#Passing Through Prairie Country

[lgbtqreads]

Happy Native American Heritage Month 2024!

Happy Native American Heritage Month 2024! To celebrate, we’re featuring books starring queer Native American and First Nations characters, by Native American and/or First Nations authors, as well as poetry and nonfiction. For even more recommendations, check out last year’s post! (And again, while the usual affiliate links are included, you’re strongly encouraged to order from the Native-owned…

[emilybeemartin]

Just to tie in my two themes this month----

Additional notes, because poll options apparently limit their characters:

Frodo finds great peace in watching the tides rise and fall throughout each day. He attends all the ranger programs on birds and seashells and fills pages with sketches and poetry.

Sam meticulously selects postcards in the gift shop for each of his friends and spends a whole morning writing and addressing them. He also buys Junior Ranger hats for his kids and a variety of Appalachian jams for Rosie.

Park rangers launch a Missing Person search for Aragorn when they realize his car's been parked at Avalanche Creek for three days. The search runs for almost a week before he comes strolling out the opposite side of the park, supporting one of the SAR techs who twisted an ankle during the search.

Legolas is first drawn to Olympic for the towering, mossy temperate rainforests, but the ground goes out from under him when he steps onto Second Beach for the first time. He spends an entire day watching the light and tides shift on the sea stacks, and he leaves feeling both full and hollow, like a bell that's just been rung.

Mammoth is only Gimli's first stop on a cavern tour, followed by Jewel and Wind Caves and Carlsbad Caverns. Wind Cave is his favorite for the unusual formations. He makes an obnoxious tween boy cry in Carlsbad for breaking off a speleothem.

Boromir is on a tour of military parks. He asks so many questions to the intern working the info station at Fort Sumter the kid has to go find the park historian. His favorite site is Vicksburg because that place was buckwild, though he silently judges one of the reenactors for his clumsy handling of a black powder rifle.

Merry also makes stops in Jurassic and Dinosaur National Monuments. He watches every park video, takes selfies in front of all the fossil exhibits, and earns his Junior Ranger badge at each one. He buys a keychain for Pippin.

Pippin actually gets four citations, mostly for trying to stick his hands in mud pots. He doesn't mean anything by it---he's just so delighted and curious about the bizarre landscape. He winds up with several thermal burns and dumps a king's ransom in the donation box on his last day.

Gandalf gets dinged by rangers for not paying the $5 fee for Trunk Bay, but he acts senile until they eventually decide to drop it. He gets postcards from everyone and responds to none of them.

Faramir and Eowyn are traveling together and do many of the same hikes and rides, but they do have some different preferences off-trail. Eowyn drags Faramir to a rodeo and the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar in Jackson Hole, and he goads her into Ranger Shelton Johnson's living history programs on the Buffalo Soldiers in Yosemite.

Eomer is bike-packing on his sport cruiser motorcycle. He goes to Roosevelt south unit for the wild horse herds but ends up spending half a day watching a prairie dog town. He takes 400 photos of them, mostly blurry, and texts them to Eowyn.

[ladyofthe-lake]

"Dean Winchester is Saved" — a suptober24 ficlet

Summary:

In Hell there is no moon, no bright reflector of light, until the angels come.

In Hell there is no moon.

Dean had never been one for stargazing when he was still topside, but as the years pass in perdition, he swears to himself that if he ever finds his way out of this funhouse of horrors, he’s going to make time to look at the moon every now and then. To let its constancy, its drifting through the night sky, soothe something in him — if anything, at that point, remains.

At the end of each day on Alistair’s rack, there had been little of him left. The body that Dean knows is just an illusion, a manifestation of his soul to allow for the greatest suffering, and it collapses whimpering and pathetic as Alistair retires to wherever he goes for the night, leaving Dean to relive the pain of the day and Alistair’s cold stare.

For thirty years, his arms and legs had been bound to the same rack; Alistair had used every combination of pain he could think of, drawing blood and screams in equal measure as he carved Dean’s soul up with his array of tools.

For thirty years, Dean missed the moon. He wanted to look up, to let a scream rip free into the bowels of hell, and to see, even if just for a moment, the night sky. Whether the moon would be pregnant-full or the sliver of a fingernail, he wanted to see it desperately. To know that others were looking at it too; that he wasn't the only one to see.

All he had, though, were Alistair’s white eyes. No substitute for a moon that pulls and pushes the tides of the Earth’s great oceans. No substitute for a night driving in the Impala down back country roads in search of the next motel room that’ll host his tired body.

Hell is no substitute for anything; Hell is, simply put, the most of itself that anything can be — it is crisp and dark and sharp, it is unrelenting and unforgiving.

In the thirty-first year, Dean had taken enough pain. It was time, finally, to dish it out. He allowed Alistair to guide his hand, starting with the knife before moving to more complex instruments. He felt the splatter of blood, warm on his face, as another poor soul was carved, this time by Dean’s own hand.

The first joy in Hell comes when he finds that he’s good at this. When he carves a waning moon into the skin of some sinner's chest, when he finds its whole, naked face in the split-open pupils of fear. When he’s not cleaving the remains of a soul from itself, he does nothing, thinks of nothing.

In the fortieth year, he’s been doing this for so long that it feels like he was born with a torture instrument in his hand. Alistair’s breath at the back of his neck, urging him forward, is the whisper of wind across the prairie of Kansas. His victims' screams are the first cries he took as a baby, gasping out in a hospital room for air.

In short, Dean Winchester’s life, his memories of the Earth he used to walk, are replaced by his life in Hell, his position as the right hand of Alistair.

In the fortieth year, he looks up one day — or night, the passage of time just endless nothing — and sees a light in the sky that resembles a star. A dying star, an explosion. To its left comes another one, a bright white light like nothing he’s seen in Hell before. He stops what he’s doing, the instrument stilled in his hands, to look up. To gaze at the sky.

The garrison falls through the layers and pathways of Hell, fighting viciously each demon who casts its poor self in their path. The beat of their wings fills Dean’s head and he falls to his knees, covering his ears, but something yanks at his head, pulls him to look up — amidst the stars burning into and out of Hell’s atmosphere is one much larger, a thing to behold with no face nor shape, a Heavenly and winged being, and amid the shooting stars of the fight, it comes straight toward him.

