#farmers wife quilt

[housefreak]

while im quilt posting. the shenandoah valley botanical quilt <3 shes so beautiful id love to make her one day

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Farmer's Daughter 13

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You finish your tea in tenuous silence. With an agreement between you, there isn't much left to say. You really don't know what to say or do. All the implications pile on you as your mind races.

A wife? A good wife. What does a good wife do?

Support her husband. Love him. Show him affection...

That last thought tingles in your cheeks. You peek over at Walter as you hug your empty mug in your hands. What does he expect of you? Not just in your marriage but tonight? You haven't wed just yet.

He meets your eyes, brushing his hand over his curls. He slides forward on the cushion as your shoulders slope down. He still looks angry.

"Done?" He asks, not waiting for your answer before he stands.

"Yeah, I... I am, thank you."

He approaches and takes the mug from you. He goes into the kitchen without another word. You peer over at the windows, rain still battering the panes. You sniff and stand with a shiver as you search around, your clothes still showing damp patches.

"The truck..." you mutter.

"What about he truck?" Walt frightens you and you turn to face him, wrapping your arms around yourself. He stops to shut off the space heater.

"It's down the road. I couldn't get it all the way here..."

"We'll worry about that tomorrow," he grits.

"Right... tomorrow?"

He blinks, "you can stay. It's safer."

He nears and offers his hand. You stare at it, it seems so big. You slowly unfold your arms and put your hand in his. He squeezes, firm but not unkind.

"Are you tired?" His tone softens.

"A little," you feel a yawn trying to break free and put your chin down.

He leads you around the couch and back into the entryway. He ushers you towards the stairs as the cold air creeps up your legs. You climb up beside him, crowded on the staircase.

"Well, we'll get you tucked in then and we'll figure everything else out tomorrow," he affirms.

"Yeah, sounds good," you wilt out.

We. Not I, not you. We. Together.

He hums and says nothing else. He takes you down the hallway to a room at the end. He flips the light switch. There's a four-post bed on a brown rug with a green quilt is draped atop the layers of bedding. A desk stands in the corner, cluttered and full. Several sweaters hang from the back of the chair, much like the soft wool he wears no.

He leads you to the bed and throws back the blankets. He tugs you towards the edge and lets you go. You climb up and wiggle your cold toes. Before you can reach for the covers, he tosses them over you.

Wordless, he backs away. He rolls his broad shoulders as he turns his back to you and nears the long dresser against the wall, a basket on top of it heaped with clothes. He pulls his sweater over his head, further mussing his curls. As he reveals his thickly muscled back, you look away.

You guess you never thought much about how he looked. You always just saw him as strong and big, but you never delved that deep. Your eyes trail over as he undoes his jeans and steps out of those. He dumps them into the basket of laundry and leans on the dresser as he peels off his socks.

He turns to you, in a pair of boxers, and you shyly flick your eyes to the ceiling and lay back against the pillows. The image of the hair across his burly chest has your insides brewing. He's older than you but can't be that old.

He goes to shut off the light and you sense his shadow in the darkness, lurking closer and closer. You nearly gasp as his weigh shifts the bed and cool air seeps under the covers as he slides beneath them. You're nearly shaking with uncertainty.

You're going to sleep in the same bed. That's not unusual... technically, you're engaged so it's expected. He lowers himself down beside you and you squeak as he grabs you. He pulls you towards him, guiding an arm beneath you as he angles you onto your side.

You let him. Maybe you want this or maybe you're terrified. Either way, you can't deny him. You have a deal.

He curls his other arm around your middle as you lay flush to him, your short figure nestled against his large one. His chest rises and falls calmly against your back as your own heart hammers frantically. You close your eyes, folding your arm around his as you rest your small hand on his thick fingers.

He's as hot as a furnace. His body heat quickly chases away the lingering cold in your flesh. It soothes you in a way you don't expect. You feel safe despite your vibrating nerves.

"Good night, lamb," he kisses the crown of your head.

His deep voice rolls through you, a new sort of chill flowing down your body.

"Night, Walt," you murmur.

He lets out a noise, somewhere between a growl and a purr, and you feel the tension slake away from his body. It might not be so bad. He can be nice so long as you go along.

[konigsblog]

I would give farmer!König the chunkiest baby girls he’s ever seen on GOD. This man deserves to have chubby babies

And GOD just imagine him coming home from working in the fields and seeing you, his gorgeous, sweet wife, curled up under a quilt with your twin daughters sleeping in your arms, dozing away happily 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

(ik it’s soft and cheesy as hell but sometimes we need soft and cheesy!!!!!!)

definitely :( he has chubby baby genes, as well as the tall genes! his daughters will definitely grow to a tall height, just like their father. 🌾🍼🍇

two chubby babies in your arms, sighing deeply and shutting your eyes tightly, letting them breastfeed off of you. your arms weak and exhausted from carrying them around all day, their wispy, light ginger hair that'll darker as they age just grazing against your chest every now and then.

there's so demanding :( needing their mummy or daddy, always giggling whenever they see their father. but today, they'd refused to cooperate with you, only feeding off of you because of their father's presence. he holds them both, taking them to their bedroom and putting them down for the night. he finds you curled into a ball on the couch, hearing him call you over to sit on his lap after a hard day.

