#Weeping White Birch

[apoemaday]

Birches

by Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy’s been swinging them. But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust — Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows — Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. One by one he subdued his father’s trees By riding them down over and over again Until he took the stiffness out of them, And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer. He learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be. It’s when I’m weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig’s having lashed across it open. I’d like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love: I don’t know where it’s likely to go better. I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

[april-is]

April 9, 2024: Physical Therapy, Franny Choi

Physical Therapy Franny Choi   Ask, first, what your smallest body parts require to sing again: coconut oil for your hair’s dry ends, camphor for the earlobes, rosehip kneaded into fingertips with fingertips. Grapeseed will feed most hungers of the skin. But if even your bones cry January, dip your sharpest knife in a jar of raw honey. Lather it on your thighs, making circles, making certain not to confuse this ache for that other, the one that keeps pulling you to the earth, the one question you still can’t say out loud. Recite instead the names of trees: sumac, sweet birch, slippery elm. Take your palm to the wild place under your chin and count: vein, artery, chokecherry, weeping willow, until your xacto knife pulse slows, holds. Let your mouth fill with gold, almonds, zinneas. Then: soften.

--

In an abecedarian poem, each line begins with successive letters of the alphabet.

Also: + VI. Wisdom: The Voice of God, Mary Karr + Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell, Marty McConnell + Heartbeats, Melvin Dixon

More by Franny Choi: + Catastrophe Is Next to Godliness + The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes On

Today in:

2023: Come Quickly, Izumi Shikibu 2022: Heretic That I Am, Tomás Q. Morín 2021: The World Has Need of You, Ellen Bass 2020: Annus Mirabilis, R. A. Villanueva 2019: This Page Ripped Out and Rolled into a Ball, Brendan Constantine 2018: Winter Stars, Larry Levis 2017: In That Other Fantasy Where We Live Forever, Wanda Coleman 2016: The cat’s song, Marge Piercy 2015: The Embrace, Mark Doty 2014: No. 6, Charles Bukowski 2013: A Schoolroom in Haiti, Kenneth Koch 2012: Track 5: Summertime, Jericho Brown 2011: Death, Is All, Ana Božičević 2010: Heaven, William Heyen 2009: April in Maine, May Sarton 2008: Making Love to Myself, James L. White 2007: Publication Date, Franz Wright 2006: Living in the Body, Joyce Sutphen 2005: Aberration (The Hubble Space Telescope before repair), Rebecca Elson

[deluxewhump]

Pride of Princes

A story in the Blackmuir Reign verse

3. Roan and Aedric - then you shall have it

Prev

CW: fantasy whump, imprisonment, burning, torture, fantasy religious persecution, fantasy politics, royal caretaker, arranged marriage, manhandling, trust building

There were only two days remaining until his trial. Roan knew the outcome would not be good, but he did hope it would be swift. His execution, he'd heard, would not be. Cleric Aflonsus had promised him the same thing the prince had warned him of.

He’d prefer a beheading, or hanging even, to the stake. He tried not to think about it. He thought of his home, of the woodsmoke and the morning bird calls, of Thraxanthe and Arvid, and of his cat, Rooka. Yellow fields bent heavy with snowfall, birch trees against a slate sky. Rooka was alright, at least. One of his servants would have collected her by now, or Athelsted. His father’s men had taken him so swiftly that morning, an offering to King Blackmuir’s eldest son, he hadn’t had time to think of poor Rooka. 

They came again to hurt him yesterday, but he didn’t worry about breaking, now. He didn’t fear recanting, or denouncing. He’d found another place to put that in his mind, where it would not slip inadvertently out of his mouth in between screams. A few times he’d begged a particular soldier or a stony-eyed knight, pleading with him for mercy, but never a cleric. And he’d never uttered a word of surrender, even then. The white robes visited him in his dreams. Particularly Alfonsus, with eyes like a frozen stream, his pale beard like a wooden puppet-mouth that moved up and down when he spoke. 

Now he was certain when he did die, he’d be reunited with the forests and marshes of his home. Maybe the faces of the gods would, for the first time since he was a small child, be clear again. 

The bolt sliding on his cell door made him jump. He’d been dreaming awake again, eyes open but unseeing. With the jolt of fear came the reminders of his worst physical pain, which was now the burnt soles of his feet. It was not a cleric in the doorway, or a soldier. It was the Blackmuir prince. 

Aedric had been unexpectedly kind to him, despite his refusal to accept the Tercet on the king’s command. He’d brought a healer every day, along with food from the kitchens, fresh water, and clean blankets. Roan couldn’t quite understand why. They had never met, never even corresponded. The first time he’d laid eyes on him was in the Oath Hall of castle Blackmuir, and he was already a traitor and a heretic. And yet Aedric had tried to argue his imprisonment. Still, it was hard to imagine he did not have an ulterior motive. Roan had just been too exhausted, too hurt to figure out what it might be. He was acutely aware of the prince in his cell whenever the healer was, pacing slowly back and forth and stopping to watch whenever he’d whimper or cry out at the healer’s hands cleaning his wounds or treating a particularly deep bruise. 

Now the prince came alone. Roan sat up painfully, using his hands to scoot himself back against the wall of the cell. He didn’t want the red and weeping soles of his feet to touch the stones. The prince did not seem to notice his trepidation, or his hurt feet. He came close, sinking to his knees in front of him. Roan stiffened in heart-pounding fear at the sudden proximity, despite the fact that this man had never hurt him. 

“I’ve gotten it postponed,” said the prince. “Your trial. Another month.”

Roan blinked at him as if he were an apparition. “It’s in two days.”