The moon barrels down toward Dean and he watches its face, transfixed, as it collapses into the ocean of demons that surround Alistair’s rack, the central operating base out of which Dean has worked and been worked upon throughout these decades.

The moon fights its way through the lieges of demons that crawl across Hell’s underside, its blade clashing, flashing light with each death. Dean watches, unable to tear his eyes away, stilled with awe at what lays before him.

The demons and the souls in their possession die in numbers unimaginable. The tide of the ocean is drawn toward the righteous man. The moon has its own gravitational pull. The demons that survive follow the being of light, clawing at the edges of it.

The rest of the garrison has landed and joins in the fight, carving a pathway for this central figure to make its way toward him, flashes of starlight distracting Dean’s vision.

When the being reaches Dean, it steps up onto the platform and Dean cannot look at it head-on. He bows his head as if to pray, and the being lays a hand on his shoulder.

Dean Winchester is saved.

[97-liners]

characters: mingyu, a gender neutral y/n

tags: zombie apocalypse, horror

warnings: major character death, gore, gun violence (and other violence, idk this is a zombie apocalypse setting), resource scarcity (see setting), mentions of a global pandemic (see setting)

60-minute free writing exercise

words: 2.3k

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Mingyu was silent when he died.

Your hand on the trigger, his knees at your feet, you looked down the barrel to see him crying. In a moment of clarity, he had stopped fighting, and he was Mingyu again. Your Mingyu. And you knew that it was your Mingyu, that he still loved you, because he let his hands still at his sides and sat back on his heels, eyes glassy and wide and terrified, afraid to die, but afraid of what would happen if he didn’t. And because you knew he loved you, and because you loved him, loved him so much it was like a vice grip on your chest and on your finger-- because you loved him, you didn’t let his last little gift go to waste. Before the moment of clarity could pass, you pulled the trigger.

That was a week ago.

Now, you’re in your car-- his car, Mingyu’s old Toyota that he bought when he graduated college and got his first real engineering job. The days are long, and the nights are dark, but you have a destination in mind. The two of you were going to go to California together, where there’s a large settlement on the coast. In the last days before the cell towers went down, Mingyu had been on the phone with one of his old childhood friends, talking about it. “Let’s go,” his hand on yours, chest full of that stupid optimism that got him through junior year and the first six months of his shitty job in Jersey City and the time the two of you were stuck waiting for the MTA for 45 minutes, “Minghao says there's space for two.”

You’re alone now, driving through Nebraska on the I-80. There’s gas stockpiled in the trunk, and there’s still about a hundred miles until you get to Cheyenne, where you’ll get out and look for a gas station with still-functional pumps. The shotgun is on the passenger seat, accompanying you like a friend— like a lover. (There’s still blood and brains in the crevices of the gun. You spent hours with a rag next to a muddy puddle of water by the side of the road, wiping down every square inch you could see. Fresh water is hard to come by, however, and it’s not smart to stay in one place for too long. Hell, you haven’t even been able to shower in weeks. Your skin still bears the chemical burns from when you had wiped yourself down in bleach. It hurt, but you couldn’t risk the virus getting into your bloodstream, even accidentally.)

It’s sunny today. Nearly painfully bright. It feels like it shouldn’t be this sunny, not after everything that’s happened. But the sun is distant and uncaring and beats relentlessly down on the rolling plains around you.

And then, from miles away, you see it— a rest stop. The light-up sign has long since blinked out, but the shape is unmistakeable in the sea of blond grass rippling in the wind. A box-shaped building, next to it the hollowed-out remains of a Wendy’s. And a gas station. The huge kind, with two rows of pumps and a parking lot. Your breath hitches as you get closer and closer and the details materialize into view. There’s even gas prices still posted on the sign — under five bucks a gallon. That must have been put up before people started panicking in earnest and entrepreneurial gas station owners cranked up the prices to fifteen, twenty dollars a gallon, until the power lines went down and cell service went out and paying with a credit card didn’t really matter anymore. This far out into the country, when it’s been hours since you last saw anything but miles of prairie in every direction and the empty cassette ribbon of the I-80 cutting through the land, there’s a real possibility that the gas station and the accompanying convenience store might still be intact.

You pull into the parking lot. The windows are unbroken and the door is still chained shut — a good sign. You reach behind to grab the crowbar from the back seat, and when you twist back forward, you’re almost certain you catch a glimpse of Mingyu in the passenger seat. A flash of golden tan skin, of scruffy black hair, and you swear you could almost see his face, but when you turn around fully, the passenger seat is empty, save for the shotgun. And in an instant, you make the stupid decision to leave the car without bringing the gun. It’s quiet, you rationalize. There’s nobody out here. Nothing out here.

(In the days since he died, you think you’ve been hallucinating. You see the fuzzy figure of Mingyu in reflections, in shadows, in the staticky darkness when you close your eyes. Maybe it’s normal. After all, the two of you were always together, even before the pandemic. Since the first time he told you he loved you, this has been the longest time the two of you have been apart. Will be apart. Forever, you brain supplies unhelpfully.)

The door is easy to pry off its hinges, and the glass breaks but it doesn’t shatter. The inside of the convenience store is everything you had hoped for— dark, cobwebbed, but stocked full of mass-produced junk food filled with preservatives. They’re calories, artificially fortified with nutrients and chemical flavoring, meant to last for years on a shelf. Immediately, you head to where the granola bars are and begin to empty the shelves, filling your backpack in the process. Your mind is thinking ahead — this is more than enough food to last you the entire trip. This is enough to feed a couple of people for a few weeks. Is there food in Minghao’s settlement in California? How much should you take? Can all of this fit in your car? How many trips back and forth should you make?

Your stomach grumbles and you’re reminded that you’re hungry— it’s been a few days— so you take a Clif bar off the shelf and tear open the wrapper. You eat ravenously.

(Mingyu was always good at cooking. He knew how to make every soup imaginable, how to pull together the end of the month pantry staples and wilted produce and fill your tiny Brooklyn apartment with the smell of home. He knew how to fish, how to gut and clean the dirty little perch that he pulled from the Hudson, how to fry them over a fire to make them taste less like mud and more like food. How to build the fire so the smoke wouldn’t be seen, how to put it out so the embers wouldn’t give away your campsite.

