin’ wolf and didn’t let him get to any of the girls,” megan says proudly, before letting herself drift off. you kiss her forehead and then lay a kiss onto bruce’s head, beginning to recite the lyrics to whatever stupid song you can think of, just to keep the air from going quiet.

it’s almost morning, and megan wakes refreshed and ready. you’re in awe of how she’s able to lift the massive dog into the backseat of the truck with little strain. she calls out something to your aunt and uncle before getting in the drivers seat, the early morning fog illuminated by the headlights as the truck roars to life. she reassures you that you’re okay to fall asleep, and she drapes a blanket over your lap. 

your eyes are closed for at least 3 songs, and you feel yourself about to drift asleep, before you hear megan’s tone change, and hear her whisper quietly to the dog.

“i know dude, i know. she’s a good one,” she sighs, reaching into the back seat to pet his head. “stick around a little longer so you can sniff out if she’s gonna break my heart or not, would ya?”

megan reaches for your hand, still assuming you’re asleep, and holds it for the whole hour long drive into town. 

the vet, sensing the panic in megan’s voice as she carries this ginormous dog towards him in her own two arms, offers to see bruce as soon as you guys get there, a half an hour before the clinic is supposed to open.

you fall asleep with your head on megan’s shoulder as you wait through his surgery, and she doesn’t wake you.

“he’s lucky to have you two,” the vet tells you two hours later, smiling as he hands you the leash to a wobbly but stable white dog. “most owners start to freak out and end up fighting when things get hard.”

“she’s a good one,” you say quickly, motioning to megan, and she says nothing as she kneels down to hug the groggy old creature. 

she then reaches up to grip your face in both hands, pressing a searing kiss to your lips, expressing every bit of gratitude she can muster. 

you wrap your arms around her waist and kiss her, and kiss her and kiss her, while the town still sleeps. you wonder if there’s a way to live in this moment for the rest of your life. 

-

the night before you leave, your uncle throws you a small send-off dinner. you and megan hold hands under the table the entire time.

she takes you to the pond, through the fields on a horseback ride, back and around what feels like the whole property as you savor the last day you have together.

whether it’s adrenaline or nerves, sleep can’t find you that night. megan is holding you, and you’re trying desperately to memorize the curves of her body and the feeling of her hands over you.

“meg,” you whisper quietly, and you feel her bare chest rise and fall against the skin of your back.

“hm?” she pulls you in tighter, clearly not struggling with sleep like you are.

you let out a quiet sigh, bringing her hand up to your lips to kiss her calloused fingertips.

“i think i fell in love with you,” you whisper, half-confession, half-stating the obvious.

megan merely grunts in her sleep, wrapping her arms tighter around you.

“go back to sleep, pretty girl,” she mumbles, pressing a kiss into your shoulder.

“whatever, cowboy,” you roll your eyes, trying to pull away from her grip, but it’s no use. she’s much too strong, and as it turns out, more awake than you thought.

“i’ll write you letters, while you’re gone. and you’ll write back to me,” she hums into your neck, and you feel your heart swell with how soft and sweet her voice is as she whispers these sweet nothings. her fingertips brush along your hips, along your spine, tracing the expanse of your skin as if she knows it’s just for her. “i’ll tell bruce and tilla all about what you’re getting up to, while you’re off being brilliant.”

“yeah?” you smile, turning back to try and get a look at her sweet, beautiful face.

she presses her cheek into yours, planting a kiss against your jaw. “i’ll start smoking again though. so you gotta come back soon.”

“smoking’s so bad for you,” you tell her back weakly, her warm embrace drifting you back into your slumber.

“so is being without my pretty girl,” she quips back easily, pulling you in closer. she presses another kiss behind your ear. “i love you too. come back soon.”

-

the two of you wake up at the crack of dawn to make the most of the morning before noon, when your uncle is supposed to start the journey to take you back home.

megan steals the truck to drive around the property and helps you wish goodbye to all the animals and trees you had so impossibly fallen in love with, just as easily as you had fallen in love with megan. 

she picks you flowers and pine needles to press in between the pages of your favorite book and she mentions something about a scrapbook you two should start together. you sneak a quickie in the back of the truck and laugh when your teeth clank together from how eager you both are to get your hands on each other. 

the last half hour before you head back home. you see something in megan’s eyes as she’s driving you guys back from the edge of the property to the lodge, her jaw going hard as you ramble about how the semester is going to look for you.