sitting on the wooden rocking chair with his large arms wrapped around you, his body heat spreading onto yours. “so pretty, such a hard working mother.” he smiles, kissing your forehead, your eyes fluttering closed as the chairs rocks you two back and forth.

or instead, having a picnic together, your twin girls giggling and playing with your hair, making you laugh. könig smiles when he looks over at you :( gorgeous in your natrual beauty, the golden sun shining on you! definitely feeds them blueberry cheesecake that you'd made after picking the blueberries off the bush, small spoonfuls given to them, playing with their small curls.

perhaps, you under the knitted quilt, a fuzzy blanket at the end of the bed and your two babies around you. your face buried in a pillow, putting your arm around the small of their back, seeing at they giggle with eachother. coming in, covered in hay on his jeans and a basket full of blueberries and strawberries, seeing you fast asleep with your babies on your chest, cuddling into you for warmth. :(

please, please! i don't even want kids, as pregnancy scares me, but könig's babies? 😖🫐

[yuesgirlfriend]

of birds and honey

part 1

(simon "ghost" riley x reader) medieval AU

summary: the year is 1312, and your fathers knight follows you to the wood.

The great hills surrounding the castle are a patchwork of green and yellows, as they always are during the summer months. Gray skies up ahead do nothing to dampen the mood of the castle; everyone is bustling about, preparing for the feast marking the new battalions arrival, as if their presence signifies something happier than impending war. 

She can see them, now, where she is perched atop the highest wall-practiced, without fear- in a way her old governesses would have certainly called unbecoming of a lady. But did not the bible speak of the virtues of a young lady- justice, fortitude, among them?

(It takes great fortitude to learn the secrets she has learned, to climb over steep walls like they were bales of hay, to listen to words she would have heard anyway, had she been born a man. Listening from the eaves and skulking about is an act of justice, not a sin.) 

The men, traversing down the trail, look like ants, she thinks- where she sits high above them, balancing on the stone, they look like children's toys. Tiny wooden figures, a small boy's idea of heroes, lined up on the yellow-green patchwork quilt. 

When they finally ride over the moat and into the stronghold, they look like any other collection knights she has seen- some cloaked, some helmetless, all shining in the half clouded, setting sun. 

That night is boisterous and rowdy, like any other feast. The courtyard is crowded with people- servants, villagers, everyone coming together to eat and drink and be merry. The tables are laden with the finest of foods. The smell of roast goose and heron, wine, and vomit hangs in the night air with the shouts and bawdy songs. The new knights drink and eat and throw things, singing their songs with everyone else.  The castle hums with life, every voice and every soul another cell in one great organism. 

(The whole time, she sits quietly as a lady should, but listens as a lady shouldn’t. No one notices, and why would they notice the Lord’s waif of a girl, silently eating at his right hand? The servants, the townspeople, even her father speak of her when they think she isn’t listening- she is, to them, as unnaturally quiet as a changeling and as likely to smile as a mourner. Such a shame, my lord, that  her birth took your wife, god rest her soul. And for the child to not even be a boy…)

The stories that feast are rambling and, wine drunk, but the message is clear- they are hired soldiers with no Christian names, under orders from the king to protect the stronghold that is her home.

But one stands out. The only one still wearing his painted  helmet, and as such doesn’t eat or drink with his companions. Instead, he sits on her fathers left side, speaking in low and gruff tones only when spoken to. 

She picks at her food as her ears pick up words like more men and allies and a thousand dead, all spoken in an accent she thinks more suited to a farmer than a soldier.

As the feast begins to die down, dancers lying about drunk, he walks with her Lord father, presumably to show him a weak point in the castle walls.

She follows along, unseen, silent footsteps trailing behind them in the shadows. The knight with the painted helmet is tall and broad when he waves a hand at a wall that, upon closer inspection, does seem weaker than the rest. A chink in the castle’s armor, he says. 

The fire dies out, people lay around in drunken heaps, and rats are scurrying for food in corners of the room by the time she retires for the night. Her maid is nowhere to be found- based on the way the Scotsman and her were wrapped around eachother earlier, it is likely best not to go looking for her- so she wanders alone to her quarters, a candle in one hand and a half eaten honey cake in the other. 

The halls are dimly lit labrynths, and every footstep she takes makes a wet scuff along the perpetually damp straw covering the chilled stone floors. She does not believe in sneaking about when not needed, and enjoys a reprieve from constant surveillance as she licks honey carelessly from her fingers, focusing more on the sweetness of the honey cake than her surroundings.

And just as she turns the corner to the starcase, a hand shoots out from a shadow  and grabs her arm. 

Her gasp is muffled by a large hand, gloved. His other hand plucks the candle from her grasp, rests it on the narrow windowsill behind him. She scrapes and thrashes at the silver of his forearm, scrambling to reach for the knife at his side before he speaks. 

“Pray, be silent, Lady- I know you are able.”

In response, she bites down on the gloved hand, hard. The man hisses but doesn’t let go, only roughly spins her to face him; and this is when she realizes it is the helmeted knight, eyes and armor shiny in the candlelight. 

She shoves at his arms, and he concedes, letting her retreat three steps up the stairs before he takes her by the hand again. 

“Release me, sir, or you will not enjoy the consequences,” She hisses. Something furious inside her is growing like a wildfire. 