You can’t cook. You’ve never had to learn, not with Mingyu by your side.)

Like your own shadow, little piece of Mingyu follow you as you make your way up and down the aisles. It’s just the hallucinations, you tell yourself. At the end of the cereal aisle, you stand still for a moment and stare at yourself in the fisheye reflection of the security mirror mounted on the ceiling. The store is dark, and the mirror is dusty. For a moment, you think you can see Mingyu standing next to you. You see him, tall, broad, alive, so beautiful he might be an angel.

It’s still breathlessly silent around you, however. You know Mingyu can’t be standing beside you, because the air around you feels empty. But there he is, in the blurry reflection of a convenience store security mirror. You blink, and he’s still there.

Suddenly, you begin to feel uneasy. He’s just another hallucination, isn’t he? The mirror is too blurry for you to get a good look at his face, and a large part of you doesn't want to see his face anyway. You're certain it’s him in the reflection. You could recognize him anywhere just from the way he stands. But something about his figure isn’t quite right.

You know what you need to do. You need to look to your side, where he’s standing in the mirror. You know, whatever it is you’re seeing, you need to just turn your head to the side and look to know what it is. Just look, it seems to tell you. I’m right here, Mingyu says.

You blink, and the Mingyu in the reflection is gone.

It’s just you, standing there in a dark convenience store, backpack open in your hands. And uneasily, you laugh. “Hey, Mingyu,” you say aloud. It’s been a week since you last said anything, and your voice sounds thin and reedy in your head. You don’t hear a response.

“Mingyu, wouldn’t it be fucked up if ghosts were real too?”

A few months ago, zombies were just something you’d see in a video game or TV show. Maybe it’s not a hallucination, but you’re not sure if that makes you feel better.

By the time you’re done raiding the convenience store, several trips back and forth to your car later, the back seat is stocked with all kinds of shelf-stable calorie-dense food. Like little luxuries, you made sure to leave some room for toilet paper, for shampoo and soap, for toothpaste, for a few boxes of instant coffee. You still need to fill up the two empty gas cans in the trunk, but first, you think you’ll use the bathrooms here.

The doors to the bathroom are on the outside of the building, and you find the keys hanging by the staff break room in the back of the store. It takes a few tries, but eventually the key turns in the lock and you’re able to push the heavy steel door open with your body weight.

As soon as the door closes behind you with a loud bang, you instantly get a bad feeling. Everything in your intuition is telling you to run. The bathroom is dark, save for one humming emergency light still illuminated overhead, and it’s completely silent. You exhale, and the sound bounces off the tiled walls and floors, whispering before settling back into that tense silence from a moment ago.

By the entrance, there are three sinks lined up in front of a large cracked mirror. You peer around the corner to see three stalls, each separated by a wall, with tall floor-to-ceiling doors that don’t leave even a centimeter of a gap between the wall. It’s still completely silent, but the persistent buzzing undercurrent of anxiety in your head is screaming at you— something isn’t right. You inch forward, skin prickling, and lightly push on the first door. It swings open. Then, you push on the third door, which also opens. You place your hand on the center door, and you can immediately tell that it’s locked.

But the bathroom is so, so quiet. Even when you stand still, glued to your spot in front of the stalls, and listen, you don’t hear anything. It’s empty, it has to be. You glance back over your shoulder at the wide mirror hanging over the sinks, and you half-expect to see Mingyu standing next to you again, but all you see is yourself—dirty, greasy, haggard— and the bathroom behind you. It’s empty.

Slowly and quietly, you walk past the center stall and enter the last one. There’s no toilet paper, but it doesn’t matter. You finish peeing and consider flushing the toilet. There’s probably still water in the tank. But something about creating all that noise doesn’t sit right with you, so you decide to forgo the last little bit of socialization clinging to your brain and exit the stall. You should probably wash your hands, you realize, so you step up to the sink and turn one of handles and, to your surprise, a stream of clean water dribbles out.

You put your hand under the water. It feels decadent. It feels like an unspeakable luxury, as you push on the soap dispenser and let some of the pink slime fall into your palm, as you lather it up into a foam. You scrub at your hands, trying your best to get out every last bit of dirt and blood embedded beneath your fingernails. And when your hands are rubbed raw but clean, you cup your hands and collect some water to rinse your face with. You wash your face with the same pink liquid soap you used to wash your hands, something you would be aghast at in another life, but now it practically feels like a spa day. Weeks of grime dissolving under your fingertips and swirling down the drain.

You shut off the water and reach for the paper towel dispenser. Maybe the bathroom really is empty and your instincts are all wrong. The door to the middle stall could be jammed, or it could have been locked by building staff before the pandemic even broke out. It would be stupid of you not to come back and fill a jug with clean water, no matter what your intuition says.

For a moment, you stand stock-still, just so you can get another gauge on the bathroom. The last bit of water leaves the sink drain and it’s silent again. You watch yourself in the mirror, hold your breath, try to sense even the tiniest shift in the air. It smells like Mingyu, you realize. Clean and soapy and warm. It’s the same scent his skin used to carry. Like he’s here, next to you.

The bathroom is silent.

Your reflection stares back at you. The overhead light casts harsh shadows over your face, leaving your eyes dark and empty.

The bathroom is silent.

Mingyu’s scent, but it’s not comforting at all. Not in the way you used to nudge your nose against his throat during lazy Sunday mornings and inhale his warmth. Not in the way you’d wear his hoodies and press your face against the lining.

The bathroom is silent. And then, with a click, the middle door unlocks.

