#Prairie Press

[uwmspeccoll]

Wood Engraving Wednesday

Noted Wisconsin artist Frank Utpatel (1905-1980) was a longtime collaborator with Wisconsin writer and publisher August Derleth (1909-1971), who founded the Arkham House publishing firm in Sauk City, Wisconsin, publisher of, among other things, the works of H. P. Lovecraft. Many of Utpatel's book illustrations were done as wood engravings. Presented here are four engravings by Utpatel, printed directly from the original blocks for August Derleth's journal musings Walden Pond: Homage to Thoreau, and printed in 1968 by letterpress publisher Carroll Colman (1904-1989) at his Prairie Press in Iowa City, Iowa.

A Thoreau enthusiast, Derleth made three pilgrimages to Walden Pond in 1938, 1947, and 1965. This book presents some of his journal entries from those visits, "brought together here in the hope that fellow Thoreauvians may find something to their liking in these pages." Our copy was signed by Derleth and Utpatel to Wisconsin resident Genevieve Turk.

View more wood engravings by Frank Utpatel.

View more posts on works by August Derleth.

View more posts with wood engravings!

[exdeputysonso]

Grim Prairie Tales (1990)

[sakizm]

i love the prairie so much that i call the nebraska sandhills region my little paradise on earth

[virginreprise]

. ・. ゜. -: ✧ :- INDEBTED TO ✧ YOU

jackson!joel miller x reader ・゜゜・．

° : ⋆ₓ ₒ slight ddlg dynamics, smut, age gap, dirty talk, daddy kink, joel's perverted inner monologue, just pure filth whilst i try and get junky pride pt3 finished lmao

2.7k words ┊ ┊ ┊ ˚✧

˚ · • . ° . AO3 ˚ ·. • . ° .

Brief murmurs of Tommy’s chastising fumbled in the back of his mind, the harsh way he’d shook his head—told him you were far too young; that a man like Joel had no business talking to someone like you. Someone hardened and vulnerable, despairing and mutilated by life and every tribulation that had befallen you. 

“She was a child when all this happened,” he’d informed, almost caring as they shared a beer in the empty bar: the usual intensity and hubbub of Jackson’s population had dwindled to the few who dared venture into the snow when the moon hung high and the lanterns flickered off. Footsteps covered by the ever-falling white—lost to the prairie. “You had a child-“ 

Joel had cut him off with a stare, heat forming in his stomach that bubbled and raged—hard to keep down as he gripped the bottle, hand wet with condensation, and grabbed his jacket. Ready to take his leave. Tommy had known he’d gone too far and they’d never spoken of you again, Just Joel’s quiet, mumbled monologue and his little brother’s lingering disproval that seemed so irrational when you’d sunk on his lap and called him daddy. 

Surely it was natural: when denied something, there’d be an overwhelming intensity to have it. That when he was told “No,” he’d ignore every obstacle that conjured in his space. 

Maybe Joel was just stubborn. Or maybe you were just so sweet he couldn’t take his brother's advice and leave you alone. 

But you’d ended up in his bed, writhing underneath him whilst he held your wrists above your head and stretched you wide open—cooing at your pretty little whimpers as he nestled between your thighs. 

“There you go, baby.” He stroked the hair away from your forehead, eyes flickering down to gaze at the space between your legs—the way he disappeared inside of you as his balls pressed against your ass, slick dribbling down onto his bedsheets that he’d changed just hours before you’d come to him. He didn’t care, though. God, he’d be able to smell you all day, have the sweetness of you permeating throughout the room until the scent carried its way into his everyday life. 

Patrolling the surrounding area, you’d be there—dancing along his nose. In his workshop, as he sanded away the rough wood, making something for you as a Christmas present, he’d be able to feel you around him, taste you on his lips and hear the remnants of those staccato moans as you came around his fingers. 

“Daddy’s got you,” he mumbled as he breathed out a soft moan, the tightness of you around him causing him to pause—to contemplate his words that came so sinfully from his already tainted lips. 

Jackson should’ve been a new start, a new beginning where he could leave the horrors and the terror behind. But you: pretty little thing that barely spoke, who responded to every question with a quiet nod or a shake of your head and hoped that someone else would verbalise every feeling for you, had ruined those hopes for him—had shattered the image he’d created whilst hammering a nail into the wall, ready to hang his paintings on. 

You were sweet. So damn sweet. 

With a harshness in your eyes that hinted at similar pasts, at losses that neither of you could overcome. Why Tommy didn’t think you were fucking perfect for each other, Joel would never know. 

“Daddy’s here, darlin’, all for you.”

They were incoherent blabbers, things that Joel would never say if he wasn’t so drunk off pussy and the look on your pretty little face as he began slowly moving his hips. 

“D-daddy?” 

God, you sounded so fucking pretty. All glassy-eyes and fucked out with a little bit of drool pooling at the corner of your mouth. He lapped it up with a solid kiss, an arm wrapped around your waist as he tugged you close to him—wanting to feel every part of you, every soft piece of flesh, pressed against him. 

“Shhh, it’s okay.” Another kiss to your forehead, grinding his pubic bone into your clit—wanting to stay wrapped up like this forever; hoping that you’d stay with and warm his bed after all was said and done. Keep moaning that name of his, that filthy little name that would give Tommy an aneurysm if he heard it, until you came and cried all over his cock. 

“Hurts,” you managed to get out. “S’too big.” 

The pride that seized him was unlike any other, the light chuckle he let out unable to be prevented as he pressed another kiss to your forehead, one to both cheeks, your nose and then lips. 

“I know, honey.” His fingers found their way between your thighs, stroking circles into your clit—attempting to appease the ache as he rolled his hips into you. “Deep breaths.” 

Kisses fell from your lips to your jaw, trailing to your neck where he sucked, smiling as you keened and bucked your hips. 

You took it so well. Took everything he gave with no complaints, writhing around in his bed, messing his covers and calling his name. 

Daddy, Daddy, Daddy. 

It fell from your lips so perversely, but so pretty that he didn’t have it in him to tell you no. 

He’d be your daddy if that’s what you wanted. He was the right fucking age, silver in his hair—in his goddamn pubes too. His bones ached, knees cracking as he stood from the couch, back completely giving up on him after that one time a year ago when he’d held too much firewood in his arms and he’d gone tumbling down with the logs, crashing to the floor and having to crawl back inside his house. He hadn’t gone on patrol for a good few weeks after and he’d been careful with the damn fragile thing ever since. 

He was fragile. Fragile and old with a pudge to his tummy that never seemed to go away no matter how much he tried, wrinkles spidering near the corners of his eyes, and a pretty young thing in his bed that clenched around his dick whilst the adrenaline pumped around his body in seismic waves and made him forget all about the backache as he hovered over you. 

“You feel good?’ he asked softly, fingers still rubbing at your clit as you wrapped your legs around his hips. 

You nodded, nonverbal, unable to bring your thoughts to fruition as you mumbled incoherent things into the space between your lips. 

“C’mon baby, tell daddy how you feel.”

You whined, gripping his shoulders and digging your nails into the taut muscle. 

“S-s-s-so good, daddy.

God, he felt so fucking filthy, so depraved, so perverted. But, amongst all of that, he felt good. He felt undeniably euphoric with you wrapped around him, name echoing in the darkest corners of his mind and slipping from his throat so naturally it was like he was born to do this for you. To take care of you. Your sole vocation was to be his pretty baby for the rest of his life—not lift a goddamn finger as he did everything you asked him to. 

Get home after a long day patrolling to you in the kitchen, waiting for him eagerly and throwing yourself into his arms to give him a kiss. Tell him how much you missed him. That you’d been needing him all day. 

Joel just wanted someone to look after. And if that meant being labelled as a pervert by his brother and possibly by the entirety of Jackson, so what? 

“Yeah, I’ll make you feel good,” he murmured to himself, the words soft and delicate as he closed his eyes for a brief second, savouring the feeling of your heat around him and pulling you as tight to him as he possibly could. Breasts pressed against his chest, the softness of them against the wiry hairs: a contrast so delightful and thrilling. 

He brought his lips down to yours, tongue pressing into you—wanting to consume. To taste every single part of you. 

Hips began their movement, your mouth hanging open as he continued to lick at you; he pressed down on your stomach with intention, hand moving from your clit to the soft space above it and felt himself inside you, moving softly, scraping against every spot that had you shaking and twitching.

You gripped him tighter, whimpers and moans gracing the air, nuzzling into his touch when he stroked a hand down your cheek to admire the unmistakable and overwhelming beauty of you: all drunk off his cock and losing yourself to the feeling of him sinking deep inside you. 

“You like Daddy’s cock in you, huh?” His voice was strained with lust, dick jerking inside you when you clamped down on him—his words the biggest effect. He loved it: the way you’d start squirming and gaze at your shoes every time he spoke out of turn, every time something filthy fell from his lips. You loved hearing him talk, whisper dirty words that he daredn’t bring outside the four walls of his room. 

The left side of the bed that had been empty for so long, just waiting for you to warm it, to have your scent sink into the mattress and stay there for eternity. 

Understandably, you struggled to answer his question, just nodding slightly, almost imperceptible: the tiny little head jerk. 

“C’mon, baby, use your words.” 

You whined, digging your heels into his back, gripping tighter onto his shoulders; he was sure you’d leave marks, big long scratches down the expanse of already scarred skin. Decorating him with an ardent display of passion and desire—marking him as yours. 

He would be yours. 

Every breath, every cry, every laugh: yours alone.

In turn, he would get to keep you, locked away in his house, safe from every danger that crept outside the walls. 

“Love Daddy’s cock,” you mumbled, face heating in embarrassment at the crudeness, pressing your face as best you could into the pillows. Joel refused. He would not deny himself the pleasure of staring down at you as you took him, lips parted, eyes screwed up in pleasure with tears dripping to your temple. 

Fingers found your jaw, turning you to face him, enamoured by the way you clung and bucked—wishing for all of him. 