“I meant no offense, but only to warn you, fair lady,” he says, seemingly contrite, but with mirth in his voice. Is he smiling, behind that hideous helmet? 

“Warn me?” She rips her hand from his. “Of what? Churlish knights, skulking behind corners?” She turns to go. 

“You are one to scold on skulking behind corners, Lady. ” Her feet freeze where they are on the steps. 

 “Yes.” His voice is rough. “You are not as invisible as you may think- not to those trained to see, Lady.  You should exercise more caution, when listenin’ from rafters and castle walls like a little bird.” He tilts his head, eyes trained on her, like a cat looking at a tree it’d like to climb. Or a bird it’d like to claw.

“I have been told you have a lovely mind. It would be a waste to see it dashed on a tower’s stony base.” 

For the first time in ages, she forces her eyes to meet anothers. His are dark, redless, with what looks like coal smudged on his eyelids and undereyes. His eyes never falter from her stare, as would be proper. His pale lashes don’t so much as flutter. 

She turns and continues walking upstairs- but before she rounds the corner, she looks behind and down to where he stands, at the base of the stairs, licking remnants of honey off his glove. 

[gallusrostromegalus]

AEIWAM ask: Do you have any thoughts about what you're doing with Senjumaru of the Royal Guard? She's the fiber-arts junkie with an extra six arms and as much as I sometimes feel like I need an extra hand when doing spinning or tricky cables, I know I have problems getting my own two hands to work things properly. Since she presumably made them herself, did she also self-create her own mental multi-threading so she can run the things? I get that she's probably supposed to have spider vibes, but the wiki says the arms are prosthetic, not part of her zanpakuto, and probably mentally controlled so idk.

:)

8)

Shutara Senjumaru? You mean my wife?

I kid, but I'm a fourth generation fibercraft bitch and a member of three quilt guilds, a knitting circle, friends with sheep, alpaca and Yak farmers and despite knowing stuff only by proxy, modify if not outright make a lot of my clothes. Shutara is to me, the platonic ideal of all those Fibercraft Bitches. She's insanely technically competent, generous (You're Getting A New Fit Whether You Want It Or Not) and absolutely ready to engage in spectacular and inventive violence.

[snailmail444]

happy birthday week! (i am late my b). could you either do a fic for maru with her testing out her """inventions""" on the female farmer or just a fic of sam body worshipping his lover?? i eat up your writings btw keep up the good work 💗🎂

The Perfect Subject

18+ 🌱 MDNI 🌱 NSFW

Just the first one for now! Never written a Maru piece before but I had SO MUCH fun with this idea thank you for the primo concept anon! NSFW under the cut!!

Their bedroom makes a good lab.

Maru’s gone to great pains to make it clinical. Sterile, even. All of their knickknacks are gone—any sentimentality is stripped. Pictures gone off the walls, souvenirs ferreted away to wherever they’ve been stowed. Even the bedding has been swapped from their usual worn quilt and flannel sheets in favor of white-on-white linen.

Folded at the end of the bed is a slip of a medical gown, and her throat is dry as she holds it up. It’s a tasteful black, with loose ties in the back to preserve her modesty until it has to be removed.

She almost wants to look for cameras. They didn’t discuss if it would be recorded or not, but she wouldn’t be surprised if it were. Maru doesn’t tend to leave details to chance when it comes to her research.

It’s cold, she realizes. In only the thin gown, she can feel goosebumps shivering up her arms and her nipples pebbling. That’s definitely atypical. The thermostat must be turned up, cranked—maybe maxed out.

Despite everything nerves begin to squirm in her stomach. Crawl up her throat.

“State your name for the record,” Maru didn’t make any sound when she entered, simply snuck in, and the nerves sting like wasps hearing the cool detachment in her voice

“Anise,” she says, squeaks it really, and when she turns to look at her wife she’s greeted with a placating smile and an unaffected stare. Anise swallows, hard so that it hurts, because she’s wearing a lab coat maybe a size too small in the chest, buttoned up and pushing and squeezing her soft cleavage over the top. She’s got on gloves, tight around her knuckles so that Anise can see the ligaments flexing as she holds her pen and clipboard. Her glasses are perched on the tip of her nose, and she’s staring over them and she’s so, so still. It reminds Anise of the piranhas she’s seen at the aquarium.

“Anise,” she repeats, like she’s making sure she has it right. Like they aren’t married. “Please, make yourself comfortable. We’ll begin shortly.”

She gestures with her pen to the bed, and despite the fact that this is the bed they share every night Anise is stiff as she climbs on top and arranges herself back against the pillows. Too aware of the fact that she’s completely bare underneath the gown.

“Is there anything you might need to be comfortable before we begin? Water, perhaps?”

Anise doesn’t think she could even choke that down, despite the fact that she’s parched. So she just shakes her head mutely, tries to get comfortable even though her malaise is solely mental.

Maru tilts her head, and the hair she’s pressed flat falls like a sheet, glinting in the light when she nods. “Very well,” she jots a note, and then looks at Anise plainly, “let’s begin.”

The bed had been made so immaculately, there was no way Anise could’ve noticed the straps tucked between the mattress and box spring. Maru uncoils each, stalking predatorily around the bed as she looses each restraint.

And then she’s fixing them to Anise, the cool rubber of her gloves alien against her skin as she makes the adjustments. They snake around her skin, too tight on her wrists and thighs. And Maru pulls at each connection to ensure there’s no give.