[everydayesterday]

the CBC hit job on buffy sainte-marie is truly baffling. the claim is that, because her white parents' names are on her birth certificate, and because she has a younger sister from that same family, who is very much lily-white, she is not legitimately a member of the piapot first nation.

let me use a personal example showing the idiocy of this determination by the CBC. my son is black. once the adoption process went through, he was issued a new birth certificate showing my ex-wife and I as his legal birth parents. we are both white. it is quite obvious that we are not his birth parents, but that's what the birth certificate says (the original birth certificate showing his black parentage is sealed and unavailable except through court order; that how it works).

are you seeing where I'm going with this?

while no one would ever suggest that my ex and I are claiming our son is white, many in the first nations are "white-passing" (you can decide for yourself if you think buffy "passes").

she has always claimed that she doesn't know with certainty her true ancestry, and ultimately understood that she was adopted as an infant, tracing that back to saskatchewan (buffy says this is because her adoptive mother ultimately straight-up told her she was adopted from an unwed mother somewhere north of the piapot first nation).

the CBC also points to inconsistencies in how buffy's heritage was documented in the press, though they're not really inconsistencies. their investigation states that some referred to her as cree (the piapot nation is cree), algonquin (the anishinaabe language group that extends into the canadian prairies includes algonquin and oji-cree), or half-mi'kmaq (her adoptive mother, while white-passing, did actually claim connection to the mi'kmaq, so even that isn't inconsistent if that was before she knew about being adopted from saskatchewan).

claiming that her adoptive white parents *must* be her birth parents is erasure of that [possible/probable/whatever] first nations heritage; it's pure and simple racism (and if you're shocked by racism against the aboriginal community in canada, you're ignoring the country's entire history and present-day situation).

that she has a younger sister or a second cousin who know nothing of a possible connection to the piapot first nation doesn't really mean a damn thing—if buffy was raised as white, then that's all that her younger sister would've known; you can't blame buffy for her sister being kept in the dark.

all that the CBC investigation does is confirm what buffy sainte-marie has always said, which is that she doesn't know with certainty who her birth parents are, and provide yet another example of the mess that interracial adoptees face in figuring out their cultural heritage.

[also, regardless of her birth, she was adopted as an adult into the piapot first nation 60 years ago (they didn't have a problem doing so), which legitimates her status. she has spent her adult life connecting to that first nation and working to support aboriginal recognition and rights.]

[EDIT: Yes, it could be a big lie. I didn't feel that the evidence proved anything beyond a doubt, and to my knowledge her parents never actually denied her supposed Cree ancestry—Albert Santamaria died in 1998; Winifred in 2010. The information about the birth certificate hit home with me as an adoptive parent. I wouldn't understand her motivations if it is all a lie.]

[novistarplanet]

Prairie View

CowboyTenkoShigaraki x MailBride!Reader pt1

summary: Who said growing up in a small town would be hard? But when unforeseen events happen in your life causing you to move miles over towns and marry a certain Blue hair gapped cowboy

cw: 1.7k

wc: applied female reader,Separation, mentions of being sold, Fluff, anxiety, death of a parent, marriage, shig with a gap, first name, country accents. lmk if I missed anything!

A/n: I tried to give them accents so if its horrible I'm sorry in advance also I initially imagine this to be a black reader but it could be anything you want it to be ALSO im making this into 3 parts!!

Walking towards the train through the thick crowds of townsfolk, all waiting for the train to stop.

You couldn’t help but think about your new life waiting for you. Your hand tightens on the handle of your big leather suitcase, carrying all your memories and treasures of your old life.

“Y/N WAIT!!” just as you were about to board the train, you turn back to see your brother Jake waving his hands 

“Jake, what are you doin here?? you shouldn'a be out theyer taking care of Granny?” 

“m'couldn'a let ya leavin' witout this” He takes your hands into his dirty big ones and places an old silver heart-shaped locket in your hands

your left speechless as he pulls you into a hug “ now don'tcha forget' to write me and grann' dun’t let the big city make ya forget about us”

You freed yourself from his embrace and kissed his forehead, tears flooding your waterline and sniffing up as you wish him farewell. Taking a foot inside the train, leaving the life you once knew behind.

a couple of minutes pass everyone seated and chatting you took it upon yourself to look out the window and looked at all the trees passing by.

you couldn’t help but stare down at your locket, opening it and revealing an old wrinkled photo of your family. Featuring a younger version of you and Jake, both of your parents, and your grandmother. 

Your grandmother was a mail-order bride being sold off by her parents when she turned 16. She told you many stories about her husband on dark nights when brushing your hair.

She never wanted you to experience what she did, but life did after your parents' tragic death and your grandmother's illness forced your remaining family into intense debt.

A couple of months ago, you were looking for ads in newspapers for any able jobs. it wasn’t uncommon for a woman in your town to work as a live home nanny.

flipping through the pages you came across the mail bride section.

You always walked pass the bullet board for them heading towards the town's bakery. Sometimes you took time to read, and them only wondered how much confidence it took to entertain the idea.

but the ad you saw was different.

he was a young rancher from a big town a couple of towns over from yours. He was short and straight to the point, saying how he needed someone to take of the housley chores and most importantly an heir.

you immediately went into your father's old study and wrote up a letter.

you poured out your heart and soul into the letter writing long tales explaining how you were the perfect fit.

of course, when your grandmother found out she was upset ranting on and on about how you could just work at the bakery or maybe as a teacher in the nearby schoolhouse.

but once you told her about his letter and how he's offering to send double the money back home she could no longer put up a fight.

as more and more letters got sent and sent off your grandmother soon found out about his status in his town

She told you a man of his reputation you must display eloquence and grace with each step you took

she even took her time and sewed you up some of your mother's old fancier dresses.

you snapped right out of your trance as the train stopped with a loud “CHOO-CHOO” looking around and noticing a bunch of people stepping out the door

once you walked out the door, you were greeted with a bunch more active sight people going in and out of other trains, horses tilting their heads back and forth trying to take off and people being reunited with others.

You looked around for your future husband during the time you two spent sending letters to each other. Tenko described some of his features in the letters he sent.

he had a long scar that crossed his lip, dark red eyes, and long blue locs.

you couldn’t wait to see him scanning the crowds of people until your head stopped at one rancher with a brown cowboy hat with a symbol of a horse in the middle of it

as you and he locked eyes, he can rush towards you.

using his pants to rub off the dust before taking the bags from your hands and leading you up on the covered wagon 

using his hand as a booster for you to get onto the seat next to he's

“ atta' girl Aah hope the train ride weren’t too rough on ya” 

“no, it was alright I just didn’t expect it to be so long”. a small smile crept on your face the way he’s hand scratched his neck as he was trying to come up with small talk is sweet.

you can tell he’s nervous 

“Well, the trip to the ranch an’t all’ dat long I guarantee ya that we can go and fix up some supper for ya”

“ I’ll lac'k that very much” opening up a bright smile towards him

“’M right then”

You didn’t miss the way he’s cheeks turned red

he hops on the wagon grabbing the two handles that connect to the horse's saddle “Giddyip!”

and with that, the wagon started to move with a couple bumps here and there you couldn’t stop to think this was it.