“Daddy,” you moaned, lips turned into a pout, a cry escaping you as his hips sped up—thrusts coming quicker. The arm around your waist tightened, tugging you upwards so he could reach deeper. Balls fucking deep. 

“There you go,” he encouraged, kissing softly at your collarbone, nipping slightly as he moved to your shoulder. “That feels good, don’t it, sweetheart?” 

This time, he didn’t mind when you didn’t reply, too focused on you gushing around him. Practically drooling from that tight little pussy as he snapped his hips upward and felt his head go funny—mind clouded by the heat of you. He was fucking burning up, everything on his mind spewing from his lips as he leant over you; ignoring the ache in his hips that served as a gentle reminder that he was old. That this was still wrong and that if anyone ever found out about what he did to you and what he let you call him, they’d exile him from Jackson and look back on the days of the pervert next door: Joel Miller. 

“Tommy says I’m too old for you,” he grunted, hand grabbing at your wrists when they fell from his back—too cock-drunk to keep them on him. “Says that I’ll ruin you.” The monologuing had been unintentional, the sentences that formed something that he was desperate to keep to himself. Too late now. All restraint had been lost as soon as you’d coaxed his fingers into your panties and shown him just how much you wanted him. “You like it, though, don’t you? You’d do whatever—fuck—whatever I tell you like a good little girl. Wouldn’t you, baby?”

You nodded enthusiastically. 

“Whatever you want, daddy.” 

He chuckled, eyes full of mirth as he kissed you softly, slipping his hands into yours and pushing them down into the pillows. He couldn’t bear the thought of you leaving, some part of him still thinking that this was all just a sick joke, that you didn’t actually want an old man like him and were going to run away the first chance you got. But, you called his name again, that fateful moniker that had his dick twitching in his pants, all doubts were lost. 

“Can feel you squeezin’ me, darlin’,” he said, pressing his pelvis purposefully against you, grinding down on your clit and watching your mouth hang open in ecstasy—eyes squeezed shut as you mumbled a high-pitched, whiny “Daddy.” The best one yet, as far as Joel was concerned. “You almost there, baby? You gonna cum all over Daddy’s cock? Gonna let all of them hear how much you want me? Huh?” 

You nodded vigorously, sharp gasps falling from your lips, body writhing underneath his as it built itself tall inside your stomach. Growing and growing until you were clamping down on him so tight he thought his dick would fall off. 

“C’mon, babydoll, let it out,” Joel coaxed, kissing all over your face, all down your chest and took a nipple in his mouth, sucked and grazed harshly until he felt you gushing—breath held as you soaked it in, and then a sharp cry falling from your lips as it washed over you. “There you go,” he murmured against your skin, hips slowing to guide you through, throat hoarse as he felt his own impending orgasm. 

Your head fell back onto the pillows, mouth dropped open as you tried to breathe through the sharp stabs of pleasure, Joel’s licentiousness overpowering his restraint as he pummeled into you as fast as his old bones would let him. He pushed his way through your stomach, almost coming apart right there when he looked down and saw the bulge. 

A choked groan forced its way out his throat, stomach tensing as his ears began ringing, not registering your soft whimpers and small sobs—the small daddy’s that you struggled to project above the beginning of Joel’s release. 

He outright moaned when he finally spilt inside you, cock twitching, arms shaking as he tried with all his might to keep himself balanced on his palms. 

“Daddy?” you were coming back into focus now, his bleary eyes regaining their vision and his chest heaving as he managed to breathe again—now able to fully take in the sight of you. Sweat on your brow, tears streaming from your eyes and lips full: evidence of his bruising kisses. 

“I’m here, baby,” he breathed out, indulging in your soft moan as he pulled out of you and collapsed onto the mattress beside you. He brought you with him, tugging at your waist and manoeuvring you so you lay close—warm body tucked under his arm. 

A soft kiss to your forehead, a repeated slew of “I’m here,” and “Daddy’s not goin’ anywhere,” leaving his lips as he held you as close as possible. 

Fuck Tommy, fuck Maria, fuck anyone who dared share their opinions of his choice in relations. You were his now, cum seeping from your legs—marking you. Claiming you. 

All he wanted was to take care of you, feed you, clothe you, bathe you, keep you happy, safe and warm and pray to God that you would never come to your senses one day and run far away. That you’d realise what you two had was…different. Not wrong, just different. 

He wouldn’t let you go. 

No, he’d keep you. 

Tucked into his side, a mumbled “G’night, daddy,” on your pretty lips, and the feel of you against him as your body grew heavy with sleep. 

He would stay up for hours after you’d finally fallen into slumber, watching the soft rise and fall of your chest, listening to the snores that he found overwhelmingly endearing. Kiss you a couple more times and breathe in your scent. Make sure that you wouldn’t escape in the middle of the night and go tell everyone what a disgusting, sleazy old man Joel Miller really was. 

Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.

That word rested heavily on his shoulders, all night lying awake and waiting to hear it again. 

God, he was in fucking deep; he wouldn’t be letting you go for as long as you were still wet and willing.

© virginreprise

thanks for reading ! i wrote this whilst thinking of that one guy who was perfect for me. i hope you can feel my longing and desire projected through joel's thoughts. if anyone's wondering about junky pride, i hope to get it out soon. i really really just love jackson joel more than anything and want him in me so bad.

[chase-prairie]

HUGE NEWS!!! The Rethinking Lawns project of @chicagobotanic @ChicagoParks @UMFlint just received the PACSP grant from @NSF & @PGAFamilyFdn to support our research into lawn enhancement & replacement with native plants. PIs:

@BeckSamBar @BeckyTonietto @lglyndal @chase_prairie (that's me!)

Turf lawns are omnipresent landscapes in urban settings. While they are more beneficial than impervious surfaces, our research project asks the question: what could our lawns become?

Coming from backgrounds in prairie restoration and urban native plants, we are proposing that incorporating short native plants into lawn greenspaces can produce concrete benefits for people and our more-than-human neighbors.

We are quantifying the benefits of our native plants in these settings, putting numbers to the theoretical benefits documented in the literature. We are measuring wildlife support, stormwater infiltration, cooling effect, and soil carbon storage.

To learn more, check out our website with official press releases and links and goodies!

[anantaru]

DAY 13 — BITING/MARKING

kinktober 2023. — masterlist | ao3

𖧡 — including — kaveh, kazuha, cyno, venti

𖧡 — warnings — fem! reader, biting/marking, neck bites & marking you with his cum, tit play/tit sucking (cyno uses his vision on you but only a little), fingering, oral (fem! receiving), lots of cum & kind of messy (venti's part)

𖧡 — KAVEH

kaveh will leave his eyes closed before he slopes his head into your neck, and oh, who would've thought? you can feel his blonde hair lightly prod your cheeks before you breathe in the cloying fragrance he wore— such candid scent was one wefted within sumeru roses, a prairie of perfume that had wended its way through his body pressed on top of yours.

"having trouble, hm?" a low, teasing voice rattles kindly into the shell of your ears before you cling onto him, the arch of your back more defined as you sneakily grind your sensitive cunt against his exposed erection, choking out a breathy sob as kaveh kisses the stinging splotches on your neck.

it's almost too slow to your own liking, amost punishing and it drives you mad— how kaveh doesn't give your little cunt some much needed attention, but instead wholly focuses on branding his white canines on your neck and collarbones instead, because the thought of someone seeing them was absolutely intoxicating, besides, it was way easier to spot that you're taken when your neck was littered all over with hickeys.

"mhm… no trouble." the gentle, candid noises you'd make whenever he tips you into a dreamy haze, it pushes kaveh towards the edge of cumming without even being touched by you yet. and he begins to rut the mattress underneath him in a feral tempo, immediately ghosting his hands over your shaky figure before settling two digits on top of your puffy clit— his wet lips, never leaving your neck and suckling strong on the soused places before rubbing your cunt, battering his rough finger pads against the thudding nerves and awaiting your moans turning the humid air all the more sweeter.

fuck— you’re barely able to express how good he made you feel and how impossibly deep his fingers reached inside, pummeling a hot bristle on your cheeks as your hips meet his sensual touch half way, the metrical movements slurred and passionate— perfect traces setting your skin aflame.

truthfully, it’s quite the win-win situation whenever kaveh marks you up and pleasures you at the same time— for one, it’s never hidden whenever curious eyes trail along your beautiful figure. whilst, okay, maybe you will end up trying to cover it up with a large scarf or a turtleneck, but your handsome boyfriend will scoff at you, overly dramatic, a sad roll of his eyes touching up his precious face when you tell him it's very inappropriate if someone spots those hickeys on you.

𖧡 — KAZUHA

you blink down between your parted thighs, in a daze, and whine out in the most heavenly tune imaginable, in utter approval when kazuha drags the flat of his tongue inside the flesh of your folds— the wet lick on you was certainly claiming and presses the air from your aching lungs, the pink muscle expertly gyrating through your slickness as he begins to suddenly mouth away from your approaching sensation.

you sob at the loss— heaving out little why, why, why’s before becoming irritated, tilting your head in confusion as your eyes follow how kazuha laps his tongue all the way to your thighs, precisely the spot that served as a bridge to your legs and your cunt. ah, you smell so nice, quite the sweet fragrance and kazuha truly wonders what that might be, locking his soused lips around a spot before greedily suckling at the skin, the squelching noises of his mouth echoing into your thudding flesh— earning a whispery gasp from you when his palm, that was previously placed on top of your stomach, suddenly touches your clit to rub his thumb right on top.

kazuha can notice the reactions he coaxed out of you a little more precise now, how delicious and perfect you tasted and ugh, the feeling on how you tense entirely when his lips nibble and gnaw around your skin ever so slightly while his finger grow greedy in their movements, eagerly massaging two digits on your folds before prodding at your slit.

he teases, your arousal gushing out of your hole that it makes his mouth water at the sight— truly unsure what he preferred right now.

irrespective of wether it was guzzling on copious amounts of places on your thighs and mark them with bristling hickeys— so kazuha can look at them whilst fucking into you, or even afterwards when he pats the quivering skin and prances his warm palm on top.

his mind spins dizzily now— the very reason for that being when he abruptly notices how you're pushing your hips upwards into his fingers when he kindly inserts the first, long digit into your gaping hole, parting your cunt effortlessly and stuffing your arousal right back into you.

the atmosphere inside the room too, grew in hotness before coming crushing down on your fondling bodies pleasing each other, sweat forming around your forehead and right under your breasts.

ugh, how cruel, it's so hard to choose— and kazuha believes he'd never be able to pick a favorite between pleasuring your cunt or marking you up for that matter. yet of course— and such goes without saying, as long as you're wholly enjoying yourself whenever he has his hands on you— there was no reason for him to stop doing it.