“Anise,” the name is a command for attention, and Anise snaps to attention instantly. Maru shows no sign of anything at all when she does have Anise’s gaze. “I’m going to remove your modesty gown now.”

Anise wants to be a good subject. “Yes,” she licks her lips to try and smooth the cracks in her tone, “yes ma’am.”

Maru nods once, and then sets about the ties along Anise’s back. Her breasts are dangerously close to Anise’s face, and she can feel her cheeks begin to burn because she can’t make herself look away. Her cheeks begin to burn because she’s out and out staring.

Maru certainly notices, but doesn’t show any sign of it. Simply pulls away and removes the gown, leaving Anise unnervingly exposed.

Her eyes rake across her body once, clinical, sizing up her ties and position and ensuring that everything is as it should be.

“Excellent,” she says, and it’s a comment on her own work and not Anise, but it still washes over her body in a slow roll.

She steps away, not a sparing look into Anise’s eyes, and begins to make a few notes. “How is that? Comfortable?”

It’s not, exactly. It’s too tight, biting especially into the fat of Anise’s thighs, but she nods anyway. Maru doesn’t look up at her, so she speaks, too, “comfortable.”

“Good,” she says, and sets her clipboard aside on their dresser, “allow me a moment to set up the apparatus, and we’ll begin.”

It feels vaguely sinister, and a real sense of danger has cold sweat beading at her brow.

When Maru returns, it’s difficult for Anise to parse what exactly the thing is because it’s held too tightly between her hands.

“What is it?” Her nerves get the better of her, and Maru skews an eyebrow as she glances back up. Annoyed—she looks annoyed by the question. Anise’s legs would buckle were they not splayed open and held in an iron grip.

“That,” she says, “is what we’re determining. I ask that you keep unnecessary questions to a minimum.”

“Yes ma’am,” Anise squeaks, and her body feels tight, tight, tight.

Maru kneels, one knee pressed firmly to the bed between Anise’s. The labcoat stretches against her bare thigh, taught over the skin. “Relax,” she commands. Snaps it, actually, “this might cause a bit of discomfort.”

Anise tries, but the moment she feels the press of silicone against her she’s seizing.

“Anise,” she’s even firmer this time, and Anise tries harder to even her breathing and unwind her muscles. She needs to be a good subject. “May I proceed, now?”

It’s impatient. Impatient because Anise isn’t being good for her. “Yes ma’am.”

The next time Maru tries, she slides the device across her folds delicately, and Anise is surprised at how wet she is, how easily it glides towards her entrance. It stretches her out inch by inch as Maru presses it inside her, fits it in to the point Anise feels so full she wants to cry out.

And then another piece of it fits around, down and against her clit, and nothing happens but it’s snug. Feels like it’s not going anywhere.

“We’ll begin at the low intensity,” Maru stares down at her, at whatever is on and around and inside of Anise, and her eyes are just a little glazed over. “After a period of five minutes, I will incrementally increase the strength until we arrive at the highest setting. Of course,” her eyes snap up and they’re sharp enough that Anise clenches around the toy—certainly it’s some sort of sex toy—and shudders, “you’ll need to announce each time you climax for the duration, and describe the sensations so that I might record them.”

Anise nods because she can’t speak.

“Oh, and of course,” Maru leans forward, bears down on Anise, “you can always opt out with a simple ‘over,’ however it would be ideal if you could complete the entire experiment without interruption.”

“Over,” Anise repeats, looking to confirm, and Maru nods sharply.

“If you say no, or stop, that will not suffice. Overwhelming sensations often confuse the language center of the brain, and cause one to say things they don’t actually mean. Over is the only word that means over, unless I observe enough nonverbal cues otherwise. Tell me you understand.”

Anise is mesmerized, and dizzy, and probably dripping onto the fresh, unsullied bedding. “I understand.”

“Excellent,” she says, and stands, palms a remote. And then she pauses, like she just remembered something. “Oh, and Anise? Try not to struggle.”

The first jolt of it turning on has Anise’s back arching on instinct, a low whine spilling from her throat. She feels like it suctions her clit, stimulating just enough that it almost itches, and she swears that inside of her it’s moving. Like it’s thrusting in and out, even though that can’t be possible.

“If you would, describe what you’re experiencing in detail,” Maru’s in a chair, studying her, her legs crossed over one another and her clipboard perched on her lap.

Anise struggles to reach for words. “It’s like,” she swallows, tries to hold still, “like somebody’s eating me out, and also like somebody’s fucking me. Really gently.”

Maru’s eyes light up, but her expression doesn’t move. Pleased yet imposing. Impossibly turning Anise on even more.

“Noted,” she says, writing on her clipboard. Anise can hear the pen scratching across the page. “I’ll ask you again at the next level.”

The supposed second level isn’t that much higher than the first, really. It feels good, but infuriatingly so. Not good enough, if she’s honest. The sensation squirms under her skin.

She repeats variations on the same response for the first four levels. To the point where she’s agitated and flushed and twitchy. Desperate for more. Needing more.

And then they hit level five, and the sensation multiplies tenfold. It definitely feels like she’s being fucked, and eaten out, and held down, and studied, and she goes from needy to on the precipice of an orgasm in a matter of moments.