“Not now. A month. And,” he said, giving Roan something of a cautious smile, “I am in charge of your care until that date. I convinced him. My father.” 

Roan blinked, uncomprehending. 

The prince’s brow furrowed. “That’s a good thing. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He could’ve, once. Recently, even. Now his head swam, and his limbs felt heavy all the time. That last session had taken something vital from him. Even this felt like a dream, now that his initial fear had faded from hearing the bolt on the door. 

“You can come out of here,” the prince was saying softly. He had a gentle way about him sometimes, but so did the cleric. “I’m not keeping you down here. Come with me. Let’s go.”

But he couldn’t walk. The prince tried to take his arm and he snatched it away. “No,” he whispered. 

“No? You want to stay here?”

Yes. He could stay in his corner and await his fate. He’d adjusted to that. He could handle that. Moving meant uncertainty, and he didn’t think he could take uncertainty anymore. Not with the bottoms of his feet on fire and his head so heavy. He rested it against the cool wall of his cell, and tears wet his cheeks. He hadn’t meant to cry. Not in front of the prince. He hated the Blackmuirs, and the Muirlands, though at the moment he couldn’t remember how to articulate why. 

Prince Aedric sat down beside him, on his left, with his back pressed against the same wall. He was quiet for a long time. Roan found the strength to lift his wrist to his face and wipe away the wetness. “My feet,” he said, when it occurred to him that the prince had always helped his wounds, thus far, not given him more. 

“What’s wrong?”

“They burned them. Yesterday.” Though he would regret sharing the detail later, he pressed on now. “A taste of what will come if I don’t give them what they want.”

Again, the Blackmuir prince was silent. Roan fell asleep, or perhaps passed out. When he woke, two guards were lifting him, each grabbing him under one arm. They wore the Blackmuir crest on their chests. He protested weakly. He knew what was next. It had only been a day. He couldn’t do it again, so soon. Fear roused him enough to struggle. “Please,” he sobbed. 

“Roan.” 

It was Prince Aedric. 

“They’re with me. They’re not here to hurt you. Don’t fight them.”

They picked him up so he wouldn’t have to put any weight on his feet, and carried him out of the cells. 

_

Aedric had Roan Barrowfen taken to the same physician that treated him during his imprisonment. Roan was awake, but largely unresponsive to both words and touch. Only when the healer worked on his burned feet did he grit his teeth tight and moan. 

Aedric went to his side, thinking maybe it would be appropriate to offer a hand to squeeze, or some words of encouragement. Roan Barrowfen did not take his offered hand, and closed his eyes tightly against anything he said. 

He slept a long time in the infirmary in a low straw cot. The following day, when he had bathed himself (he would not consent to be helped, not by Aedric or a healer or even a servant, which Aedric offered), Aedric took him to his own rooms.

Before all of this, he’d imagined spending a night or two alone with him, getting to know one another. He’d assumed they would want to sleep together, or at least try a kiss, a touch. He’d imagined himself as the one who would initiate, if it seemed appropriate, and who would do his best to make his new peaceweaver feel welcome, in every sense of the word. 

He had not imagined it would all go as awry as this. 

Roan looked about his chambers, a suite with a bedroom and an adjacent sitting room. The anteroom alone consisted of two stone hearths. In the second room was a large bed with a canopy for both warmth and privacy, a basin of water, and white pine coffers above which hung an ornate mirror of smooth southerly glass. Nearby was a heavy oak table cluttered with documents and inkwells beneath a tall, narrow window.  

“Are you accustomed to finer?” he teased.

“No,” Roan answered seriously. “Our keep is similar in style. We are northern, too, though you call us easterly here. But our keep is smaller, and our mirror glass is not so fine as that.”

“Your feet must pain you. Please, get off of them. They need to heal.”

Roan didn’t argue, and limped gingerly to the table under the window on a set of crutches given to him by the healer. He was pale, and shaking slightly from the effort of coming here himself, which he’d insisted on. Aedric thought he just couldn’t bear the idea of being handled by Blackmuir guards any more. He seemed much more present than he had the day before, at least. Fully lucid, for better or worse.

“May I ask you something?” he said after Roan had seated himself and laid the crutches aside.

Roan looked up at him as he approached, rings of exhaustion under his eyes. His coal dark hair, which had been filthy from the cells and the mistreatment was now shining and soft from the bath.

“Did you and I exchange a letter?” Aedric asked. 

Roan frowned in puzzlement. “No.”

Aedric sat in the nearest chair facing him across a corner of the table. “I was afraid of that.”

“Someone sent a letter to you? As me?”

Aedric rifled through a stack of documents until he found it, and slid it over the table to him. 

Roan picked it up and skimmed it, his look of confusion turning into annoyance. “This isn’t mine. That’s not even my signature.”

“Whose, then?” Aedric saw a look of alarm, bordering on fear, cross Roan’s face and hurried to add, “I believe you. I’m not challenging you. I just wonder if you know who might have written it.”

“Some scribe,” Roan answered, and slid the letter back to him. “On the instructions of my father.”

“Did you even agree to come here?”

Roan looked at him carefully, no doubt wondering if he should be candid. “No,” he said after a moment's deliberation. “I did not.”

“Your father arranged it without your knowledge, then?”

“I’m sure. You heard the king. He wrote in that letter that if I would not capitulate, you had his blessing to use me as an example. He is displeased with my refusal to convert. As displeased as everyone else, it seems.” He thought for a moment, tilting his pretty head. His voice took the slightest inflection of a question.  “Everyone but you?”

“It’s of very little concern to me.”