𖧡 — CYNO

cyno's grip around your wrists was powerful— so dominant and compelling that it's almost bruising your tender skin, in addition was it extremely pestering how he locked your hand above your head, rendering you moveless, so he could get a pretty good look on your cute nipples perked up all nicely and ready to receive his warm mouth gushing around them.

occasionally, he decides to pinch them, eagerly listening at how you're yelping out through a rigid jaw whenever he'd add a considerable amount of electric sparks through your flesh, then bring you back to his unwavering attention on your cunt as he keeps thrusting his hips hard.

"you do like that, yeah?" he mutters and makes sure he wasn't doing anything you weren't comfortable with, and hearing him say it through a luscious, cloudy tone made you clench around his dripping shaft even harder— but the very moment he slants his head down to mouth a couple wet spots on your breasts, you're done for.

"let me do that again.." he whispers, massaging one tit before gathering some of the flesh from the other, hollowing his cheeks, sucking down, repeating himself over and over. you whine, then moan his name, your lashes sticking together due to copious amounts of globules expelling from the corners of your eyes as you wiggle your hips for more, arching your back so you could push your tit into his mouth before he stains your skin with warm, tingling spots.

you swear he wasn't done yet, cyno was a sucker for drawing your orgasm out as long as possible, the little hairs on the back of your neck standing tall when he grazes his sharp teeth over a nipple, the trace of his canines stinging yet drawing you into his touch, luring your deepest, most desperate attempts to somehow make him reconsider, and give you what you truly desired.

𖧡 — VENTI

your fingers strongly web into venti's hair as he greedily stuffs your cunt with his cock, so desperate and rough that your sore hole clenches around his entire shaft to keep him inside, the sudden constriction on your tightness throwing him out of his smooth thrusts, becoming sloppier and erratic.

although— he loves the way you pull at his hair while he fucks you silly, even lets out a breathy chuckle against your parted mouth as you pull at the roots to press his lips against yours, so you could show him what he was doing to you, and how insane it made you feel. "mhm.. venti.." you sob, whine and pitch your hips up so he could continue to greedily devour your pussy, plummet his entire shaft inside and massage the spongy insides of your cunt— like he's never touched you before and has been starved of you for what felt like a gruesome eternity.

and venti can't wait any longer, your moans absolutely wrecked his sense of self control as he pulls away from your mouth before rutting himself deeper, hiding his face in your neck to suckle at the skin and sense your upped pulse vibrate over his precious lips.

his long lashes conceal the brilliant, unique shade of his lusting eyes as he fucks you like he hates you, however, venti was utterly obsessed with everything regarding you, strongly nestled between your thighs, leaving an aftertaste of his long, pink length on your walls before he pulls himself out instantly, fisting his cock into the small tunnel of his palms feverishly— it's such a lewd sight to behold and your mouth waters right then and there, panting out sweet, little winces when he pumps two fingers back into your core.

the capture of your orgasm hits you deep inside your constricted stomach, the strong aftershocks becoming excessively noticable due to the reappearing twitches in your hips as tears began to pearl at your lashes when you cum around his digits the second he empties himself out.

on the spot, venti moves himself on top of you the way he always yearned for, the way it just had to be, his breathing low and through gritted teeth as he shoots his warm whites over your bare torso, reaching all the way to your collarbones.

you flinch at the warm feeling, your toes curling inwards as you're giving him a few more seconds to empty himself out— messy hair strands sticking on his damped forehead as he groans deeply into his chest, then huffing out an exhausted laugh right afterwards. fuck, how he immediately sets his eyes on you to watch you relish whilst being soiled and marked up by him, being fully aware that venti cannot help himself but imprint himself on you, wether it was inside or outside, the visual perception of it alone sending a new twitch straight into his groin, his lips coated of saliva as his brain feels heavy with an obsessive amount of both bliss and lust.

©2023 anantaru's kinktober do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[beguines]

Today, strawberries have replaced much of the citrus and olive trees in the strip, and despite the relatively small area of farmland used for this sector, it enjoys high economic and social value. In all of the ways that citrus cultivation has been targeted, strawberries seem designed to survive Israel's eco-colonial practices. Strawberries are able to survive on partially saline water, they have faster production cycles, are easier to cultivate and replant after destruction and uprooting, are more mobile after moments of displacement, require less space and distance between each planted crop, and enable farmers in Gaza's northern peripheries and along the buffer zones to remain visible to the observing Israeli occupation forces. As a crop with limited historical roots in the country, it adapts well and is highly versatile. The use of compost for the cultivation of strawberries enables significant increase in fruit productivity, saving Gazan farmers the use of precious water supplies and decreasing its need for the use of fertilizers.

Despite this, the conditions of Gaza's ongoing colonial isolation and erasure make it increasingly impossible for farmers to sustain their livelihoods off of the land, even with strawberry production. In today's Gaza, as the agricultural export industry is fully reliant on the Israeli permit system, strawberries are slowly being replaced with other low-growing, fast-yielding, cost-effective and high-demand fruits and vegetables. Indeed, as a colleague at the Union of Agricultural Work Committees, the largest agricultural development institution in Palestine, told me during my time in Gaza, the most recent crop to slowly begin its replacement of strawberries in this line of forced colonial transition is pineapple—with the first pineapple farm planted in Khan Younes in 2017.

Examining the conditions that make strawberry production more practical and fuel the transition from citrus production requires examining the ongoing Israeli colonization of natural resources that supplant and suppress traditional modes of relating to nature. Witnesses of Israeli neo-colonial violence, the disappearing orchards in Gaza mark its new disconnected reality. The transition from the orange to the strawberry—and perhaps later to pineapple—is more than a shift in markets and produce. They affect the history and identity of Palestinians in Gaza. The links between cultivation and national or communal identity are well-known and documented in other contexts, including their intersection with colonial nation-branding. But in the context of aggressive climate change the instabilities, tensions, and erasures that come with transitions in vegetation are growing increasingly stark. For example, in the case of the Swiss canton of Valais, global heating has resulted in the growth of cacti, Opuntia, that are proliferating on the mountainsides of the canton, encroaching on natural reserves and causing a biodiversity threat. Used to "seeing their mountainsides covered with snow in winter and edelweiss flowers in summer" warmer and drier temperatures have given way to what is named in media coverage as an "invasive species colonizing the slopes." Launching an uprooting campaign in 2022, the press release stressed that "this invasive and non-native plant is not welcome in the perimeter of prairies and dry pastures of national importance." Evidently the discourse mobilized is dominated by aggressive language of aliens and invasion, which contributes to the use of violent and war-like metaphors to push for pre-emptive and combative control. In the Gazan case, the transition, as well as local responses to it, are less pronounced and weeded through long-term colonial policies imposed by the occupation. That said, the transition to strawberry cultivation nevertheless carries a similar ecological, cultural, and socio-political impact. In place of the orange, the strawberry is surfacing as the symbol of Gaza, redrawing the boundaries of the identity of its besieged inhabitants. Whereas in the past the orange was a continuous link between Gaza and the rest of historic Palestine, with deep generational roots and a symbol of steadfast and continuous presence, the abrupt transition from oranges to strawberries distances Gaza from the constructed identity and vegetal knowledge production of Palestinian farmers elsewhere. Put differently, this symbolic and political transition at the level of fruit production can be seen as another mechanism through which Israeli neo-colonial violence reifies Gaza as an enclave: divided and partitioned from the rest of Palestine.

Shourideh C. Molavi, Environmental Warfare in Gaza: Colonial Violence and New Landscapes of Resistance

[awkward-teabag]

In my neck of the woods, it's "only" in the -15 to -25 range with windchill, which isn't as bad as some places, but last week it was in the double digits and that's really what makes it so bad and dangerous. There's no time to acclimatize and stores didn't bother to have much in the way of stock (not that they ever do, but they had less than usual).

People were even commenting that we haven't even had winter because it's been so warm and dry during the fall and winter.

To make matters worse, police in various cities and provinces over the past week tore down tents so those most vulnerable to such a drastic change had less time to prepare, assuming their possessions weren't damaged, destroyed, or stolen.

Some people rush to minimize temperatures—whether it's hot or cold—when it's relative to the area and how quickly a temperature change happened. Some areas don't even blink at -20C (I've already seen some Canadians from central and Eastern Canada say we "aren't real Canadians") but I can safely say that neither people nor infrastructure are prepared for that where I am.

Stay safe everyone. 🥶

Tagging: @politicsofcanada @abpoli

[stevenrogered]

SHADOW AND BONE  ↳book > screen

When Jesper opened his mouth to take another breath, Wylan leaned forward and kissed him. Jesper’s mind emptied. He wasn’t thinking of what had happened before or what might happen next. There was only the reality of Wylan’s mouth, the press of his lips, then the fine bones of his neck, the silky feel of his curls as Jesper cupped his nape and drew him nearer.