“Would you say you’re close, Anise?” Maru’s voice pierces her pleasure like a knife, and her whole body contorts as she comes.

“Ye-es,” she manages to speak over the waves of her pleasure. It quickly lapses into overstimulation as the toy continues, unaffected by her body’s giddy spasms.

She’s panting, trying to catch her breath, but she’s still being pleasured too intensely to think straight.

“Anise,” Maru’s annoyed again, and despite the sensations burning up Anise’s thighs she manages to turn her head and make eye contact. “I was quite explicit in my instructions, no? Or should I be expected to infer it every time you orgasm?”

“No,” Anise stutters, legs trying to jerk in her restraints, “yes—I mean—ah.”

Maru clicks the remote up three times, and Anise is thrown into another orgasm without warning, “com—coming.”

Maru pouts at her, “you’ll behave from now on, won’t you?”

She nods dumbly, feeling another high creeping down her stomach. If she had the presence of mind, she’d say something about scientific integrity and skipping two stages completely.

But they’re past the game now, and Anise is coming again with a wail. She thinks she makes the shape of a word, because Maru’s purring. Preening.

Anise isn’t sure if she spends any time at nine, but she knows when they hit ten. Knows because she goes from crying to screaming, coming so hard she near blacks out.

It happens again, maybe. She’s not sure because she’s blacked out. And then the next time she’s aware, she’s out of her restraints and Maru’s rubbing lotion into the places where the fabric burned.

“Ru?” Anise’s voice is cracked, and she feels the rawness in her throat.

Maru is instantly up by her head, holding Anise to ber chest and shushing her. “No baby, shh don’t try to talk. I’ll get you some water, okay? Just drink.”

She pets Anise’s hair while she drinks, and finally when she’s satisfied Anise speaks again. “Did I do good?”

“So good,” Maru kisses her brow, “the perfect subject.”

[creations-by-chaosfay]

Do you have recommendations for a sampler quilt pattern? i've always wanted to make one but I've never seen a pattern that really stood out to me

(asking from main blog bc i cant seem to switch to my quilting side blog)

Journey to Paducah is a free option and big. I plan on making this at some point.

Seasonal Sampler is a very simple quilt, also free, and I intend to make this as well. In my case, I will be using Steelers prints and make this for my husband.

Gnome Angel has several samplers, not free, and again I'll make one of these. I had started one a few years ago, but started to hate the fabrics I chose, so I gave the blocks to someone else. 100 Blocks in 100 Days is what she's most known for.

The Farmers Wife 1920s Sampler Quilt and 1930s Sampler Quilt are excellent options as well. Not free, but 100% worth every dollar. I have the 1930s pattern; it's 100% FPP.

Then there's the ultimate sampler: Dear Jane. This is a free version of the pattern. Look into the history of the Dear Jane quilt and story behind the idea. This is something that has me seriously intimidated, and you'll see why when you hit the link. Fat Quarter Shop has a kit available, but it's nearly $400. It's paper piecing, both foundation and English. I know a quilter who's been working on hers for the last 10 or so years, 100% handsewn.

[bevanne46]

Double Aster Quilt Block also called the Double Star Block

Double Aster is a classic design credited to Nancy Cabot. Nancy is said to have presented this block, which she called Double Windmill, in her Chicago Tribune column of October 26, 1936, and attributed it to an old Pennsylvania Dutch pattern pieced in Philadelphia as early as 1800.

Nancy Cabot was on a roll -- 2 weeks later, she added 2 triangles to each quarter-block and the new block became Double Aster. She "fertilized" Double Aster with 8 more triangles and a dozen squares and created a new block called Peony and Forget Me Nots, very close to block #76 Peony.

Find a Tutorial Here: https://www.generations-quilt-patterns.com/double-star-quilt-block.html

[sim-ply-lilacs]

Josef Moody was a favorite neighbor of Beatrice's. Young Mr. Moody, a farmer of Prussian origin, had taken up a claim nearby as soon as he got off the boat from Windenburg and quickly settled into farm life.

Before her father's passing, Beatrice and Josef knew each other from church socials and barn dances. They'd even gone walking a few times.

Had life been kinder to the young couple, their courting would have been allowed to ramble on as amiably as two friends down a woodland path on a sunny day. They would have had summer drives, fall haylofts, winter skating parties. A proposal mediated by Beatrice's father would have precipitated a meandering engagement full of quilting with Beatrice's female friends and relations, preparing her household goods, and the sewing of a fine wedding gown and going-away outfit to merrily usher her into her new role as a wife.

Those plans were forced to die with her father.

"My dearest Bea, how can I possibly express my sympathies?" Josef asked. One trembling hand reached for her face. He feared the reception such an improper gesture would receive, but let out a breath when Beatrice leaned into his touch.

"Oh Josef," Beatrice choked out, "everything seems so hopeless. We have nothing left to pay our debts and nowhere to go. I can't even find a school that will have me to teach." With that, she devolved into sobs.

Josef said nothing for some time, merely held Beatrice as she cried. "She deserves so much more than this," he thought, "So much better than the hand she's been dealt. So much better than I can offer her."

He only hoped what he had to offer would someday prove enough.