You are here far away from your family and friends and here in this new town. It looked nice from what you saw it definitely wasn’t a small town you weren’t used to.

you wondered if you could even fit in here Tenko spoke so well it only proved himself to be of the upper class.

meanwhile where you came from your folks only knew so much and were taught so little

looking back seeing dust and dust combine in the air and looking at all the faded buildings in your visons.

"I'm guessin' you ‘dudn’t come from a big city?"

“hm?” you turned to him staring at him for a couple of seconds before he began talking again

"T’s way your ‘lookit at me an’ all’ tells me your aint from nowhere near these parts" He looks right at you only for a brief moment before taking his attention back onto the trail.

"me and mah family comes from a little small town. Everyone knows everyone." Staring up back at him you could read his face almost like he didn't know what to say.

he took he's head and just nodded.

for the rest of the ride, you two sat in complete silents. It would be an understatement to say you are nervous. Your grandmother told you on the first day of her marriage they had sex immediately.

you hope he wasn't like that.

"im afraid were here" the horses came to a halt and with that, your head quickly bounced up, and took a look around.

wealthy was a lie.

he was loaded.

green grass as far as the eye can even see a river the size of the ocean circling with the fresh cool breeze causing your hair to blow in the wind. A big ol red barn full of animals, horsing roaming across the wide large field chewing on the long grass that reached mid-way at your leg along with a white house with fences surrounding it.

you'll have a lot to tell granny about.

a low chuckle came from beside you "Im guessin' you lik the place?"

the only thing you could even do is move your head up and down. This place was nothing like anything you had seen before.

"lemme git ya down and I can give ya a tour" He took the two black stallions into the barn cubby making sure their feed and their gates are properly shut.

he reappears in your vision coming up to your side and sticking his hand out for you to use. Once you got down he went and grab your luggage.

"follow me" you lead right behind him walking on the Stoney pathway towards his house well your house now too.

with each step you take on the stairs to the door you start to feel even more homesick it doesn't make a loud CREK! sound like yours do.

" c'mon in ill show ya your room" tapping you lightly on your shoulder.

you begin to bite hard on your lip to the point where blood almost drew

with a quick glance at the door putting all your anxiety in the world in your palms you went in before him taking a few steps forward looking back and seeing him close the door.

He wasn't able to move well not the way you were standing right in front of him gaping at the interior of the house.

the outside didn't do the house any justice.

he chuckled a little at her starstruck-ness

" 'm guessin your gonna lac your room then?" he bends his head down and chuckles a little "ill give you a tour of the place once your settled in"

"we can go now i dont wanna stall on you or nothing"

“ ’M right then”

he leads you up the shiny wooden stairs dissecting the painting that hung from the wall looking at one and noticing the child version of Tenko in the painting. Just looking at these paintings tells you he comes from old money.

taking you to a well-light hallway with pink flower wallpaper on the walls he stops at a birch door and quickly unlocks it.

Once he open the door it was like you were in a new world you took a look at the high ceiling, the soft velvet carpet the shining white vanity with pearls and rings present, and dresses hanging on the dressing screen.

“M’ room is across the room down the right hallway if you need me for anythin’. With that, he placed the luggage down onto your new bed.

You couldn't help yourself but smile at him.

For the first time throughout the trip, he showed you a wide smile showing a little gap.

“Thank you so much for the opportunity I am forever grateful”

he walks over to you his hand placing itself on your lower back while his other hand is tilting your head to look at him placing a warm kiss on your forehead.

“get some sleep Y/n”

maybe living here won't be so bad.

©NoviSt3rplanet/I do not like reposting, modifying, or translating on any platforms! thank you 🤎

[hurricane105]

Y'all Hyrule is BIG. Outside of fast travel with the slate or swapping horses out, it would take days to travel across the continent. Zelda isn't getting to the Spring of Wisdom in a day.

Korok Forest (black line): Hyrule Castle bridge to Boneyard Bridge to Helmhead Bridge to Woodland Stable to the platform in front of the Great Deku Tree: 33 hrs 10 min

Goron City (orange line): Hyrule Castle Bridge to Orsedd Bridge to Thims Bridge to Foothill Stable to Bludo's house: 65 hrs 15 min

Spring of Power (pink line): Hyrule Castle Bridge to Orsedd Bridge to Thims Bridge to Akkala Span to Shadow Pass to where the trail splits for Skull Lake to the Spring of Power (last stage was cross country): 66 hrs 30 min

Akkala Citadel (red line): Hyrule Castle Bridge to Orsedd Bridge to Thims Bridge to Akkala Span to Akkala Citadel: 45 hrs 10 min

Zora's Domain (blue line): Hyrule Castle Bridge to Orsedd Bridge to Thims Bridge to Inogo Bridge to Mipha's statue: 59 hrs 20 min

Kakariko (purple line): Hyrule Castle Bridge to Sacred Ground Ruins to Mabe Prairie to Rebonae Bridge to Sahasra Slope to the stairs in front of Impa's house: 27 hrs 20 min

Spring of Wisdom (purple line): Hyrule Castle Bridge to Sacred Ground Ruins to Mabe Prairie to Rebonae Bridge to Sahasra Slope to Great Fairy Fountain to Lanayru Promenade to Lanayru Road - East Gate to Naydra Snowfield around Mount Lanayru to platform in front of the goddess statue in the Spring of Wisdom: 52 hrs 10 min 

Hateno (white line): Hyrule Castle Bridge to Sacred Ground Ruins to Gatepost Town Ruins to Proxim Bridge to Big Twin Bridge to Fort Hateno to the gate of Hateno: 55 hrs 40 min 