Roan narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

He shrugged out of his black-and-silver cloak, holding it aloft to offer it to Roan in case he was cold. Roan stiffened and shook his head, so Aedric laid it across the nearest empty chair. “There’s a dozen religions, and subsects of them, from here to Aepoli,” he said. “Perhaps a dozen more to the west.”

He wanted to tell him that Miline was southerly, and in their ten years of marriage still observed her traditions of star-reading, and their holidays of solstice. But since the Tercet had gained popularity, this sort of information was suddenly quite sensitive, and could be used against her if someone ever wished. She no longer left evidence of this practice lying around, even where her own handmaids might see. Aedric certainly wasn’t going to tell Roan, even if it might help his argument. “I don’t have any preference on what gods you claim. Which is why I didn’t ask in my letter, which I now realize you never read. I didn’t think it had any bearing on the success of the arrangement.”

“The king clearly does.”

He is bold, Aedrick thought. Bold and direct, even after being shown what that could earn him in the Muirlands. Aedric placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. He tried to gentle his voice. “If you had not made such an adamant declaration, it would have gone unnoticed.”

“You would have me lie?”

“I would have you live. I would have advised you to be subtle.”

“The Tercet is the official religion of the kingdom now, is it not? Of your family’s reign?”

“Not quite.”

“But it’s heading in that direction?”

“Yes. For now.”

“For now? What does that mean?”

“It means I am not so sure it’s a good idea. The clerics… they have a concerning amount of power already, and if it becomes officiated, they will ask for even more. Or quietly take it. Cleric Afonsus is a cunning man. I’m sure you’ve become acquainted with him, by now?”

Roan tried not to flinch at the name, but Aedric saw his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”

“I thought so. My father suffered an illness this spring. He’s not been entirely himself since. Please don’t repeat this, but there is a widening gap of power. I believe the Tercet leaders are after an inordinate amount of that power. My father can’t see it now, but by tying the Tercet to the reign, they will achieve this.”

“Does it not serve your interests? Does it not make you god-kings?”

“God-appointed kings,” Aedric corrected. “As appealing as that sounds, I fear it will turn them into kingmakers.”

“So you would oppose the officiation?”

“I would deny them outright.”

“Then alas that you are not our king.”

He ignored the treasonous tone of that remark. He didn’t want to discourage  Roan’s candidness with him, even for his own safety. And having been tortured, Aedric thought he was allowed an off-color comment or two, as long as it was in the privacy of his chambers. 

“No, I’m not. That’s why I want you and I to say our vows. If that is official, I have more control over what happens to you.”

“Control,” Roan said darkly. “Is that something I should want from you?”

Aedric faltered. Yes, he thought. Since I laid eyes on you, I have only tried to help you. “I can’t tell you that,” he said instead. “You have to arrive at that conclusion yourself.”

“In a month.”

Ideally sooner than that. 

Aedric gathered a stack of papers and straightened them. The sun was setting, and soon a servant would come to build fires in the hearths. “What can I do to put you at ease now?” he asked. “Tonight.”

Roan watched him move papers across the table. He lifted his eyes to Aedric’s. “There is one thing.”

It was an object. Small, carved, wooden. It was in the cells, hidden in the rushes in the northwestern corner, he said, so they wouldn’t find it on him and take it. Aedric went down alone, and told the guard at the door to stay put as he entered the small stone room, only a foot between his head and the low, damp ceiling. After a moment of sifting he found a smooth piece of boxwood the size of an egg, and returned to his chambers with it. 

He held it out to Roan, who took it reverently from his outstretched hand. “Thank you.”

“What is it?”

Roan found a hidden seam with his thumbnail and opened it on a hinge like an oyster, revealing two halves of an intricately carved, hollowed interior, with a depiction of a fertile woodland inside. In the center was a horned owl, small as a walnut and painstakingly detailed. “Arvid,” he said, which Aedric assumed was the name of a god. “In the Oath Hall, you asked me why my gods did not help me.”

“I know. I meant it in jest.”

“I see that now. But that’s not how it works. We don’t seek favor from the gods. Favor is… more chance than design.”

“Is there a god of chance then?”

Roan gave him a fleeting, indulgent smile. It was the first of its kind he’d been given. 

“What does it do?” he asked, nodding at the carving in Roan’s hand. 

“Nothing.” He closed it with a soft click. “It comforts me.”

“Oh,” said Prince Aedric. “Then you shall have it.”

Next

[dabiconcordia]

Birches

When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy’s been swinging them. But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust— Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows— Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. One by one he subdued his father's trees By riding them down over and over again Until he took the stiffness out of them, And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer. He learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be. It’s when I’m weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig’s having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love: I don’t know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. By Robert Frost

[mentallyshattered]

This is part 23 of the "What if Yuu didn't want to go back?" Series!

(I, the author of this work, do not consent to this work being crossposted/translated without my knowledge or used to train an AI, ever.)

Masterlist

I have several questions.

1. Why am I here?

2. Where is "here?"

3. When did I wake up?

5. What time is it?

6. How did I get here?

7. Who are they?

There are several other questions, of course, but these are the ones that press most persistently at my mind. Some are easy enough to answer- Grim's my familiar, of course he's here- while others- maybe there aren't any crickets because of the time? They should be active if it's still night- aren't so obvious.

Ah, well. The lane in front of me is long, as is the portion behind me I've absentmindedly walked prior to realizing I'm not somewhere I already know. The atmosphere here doesn't feel aggressive, hostile, or even unwelcoming. It just feels... calm. Strangely, unfamiliarly calm, like I've been here all my life without realizing it. Like a freshwater fish moved to a cleaner, kinder lake.