Josef held her closer, guilt gnawing at his stomach. He gloried in holding her so close—and yet, would she be seeking his arms in any other circumstance? They had started growing close before her father's death, yes, but that wasn't a guarantee that she would want to plight her troth to him. Beatrice had been destined for so much more than life as a farmer's wife. Was he a horrible cad for what he was about to offer? Josef did not know. All he could do was cut open his heart and lay his soul bare before her.

Gently, he disentangled himself from her and spoke his piece.

"My–ahem, dear Beatrice. I wish for your sake that things were not the way they are, but Providence has seen fit to challenge you terribly. Were it in my power, I'd give everything I have to bring back your father. But this is not to be. Cannot be. This, I cannot change. But I do have the power to do something, and so I offer you the one thing I might give freely—myself." Josef swallowed. He hazarded to spy a look at Beatrice. Finding her solemn but steady, he continued.

"I am not a rich man. If I were, I would pay all your debts and leave you to find what will make you happiest. As it stands, I have not much to offer. But what I do have are two willing hands: hands to work, and–and..." he trailed off. Josef could not continue. He hung his head.

Beatrice's whispered shyly, "And to what? Hands to what?" She offered an encouraging look. Slowly, she continued, "Dear Josef, don't let me frighten you."

Josef shook his head. "You could never frighten me, and yet I do fear, yes. I fear you will hate me for what I want to say. That, I fear indeed."

"Oh Josef," Beatrice cried, "I never could. Not after what you've offered me—and me a poor little thing with so little to offer myself." She sobered. "But I must hear your response. Please."

He looked with clear, shining eyes into hers. "Don't you know? Hands to love, Bea. Hands to love."

Prev ~ Next ~ Beginning

[mcalhenwrites]

Ehhh, I am thinking about Ferdinand's family now. How his mother collects terrifying bric-a-brac that she thinks is charming. She makes her own horrifying wool creatures from the angoras who have taken over the large enclosed back porch of their home and tries to sell them at local craft fairs and farmer's markets, when she could just... spin and sell the wool and make more money that way. But damn if it doesn't make Tillie happy anyway, and she's okay with that? If there's a cat or dog that needs a home, she takes it in. (Usually with cats, but there have been dogs every now and again.) There's not really any space for the dogs in their tiny house. Rudolph doesn't mind that he's buried in these things that he's absolutely indifferent to, but he has his bookcase in the cluttered living room that's full of secondhand books and subscriptions, and sometimes he switches them out. I wonder if he's ever really found himself, or if he's still looking, and reading helps him make little discoveries about himself and the world around him. Yes, he worked as their small town mayor's secretary for a long time, and now he's on the city council because he does have some passion for politics, and honestly, if you ask him, he's not unhappy with his life. He's got a wife who has friends and family and brings home arms full of strange thrift store finds that they don't have room for, and sometimes he can hardly find a place to put his feet. He has a son he cares a lot about, but it's hard to connect with him. Rudolph's mother passed away when Ferdinand was a teenager, and he has a disabled younger brother who was luckily spared the same bad childhood memories Rudolph has of his father. Rudolph likes his potential son-in-law. He likes the cats and dogs, and the rabbits make his life a little too exciting with their constant antics and mischief. Ferdinand grew up around all of this and felt the warmth of his family, but sometimes in the oddest ways. He accepts strange bric-a-brac gifts from his mother and puts them in a box in the basement, waiting until Tillie passes away to see if he can send them elsewhere for someone else to haunt. He has learned to enjoy his father's quiet silence as they occupy a room together, with Rudolph's off-hand comments now and again. He's fond of animals but never wants to collect too many like Tillie, but if you hand him a jar of dark homemade jam or he sees a country quilt, he's filled with a great deal of nostalgic fondness.

[spacesapphist]

My 10 Favorite Plays I Read in 2022

Stage Kiss by Sarah Ruhl (2011)

“Art imitates Life. Life imitates Art. When two actors with a history are thrown together as romantic leads in a forgotten 1930s melodrama, they quickly lose touch with reality as the story onstage follows them offstage.” (Concord Theatricals)

Trifles by Susan Glaspell (1916)

“In a small Iowa farmhouse, surly and reclusive farmer John Wright was found murdered. His apathetic wife Minnie is the prime and only suspect, and sitting in jail for the crime. Now, a small group of people enter the home, looking for the clues that would explain why a woman would suddenly strangle her husband in the night. While County Attorney Henderson, Sheriff Peters, and neighbor Mr. Hale roam the house looking for clues, the women (Mrs. Peters and Mrs. Hale) examine the “trifles” of a country kitchen, such as frozen jars of preserves and a poorly sewn quilt. But as the women look closer at Minnie’s world, they make a bone-chilling discovery. Inspired by a true story, Susan Glaspell’s Trifles is a seminal play of early 20th-century American theatre and helped define American realism as we know it.” (StageAgent)

Peerless by Jiehae Park (2017)

“Asian-American twins M and L have given up everything to get into The College. So when D, a one-sixteenth Native American classmate, gets “their” spot instead, they figure they’ve got only one option: kill him. A darkly comedic take on Shakespeare’s Macbeth about the very ambitious and the cut-throat world of high school during college admissions.” (Concord Theatricals)

Blue Stockings by Jessica Swale (2013)