“we have five weeks for winter break, so i can spend that here, or you can come spend it with me in the city,” you tell her, going through the schedule on your phone. “i only have like three days for thanksgiving, so that might not be worth it unless if you come out first, but spring break i’ve got a whole week off, so i can leave the thursday before and be here by friday so we get the full week together. then, another summer. i think we can do it.”

you expect your cowboy to say something back, probably some dumb joke, or maybe even just a hum of approval, but you’re left waiting. megan says nothing, which she hasn’t done since you two first met.

“hello, earth to cowboy?” you tease, waving a hand in front of her face as she pulls the truck into the garage.

she puts it in park, and turns to face you, grabbing your hand out of the air and gently pulling it down. your heart sinks when she doesn’t hold onto it. 

she lets out a shaky breath, looking over you once more, before her eyes harden and her gaze drops to something off in the distance.

“don’t come back.” 

you feel a punch to the gut– megan’s voice is cold, too detached. this isn’t the warm farmer girl you’re in love with, this isn’t your megan.

“what?” you blink, wondering if it’s just a joke that landed wrong. you reach for her hand. “don’t say that.”

you feel your heart shatter as she pushes your hand away, shaking her head. she won’t bring herself to look at you.

“stay focused, get good grades, get a cool job,” she tells you, turning now to face the steering wheel instead of facing you. “don’t throw your life away thinking about me, trying to squeeze me in. you’re so special, y/n.”

“i wouldn’t be distracted. we can make it work, long distance isn’t that hard,” you push, feeling the hot tears threaten to spill from the corners of your eyes. 

“i loved you, while you were here,” she breathes quietly, a deep sigh leaving her chest. 

you shake your head, your body trembling from the unexpected pivot in her demeanor. it feels like a bad dream. 

“what the fuck, megan?” you barely manage.

“it’s be better that you go.” she wrinkles her nose. she sounds confused by her own words, and you keep pushing in the hopes that she’ll take it all back and apologize in no time.

“you don’t care?” you question, feeling the first drops of your tears come down your cheeks. “that’s it?”

“i care enough to not hold you back.” she pushes back, jaw hardening. “i was never going to be permanent to you. i’m just happy i could say you were mine.”

“no, you meant everything to me, megan,” you argue, reaching to cup her hand in both of yours. you reach over to grab her hand, not giving her the option to pull away this time. “don’t you think we stood a chance?”

“a small one, maybe.” she smiles sadly. “just not this time.”

you shake your head and let go of her hand, trying to wrack your brain for how to fix this. 

“okay, forget school, sorry i suggested it and freaked you out. you could move to a bigger city, and start bull riding professionally, you’re so good at it–”

“y/n,” she cuts you off firmly, but her voice has the slightest tremble to it. “that’s not what i want for my life. and it’s not what i want for yours. go share that light with the world.”

“is this because it hurts?” you question, finally leaning back, your back pressing against the passenger side door as you try to put space in between the two of you. it feels like a stranger has hijacked her body and now, you’re suffocated being around her. “your whole thing, where something bad happens and you run away from it. is this like that? it hurts to keep saying goodbye for a little bit?”

“maybe,” she shrugs weakly, her brows furrowing. you see something like anger take over her features– a first. “what, are you analyzing me now?”

“no, but i feel like a fucking idiot,” you bite back. you reach up to try and wipe the tears from your eyes before they drop, feeling pathetic as she simply watches you. “why the fuck did you let me fall in love with you if you knew you weren’t going to be able to handle saying goodbye?”

“i didn’t know,” she says softly, and you want to scream.

“yes you did,” you push back, pointing a finger accusingly in her direction. “you did you know that, you knew it was just the summer.”

“no,” she says gently, and you feel yourself go wobbly at how easy it is for her calm voice to soften you. “i didn’t know, about the falling in love. i couldn’t have ever predicted that.”

there’s a thud in the back of the truck, and you spot your uncle and old pete working together to swing your suitcase into the back of the pickup bed. you wipe quickly at your eyes to erase any evidence of this, wishing it was as easy to undo the knot in your stomach.