On my left and right are smoke-lined "screens" with short videos playing, repeating from what I assume to be the start after a second or two of playing. Each "screen" is about my height, hovering slightly above the ground beside the path, but I soon realize I'm taller. The bottom of the screens aligns with my ankles, not my feet, but the tops are still about level with my scalp. About a meter and a half from the side of the walkway is a row of trees with a deep brownish-black I've never seen in nature, much less alongside the pale blue, almond-shaped leaves. In form, some of the trees resemble simple oak, while others split at the base like birch. The variety is undeniable regardless of trunks: some droop like weeping willows; some branch straight up; some don't bother with limbs and just grow their leaves directly off of their bark. The nonpath ground that doesn't have a tree on it is covered in what looks to be clover, flowerless and evidently lacking in the four-leafed variety, favoring five-leafedness as some noticeable portion of the apparent population.

The path itself is a shifting shade of grey, then purple, then blue, and then I hold my head still and stare. Above me is a strange, dark sky, the same shade as right before a thunderstorm, when dark clouds coat the sky and hide the sun. In spite of the color, not one cloud is visible- just a series of small, silvery streaks, some pale blue and most are a very light, shiny grey that appears white against the dark sky. The streaks are scattered like faraway stars; some even form a bizarre sort of image, a constellation of abstract made to resemble a hundred shapes at once. If I look straight up, they resemble a fox, but if I turn a little to my left and peer slightly lower than before, It's an upside-down stag.

What a weird, wonderful world.

In my arms, Grim starts to stir, yawning as he does when he's sleepy. I smile. How cute. His eyes slowly blink open, and he hops out of my arms to stretch like normal, padding over to sit beside me once he's done.

I wait. Logically, he's going to ask where we are soon- but that "soon" never comes. He just sits there, trident tail silently swishing behind him, until he speaks:

"Where're we gonna go?" He says it so casually; I'd think he knows this place if I didn't know any better.

...Do I?

Maybe he knows. Perhaps this is his signature spell. Perhaps it is not. How should I know? All I've been given are strange, vague clues, many of which would seem so out-of-place anywhere else I'd absolutely remember if I've seen them before.

Grim is in front of me now, his paws moving the loose, sandlike material of the path into a tiny trail, documenting his steps. His eyes are staring right at my face, curious and patient. Heh. Never thought I'd call him that, but here we are. Oh, I should ask him.

"Grim, do you know where we are?"

"Sorta," he starts. "I've been here before." He pauses and looks around for a moment before he continues, "Well, here-ish. The path and trees were a different color, and the screen things weren't floating or smokey. The videos were of other things, too, and there were way more sky streak things. Oh, and the sky was darker."

I look around and focus my attention on one of the videos floating on my right. It's of a young child, about eleven if I had to guess, celebrating something with a group of others who appear to be about his age. Just before the loop restarts, a presumably adult figure who's mostly out of sight starts handing out popsicles, starting with the boy in the center of the screen. The kid doesn't ring any bells, but I recognize him regardless- not because he's familiar, but because his familiar is familiar.

Atop the child's head is a very distinct oppossum. The boy must be Korrak. Is this a memory or a dream? I can't be sure.

I reach out to touch it, and all of a sudden I'm in that park, Grim by my side, as a small Korrak kicks a black-and-white soccer ball into a goal made from what I think is PVC piping. The kids cheer, but the other team, a pair of acne-faced young teens, tries to rush the lady keeping score, claiming "offsides." The lady laughs them off, presumably having seen the goal and the fact that the ball didn't touch any of the sides, and tells them to act their age instead of whining.

A chittering Mandible runs to join the cheering children as they toss Korrak into the air- I didn't know they could do that, but I guess little kids are stronger in groups of fifteen- and an adult hands out the "trophies," one for each winner. Korrak clearly isn't the only one with a familiar, as the instant another grown-up reaches to pass Mandible an ice cube with some grapes frozen inside, a small, many-legged clump of colorful fur bolts to her, barking and cooing and chittering and meowing that doesn't seem to be speech so much as just shouting. As the treats are handed out, I see a border collie, a raccon, a cat, and a pigeon quiet down and rest beside their respective winners to rest and eat. The border collie, still not fully grown, jumps onto the lap of a boy with brown hair that reminds me of tree bark, while the raccon runs to a young girl I don't clock as "not a boy" until she undoes her ponytail. The cat, a mostly white shorthair with black paws, an equally dark head, and a tail to match sits on the back of a very pale boy with hair that makes his skin look worse as he lies on his stomach to eat, and the pigeon flies directly into a nearby oak tree, where a small, dark-skinned boy with dreadlocks and wide eyes climbs to meet it.

Eventually, small Korrak finishes his reward, and, tongue stained purple, announces that his mom told him to be back before dark, and leaves, Mandible on his shoulder. The sunset has dyed the sky a bright, beautiful orangey-red, and then I am back in on the path, Grim beside me all the same. The portion of the memory is still looping like is was before on the smoke-lined screen, as though nothing changed. Nothing did. How odd.

Wait, I said something. There was a phrase- "memoir lake," was that it? No, it couldn't be. I don't see a lake.

"Weird," begins Grim. "I've never tried to go through one of those before. Did you see how the grass kinda doubled and split when we touched it? Like, some of it was unaffected, but some was kinda see-through and didn't just phase through my paws."

"I wasn't paying attention to the grass..."

Grim shrugs with his little kitty shoulders. "Fair enough. I barely did." He pauses, paws shifting nervously on the sandlike path. "I used to just...be somewhere a lot like this sometimes. I'd start at the end of the path, and there'd be a light of some kind, and I'd touch it like you did with that memory thing, and..."