“1896. Girton College, Cambridge, the first college in Britain to admit women. ...In Jessica Swale's debut play, Blue Stockings, Tess Moffat and her fellow first years are determined to win the right to graduate. But little do they anticipate the hurdles in their way: the distractions of love, the cruelty of the class divide or the strength of the opposition, who will do anything to stop them. The play follows them over one tumultuous academic year, in their fight to change the future of education.” (Nick Hern Books)

Harvest by Manjula Padmanabhan (1998)

“A dark satire, Harvest tells the story of an impoverished family and the Faustian contract they enter into with a shadowy international corporation: fabulous wealth in exchange for the organs of one of its members. As Ginni, the glamorous American woman who hopes to receive the organs, invades their one-room home via an interactive video device, the play lays bare the transactional nature of human relationships–even the most intimate ones.” (Hachette India)

Nell Gwynn by Jessica Swale (2016)

“London, 1660. King Charles II has exploded onto the scene with a love of all things loud, extravagant and sexy. And at Drury Lane, a young Nell Gwynn is causing stirrings amongst the theatregoers. Nell Gwynn charts the rise of an unlikely heroine, from her roots in Coal Yard Alley to her success as Britain's most celebrated actress, and her hard-won place in the heart of the King. But at a time when women are second-class citizens, can her charm and spirit protect her from the dangers of the Court?” (Nick Hern Books)

How I Learned to Drive by Paula Vogel (1997)

“A wildly funny, surprising and devastating tale of survival as seen through the lens of a troubling relationship between a young girl and an older man. HOW I LEARNED TO DRIVE is the story of a woman who learns the rules of the road and life from behind the wheel.” (Concord Theatricals)

Tipping the Velvet by Laura Wade (2015), adapted from the novel by Sarah Waters

“It's 1887 and Nancy Astley sits in the audience at her local music hall: she doesn't know it yet, but the next act on the bill will change her life. Tonight is the night she'll fall in love… with the thrill of the stage and with Kitty Butler, a girl who wears trousers. Giddy with desire and hungry for experience, Nancy follows Kitty to London where unimaginable adventures await.” (Bloomsbury)

King Charles III by Mike Bartlett (2014)

Written in the style and structure of a Shakespeare play, King Charles III is a future history play which follows Charles’ ascent to the throne.  “Prince Charles has waited his entire life to ascend to the British throne. But after the Queen’s death, he immediately finds himself wrestling his conscience over a bill to sign into law. With the future of the monarchy under threat, protests on the streets, and his family in disarray, Charles must grapple with his own identity and purpose, to decide whether, in the twenty-first century, the British crown still has any real power.” (PBS)

In the Other Room, Or the Vibrator Play by Sarah Ruhl (2009)

“Set in the 1880s at the dawn of the age of electricity and based on the bizarre historical fact that doctors used vibrators to treat 'hysterical' women (and some men), the play centers on a doctor and his wife and how his new therapy affects their entire household.” (Concord Theatricals)

[maryellencarter]

I can't speak to military or diplomatic spouse, but it strikes me that Farmer's Spouse and Pastor's Spouse are both the kind of role that I (having that permanent military-fandom brainrot) tend to think of as the Executive Officer role.

Within their specific contexts, the farmer and the pastor are the leadership roles. The farmer decides, I'm planting alfalfa here and soybeans there, I'm plowing this field now and that one later, I'm arranging for the threshing to be done at this time. This is a role that more than one *person* might contribute to, discussing which field might be best for the alfalfa, but the *role* is Farmer.

The Farmer's Spouse role is keeping the background shit running. The Farmer is going to plow the north forty today? The Farmer's Spouse provides a good filling breakfast that's ready early in the morning so the Farmer can get to it. There are farmhands staying over this week for the harvest? The Farmer's Spouse makes sure there's bunkroom and food for everyone. It's butchering time? The Farmer's Spouse makes sure everyone has their clean protective gear so their clothes don't get ruined.

I grew up Catholic, so Pastor's Spouse isn't a role I have as much hands-on awareness of, but I know it's often a similar balance: the pastor is in charge of preaching and dealing with people's religious breakdowns and so forth, the Pastor's Spouse deals with stuff like organizing church potlucks and whether the Bible study or the quilting group gets the church basement on Thursday nights.

And yeah, it's usually broken down on pretty gendered lines, but it's crucially stuff that one person can't manage all of by their lonesome. The Farmer can't cook their own breakfast and still have the energy to plow the north forty and come home and make their own dinner. The pastor can't negotiate every little dispute about scheduling for the church basement and also be available to help with theological questions and church services, especially if they're also trying to wash their own vestments and cook something for the Easter potluck.

(Catholic priests have housekeepers and secretaries hired by the parish to juggle the work that a Pastor's Spouse role would cover in churches with married clergy. Which is also a good example of how the role doesn't have to be handled by a single person or have to be tied to being married to the pastor.)

So -- what I'm saying, I think, is that it might be helpful to think of these roles as being handled by a team. The point person and the support player. Some people are better at one role or the other. Heterosexual marriage has traditionally been how the roles were divvied up, but it doesn't have to be, and it might even be helpful to look at other gendered roles as less "a female farmer and a farmer's wife are the same role", more as "this role traditionally has a support role associated to it. why? does it need one? would it go better with one? what factors contribute to making a good support officer for a [university professor, auto mechanic, etc]?"