This was the kiss he’d been waiting for. It was a gunshot. It was prairie fire. It was the spin of Makker’s Wheel. Jesper felt the pounding of his heart—or was it Wylan’s?—like a stampede in his chest, and the only thought in his head was a happy, startled, Oh. Slowly, inevitably, they broke apart. - Crooked Kingdom

[sweeterthanficstion]

— between here and there || l.s.k

pairing: ghost!leon kennedy x ghosthunter!fem!reader

tags: set in 2001, graphic depictions of dead animals one is right under the cut, mentions of death, mentions of grief, mentions of violence, themes of obsession and love, implied/referenced childhood abuse inflicted by a parent, typical horror topics. (if i missed anything pls dm me and let me know!!)

summary: Even if it is full of love, all a ghost can do is haunt. Or: The year is 2001, and you've just found out about a haunted homestead on a prairie, sure to hold a million mysteries within its rotting walls. You've chased rumors of the supernatural before, but this place feels... different. Maybe this time, you'll find the evidence you need to prove the existence of the other side—and finally go viral. But quickly you come to learn that some doors, once opened, can't be shut.

word count: 6.6k

a/n: i wrote 80% of this fic on my phone, so i'm sorry if it reads badly 😔, i hope you enjoy regardless though! and things will make more sense in the coming parts, i promise <3 also; thank you claudia for beta-reading for me!! n also thank you @/uhlunaro for bone-chill, go read their work!! it's so good n inspired this fic.

playlist ⭑ AO3 || back to the party ⭑ next (coming soon) »

You were eight when you saw your first ghost. Your mother had found you with your face pressed up against the living room window, eyes wide as you stared out into your backyard, convinced there was a dog by the fence that was staring right back.

Your mother had ushered you back to bed, murmuring about how there was no dog out there, and you needed to sleep. But you saw him! You swear it! Floppy ears and a bone between his teeth.

You couldn’t sleep that night, tossing and turning and anxiously waiting for morning to come. By the time the sunlight had crept through your window, you scampered outside to prove it. You’d spent nearly an hour out in the early morning cold, digging, digging, digging with your bare hands, until eventually, you found it, something that wasn’t a dog—not anymore, anyway.

Wrapped in a plastic bag you found it, decayed skin clinging stubbornly to yellowed ribs poking through like splintered wood. Its jaw hung open, snapped and crooked, patches of fur still clinging to the skull, matted until it resembled something more like melted plastic. There was a sense of grief that came with finding its body, a suffocating presence that weighed down over your little lungs, tightened your oesophagus, made your stomach clench.

You gave the rotting dog carcass a proper burial. 

A grave by the oak tree, dirt pressed down gently over its brittle body as if the dog might still feel it, a ring of daisies set atop in remembrance. When you finally stood, wiping mud-stained hands on your pants, you could feel your mother’s eyes on you, her silence heavier than her words ever were.

After that, her patience thinned. She’d catch you whispering to empty rooms, her voice sharper each time, the snap of her voice was soon paired with the snap of a belt. The corners of your room were just corners, she’d say. The shadows were just that; shadows. 

You stopped talking about it, but the flashes of something stayed—the fleeting movements, the whispers, the shadows that lingered in the corners of your vision. The haunting weight of it all clung to you like a thick blanket, creeping in with every bump in the night, until curiosity bled into something deeper. 

Eventually, you gave up waiting and started searching, looking for answers between ghost-hunting forums and haunted houses. 

And now, years later, you’re chasing a truth you’re still yet to prove. 

You jolt from your thoughts the same time the van does over a potholed, eyes snapping to the stretch of dirt road before you. The homestead comes into view, your breath catches in your throat at the sight of it—looking every bit more eerie when bathed in hues of twilight than it did in the grainy two-bit photos on your laptop screen. 

Luis lets out a low whistle from the driver’s seat, before he clicks his tongue and puts the car into park. “Well, we’ve seen worse.”

Luis says it with an air of carelessness you struggle to stomach under the looming shadow of the homestead. He’s never believed in the paranormal the same way you do, always the wind, always a shadow to him, everything has an explanation. Never a ghost, never a spirit.

Yet, he sticks with you, out of what sense of loyalty you’re not entirely sure, but you’re grateful all the same. Maybe it’s the remnants of a childhood bond that keeps him tethered to your side, echoes of sleepovers and whispered secrets, of nights spent laughing over nothing, long before you were chasing shadows and seeking the dead.

It’s not that Luis doesn’t care—he does, more than he’ll ever admit. He just doesn’t see the world the way you do. And that’s okay. He doesn’t have to believe. You do.

He slides out of the car easily, no doubt eager to unpack the camera gear. You hear the back of the van slide open, before you finally make the decision to move, feeling as if your bones have stuck themselves together—rigor mortis.

The homestead looks like it’s rotting from the inside out. Once-grand pillars holding up the front porch that have long since bowed, wood that rots and splinters from years of neglect. The windows, fogged over with dust, are cracked and warped as if the house itself has been trying to keep the world out for far too long.

“What even happened here?” Luis asks, eyeing the decayed structure with a grimace as the both of you step onto the creaking front porch.

In truth, the research had been thin. The house didn’t show up on any official ghost-hunting registry, and there wasn’t much mention of it in local history. But there were enough stories, enough pieces of something to make you believe it was worth the three hour plane trip.

If no one else could get proof, then maybe you could. This could be your big break, could be your skyrocket to supernatural stardom—If that was even really a thing.

“A lot. Murders, disappearances, all the fun stuff.” You joke, flashing a wide grin over your shoulder, trying to ease the pit in your chest, and find amusement at the way Luis shivers at the mention of murders. His shoulders stiffen enough to make you bite back a laugh.

Luis fixes you with a hard stare. “You’re not right, anyone ever tell you that?”

“Plenty of times,” you reply, grin only widening. You reach up and give his cheek a playful pat, “You’re not special.”

He rolls his eyes and you’re well aware he doesn’t buy your teasing, but that’s half the fun. You slip past him to check out the entryway, Luis trailing behind with his camera over his shoulder.

Luis keeps his distance as you wedge the door open. A thick layer of dust comes loose with the movement, swirling with the fading light and wafting straight into your face. You cough violently, waving it away with a grimace.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Luis mutters, adjusting the lens of his camera.

“Nothing’s going to happen—” And as if infuriatingly on cue, the door slips from your gasp and slams shut with a bone-rattling thud.

The both of you jump despite yourselves—Luis lets out a yelp that he stifles with a cough, while you freeze, hand still hanging in the air where the door had once been.

The silence that follows is deafening. You stare at the door for a beat, pulse-quickening as if it might just spring open again on its own, while you feel the burn of Luis’ gaze in the back of your neck, waiting for you to explain it away with your usual bravado.

You lower your hand slowly, give him a sidelong glance. You take a step back from the door as if daring it to open or slam shut again. “Well. That’s one way to make an entrance.”

Luis glares at you. “Yeah, real funny. Can we leave now?”

Rolling your eyes, you reach for the handle and tug the front door open again, choosing to ignore Luis’ insistence. The homestead is as quiet as you imagined it’d be, even so you can’t shake the eeriness of the silence. You swear you can hear static in your head.

Luis hands you a flashlight, which you flick on before toeing the warped floorboards. The wood groans beneath you, but it holds, so you plant your foot fully inside, waiting for the house to react. One second. Two.

Nothing.

With a relieved sigh you step deeper into the homestead. The pale remains of sunlight filter through grimy windows, while dust swirls lazily in the beam of your flashlight as you sweep it across the room.

“Are you recording?” You whisper over your shoulder to Luis, who gives a quick nod, a thumbs-up flashing in your periphery.

The homestead opens up around you—parlour to the left, kitchen and dining room through the door on the right, and a staircase, old and worn, curling up toward the shadows in the back.

“We’ll set up in the parlour,” you murmur, moving toward it. Your hand brushes against the wall as you reach for the light switch, fingers hesitant. You flick it, expecting nothing. But then the chain bulb overhead sputters to life, casting a weak, flickering glow across the room.

“Huh,” you breathe. “Not bad.”

Nightfall comes sooner than you would’ve hoped, and you’re starting to understand why there’s so little about this homestead online. In the two long hours you and Lewis have been here, the silence has remained unbroken. The EMF reader has not spiked once and the camera has picked up nothing. No doors have slammed, nothing has creaked strangely, not even an unsettlingly cold gust of wind. 

Maybe this place is a waste of time, another dead end to add to your already growing list. You contemplate if packing the van up now is a good option. But yet, yet—you can’t shake the feeling that there is something waiting for you here, just beyond reach. A presence. A secret.

There’s still upstairs, a voice nags at the back of your head. Rooms yet to explore, yet to be turned inside out so you can find what’s hidden in the confines of this home’s brittle bones.

Luis follows behind as you carve a path up the stairs, flicking the stairwell light on and waiting for the flicker of the bulb to cease into a steady hum. It takes a moment too long, and your fingers twitch at the edge of your flashlight.

You never did shake your fear of the dark.

Upstairs, the floor is dappled in the pale glow of the moon. You sweep your flashlight through the shadows, the light catching on each warped surface, every peeling edge of wallpaper, casting lonesome shadows across the splintering floors. You watch the EMF reader calibrate and tick in your hand as you tread further down the hallway. The air up here feels heavier, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for you.

That’s when you see it.

Or him, rather. 

At first, you make out nothing but a vague shape standing at the end of the hallway, a shadow where there shouldn’t be one.

But as your eyes adjust, you make out the figure’s skin; a sickly pale, marred with crawling veins like rivers of ink. He has hair like dull flaxen straw, eyes that are such a piercing blue you make them out even in the dark. You freeze, your breath catching in your throat as a chill crawls down your spine. You take a step back, stumbling into Luis, who nearly drops the camera.

The light overhead flickers dramatically before the bulb bursts with a sharp pop, plunging the hall into sudden darkness. Your EMF reader spikes violently in time with your heart slamming against your ribs, and in the panic, you scramble to bring up your flashlight—but as the beam sweeps over him, he vanishes, parts of his body disintegrating into the light, like bend the rules of physics themselves, like something wrong.

“Is that—?” it hits Luis the same time it hits you. Not a person. A ghost.

But there’s no haunting glow, no cloud of smoke. He doesn't float; in fact he doesn’t move at all. Instead, the air grows thick, an oppressive weight that threatens to shatter your ribs inwards and pierce into your lungs.