“y’all girls will be in touch, i’m sure of it,” your uncle says, seeing your proximity, much too chipper and not possibly able to read any further into the situation. “no need to cry that much over it, i swear!”

“we won’t be in touch,” you say sharply, and megan grabs her hat off the dashboard and pulls it onto her head, the brim covering her eyes.

“fine by me,” she bites back, before her tone softens in the slightest. she unlocks the car door, and you can both feel it. it’s the real goodbye.

she turns to step out of the door, before looking once over her shoulder. the hat obscures half her face, and you can barely bring yourself to look at her, but you can hear her voice, so gentle despite all the damage she’s just done. 

“i really did love you,” she adds.

“bullshit,” you spit, and you feel the tears coming on again. your heart feels like it’s being ripped from the crevices of your chest. “fuck you, megan.”

you see her jaw harden, and you turn away, unable to look any more without the risk of breaking into sobs. the door swings open, you hear the shuffle of two pairs of boots, and your uncle is quickly taking up the drivers seat. the engine roars back up to life, rumbling through your chest.

“cheer up, y/n,” he chirps. “the kid ain’t goin’ nowhere. you’ll see her soon enough.”

you stare up at the ceiling of the stupid truck and try to blink back the onslaught of continued sobs that threaten to break out of you. your uncle pulls the truck out of the garage, and you feel sick to your stomach as you guys start to move out of the driveway. 

on the porch, your aunt and old pete wave goodbye to you with beaming grins. tilla lays peacefully at their feet.

behind them, the rusty-haired wrangler, holding bruce by the collar as he barks incessantly, trying to pull away from her to chase after the truck. the hat obscures her face, but you see her look up and wipe at her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket. 

you burst into tears as the ranch starts to fade out of view in the rear view mirror. you cry everything out, and your uncle doesn’t try to chat you up the whole way there, letting you instead fall asleep to the hum of old country classics on the radio.

you hate the way you miss megan’s voice already. you swear off country music for the rest of your life.

-

you still feel the void in your stomach even when you’re finally back home. you wonder what it’ll take to stop dreaming of ginger hair and the smell of pine trees.

“how was your summer? i feel like we barely heard from you,” sophia asks eagerly, the two of you heading up to your dorm on move-in day. “how was your family’s ranch?”

“please do share, how was that?” lara grins, eager to get the details. “do anything fun over there? i’ve never been to a farm.”

you blink back the tears threatening to spill over and hope they don’t notice.

well, i was super bored until met this girl, and she was so perfect, and she’s a cowboy who rides horses and loves her dog and quit smoking just for me, and she rides bulls and fixes anything that breaks and plays me songs, and of course i fell in love with her, and it’s ironic ‘cause she’s supposed to be able to fix anything on that ranch and yet i got my heart broken into a million tiny pieces…

“i’m glad it’s over,” you shake your head, realizing that your summer has to be nothing but a memory for it to start to fade. “never going back to that hell-hole again.”

you get to the dorm, sophia lights a candle and heads into the shower, and you take all the pressed flowers hidden in the pages of your book and let them get eaten up by the flame, one by one. 

you get to the last page of your book, wanting to make sure you didn’t miss a pine needle by accident, and find that megan had scribbled something at the very bottom, after the print of the story says “THE END,” dated the day after your birthday.

fell in love with you reading this book to me. can’t wait for you to read it to me again. love you, pretty girl. – your cowboy

you rip the page out of the book and let it get lost to the flame. with it, you let every thought you’ve ever had of megan skeindiel— every secret she told you, every touch you shared, every picture of a perfect, peaceful future together— sink to the bottom of your heart, and bury it in gravel.

[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. 

[circumpolarvampire]

The person who posted this is a TERF and is not Indigenous as far as I could tell so I am reposting it.

The remains of a second Indigenous woman murdered by a convicted serial killer have been found in a landfill in central Canada, authorities confirmed Monday, after another victim's remains were  identified earlier this month .