I remember. I never went anywhere particular to find Grim, he'd kind of just... show up. I would fall asleep in the woods, as one does when they aren't attending a prestigious magic college, and wake with my familiar in my arms or curled against my stomach. I never questioned it; he'd been appearing like that for years. It'd been part of my "normal" since I was a little kid, and I thought nothing of it, the way rich kids think nothing of their money until they learn their classmates live without it.

I smile. My magic was always there, I suppose, I just couldn't use it until I was there, too.

My magic. My magic. My magic. Is that really what this is?

Grim finally asks me what I've been asking myself: "Is this your signature spell?"

It's mine or his, right? Grim's been seeing this kind of magic for years, and it connected to me then, so it has to be one of ours, right?

I stop and look left. Another memory, with an even younger Korrak. He looks to be hiding behind a small pile of black plastic trash bags, presumably playing hide-and-seek. An adult, a presumably a police officer, steps into the frame, head and chest still out-of-sight. He steps loudly around, leaving a young Korrak to breathe again with relief. The memory loops. I watch, still and silent, as a Korrak who can't be any older than six dashes into an alleyway, digs 'neath the garbage bags, and stashes himself away, holding his breath.

I break away when the cop leaves again. What the hell? That didn't look like a game.

Before I can stop it, my hand reaches out and presses against the screen. For a moment, it feels as though the world has stopped, and then I'm standing on sidewalk as a slight breeze ruffles my hair. Small Korrak bolts through my legs like they aren't there and forces his body against its momentum to make a sharp left into an alleyway. The cop runs up, noticeably slower than the five-or-so-year-old, and stops affront the escape route. He walks forward, slowly, boots thumping on the concrete, and I follow.

The police's face is blurry and obscured. This is a memory, and Korrak didn't get a good look at him, so that's not too surprising, but when I fall onto the trash bags I realize Grim was right- each bag duplicates into two, one of which phases through me, and the other of which doesn't.

The cop leaves, Korrak exhales, and I watch as he cries. Cries little child tears, curling into a ball of scared with Mandible clutched in his arms. The trash bags must be some kind of safe haven to him. Is that why his headphones were where they were when we found them?

A small, quiet whine tries and fails to echo in the dark outdoor halls. Mandible chitters. I don't know what he's saying.

The memory ends. I'm back on the path. What is there to do now but learn more?

I step twelve paces forward. All of the screens' loops would suggest Korrak has never had a house. Further back, more of the same. Farther and farther into his past I glance, and there is not a single instance of Korrak being raised by humans. I don't see a single plane.

The "pilot parents" lie has been very disproven. He grew up homeless? That explains so much! The fighting must have been a necessity out there, and the aforementioned lie was a practiced cover for why everything he owns fits in a single bag. He was probably raised by opossums, too, and learning a human language was probably a challenge.

Poor Korrak. He must have had a difficult life.

I venture into the nearer past. Teen and preteen Korrak does not appear to have been taken in. He has, however, learned to read, which seems to have lead to an interest in science. He doesn't get to indulge that.

Finally, I see the black carriage approach. He's going to Night Raven. Screens further ahead show the entrance ceremony, our dorm room, the Backstage Room, us. Rook taking him to Vil's room. The leaders of Pomefiore taking him and Mandible under their wings as they did Grim and I.

Vil brushing Korrak's hair while Rook smooths Mandible's fur with a brush. Getting a phone for the first time in sixteen years, from our housewarden himself. Clutching Mandible in his arms while trying to curl in on himself, just like he did all those years ago, but now Rook is there, too, hugging him- wait, that's the clearing we saw him in!

Much of this is giving me dejá vù. Rook and Vil treat Korrak and Mandible the way they treat me and Grim: like birds encouraging their fledgling chicks to spread their wings and fly. How come I didn't know of this sooner? As glances of the past would suggest, mom and dad- what the hell, they aren't my legal parents or guardians, I'm getting ahead of all this- went out of their ways to give us privacy. How nice.

I jog to where I started. A "fire" burns there, emitting smoke but no flame. I could walk through if I wanted.

"Myeeh, we need to leave! I don't wanna be late," shouts Grim, trident tail straight up. He's right, we need to go! But how do I...

Two words come to mind: a name. My signature spell's name.

"Memory Lane," I say, and I'm back in my bed.

[jillraggett]

Plant of the Day

Tuesday 28 March 2023

In Edinburgh Botanic Garden this Champion Tree Betula pendula subsp. pendula 'Tristis' (silver birch, weeping birch) greets visitors. This is an elegant, deciduous tree with white bark, and long slender drooping branches.

Jill Raggett

[thetasteofsunshineonyourtongue]

Image ID: A gif of multiple digital drawings that glitch into one another.

In the first drawing, Travis Matagot is standing, looking up at The Forest Queen, who is gently cupping his face. They are both smiling as he says, “If you wanted to tell me that I was your favorite, you could have just said so.” Travis is a man in his late twenties, wearing an 18th century outfit, his long white hair loose and falling down his back, small yellow, blue, and white flowers adorning it. The Forest Queen is a tall humanoid woman, with skin like tree bark covered in moss and different kinds of mushrooms and eyes that glow gold. She has a pair of antlers on her head that look like tree branches, and hair made of weeping willow leaves. In the background is a forest of birch trees with red, gold, and green leaves.

This glitches into a drawing of the spiritual visage of Dref Wormwood shaking Travis by his shoulders and yelling, “Why are you not paying attention?” They are glowing white figures without any details besides an outline.