Spring of Courage (green line):  Hyrule Castle Bridge to Sacred Ground Ruins to Gatepost Town Ruins to Bridge of Hylia to Faron Woods to Zonai Ruins to platform in front of the goddess statue in the Spring of Courage: 44 hrs 30 min

Gerudo Town (yellow line): Hyrule Castle Bridge to Giant's Forest (pretty much straight south, then turned west at the Great Plateau) to Digdogg Suspension Bridge to Gerudo Town: 74 hrs 5 min

Rito Village (brown line): Hyrule Castle Bridge to Carok Bridge to Tabantha Great Bridge to the arch guarded by Mazli at the base of the stairs into Rito Village: 63 hrs 15 min

Royal Ancient Lab Ruins (gray line): Hyrule Castle Bridge to Carok Bridge to Royal Ancient Lab Ruins: 20 hrs 50 min

*these routes follow the shortest/most direct roads, doesn't go cross country unless it's unavoidable (like when approaching the springs) or unless it looks like a road was there pre-Calamity (like the Sahasra Slope); the exception is the Spring of Courage, where I didn't see any obvious route; I'm guessing they either did some climbing and cross country hiking, or rafted up the Dracozu River

*this is the slowest walking speed I could get - any slower and Link stopped moving, but I think it's still faster than the walking speed shown in the memories, especially #3 (Resolve and Grief) - pushing the left stick all the way forward results in what looks like jogging, not walking

*this doesn't include time for sheltering from inclement weather, sleep, making/breaking camp, rest/meal breaks, monster attacks, walking slower due to changes in elevation (the hike to Goron City has to be brutal) - it's literally a walking pace straight through

[onwardnozward]

The Great and Terrible Humbug of Nebraska

Oscar Zoroaster Diggs was the son of a failed politician, growing up for the first part of his childhood in Omaha, Nebraska during the 1840s. His father was a cowardly humbug, relying upon the blinding greed of others to achieve his goals, however the one thing he was capable of teaching his son was how not to achieve success. Oscar was a dreamer, he saw the potential in his father’s lies, in the stupidity of men in power. From a young age, he knew the only thing he lacked was his own power to put his ideas into action.

The sins of his father would later catch up to the man, as he left Oscar behind without as much as a note before skipping town. The kid would roam for a while, before falling in with a traveling circus having stopped for a rest. It was here that Oscar would find his first home, finding familiarity in the carnie circuit as he got to experience adventure upon the midwestern prairies of the 1850s, and here where he earned his title and act, “the Great and Powerful O.Z., Sorcerer Extraordinaire from Faraway Lands.” Merely a con, he fabricated a story of having learned the Ancient Wisdom from the great crowned mystics and monks from Europe to Asia, using his learned talents for the manipulation of divination cards, sleight of hand, illusion, ventriloquism and mimicry in order to sell his act.

Years would pass, acts would be traded in for others and money would be lost with it, as well as general disinterest as the country closed in upon war. Oscar had grown almost disinterested in the circus, as his dreams of power had regained traction with his age. He tired of performing illusions to the everyday uneducated bumpkin in exchange for spare change. During his travels in the circus, he had overheard the older carnies and magicians talk of practices from older societies, of grimoires that held the key to power, the ability to control the very weave of reality. He had replaced his hobby of illusion and tarot divination with a true devotion to uncovering the secrets of the occult and ancient mysticism. It was during this time that he would become associated with the high ranking clerics and priests of the Theosophical Society, and the truth of the stories that had fueled his new found passion, the Lemegeton.

Many phony replicas had been produced in the centuries since its binding, however after tracing down the origins of the grimoires mythology, digging through many crypts only ‘said-to-be’ belonging to obsolete kings, Oscar would uncover the reason as to why the true Lemegeton had never been recovered; the court sorcerers of the dead king had recited a ritual to hide the book away beyond the veil of mortality, within the Other World.

Oscar Zoroaster Diggs was the son of a failed politician, desperate to prove he was better than the hand he was dealt. In the 1870s, he would research the ceremony to cross the planes of reality under the tutelage of his former associates, arrange the proper sacrifices, and hijack an old hot air balloon used for advertising the circus to sail into the arcane vortex ripped into the atmosphere by the ritual.

[nancypullen]

It Is What It Is & It Is Not Great

Anyone else just existing right now? We have a grace period of about two months, and the incoming regime is making preparations to be every bit as horrible as we'd expect. Possibly worse. Right now I feel like doing one of two things: 1. Sell the house and car and keep only treasured items in storage. Buy a ticket to Amsterdam and spend the next four years wearing out our visas country by country. I think most European countries allow you to stay 3 months (90 days) without a visa, so really, we could even hop country to country without having to worry about that. or 2. Buy some land, just a few acres, build a little house and start growing and raising enough food for our family. This appeals to me. Although I know i could grow and can food, the "raising" part would have to just be chickens for the eggs because I can't kill and eat an animal that I've named and loved. So that's basically all of them. I'm willing to become Ma Ingalls and churn butter and make cheese. I'll isolate myself out on the prairie while the world goes mad. Pretty sure that the mister would choose option 1. I'm trying to keep myself busy. I'm preparing for Christmas like a mad woman. It was raining boxes here on Sunday so I wrapped gifts and tied bows while listening to a murder podcast (I mean, it was a holiday murder). Matt will be home for Thanksgiving, but the Edgewater gang will be in Tennessee, so ours will be a small holiday. I've ordered a pie from Craft Bakery (yum!) and we'll probably go into D.C. to the Christmas Market and spend an evening there. That'll be fun. Fall colors are fading here, but it's still pretty. I sat in my porch spot today and listened to birds sing in this tree.

Squirrels are rushing around, getting ready for winter. I read somewhere that they forget 75% of the nuts they bury. Same, squirrel, same. How many things have I put in a "safe place" only to never see them again?

While I was in Florida I checked the ring doorbell after a package delivery and noticed that twoo of my little porch pumpkins were out on the sidewalk. There hadn't been a storm or even a windy day that might have caused them to roll off the porch steps. I checked back later and saw this guy rolling one away.

Okay, that's a terribly blurry screenshot, but it's a squirrel making off with one of my pumpkins. When I got home from my trip I spotted this.

So I scooped up all of the pumpkins and put them in the back yard for a royal feast.