You hear him. The sickly sound of breathing, a rasping inhale followed by an exhale, like a death rattle. The noise crawls under your skin, itches against your bones.

Your own breath catches in your throat in favour of hearing his. The sound swells, crescendos, then tithers to nothing. Silence, like buzzing in your ears, is all that’s left behind. Slowly, you peel your  eyes open, the ghost is nowhere to be seen.

You come back to reality like ungluing yourself from a fly trap—slowly, sticky, the numbness in your body ceases.

“Did you.. Did you get that on tape?” You ask Luis between bated breath, eyes still glued to the wall where he had been.

Luis swallows hard, his breathing ragged. He fumbles with the camera, fingers trembling, flipping through settings with a frantic sort of urgency. His face drains of colour as he checks the screen. The camera blinks, sputters.

Panic surges as you rush downstairs, tripping over your feet. Luis yanks the camera from his shoulder, flipping it open to review the footage. His hands move fast, flipping through buttons…

Then, the camera shuts off with a mechanical click, the small screen fading to black.

"No, no, no," Luis mutters, voice tight with frustration. He pulls out the tape reel, and the acrid smell hits you first. He stares at it, brow furrowing. You step closer, peering over his shoulder. The reel is ruined—burnt and blackened beyond recognition, as if scorched by something unseen.

Neither of you says a word.

“Sorry, we’re full.”

The words feel like a death sentence this late at night. Luis sighs sharply, his breath fogging up the plexiglass screen between him and the motel keeper. “There’s got to be something, no? Just one room,” he mutters, pushing the crumpled fifty across the counter one more time, almost pleading.

The motel keeper eyes the money, before shaking her head. “I’m serious, hon,” she says, her voice flat, tired. “We’re booked solid. You can try the highway if you’re desperate.”

You’re really only half-listening to the exchange, shivering from the cold as you lean by the side of the van parked under the carport. 

The motel sign above flickers weakly, casting uneven shadows across the parking lot, the words The Black Dog barely legible in the failing neon glow. Cerberus snarls from the sign like a bad omen, one head flickering on and off as if it’s ready to give up entirely.

After the encounter at the homestead, neither Luis nor yourself could shake the feeling of dread that had settled like a thick fog, a weighted blanket that provided more unease than comfort. The decision to leave for the night had been easy, but now, standing outside in the frigid air, you’re starting to feel the sting of bad luck. There are only two motels in this entire town—one’s closed for maintenance, and this one, The Black Dog, is fully booked.

Luis pulls back from the counter with a groan, stuffing the money into his pocket as he joins you outside. “No luck,” he mutters, breath curling in the chilled air.

But you're distracted, focused on the yellowing photographs lining the walls behind the motel keeper’s desk, town history captured in fleeting moments behind dusty glass. Your eyes widen in realisation when you note the homestead is in one of them. A farmer’s family stands at the front of it; a husband, a wife, his daughter and two sons.

You quickly rush up to the window, leaning down closer to the little cutout in the plexiglass as you rest your elbows on the counter. “That photo,” You start, finger pressed to the plastic surface, “do you know who the people in it are?”

The motel keeper swivels in her squeaky office chair, her eyes widening with a sort of realisation. “Them? Well they’re the original settlers of this land,” She hums, turning back. “Their family were the first to come this far east, their father built that homestead with his bare hands.”

“What happened to them?” You ask, your curiosity piqued. Desperate for more, desperate for answers. Although, your ghost looks nothing like any of the men in the picture.

“Well they died,” The motel keeper says, something akin to god-fearing in her voice. “But whatever malevolent force has been haunting that place never did.”

You stare at her, wide-eyed and unblinking. Luis fills in for you where you can’t. 

“You’re not serious,” he says, but it comes out more like a question than a statement.

“Dead serious, hon. That place is no good. They say the prairie wind drove that family mad—” she states, sticking a thumb over her shoulder to point to the picture “—we’re just not so sure it was the wind that did it.”

You decidedly spend that night in the back of the van, parked right outside the homestead on that old gravel path. 

The wind whistles terribly and you begin to understand what they mean by prairie fever—you can’t fathom what it would’ve been like, out here, all alone with nothing but the wind and the wolves.

“Something’s wrong,” Luis murmurs just loud enough for you to hear. You turn your head, watching as he stares at the ceiling of the van.

There is a sudden unease that settles in your chest, watching him like this. Luis has never been rattled by the dark, never questioned the supernatural because he didn’t have a reason to. In many ways, he has been your anchor.

And what is a ship without its anchor?

You hum, mirroring his movements and righting your neck to stare up at the ceiling. “Luis, you say this every—”

“No, I mean it.” He cuts in, a certain urgency to his words. “We saw something, I saw it. He was–” His words die, fizzle into nothing on his tongue as if it’ll be a sin to refer to the shadow as anything more than just a shadow. “We can’t go back in there.”

You understand… yet you don’t.

“This is the closest we’ve ever been Luis, what do you mean we can’t?” Your words are oddly calm despite the desperation they clearly convey, “You know how much this means to me.”

Luis sighs, “I get it, I’m just not sure this is a good idea.” He hesitates. “I think… I think we’re way in over our heads this time.”

“I’ll be careful. I promise.”

Luis holds you to it.

A car crash—that’s what you see in your dream. Although, it feels more like a vision; a premonition or maybe a memory. 

You’re trapped behind your own eyes, sitting rigid in the passenger seat. There’s the sound of tyres screaming against the asphalt, a horrible blur of red and blue, glass and smoke. 

The car swerves hard, jerking your body with it, weightless, floating, falling. The ground falls away, and for a split second, there’s nothing. Just the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. 

You try to catch a glimpse of the driver, but your eyes are glued to the chaos that unfolds before you. You catch a glimpse of the side of his face, shadowed in the flickering lights. Just the curve of his jawline—sharp, familiar.

And then you slam into a tree.

The night is much less forgiving than day. In moonlight, your mind is left to fill in the gaps, pulls at the seams of reality, and paints over it with every fear you’ve ever had the cowardice to bury. A creak in the floor becomes footsteps. A sigh of wind becomes a distant cry. 

But daylight? Daylight spills over the horizon like a gentle promise. In daylight, things feel explainable. Safe. You do not falter and question the shape of shadows, each one is tethered to something, tangible and real, solid in your grasp.

Yet the homestead does not follow these rules.

The walls bleed with secrets you’ve yet to learn, each groan of the floorboards underneath your gentle footsteps sounds like another pair is following closely behind. Light spills through windows, but  it dies before it reaches the corners, and does not fill the room the way it should.

It’s that morning, one hour into your second investigation, that you smell it—something faint at first that quickly grows stronger, souring the air with each breath you suck in. It’s familiar but unwelcome, the unmistakable stench of decay. Luis notices it too, his nose wrinkling as he glances toward the far end of the hallway.

“Do you smell that?” he asks, his voice quiet.

You nod. 

The smell rots. It festers the further you walk down the hallway, intensifying until it clings to you like a second skin. It seeps through the floorboards, through every crack in splintering wood, and it leads you to a door. The one at the end of the hallway from the night before. The one you didn’t manage to open because he had been there.

Luis nudges you with his elbow. “Ladies first.”

“Very brave,” you mutter, pushing the door open.

Inside, the room is cold, the air heavy with dust. Yellowing and peeling wallpaper lines the walls, a dusty bed in the corner, a dresser by the opposite wall and a wardrobe by the adjacent one.

But what draws your attention are the walls—every inch covered in horrifying jagged scratches, as if something had clawed at the walls in a frenzy of desperation.

N-O-E-L.

The letters are scrawled over and over, the same pattern repeated a millennia of times. They twist and turn, written backwards and mirrored, as if whatever had left them behind had longed for a voice it had forgotten how to use.

“What the hell…” Luis murmurs, stepping closer with his polaroid camera, the shutter sounding as he snaps a few photos of the scratches. “What are we dealing with, the ghost of Christmas past?”

You swallow, admittedly now confused. “What does that even mean?” You muse, walking towards a wall and running your fingers over the splintering wood.

“His name, maybe?” Luis supplies, lifting his head from behind the camera.

Without thinking, you speak. “Is your name Noel?” 

Silence answers.

You decide to move around the room, keen to find answers where your ghost refuses to give them to you. Your fingertips grazing the walls as if you could pull the truth from the cracks in the old plaster.

“I know you did this,” you say, your voice firm but edged with a strange softness, like you’re coaxing something fragile from the dark. “Why won’t you tell me your name?”

The lights flicker. Luis begins to pray.

The stench grows, grows, grows, more potent with each step you take towards the bed. You fear you’ll find rot when you pull the covers back—a body, perhaps. But what you find confuses you more. You fall to your knees by the bed, crane your neck to peer beneath it, and your eyes catch the glint of silver.

Your hand stretches out, inching under the bed as your teeth catch your lip. When you pull the object free, you look up at Luis, who meets your gaze with the same confusion. In your hands you hold a hunting knife.

And as quickly as it had come, the stench subsides.

You turn the knife over in your hand as you push yourself off the dusty floor, a strange emblem is etched into the heel of the blade. 

“Well that’s not weird at all,” Luis mutters, taking the knife from your hand to inspect it himself. You bite the inside of your cheek, about to say something more, when a faint creak draws your attention. The wardrobe. The door swings open, as if nudged by an unseen hand. You meet Luis’ wary gaze, your heart thrumming with anticipation.

Drawn like a moth to a flame, you rise to your feet, walking closer, pulling the door open by its rusting brass handle. Inside hangs a tarnished mirror, and in it you catch your own reflection—dark circles ring your eyes, your reflection looks as drained as you’ve begun to feel.

Luis hums over your shoulder, a spark of realisation lighting his expression as he clicks his tongue. “Not Noel, look.”

You squint into the mirror, making out the jagged inscriptions in the wall that are now mirrored. “Leon?”

There’s a knock on the wall behind you, too loud to be mistaken for the walls of the house adjusting. 