This glitches into a drawing of Orimar Vale staring blankly in front of him at the greenheart that has a clawed hand extended toward his heart. Orimar Vale is a black man in his fifties, wearing an 18th century outfit, with waist-length dread locs decorated with precious metals and gems, with a tricorn hat with a large feather atop his head. The greenheart in front of him is an unnaturally tall humanoid that looks like barklike flesh that has been stretched across a spindly skeleton underneath. In the background, other greenhearts stand amongst gray and green leaves.

This glitches back into the first drawing. Travis stares for a beat, blinks twice, and says, “What was I saying?” The gif repeats after one final glitch.

The three images below are stills from the gif. End ID.

this thing is not your mother

[blinkbones]

desperately wishing i had the skill to draw & write a version of hamlet in which they're all plant people and i could push the corrupted garden metaphor to be visual and fictionally tangible but also make it a story of rebirth with a 6th act in which the rot has fed a new, uncorrupted court (compost is cool, u guys)

ophelia as a conventionally beautiful & pretty flower (poppies? fragile, love-red, but also linked with poison) in the beginning, slowly rotting and being overgrown until blossoms sprout out of her eyes and mouth to show her being smothered by the patriarchal court. after her suicide she's reborn as pond vegetation. a lotus. lilypads. for the rebirth theme and as reclaiming of the danger represented by water throughout the play (framing her as a character capable of escaping the rot of the court, like she does in the original through death outside of the castle)

guildenstern and rosencrantz as parasitic vines twisting and twining together until they meld into a two-faced janus after their death. only then can they begin a reflection on the past and the future, and play the role of commentator of the evolution of the court

laertes as a weeping willow, a tree to symbolize his toughness and successful masculinity, but a riverside, droopy one, to foreshadow his death (he is felled in the end and does not re-ermerge from the water as he sister does)

claudius as an unleafed winter apple tree, already fully corrupted, hiding masses of insects and putrefied plant matter inside his hollowed bark. also because dead trees foster new life (favored by birds to build their nests in)

king hamlet as a thunderstruck tree, echoing his brother in being already symbolically corrupted (bloodthirsty conqueror) but felled prematurely via extreme violence

polonius as mistletoe. for the association with trickery (emblematic of the loki & baldr story) and the completely toxic parasitism (unedible fruits, ungraceful, sucks the sap of stronger trees--claudius) and also because i think it's kind of a goofy plant

all guards and gentlemen as common trees -- birches, maybe, because they're less imposing than oaks. (and of course, they're all rotting a little bit, like the rest of the cast)

horatio as an olive tree, because it's associated with athena (thus knowledge, which evokes his erudition) and it's a southern tree, showing his foreign status (also because i like olive trees, and i like horatio. i think he needs a nice tree)

gertrude as lily of the valley, because it's pretty and a beautiful pure white, but kind of droopy and absolutely poisonous. Also associated with Eve's tears after her banishment from the garden. She eats one of Claudius's apples (but unlike the Eden apples, those are rotten... well... he's a bad apple lol) However it also re-appears every spring (and symbolizes it), which both shows her ability for resilience (surviving her husband's death, which is difficult in this ancient patriarchal society) and foreshadows her rebirth after act 5 (when hamlet will get his shit together and forgive her) However she is reborn as the same flower--unlike ophelia, she isn't able to transform.

and finally hamlet as a black rosebush, because roses are kind of the protagonists of flowers and clearly identify hamlet as the main character, because it's such a classic edgy/goth choice, but also because, while hardy plants, rosebushes are by no means a tree, and we need to show hamlet's inability to fit masculine expectation by making him a feminine/androgynous plant (not a tree--also it shows his ousting from the order of succession, which is represented by a genealogical tree. being a flower, it's clear he's lost the land & throne). also roses are full of thorns, hurting those who touch them, and hamlet definitely fucks up his entire entourage. (i love him). and, finally, the black rose is a botanical anomaly, and echoes hamlet's genre-bending characteristics (as a character and as a play) ; and it's associated with darkness and co.

addendum: the yorick skull alongside a pomegranate as the fruit of the dead (greece); the fruit remains while the plant is long dead. to also evoke the myth of hades and persephone and a link with seasonal rebirth following corrupting actions. also because it has such rich symbolism across the world; so it foreshadows rebirth of the purified court in act 6. also because the little spiky bits of the pomegranate are reminiscent of both a jester's hat (yorick being a jester) and a crown (you can go wild with this one: because hamlet future king, because yorick presented as a paternal figure moreso than actual king hamlet, etc)

[whisperthatruns]

Birches

When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy's been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--- Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm (Now am I free to be poetical?) I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows--- Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. One by one he subdued his father's trees By riding them down over and over again Until he took the stiffness out of them, And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer. He learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig's having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Robert Frost, Mountain Interval (1916), The Poetry of Robert Frost: The Collected Poems, ed. Edward Connery Lathem (Henry Holt and Company, 2002)

[jack-of-crowns]

@flashfictionfridayofficial

'Whom Shall Bear A Wounded Angel'

by @jack-of-crowns

In a sere meadow of the summering park, low by where the river languidly reaches crooked rivulets through crumples of daisies and forget-me-nots, two young men are playing at mölkky, strewing skittles about the hard-cracked earth with each toss. The rhythmic clicking of the pins is time's only marker; that and the occasional puffs of wind rustling the browning leaves of a lone moor birch.

"Teemu, what's this?" The older one points past his cousin, pulls up abruptly before his next throw at a sudden shimmering in the long shadows beneath the tree's upswept crown, "What's this, then?"