They've been having a ball with them. At any given time I can peek out a window and see six or eight fluffy tails poking up around the pumpkins. I hope their tummies are full. Molly is loving watching the action from her bedroom perch.

In an attempt to enjoy the last bit of autumn color we went ove rto Adkins Arboretum one afternoon for a hike. The weather was perfect, and I just love the quiet. Bird songs, woodpeckers at work, crunchy leaves, fresh air - just what I needed.

Time in a forest is time well spent. That was followed by a weekend visit with our grandgirl who leaves laughter and fairy dust in her wake. We talked about Christmas, played unicorn school (long story) and raked leaves in pajamas (another long story).

I finally took down my Harris/Walz sign, with a heavy heart, but I did replace it.

So that's what I'm doing on this end, searching for scraps of joy and hanging onto them for dear life. The colors of autumn, a giggling grandgirl, holidays with people I love - it gives me glimmers of hope. There is always something to care about, to smile about, even if it's just a beautiful moon or a happy wren singing. All those little moments add up. Savor them. Sending out so much love tonight. Help yourself to what you need and pass it on. That's how we'll get through this, by holding each other up. Take care of yourselves, my dears. Stay safe, stay well. XOXO, Nancy

[scotianostra]

The Scottish folk singer Jean Redpath died on August 21st 2014.

Blessed with a sweet but slightly roughened mezzo-soprano as gentle as mist and haunting as the highlands, Jean Redpath was one of the definitive interpreters of Scottish traditional songs. She was also a noted folk music ethnographer who played an important role in the reconstruction of nearly forgotten Scottish songs and was a lecturer at Scotland's Stirling University since 1979, and also lectured regularly at Wesleyan University in Middletown, Connecticut and other prominent institutions, including Harvard.

She was born in Fife country outside Edinburgh. Her father played hammered dulcimer, and her mother was well versed in Scottish oral history, most of which was passed from mother to daughter via songs. One of four daughters, their mother passed on the music to each. Her knowledge of the ancient songs proved useful while Redpath was attending the School of Scottish Studies at the University of Edinburgh and had begun formal research into her native ballads and compositions.

In 1961 she immigrated to New York, where she began singing in Greenwich Village coffeehouses. Redpath also gave formal concerts at events such as the Lincoln Center's Mostly Mozart Festival and soon became an extremely popular performer on the folk circuit. Not only did they love her unique, sensitive voice, audiences were also impressed by her knowledge about the over 400 songs in her repertoire and the fascinating insights about the music that Redpath offered during her concerts.

In 1963 she sang for the first time at the New School for Social Research and this led her to sign with Elektra, where she recorded through 1975, when she switched to the Vermont-based Philo label. With them she became one of folk music's most prolific recording artists. One of her most notable achievements was an ongoing project to record all of the songs written by Robert Burns. Out of 22 planned volumes, only seven were completed due to the death of producer Serge Hovey. Other well-known Redpath series include a compilation of Scottish songs written by women, including Lady Nairne, if you recall I posted her rendition of one last week.

In addition to recording and performing live, Redpath also appeared on such radio programs as Morning Pro Musica on Boston's WGBH public radio station. Between 1974 and 1987 Redpath was also a regular on Garrison Keillor's Prairie Home Companion radio show. In August 2014 she died from cancer at a hospice in Arizona at the age of 77.

[aggiepython]

a piece i did for a class on native american history, inspired by Murder on the Red River by Marcie Rendon (more info under cut)

“She bounded down two concrete stairs and stepped out on to the green grass of the campus mall, surrounded on either side by thick stately oaks. She could tell each one had been strategically planted along the winding sidewalks between the red brick buildings. Even with groups of students sitting on the grass, leaning against their trunks, the trees seemed lonely. Nothing like the oaks along the river that grew where they wanted to grow and leaned in and touched each other with their middle branches, whose voices sang through their leaves like the hum of electric wires running alongside the country roads.” From Murder on the Red River

This piece is inspired by Murder on the Red River, a mystery novel by Marcie Rendon. It’s about Cash Blackbear, a young Ojibwe woman who investigates the murder of a Native man. Cash was taken from her mother and siblings as a young child and lived in a series of foster homes, most of which were abusive. About a third of Native American children were taken from their parents and placed in foster homes, even when they could have been placed with relatives instead of being separated from their community members and culture. Native American boarding schools, which also separated children from their families and culture, had mostly all been shut down by the 1970s (Katherine Beane), when Murder on the Red River takes place. But the removal of children to foster homes was just another way that the government tried to force Native Americans to assimilate into white culture. The Indian Child Welfare Act was passed in 1978. It set requirements to keep Native children with relatives when safe and possible, and to work with the tribe and family of children. This act has made progress, though Native children are still adopted or placed in foster care at a higher rate than non-Native children (NICWA). In my illustration, there are four trees, representing Cash, her mother, and her two siblings. In the image on the right, the trees are growing as they do in their natural forest habitat, winding together. In the image on the left, the trees have been planted on the neat lawn of the college campus, a place where white culture is dominant. The trees are apart from each other, separated as Cash’s family were torn apart. They were forced to assimilate as many Native Americans were. The trees are bur oaks, aka Quercus macrocarpa, a species native to North Dakota where the book takes place. Their range encompasses much of the U.S. and parts of Canada (Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center). The grass on the right image is Kentucky Bluegrass, aka Poa pratensis. It is invasive to North America. It was introduced in the 17th century from Europe, and is now found all over North America. It is commonly used for lawns and pasture, and can outcompete native prairie plants (North Dakota State Library). The Red River borders North Dakota and Minnesota. The Ojibwe have lived in Minnesota since before the 17th century, after migrating from Northeastern North America over hundreds of years (Minnesota Historical Society). The shape of the Red River traces through the image, weaving and intermingling through the branches of the trees, showing Cash’s deep connection with the land she is from.