“Is that a yes?” You breathe.

Two knocks.

Luis stares at you, his voice hushed, disbelieving. “Are you talking to a ghost?”

“Holy fuck, I’m talking to a ghost.”

Your ghost isn’t as terrifying with a name to its haunt. Leon, you’ve come to find, is gentle. You and Luis have spent the past three hours communicating with him; knock once for yes, twice for no. A language of patience.

You’ve been documenting it all in your notebooks—entry after entry of everything you’ve learnt. It's all you can do, considering the tapes you’ve tried to record burn out. You figure he doesn’t like the notion of being seen. Being known is different, though. You can feel that—he wants to be known.

He cannot leave.

He doesn’t remember how he got here.

He knows only his name.

You find he also likes to move things.

First, it was the photos. Luis had left the polaroids from the bedroom out on the dining room table to develop, safe with the windows drawn. You’d found them around the house later, one in your bag, another nestled between the equipment. Harmless. Cute, almost.

Then Leon started to move bigger objects. Your torch was found in the bedroom closet, Luis’ lighter in a kitchen cabinet, your hairpins scattered like breadcrumbs on the mantle of the fireplace. It’s a game to him, one that you find yourself eager to indulge. 

You slip into the kitchen, carrying a small wooden figure you’d picked up from the general store—nothing too special, a simple carving of a bluebird. Ghostly fingers might appreciate the weight of its worn edges, you think.

“Alright,” you say aloud, speaking to the empty room, “I – uh, got you something.”

You place the bluebird on the dining table, straightening the figure before taking a few gentle steps back. The temperature in the room drops suddenly, a chilly cold that you no longer mistake for the prairie wind, a denseness in the air that can only be explained by experience. 

Your EMF reader ticks up, and you itch to jot down the reading, yet the moment you turn your back, there’s the sound of wood scraping against wood. You spin back on your heel, only to see that the little bird has moved, facing the window with its beak pointed towards the fading sunlight.

“So you like the bird then?” You nearly laugh, low and under your breath.

There’s another scrape, this time longer. The bird moves again, right before your eyes, closer to the edge of the table.

Despite the absurdity of it all, you continue to talk. “Careful, you’ll knock it off.” You warn softly.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then the bird stops just short of tipping over the edge, as if Leon has taken your words into consideration. You watch as the bird drags back across the table to the centre. 

The lights flicker with your laughter, as if your ghost finds amusement in the cadence of your voice.

You begin to wonder how anyone could’ve thought this home was malevolent at all. The unease that had come with your first encounter has long since given way to something deeper—an ache, a yearning, a quiet desperation to understand. You don’t want to leave. You want to stay, to uncover every secret this house holds. 

How did he die? Was it peaceful, or something violent? What kind of life did he lead? Did he love? Did he lose?

You sit on the living room floor, your back pressed against the wall, clicking your pen twice as you jot down tonight’s meeting in your notebook. From the wall beside you, two soft knocks answer in return.

There is a difference between an architectural haunting and a hereditary one. There’s a certain comfort in knowing a haunting is bound to a place, that its roots lie deep within the dirt that make up the home’s foundation. That it cannot follow you home.

But when a haunting becomes hereditary—when it latches onto you, burrows under your skin, sinks its claws into your soul, twisting, festering—when it’s tethered to you, that's when the fear takes hold. You cannot outrun a hereditary haunting.

Last night, you dreamt again. The homestead, its walls bleeding dark and thick, like wounds seeping into your memory. The flashes came in fragments: the house, the woods, a clearing bathed in moonlight. A glint of a knife to match the gleam of his eyes. And then, the sensation of cold mud pressed against your skin as you lay in the dirt, helpless, hopeless, dead.

You wake in the middle of the night and wonder when this haunting stopped feeling architectural.

Luis finds you on the third day in the parlour, your fingers curled around the edge of an old, weather-beaten box. It drags across the warped floorboards with a groan, sending up a small cloud of dust. 

He pauses in the doorway. “What are you doing?” His voice cuts through the otherwise quiet home. 

“Cleaning up.” You keep your eyes on the box, focused as you rifle through its contents.

Luis steps further into the room, his boots crunching on the debris-strewn floor, nearly tripping over the marbles you had laid out earlier for Leon to move. “Cleaning up?” His brow furrows. “Jesus, I thought we were here to investigate.”

“We are,” you mutter, your hands brushing off the dust clinging to your clothes as you turn to face him. “I’m just helping out.”

“Helping out?” Luis stops mid-step, his confusion sharpening. “Helping the ghost?”

Your hands still. The air shifts, colder than before, almost as if something is standing beside you. You glance over your shoulder, but it’s just Luis, a mix of disbelief and frustration in his gaze.

“Yes, Luis,” You sound annoyed now. Tension thick in the air.

His laugh is short and bitter. “This is crazy,” he mutters, his voice rising slightly. “You’re growing too - too attached, we need to leave.”

“No.” You straighten up, the words more defensive than you intend. “He needs help. Look at the state of this place!” You gesture to the peeling wallpaper, the broken furniture scattered, the oppressive sense of neglect.

“He?” Luis tries to be your voice of reason, tethering you back to reality, to the here and now because currently you seem like you’re in a different plane of existence entirely. 

“Yes, he.” You drag the box into a corner, your back to him, and run your hand across its lid. The texture feels wrong—too damp, too cold, as if the cardboard itself is rotting from the inside. “He’s trapped here,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Luis. “I don’t know how long, but... it’s been years. He doesn’t even have anyone to mourn him.”

Luis exhales sharply, his breath fogging the air. When did it get so cold? “You don’t know that,” he snaps, his voice louder, louder, louder. “You don’t even know who ‘he’ is!”

The words hit you like a slap. Something shifts, as if the chain binding his anchor to your ship has snapped and broken all at once.

“I’m not—” You stop, swallowing the words. “I’m not crazy, Luis.”

You can see the flicker of regret in his eyes, the way his expression softens, but it doesn’t erase the sting of his words. He hesitates, lowering his voice as if it could take back the hurt.

“I didn’t say that,” he murmurs, “But you’re not thinking straight. You haven’t been since that night. The ghost—or whatever it is—has you hooked. And you don’t even see it–”

Each word feels like a knife twisting deeper. The betrayal coils inside you, bitter and raw. You trusted him to believe in you, to see you, even when no one else did. You open your mouth to argue, but your ghost has better timing.

A sudden, violent knocking echoes through the house, an urgency to each rap. This time, it’s not coming from within the walls, and oddly, that unsettles you more than if it were. The sound pounds from the front door, growing louder, louder, louder with each second that passes. When both you and Luis rush to the foyer, you stare blankly as the door handle rattles on its own.

You don’t think when you walk forward, as if compelled by an unseen force, your hand wrapping around the crystal handle before twisting it and tugging it open. There, crumpled on the porch, lies a bird.

It’s ruined. Feather slicked by a sheen of its own blood, some still fluttering in the wind, others matted to exposed bone. The body is split open, like something had torn it apart with its bare hands, its innards spilt on the rotting boards. Thin ropes of intestine, wet and glistening, loop over themselves. 

The head, nearly severed, hangs at a grotesque angle, twisted so far back it looks as though it were straining to see something beyond its reach, connected by just a thin sinew of flesh. One of its glassy black eyes remains open, dull and lifeless, its beak parted in a scream that never came.

The bird has blue feathers. A bluebird, you realise.

Leon doesn’t speak much the rest of the day—if you can qualify the knocks and the flickers of light as speech at all. When you ask him about the bluebird, there's only silence. When you press him on whether he caused it, a vase shatters like fallen stars at your feet.

Perhaps he’s not all gentle. Neither are you, though, so you give him grace. You pick up the shards of glass one by one, wrap them up in a handkerchief, and discard them in the garden. 

It’s only when you return inside that you realise you’re bleeding. A thin line of red trails from the split in your thumb, the sting arrives after, delayed but insistent. You watch it drip, swirling with the water as you rinse it away, the crimson draining down the sink.

You’ve grown used to seeing Leon in your periphery. His shadow is a presence that has grown comforting. Unknown to know, unfamiliar to familiar. You find yourself looking forward to the night even more now, eager for a glimpse of him. But tonight, he doesn’t visit.

You think you might’ve upset him. Between the dead bird and the silence, maybe he didn’t like all the arguing, how loud the house had gotten today. You don’t blame him. 

“Luis wants to leave tomorrow,” You hum softly into the darkness. You don’t need to see Leon to know he’ll be listening. “I have to go with him.”

Silence.

“I’ll miss you,” You try again, your voice holding a sense of urgency. Please, please, please.

Again, silence.

You ignore the tears that prick at your eyes, upset that your ghost is ignoring you. You fall asleep with a headache and a heartache to match. But when you dream that night, it’s much more alarming than any of the ones before.

You wake in the darkness, your body stiff in your dream like you’ve lost your flesh and have been made up of bones. Rigor mortis once more. For a second you think this might be some sort of horrible sleep paralysis,but before the panic can set in, your eyes focus on the cracks of light in your vision, seeping through the darkness of your mind.

You’re not sure what part of your brain comes to the conclusion, but you realise you’re stuck under something, in something maybe. A coffin? Something wooden. You can smell the musk of the cottonwood.

When you wake from the dream, your headache is pounding twice as hard, you sit up, groaning as you press a hand to your head. When your eyes open, your breath catches in your throat. 

Leon.

He's there. Right there.

Closer than he’s ever dared to get, standing beside your bed, watching, waiting, like he always is. Yet, he looks more solid, more here than you’d ever seen of him before. You could make out the shape of his nose, the curve of his eyes, the length of his lashes.

Your heart beats wildly in your chest, bated breath caught in the cavern of your throat as you try to comprehend what you’re seeing. 

“Leon,” you whisper his name, your voice shaky, barely more than a breath.

He doesn’t move, but his eyes soften, just slightly, a weight behind his gaze that you can’t quite place. You watch his chest rise and fall with breath that should not be there, lungs that have no reason to expand, a heart that doesn’t beat. And yet, yet, he is here, in front of you, as vivid as anyone else would be.