"Mikko, it's nothing," the younger one replies with barely a glance towards where the birch casts its crackled shade close by the riverside. "It's nothing." He squints defiantly against the high July sun. "Nothing but a troll-trick to throw off your aim. Come now, you still have a chance to catch up and-"

Sound, then; a melancholy weeping pumps through the warm afternoon from under the moor birch as though its roots were fountainheads of a sorrow so great that the trunk could no longer hold it in reservoir, and the dumbfounded cousins stare with widened eyes as the branch-cast shadows gradually resolve into the glimmering figure of an angel, blindfolded and broken winged, weeping.

Mikko is first to approach, shaken and trembling. Teemu picks up the throwing pin and clenches it tightly in his fist, ready to rush in to his cousin's aid. The black sheen of Mikko's silk bekishe seems washed out by the glow of the angel's white robe, flattened out like ripples in a current come to shore. The pulse of the weeping slows, then ceases as the young man nears the tall tree; golden hair blows about the angel's shoulders in an unseen breeze.

"Do not be afraid."

They do not open their mouth to speak; Mikko tries his best to be brave, tries to remember what the rebbes have taught, tips his homburg respectfully. He sees dark streaks of blood splattered on the feathers of the angel's wings and shudders to think of what sort of abomination in this world or any other which could conceivably harm one of the servants of the Most High, then offers them an outstretched hand as he stoops under the branches.

The angel does not reply; their blindfolded gaze remains steadfastly fixed upon the cracked and hardened earth. Now it is Teemu who approaches. "P-perhaps we can carry them, if they cannot fly." He looks backwards at the pins and devises a plan. Unwinding his keffiyeh, he hands two of the skittles to Mikko and takes two for himself, then laces the cloth and wood together to form a handled seat. "The doctors at the hospital can surely help them," he says optimistically, trying to believe it himself.

"S-surely. Surely the doctors can," Mikko agrees, and slides the little litter underneath the angel who hangs motionless in the air, suspended inches from the ground, and much to the young men's surprise they lift as freely as though an icon and not a being. The cousins carry the angel upwards to the path that runs through the park's meadows, and marvel at each step they take, for with each droplet of blood which shakes free from the angel's broken wings a rosette of great mullein with fiery yellow flowers bursts into being from the hardened land.

And they walk onwards, the three of them together in the greening that grows behind them, and the cousins feel as though it is their steps that have been lightened and quickened; for truly it has been said that blessings unforeseen come to those whom shall bear a wounded angel aloft once more.

[woodlandtrust]

Birches, by Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy’s been swinging them. But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust— Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows— Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. One by one he subdued his father's trees By riding them down over and over again Until he took the stiffness out of them, And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer. He learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be. It’s when I’m weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig’s having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love: I don’t know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

[unhingedselfships]

ANIMAL: grey wolf, panther, new world vulture

COLOURS: phthalo green, crimson, ash grey, tv static white, old gold

MONTH: December

SONGS: King - Florence + the Machine, Bird Dog - Shaman’s Harvest, Dead of Night - Ruelle, Hard Lines Sunken Cheeks - Pantera, Wherever I May Roam - Metallica, Nunchuck - SAINT PHNX

NUMBER: 4, 13, 22

PLANTS: weeping birch, parrot tulip, nightshade, gympie gympie

SMELLS: gunpowder, infection, igneous rock, cracked pepper

GEMSTONE: malachite, moss agate, tiger eye, bloodstone

TIME OF DAY: the witching hour

SEASON: late autumn

PLACES: Biafra, the middle east, Rotterdam, nowhere

FOOD: canned fish, fruit, leftovers sandwich 

DRINKS: gin straight, stale water, cheap instant coffee

ELEMENT: lightning, water, void

ASTROLOGICAL SIGNS: Virgo/Libra/Scorpio

SEASONINGS: burnt coffee, hickory salt, balsamic vinegar

SKY: clear and still and the wrong color

WEATHER: multiple vortex tornadoes

MAGICAL POWER: disintegration 

WEAPONS: FN MAG, Brügger & Thomet APC, Sturmgewehr 44

SOCIAL MEDIA: Only Fans (kidding, he doesn’t have any)

MAKEUP PRODUCT: tactical paint

CANDY: unsweetened dried ginger, 90% cocoa covered blueberries, vinegar taffy

METHOD OF LONG DISTANCE TRAVEL: walking, ceaselessly

ART STYLE: H. R. Giger

FEAR: ghosts, violent death, loss of control, attachment

MYTHOLOGICAL CREATURE: wraith or boogieman

PIECE OF STATIONARY: torn and stained scrap paper

THREE EMOJIS: ⛓⚖🕰

CELESTIAL BODY: Algol

[faewitchsdeities]

𝕱𝖗𝖎𝖌𝖌

𝕺𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖓𝖆𝖒𝖊(𝖘): Frigga, Friia, Frixx, Frija, Fricka

𝕲𝖔𝖉 𝖔𝖋: Fertility, motherhood, marriage, love, beauty

𝕾𝖕𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖑 𝖉𝖆𝖞(𝖘): Friday (named after her 'Friiasday', Yule

𝕽𝖊𝖑𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘: Daughter of Fjorgyn, one of the first gods, Wife of Odin, and mother of Baldr, Hodr, and Hermod. Was unfaither to Odin via some other dudes but I don't know who they are.