Marcedes Myran was one of the Indigenous women  slain three years ago by Jeremy Skibicki , who is serving multiple life sentences after being convicted of four murders last year. Skibicki met his victims in homeless shelters, in a case seen as a symbol of the dangers faced by Indigenous women in Canada, where they disproportionately fall victim to violence, termed a "genocide" by a national public inquiry in 2019. Testimony at Skibicki's trial said he raped, killed and dismembered Myran and another woman, Morgan Harris, in 2022.

Authorities believed their remains were dumped at the Prairie Green Landfill site, north of Winnipeg, the capital of the province of Manitoba. They had been searching the site for months.

On a tree out front of Camp Marcedes, located next to the Canadian Museum for Human Rights, a photo and red dress signify the loss of Marcedes Myran with a call to action in searching the landfills for her remains from Downtown Winnipeg, Canada on September 27 2023.Shay Conroy for The Washington Post via Getty Images

Last month, Manitoba authorities announced the discovery of two bodies.

Morgan Harris's remains were identified on March 7. Federal police in Manitoba  on Monday confirmed  the other set of "human remains found in the Prairie Green Landfill search have been identified as those of Marcedes Myran of Long Plain First Nation," a statement said. The families of Harris and Myran had pushed authorities in Manitoba to search for the bodies.

The body of another of Skibicki's victims, Rebecca Contois, was found in a separate landfill and in a garbage bin, while the remains of a fourth unidentified victim in her 20s are still missing.

In December 2022, Winnipeg Police Chief Danny Smyth  wrote an open letter  to Indigenous leaders, acknowledging the "unimaginable" pain surrounding the case. "The investigation involving the murders of Rebecca Contois, Marcedes Myran, Morgan Harris, and Buffalo Woman has been one of the most complex and important homicide investigations during my tenure," Smith wrote. "I have heard the calls from the families, the Indigenous leadership, and the community. I understand your calls; the pain and sorrow is unimaginable."

Indigenous women represent about one-fifth of all women killed in gender-related homicides in the country -- despite comprising just five percent of the female population. A similar crisis exists  in the U.S. , where Native American women  are disproportionately targeted  in murders, sexual assaults and other acts of violence, both on reservations and in nearby towns. 

There were more than 5,700 reports of missing Native women and girls in 2016, according to the  anti-sexual assault organization RAINN , which cites statistics from the National Crime Information Center. The Bureau of Indian Affairs estimated more recently that roughly 4,200 cases of missing and murdered Indigenous people  remain unsolved .

[indiancraft1]

Handcrafted. Heartfelt. Home-ready. Turn your space into a story with Indian Craft’s handmade decor – from boho macramé to vibrant beaded curtains. Ethnic charm, crafted with love. 💫

🛍️ Shop now → indiancraftt.com

[tigerlilypurr]

Jewish wedding crown

DATE 1850-1925

MATERIALS Silver with gilding, and glass

DIMENSIONS H. 8 in x W. 10 in x D. 10 in, H. 20.3 cm x W. 25.4 cm x D. 25.4 cm

CREDIT LINE Acquisition made possible by the Elizabeth E. Bettelheim Family Foundation

OBJECT NUMBER 2015.69

DEPARTMENT South Asian Art

CLASSIFICATIONS Metal Arts

INSCRIBED "I will raise Jerusalem above my highest joy' in Hebrew

MORE INFORMATION

In some Jewish wedding traditions, brides or grooms wore a crown or diadem. This elaborate one from a Jewish community in India was probably for a groom. It speaks to the different cultural spheres its user belonged to. The Hebrew inscription “I will raise Jerusalem above my highest joy” (Psalm 137, 5–6) was recited by the groom in some traditions. This was meant as a reminder of past suffering—the destruction of Jerusalem by the Babylonians more than 2,500 years ago—even at a moment of great happiness. The design of paired birds and the “tree of life” motif are elements often used to adorn Jewish ritual objects. Here they are localized: the crown recalls the form of an Indian turban, the “tree of life” calls to mind turban ornaments (sarpech), and the birds here are peacocks. Jewish communities have deep roots in India. In recent times many Indian Jews have emigrated to Israel and other parts of the world. It is thought that fewer than 10,000 Jews remain in India.

https://searchcollection.asianart.org/objects/20305/jewish-wedding-crown

[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

[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.]

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[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.]

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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.]

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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.]

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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.]

[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