You lift your hand, your fingers trembling as they hover just above his cheek. You know he isn’t real, not in the way you are, but in this moment, he feels real enough. The heat of your skin, the cool air between you—it all blurs together until the only thing you are sure of is him.

Slowly, carefully, your fingertips brush his skin.

It is faint—barely a touch at all, like reaching through fog—but it is there. For a second, maybe less, his skin feels solid beneath your fingers, cold but tangible. The breath catches in your throat as your hand lingers, the boundary between life and death blurring, blurring, blurring. His eyes flutter closed. 

But then, just as quickly, the sensation is gone. Your fingers slip through air, the chill of the room returning, and he is nothing more than a ghost again.

No, no, no your mind screams. A desperation in the way you reach for him again only to feel nothing. A hand over his chest is merely a hand in mid-air. You cannot feel the beat of his undead heart.

Yet, the weight of his gaze remains, heavy with something you cannot name. You want more. You want him to stay. You want to stay.

Leon’s lips part, the faintest hint of a breath escaping, and you swear you can almost hear him say something. Almost. His hand twitches, as if he is also trying to reach for you, but can’t quite cross the divide.

It is unbearable, the way you see him see you. 

You don’t tell Luis of what happened last night, refuse to unravel the complexities of the ache in your being that cannot be satiated anymore. 

It’s not pain exactly—at least not the kind Luis would understand. It’s deeper than that, a longing you can’t explain. You’re stuck here, you realise, tethered not by chains but by something far less visible, yet much harder to sever. 

Luis frowns when you tell him to go without you, that you’ll follow in a day or two. He doesn’t believe you, not entirely. There is scepticism in the way he argues, but you don’t have much fight left anymore. Maybe there isn’t in him, either.

You’d promised yourself this was temporary—a few nights, maybe a week—just long enough to get the evidence you needed. But those days had unravelled into something else. You couldn’t say when you’d first realised you weren’t going to leave. Maybe it was when the lights began to flicker in time with your heartbeat, or when the chill of the air began to feel like a ghost of a touch on your skin.

There was no evidence to gather anymore. No story left to tell but this one.

And perhaps, you think, that’s always been the truth of you—this love of yours, spilling over the edges of your heart until it found something, someone, to hold onto. Living or dead, it didn’t seem to matter. Love for you has never needed a pulse, just a presence.

You walk through the homestead, the familiar creak of the floorboards beneath your feet, and find that the air no longer feels heavy. There’s no longer that crushing weight on your chest, no musk of decay hanging like a warning. You breathe, and for the first time, the house feels still.

"Leon?" you call, your voice fragile, unsure.

The lights flicker in response, faint and distant.

Maybe, you think, this house has always been your grave.

likes n reblogs r very much appreciated <3

[jumbojazzcats93]

Should've been a Cowboy - Soap

Summary - Cowboy Johnny has a penchant for keeping a woman on her toes.

Tags/Warnings - Should've been a Cowboy by Toby Keith, MDNI 18+, smut, cussing, drinking, biting, anxiety, religious values, old fashioned mindsets, part 1 of ????

@glossysoap @lordlydragon @grizzersmamma @ivymarquis @gremlingottoosilly @quietlyignoringyou @violet-phantoms @ghastlybirdie Banners by @/saradika-graphics

A woman living alone in the prairie was a risk. Bandits or crude cowboys could come along whenever they wanted and wreak havoc on your little homestead. By the grace of God, it never happened, but the threat was always there.

Your livestock guardian dogs would alert if any uninvited guests appeared, but the nights were always relatively uneventful. Stray coyotes came to test the worth of your dogs, but you'd never been given instance to doubt their abilities. It's why you jumped sky high, 2 steps out onto your front porch when you went out for your morning chores on the farm. A large body laid limp in your rocking chair; boots still on and hat drawn down over his eyes. Your 2, apparently worthless, dogs were laying next to the man's feet, sheepishly wagging at the sight of you.

You snatched the towel from your belt and began whipping at him with it. "Johnny MacTavish! How dare you sleep on my porch!" Johnny flings himself from the chair, stumbling to the ground. Your towel finds him over and over, "Stop, Lass! Please, I'm sorry!" His hand finally grabs a hold of the towel, "I didn't wanna wake ya up last night!" You stare at him on the ground as you both held tightly onto the towel... before releasing it and letting him fall back. Hands on your hips, you looked down at him, "You scared me!" He slowly sat up with a sheepish smile and you sighed, fighting against your own smile with pursed lips. "Come on inside and get cleaned up, then." Snatching your towel back from him and turning to the door, you glanced back at him still sprawled on your porch as you headed back inside.

One bath later and you're cleaning up your kitchen while Johnny's sat at your dining table scarfing down the fresh breakfast you'd made him. You'd zoned out; staring out the window at the extra horse that now grazed in your pasture. "I missed you, dearie." Warm breath whispered against your neck, jolting you out of your daze. His strong arms slid around your waist in a soothing effort. "It's been so long... what were you doing?", you questioned. Johnny squeezes his arms and presses his face into the crook of your neck, "Well... I won't taint your lovely mind with such gritty tales." You hummed absently. "Dont fret, bonnie girl... You know I always come back."

That he did... but he would never stay long.

Coming into the parlour room at the end of the day felt odd. Seeing Johnny fast asleep in one of your arm chairs makes you wonder, again, what he had been doing all this time. Normally, he'd never be away longer than a month, but this time you'd been alone for almost 8 months. At first, you'd wait on the porch some nights. By the end of the second month, some nights became every night, and by the end of the fourth month you'd given up on the idea of him coming back. You're not really sure if the things he did were legal, if he had other women. He never went into detail about his exploits, but you always knew it was safer not knowing.

You sit on the arm chair opposite to him with a cup of strong cider. A new and nasty little habit you'd had to hide from the other ladies in your congregation when they came to visit. They'd been wanting so badly for you to marry and had no idea why you'd been so disinterested in all the suitors that had come from town. Your eyes focuse in on Johnny. Watching him sleep put you at ease for the time being. He never wanted anything from you, but that was half the problem. Other men saw something material to gain when they approached you. Your farm and all your property were a great asset after all. Johnny was straightforward. He wanted nothing, but your attention when he was here.

When was the key word. People in town would be scandalized to know of his irregular presence in your home.

Before you knew it your cup was dry. Sighing and briefly clenching the cup in your hands, you stood from your seat. "Johnny...", you called out gently to his sleeping mass. He made no move to wake as you slowly approached. The firelight lit his tan skin in such a complementary way that you let out an appreciative sigh. Shirt slightly unbuttoned, legs spread wide, his body slumped into the chair with his head lolled to the side. "Johnny.", you called louder. A lack of response made you come closer until you stood between his legs. Reaching out, you ran a hand up his chest to his neck where you brushed your thumb across his cheek. His head shifted to rest against your hand and he peeked one eye open. "Coming onto a man while he sleeps is rather uncouth now, dearie." An uncontrollable smile broke out on your face in response.

His hand grabbed yours and slid it to his lips for a kiss while his other hand grabbed the waistline of your skirt to pull you closer. Tired eyes held yours as another kiss was placed against your palm. Your knee rested on the cushion between his thighs; a deep inhale and his eyes fluttering shut were the only indication he had felt your knee pressing against the crotch of his pants. "Come to bed?", you whispered. After a pregnant pause, he dramatically slumps back into the seat, "Carry me." You scoff a laugh and pull yourself free from him. He grabs at you like a phantom. You're just barely out of his immediate reach.

"If you're not upstairs by the time I'm out of my day wear, you'll be locked out for the night." An empty threat that you know he knows, but he gives a dramatic start anyways. "You wouldn't dare.", he counters dramatically. You back up slowly as he rises, both of you wearing playful grins. By the time he's chasing you up the steps, the brightness of his smile has left your relentless worries in the shadows.

The boards of the second floor groan under your hurried and careless steps. Johnny has you cornered in the upstairs hallway within seconds. His eyes are alight with something wild and his canines glint in the candle light as he grins from ear to ear. Your heart is hammering in excitement within your chest. You reach out a hand to touch his chest as he draws nearer. Your fingers brush against his exposed skin as your back thumps against the wall. Eyes meet and he looks feral. You can only imagine what you look like to him with your skin flushed from drink, hair sitting loose after your playful chase. His eyes shift to your hair as he reaches for a loose lock and gently twirls it around his finger, murmuring, "You should know better than to play games with me when I've been away for so long, lass." Johnny slides his finger down your throat, following it with his gaze. You lick your lips and his eyes lock onto the movement.

"You've been rather cold to me all day." He muses and looks up to meet your eyes. "I did miss you.", he reaffirms.

It's almost jarring to be reminded of your unease and uncertainty in this state. The questions about where he'd been and who he'd been with. Were there other women like you? Did he really think of you when he was gone? Why had he been away so long this time?

A warm hand runs firmly from the top of your breast up to your neck until two hands are tilting your head up and your eyes are focusing back in on Johnny. "Don't think about it so much."

"I thought you'd gone home to Scotland... and I'd never see you again."

Your words are quiet. He sighs deep with his thumb brushing your cheek affectionatly as he leans in and kisses you. It's avoidant of him, but it's nothing new... so you let it go. Give in to him knowing it'll just drive him away if you don't.

You let him pick you up and carry you into your bedroom. As he lays you down on your bed, your skirt slides up your legs drawing his attention. Johnny falls to his knees in front of you; taking your leg and throwing it over his shoulder, he laves wet kisses along your inner thigh. Upon reaching the softest part, he bites down making you gasp out. The bite is hard enough to know that the mark left behind will bruise before the night is over. Johnny pulls your underwear down and your heart races. It's another thing the ladies of your congregation would be scandalized by; premarital sex. It was even worse that you had no defined relationship with Johnny. You'd been personally, religiously, and if anyone found out, socially ruined for any other man.