𝕰𝖓𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖊𝖘: Loki

𝕾𝖞𝖒𝖇𝖔𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖒-

𝕬𝖓𝖎𝖒𝖆𝖑(𝖘): Cat, goose, raven, hawk, swallows, falcons, boars, dogs

𝕺𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗: spinning wheel, spindle, hearth, spun wool, brisingamen necklace, coat of feathers, chariot lead by dogs, domestic arts, marriage, mothers, crown, distaff

𝕮𝖔𝖑𝖔𝖗(𝖘): Blue, aqua, white, ivory, silver, grey, green

𝕰𝖑𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙: Air

𝕻𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖊𝖙: Venus

𝖅𝖔𝖉𝖎𝖆𝖈𝖘: All of em

𝕾𝖎𝖒𝖎𝖑𝖆𝖗 𝕲𝖔𝖉𝖘: Hera

𝕺𝖋𝖋𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘- kindness and work, aiding others; especially women and children, keeping a clean home and altar.

𝕳𝖊𝖗𝖇𝖘/𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖘: Alder Birch Elder Feverfew Fir Hawthorn Lady's mantle Mistletoe Rose Shepherd's purse Spindle tree Lilly of the valley Thyme

𝕱𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖘: Chocolates Cookies & caraway cakes soaked in cider Eggnog Fruit Honey Lightly fruity wines Mead Milk Nuts Pastries Pork Riesling Spiced cider Strawberries Turkey

𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘/𝖈𝖗𝖞𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖘/𝖒𝖊𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖘: Amber Copper Emerald Gold Moonstone Rose quartz Silver 𝕺𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗: Norse style spindle, white wool (spun/carded), spinning equipment, old fashioned keys, keeping area clean and tidy, textiles made for her, jewelry, perfume, incense, candles, cat and dog figures

𝕴𝖓𝖛𝖔𝖈𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓: Helps mothers and children, making peace between warring members of a group, cleaning your/someone else's house, fertility, marriage spells, heaven, proper house keeping, domestic situations, abundance, crafts, farming.

𝕬𝖕𝖕𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊: Usually seen as a decently well endowed woman with lower back length golden hair. I see her most often shown in a white dress, and I assume she has blue or maybe green eyes.

𝕷𝖔𝖗𝖊/𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘: ~The promoter of marriage and fertility, some depict her as a weeping and loving mother and wife, while others stress her loose morals. She sits beside Odin's fabulous throne Hildskialf, where they together view the nine worlds, although she is all-knowing, she reveals nothing of the future to anyone. She was born of Fjorgynn and is the mother to three sons, The queen of Asgard, and dwells often in a place called Fensalir "FenHalls" -She has three attendants- 1. Hlin (Protectress) Her guardian 2. Gna (Goddess of fullness) the one who runs errands for her on the flying, sea treading horse Hofuarpnir (hoof thrower/kicker) 3. Fulla (Bountiful) the one who tends to her footwear and other clothes, wearing a golden headband -Her son Baldr kept having foreboding dreams of his own death, so she took an oath from fire, water, iron and all metals, stones, and earth, trees, plants, sicknesses and poisons, all four footed beasts, birds, and creeping things that they would never hurt the beloved god. Everything except mistletoe who was too young and harmless to even understand. Loki disguised himself as an old woman and tricked Frigg into telling him about the mistletoe, she said "East of Valhalla is a plant called mistletoe; it seemed to me to young to wear." Loki took a twig from the plant and made it into a dart, then telling Baldr's blind brother Hodr to throw it at him, it pierces the god's skin and he fell to the ground leaving the god's speechless before they began to weep bitterly. Some say that they had a funeral for him on a Pyre ship, Nanna accompanying him, but others say Frigg persuaded all gods, animals, plants to say that they wanted the god back. His life was restored and Frigg repaid them with kisses. Either way, Loki was then locked in a cave as punishment for his crime -this is where he waits for the Doom of the Gods, aka Ragnarock.

[ladylightning]

i love red foxes and barn owls and mute swans and gray wolves and white-tailed deer and monarch butterflies and lunar moths and bluejays and nightingales and weeping willows and river birch and larkspur and lilies and rainstorms and fog and birdsong and quiet

[silver-blooded-synthetics]

Continued from here, with @detective-with-one-arm

Alma smiled at Rachel's excitement. It was endearing to see something so simple celebrated with such enthusiasm. Her question about his favorite plant was met with a thoughtful expression from the synthetic. He looked up as he went through a mental checklist of all of the plants he knew were here.

"I believe the weeping European white birch tree is my favorite. It's aesthetically pleasing to me with it's white bark and drooping branches," he commented. "I like coming here to read under it."

He continued on, listing information about it. "It's scientific name is Betula Pendula, but it's also known as silver birch. It prefers acidic or alkaline, chalk, clay, loam, sand, and moist, well-drained soil types. Typical height for the plant is thirty to thirty five feet tall so it gets full sunlight."

[halfelven]

♟️🧂🛵?

♟if you were a cartoon hero, what would your weapon be

fantasy cartoon: magic + bow and arrows + sword + knife (over powered? maybe. i call it prepared)

modern cartoon: gun

🧂what dvd/vhs did you watch over and over again as a kid?

the hobbit 💛

(slightly more obscure but i’m mentioning them in case other homeschooled people read this and had been thinking about these and were wondering what they were called: the last chance detectives movies and mcgee and me)

🛵 favourite tree

i think this means favourite type of tree and not favourite tree (individual) in the whole world as i first thought, but either way i hate to pick* but there were three elm trees i used to drive half an hour out of the way to visit so they’re a strong contender

(weeping willows were my favourite when i was 6. i’ve also said birch. and i am soft for white pines. one of my best friends is a maple tree. i had see mangroves as a must that i have experienced. apple trees and cherry trees are my loves. i love trees so much i refuse to pick one)

thank you! 🌸🌸🌸