Works Cited “About IWCA” National Indian Child Welfare Association, https://www.nicwa.org/about-icwa/ Beane, Katherine, American Indians in Minnesota, 12 March 2024, Nicholson Hall, Minneapolis, MN. Lecture. “Kentucky Bluegrass”, North Dakota State Library. https://www.library.nd.gov/statedocs/AgDept/Kentuckybluegrass20070703.pdf Rendon, Marcie. Murder on the Red River. Soho Crime, 2017. “The Ojibwe People”, Minnesota Historical Society, https://www.mnhs.org/fortsnelling/learn/native-americans/ojibwe-people “Quercus macrocarpa”, Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center, https://www.wildflower.org/plants/result.php?id_plant=QUMA2

[spinningorigins]

So it's my birthday tomorrow.

I thought about sharing my thoughts regarding my aunt and uncles passing, and everything they took with them, but I don't think I will. Here's some memories from them instead.

When I was ten, my sister and I went to the Salina mall, which was dying even back then. The arcade was hopping though, and we found a side-scrolling, 4 player X-men game. It was fun, but we were no good at it. This group of teenage boys came up and I thought they were going to kick us off, but instead they took turns on the other two player slots and carried us through the game. I remember the thrill of it, that very human connection of strangers coming together to overcome a challenge. That this gang of teens looked at us and decided they were gonna help these little girls win the game. I never got their names, and I never saw them again, but I hope the stresses of living in a small midwestern town were not overwhelming to them.

The Flint Hills are some of the most beautiful country I've ever been through. The prevailing thought about Kansas is that it's flat as a board, but that isn't really the case. The hills are low, yes, but they roll like waves on the ocean. There is movement in the land. It's mostly pastureland with some prairie restoration areas. When we went out in the summer for the county fair, it was a million shades of green, dotted with wildflowers and cows. But when we went for Thanksgiving, the land was precious metals; copper, silver, gold, rusted iron. A world of autumn color without the need for trees. The sunset fills the entire sky.

The grass is different in Kansas, from what we have here. In my aunt and uncles lawn, and at their farm, with the lilac bushes where I saw my first swallowtail butterfly. It stays low, and its leaves grow sideways, at angles. They interlock and form a soft cushion that feels very nice to walk on. It's probably invasive; the whole area was big and little bluestem once. That was long before me.

I'll probably never see it again. They were the only reason we ever went out to that town. Now they're gone, and the farm will be sold, and the house I spent so much time in will be sold, and all of these things are behind me now. But tomorrow is my birthday.

[that-windy-place-tho]

I can romanticize my life too!

I love: the annual tarantula migration, dust devils that pick up the fall leaves, mailbox spiders and porch lizards, cows that block the road, road runners, coyotes and bobcats and mountain lions, old people that talk to me about the neighborhood drama, small children that get so excited to get the mail from me, snakes trying to cross the road, coworkers that give me apples and candy and advice, cats on my route that remember me, dogs on my route that bark at me through fences and doors and windows, watching marigolds spread from yard to every yard on the street, people that remember me, people that ask my name every time we meet, helping dogs get back home when they explore the neighborhood, sassy doormats, windchimes tinkling, birds nesting in newspaper boxes, cookies left for me in the mailbox, spotting a new type of wildflower, vintage postcards sent daily, small talk with other delivery drivers when we have boxes for the same house, the garbage women that helped me get my van out of a snowdrift, herds of pronghorns on the prairie, people talking to me at stoplights delighted by my right-hand drive van, horses that watch me as I pass, cows running in a herd and kicking up a cloud of dust, watching the sun go down over the mountains, post office donuts and pizza and potlucks, my former boss to former coworker to close friend that says I need more tattoos, taping Christmas cards up in my workspace, waving to customers, warm autumns and bitter springs, calls with loved ones that last hours, free furniture on the roadside, stacks of invitations or cards sent to around the country or down the street, being a mail carrier.

[butmakeitgayblog]

How would MBFW Clarke and Lexa handle Valentine’s Day. Would they normally do valentines celebrations when they were both single and just ignore talking about it when one of them had a date?

It's cute that you think they would ignore it when they're in a relationship 😅

There's a reason the longest real continuous relationships either can manage lasts roughly 12-18 months. It's always the same timeline, ~inexplicably~, just long enough for Christmas, New Years, birthdays, and valentine's day to roll through. Once all those pass, said partner really sees the image become incredibly clear that,,, holy fuckin shit these two idiots are dating each other

If they're not on the same side of country, the first order of business for the day would be to "surprise" each other with a gift package (they do this every year. neither is surprised. No one is surprised). Lexa showing up to work to an overflowing bouquet of flowers crammed onto her desk. Nothing as prosaic as roses tho. More fanciful choices like buttercups and lilies of the Incas, tropical picks from places they've vacationed together, assorted prairie wildflowers, fringed tulips because Lexa once said she likes the way they tickle her nose. Sometimes new writing journals, fancy leather ones embossed with her initials and gold lining to make her feel like a big deal writer. Sometimes a new handmade scented candle from a seminar Clarke just so happened to take just for fun. Clarke generally gets sweets, sometimes tickets to a show or museum she's offhandedly mentioned she wanted to see, sometimes an art piece Lexa saw and just felt Clarke should own. Of course those come with cards that, for them, are perfectly chaste, and yet each somehow seem to know better than to let anyone else get their hands on them 🤔... just cuz, ya know, it's personal.

And they facetime at some point, because they have to, even if it's only for a few minutes. Because even if they're in a relationship that doesn't mean they're ever not each other's valentine. It's just "in a different way."

They really can't understand why their significant others don't seem to be able to get it 🤨

[piizunn]

harvest 16/9/23

harvest 9/16/23

i think i saw jupiter that night. 

when i am out in the country i try to hold my breath so that i do not miss a single note the land has to offer.

i burn the image into my eyes 

of the sun set over the foothills and mountains beyond. 

great teeth biting into ripe fruit. 

seated in a circle we passed our meal around

it brought to mind a story an Elder once told me, of spirits feeding each other with long spoons from a shared pot. 

the air was warm the way late summer is with the smell of the solstice, drying leaves, wild rose hips, the sweetgrass fields, and a reminder of cold nights to come. 

the headlights of a truck parked on the grass illuminated our path, avoiding the prairie dog dens. 

the sky seems a lot closer to us out here on the plains. i made a promise to myself that one day i will be able to name every planet, star, and constellation in the languages of my ancestors, and ask the question of how far through time and across

the distance between us

did this light travel to visit on the night of the harvest dinner.