Your arm flew up to cover your face and Johnny chuckled at your embarrassment. His fingers graze your cunt before slowly pressing in. Your face pressing deeper into your arm. It wasn't like you'd never laid with Johnny before, but 8 months was a long time and you'd forgotten the intensity of it all. Suddenly, his fingers are pulling out of you and his tongue licks a fat stripe up your slit before sucking on your clit causing you to jolt forward a bit and squeal. "Eeeaasy, lass." Johnny shushes you as he stands up, undoing his jeans. You watch wide eyed as he pulls his cock out. He reaches out, dragging his fingers along your slit to collect your juices and uses it to wet his cock. "Take a deep breath for me, dearie." A smirk creeps onto his face, "I'm sure you've been waiting for me like a proper little lady."

The feeling when he slides his cock into you is electrifying and it has you letting out a soft, shakey moan. He starts with shallow, gentle thrusts. Taking your legs and wrapping them around his hips, he props one knee on the bed. His hands slide up your thighs until he's gripping your hips. When you look back up at his face, he's watching you. The way you look at him must spark something because he suddenly grabs your thighs and presses them right up to your chest. While it's something he's done before, it's been so long that the sensation is just too overwhelming. You moan loudly, struggling in his hold a bit as he starts to lose that gracious bit of gentleness he'd afforded you. His thrusts are an even pace, but their hard; striking your gspot everytime. In this position you know you won't last very long. You're clenching tightly on his cock, an absolute moaning mess as he fucks you.

Johnny lets go of your thighs and leans forward onto his hands. Still thrusting into you, he reaches one hand to your face, brushing his thumb over your lips. You moan and he slides his fingers into your mouth. The ones previously inside your cunt. You're holding his stare while you suck on his fingers. His mouth hangs open, panting and his shaggy Mohawk sticks to his forehead with sweat. In a defiant move you bite down. Not enough to hurt, but enough to elicit a reaction. His hips buck erratically when you do causing you to moan his name and let his fingers go. His hand is instantly on your jaw forcing you to look at him. "What a brave little lass you are, biting me." His chuckle and aggressive tone strike through your body and make your pussy clench. "Ahh... yeah, love, I knew you liked it a little rough." He reaches his free hand down as he speaks and slaps your clit. "Just took a little while for you to show it."

Your orgasm is building up the more he teases you, all you can do is nod and moan eagerly in agreement, praying he doesn't stop. You grab onto his forearms and look down to watch his cock as he fucks it into you. The way your body reacts must be so familiar to him at this point because he slows down and grinds into you, still playing with your clit as he feels you reach the start of your orgasm. Your pussy spasms wildly as you cum. Your head falls back and your stomach clenches while your loud moans fill the house. Johnny's groaning is drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears as you relax. He's fucking you through your orgasm to desperately reach his own and it doesn't take long. With a whispered, "Fuck." His thrusts become frantic, his panting gets louder until he quickly pulls out and grabs your hand; guiding you to jerk him off. His hand squeezes and guides yours until he's cumming all over your stomach and cunt with a loud moan. His hips buck involuntarily as he overstimulates himself.

Your gentle puffs mix with his heavy pants. You watch his body jolt as you let go of his cock and use your clean hand to reach out to his face. Your hand slides from his cheek to the back of his neck. He's leaning down before you even have to pull him. Leaning up and meeting him in the middle, you share a final heated kiss.

[billysgun]

lone prairie

billy the kid x fem!reader |requested!|billy softly sings you to sleep while running his fingers through your hair|

his fingers brush through your hair as he hums a melody, his scent encapsulating you as his vibrating chest is pressed to your back

"Oh, bury me not...on the lone prairie" he starts and you immediately feel your body relaxing into him, the tune engraved in your head as he sung it to you many times before

"Those words came low...and mournfully" his irish accent coming forth as stops to softly kiss your head

"From the pallid lips...of the youth that lay"

"On his dyin' bed...at the close of day" your eyes are heavy as your head tingles from his fingers, and he hums where the guitar would've taken place before continuing

"I wish to lie...where a mother's prayers"

"And a sister's tear...will linger there"

"Where friends can come...weep over me"

"Oh, bury me not...in the lone prairie"

he began to softly hum the carol in your ear as his fingers left your hair and traced your back.

and once his lips were sealed and he dug his nose softly into your hair, he heard the faint controlled breathing of your sleeping self and he smiled softly.

an: i love love LOVE this request! billy singing ALWAYS makes me so sleepy i love it so much! tysm for requesting <3 Merry Christmas eve everyone! ❤️🎄

[splinterclan]

I know in-game the names are just randomly assigned, but do you think in-character there are reasons the cats have the names they do? Like, is there any particular reason Myrtleflower chose Cedar and Pansy, or why Cedar/Bess chose Elk/Moon/Prairie/Burn, etc?

Myrtle chose Cedar and Pansy because she likes plant names (and I kinda have a thought that her older family had all plant names, but she didn't press Cedar and Pansy to keep that up with their own kids)

For my naming - I've actually been putting a lot more emphasis on the suffix for personality rather then the prefix. To me that makes more sense - like Cedar has that prefix bc he's orange and cedarwood is orange, but I/Whorlstar gave him the suffix 'heart' because he never gave up or got angry over his circumstances even when he was injured much of his apprenticeship :')

Likewise, Pansy was a nervous kind of aimless kid, but she 'bloomed' once she found her role as a healer and dedicated herself too it. Droplet makes a noticeable difference/splash whenever she helps around ect. Stuff like that! I'm not always creative with it (Snompelt lol he's white) but that's why I didn't think about it too hard when the game mostly named the kits (the only one I changed was Burnkit, she was Milkkit and I didn't like it daslhfd) and I think their parents mostly just named them for color/things that sounded nice.

I'd pay more attention when they get their full names for meanings!

[barrenclan]

sorry if this is spoilers bc we might learn more later. I'm super confused with Rainhaze's thought process. When he was saying its pointless. like. I get not wanting to go back bc he killed his mom. but what did that have to do with Asphodelpaw? Couldnt he just walk away? Did he see her and decide he wanted to be part of Defiance? And this was the tipping point to prove it? I'm super confused. Was it because if she left she'd tell someone? I assume we'll get a better explanation later?

Absolutely! I've actually been waiting for a chance to really dig into this. Like Rainhaze himself, his issue is written with a lot of confusion and uncertainty, and it's not very straight-forwardly, so I understand why his motivations are easy to miss. So here it is!

Firstly; Rainhaze as he existed in BarrenClan and Rainhaze as he is now are two very, very different beasts. Obviously he's still the same person, but he's gone through a mountain of trauma, violence, and was forced to confront the fact that if pressed, he would kill a family member - even his own mother. Sure, in the moment he was threatened into doing it, but it opens the possibility that he'd even do that. Maybe he would've done anything to protect his family then, but it's been a long time.

Then, over many months, he's subjected to propaganda, murder, and terrible treatment. His mental state from where he was when he killed Dustfeather is massively changed. He's depressed, listless, and much more willing to kill. Not only that, but Defiance propaganda has worked on him.

(Issue 24)

With so much constant killing in his life, and being constantly vulnerable, he begins to see death as a good thing. Something that ends suffering, something that doesn't really matter in the end.

(Issue 28)

So now we're at Issue 31. Rainhaze is in a "doldrum", like Ranger says (a period of inactivity or lethargy). He's so torn between his new life and new beliefs, and his old regrets and old connections to BarrenClan, that he's basically attempting to end his own life through inactivity. Ranger doesn't want this. Here's his plan:

Ranger knows that BarrenClan lives opposite the forest, across the prairie. He specifically orders Rainhaze to "kill something", planting that idea in his mind. He's hoping that Rainhaze will find one of his Clan members, and make the decision to kill one of them. This would push Rainhaze over into whatever full breakdown Ranger wants, and solidify his ties to Defiance. And that is what happens. So why did Rainhaze make that decision?

We already have the basis of an incredibly traumatized Rainhaze. He views himself as he is now, and who he used to be, as different people. And he belives that's completely beyond redemption.

Yes, all those months ago he promised he was suffering in Defiance for his family and Clan, but it's really hard to hold onto those noble morals when you're being put through hell every day. Rainhaze hasn't even seen his family in months. They don't seem real to him anymore.

Then he is finally confronted by Asphodelpaw, the symbol of everything he's put himself through torture to protect, and all he wants to do is go back to Defiance. And here we go, getting to these lines;

Rainhaze is a coward.

He's separated from Deepdark and Ranger, by at least several days. He could absolutely come home with Asphodelpaw and warn all of BarrenClan - they could evacuate in time, be far away by the time Defiance arrives on their territory. But then he'd have to face his family, face his sister whose mother he violently murdered. Have to stand there and have them look at him and know him and see the scars on his body.

When he says, "this is vile, pointless, irredeemable, monstrous", he understands that killing Asphodelpaw is a disgustingly cruel action. He knows that. He understands that he's choosing Defiance over her, and over them. But that's the choice he feels he needs to make to protect himself. He's not thinking about his family any more.

So he does something so completely vicious and irredeemable that he is forced to choose Defiance. Because there's no way that any BarrenClan cat would forgive him for this. There's no way he would forgive himself for this.

And thus, Rainhaze figures himself out, and burns every other bridge entirely. He makes his choice.

[dabiconcordia]

“Woods are not like other spaces. To begin with, they are cubic. Their trees surround you, loom over you, press in from all sides. Woods choke off views & leave you muddled & without bearings. They make you feel small & confused & vulnerable, like a small child lost in a crowd of strange legs. Stand in a desert or prairie & you know you are in a big space. Stand in the woods and you only sense it. They are vast, featureless nowhere. And they are alive.” ― Bill Bryson

[muppet-facts]

Muppet Fact #1099

Prairie Dawn was gifted a printing press by her aunt Dusk, which she used to create her own news paper called The Sesame Street Sun.

Sources:

Hayward, Linda. The Sesame Street Sun. Western Publishing, 1981.

---. Prairie Dawn, Reporter. 1992.