Hell, then you could even wander into "Caring for children / elderly / disabled people is a fulltime job, what does a support role for *that* look like? What about a support role for a fulltime housekeeper? Are there supports that a Pastor's Spouse needs that the role of Pastor isn't suited to providing?"

Our society is so bottled down into romosexual pairings as the only necessary and sufficient relationship that we're all dying for lack of support. I think this post is a great starting point for reenvisioning what support structures could look like.

[ecoslo]

Farmer’s Wife quilt: A project that I’ve been working on for a while is the Farmer’s Wife quilt, from the book by Laurie Aaron Hird - which I started back in April 2017 at a workshop with Johanna Masko hosted by the Ottawa Modern Quilt Guild. I just finished my 25th block last week, which was a milestone. But, the book has 110 blocks so I still have a long way to go! I hadn’t laid the blocks out in a while, I’m liking how the colours are coming together. I’m just using Kona cotton and Carolyn Friedlander prints for this one.

[kknits]

6 quilts-in-progress for Ravelry UFO Spring challenge group

[deepdarkdelights]

Run Little Red (Namjoon x Reader)

Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

Word Count: 7.8k

Warnings: 18+, Yandere, Werewolf Namjoon, Stalking, Obsession, Forced Relationships, Blood (Lots of it), Gore, Fear, Panic/Anxiety, Discussions of discovering dead bodies, People going missing, Devious Intentions, Depictions of Guns, Mourning, Wolf Courtship Rituals

I do not condone the acts displayed in this story nor do I believe any members of BTS would actually engage in this type of behavior. This is simply written for entertainment purposes and should not be taken as a reflection of my own values, opinions, or morals. 

<<Forbidden Fables Masterlist>>

Preview:  A calm life in a small village was all you ever knew, your days spent in the bakery and keeping to yourself. You liked the quiet and gentle nature of your life, but one day a wolf stands outside of your window, a stranger arrives, and people begin to go missing. Do you dare don your red coat and enter the forest?

A/N: Hello babes! My fellow authors and myself decided to change up the order of our release dates for our Forbidden Fables Collab! And, since I recently finished this little beauty, I get to release it first. yay! Now I can sit back and savor the delectable writings of my fellow authors 💜 I hope you enjoy Run Little Red it was fun to make! I can’t wait to read the comments and asks 💜

There was a wolf outside your window. 

It’s eyes gleaming in the early morning light like molten gold with silver fur that melted into the snow. 

You sat up in bed, wrapping your patchwork quilt around your shoulders as you scooted to the foot of the bed. It was staring at you, that much you were sure of. And that startled you, the almost human like appearance to its gaze was intense and unsettling. It was an animal, but it appeared to be far more intelligent than you had first anticipated. 

Maybe it was hungry, perhaps that was why it was so intent on peering through your window.

No, it certainly wasn’t, that was evident. What you had missed before was glaringly obvious now, its silver muzzle was stained in red. It had made a fresh kill before it had wandered over to your cottage mere feet from the woods. 

So, if it wasn’t hungry, why was it here?

You watched in morbid fascination as its tongue slipped out of its mouth and laved over the fresh, thick, crimson blood that decorated its muzzle. You could see the rows of sharp canines hidden within its maw for mere seconds before the wolf clenched its jaw shut and settled on its hindlegs in the drift of snow.

“My, what big teeth you have.” You whispered to yourself, your voice seemingly louder in the empty room.  

You couldn’t help but wonder what it had made it’s meal. Perhaps a deer, or a squirrel, maybe a bird, or even a small, innocent, little rabbit. 

That would have been ideal. But, you knew it was most likely one of the poor farmer’s livestock. Your village was small and self sufficient, rarely reaching out to its neighboring villages and rarely receiving visitors of its own. So, when the cattle and the goats began to disappear, only their entrails remaining, the town quickly became suspicious. 

It was either one of two things, rebellious teenagers making a hassle for everyone, or a wolf amongst you.   

If only you had known what was to come. 

You stared back warily out the window at the creature, suddenly realizing just how easily it could bust through your flimsy window if it wanted to. This wolf was probably the largest you had ever seen, it was almost the size of a pony, with long limbs that held thick muscle from the time it spent chasing down its prey. You were certain a simple snap of its jaws would kill you in an instant if it desired to do so. 

It’s gaze had not left you, petrifying you to your very spot. You felt like the two of you were playing a game, waiting to see who would be the one to make the first move. 

The call of your mother’s voice was the tie breaker. 

You rose to your feet, your bare skin brushing over the cool wood of the floor as you retreated through your door, back first. 

“Yes?” You replied, angling your neck to the hallway for a moment. 

“Hurry, sweetheart! You’re going to be late!” She called back from the kitchen. 

The bakery had been in your family for the past three generations now, starting with your grandfather, then your mother, and now you. Your mother was showing signs of her age now, her hands were unsteady and unreliable creating more of a mess than a sellable meal. So, it was your turn now. It was the only thing you could do for her, besides be married off and you weren’t quite ready for that. No one was. 

At least that was the gentle way of putting it, in reality you had made yourself quite the social pariah. You were a determined woman, one who liked to keep to herself, one who liked owning the bakery and not having to sign over the ownership to a husband. You had your mother to care for, a business to run, and a grandmother that lived deep in the woods to fret over. 

It didn’t really matter what you wanted, you did what was necessary to stay afloat. 

“Just a minute!” You called once more before slinking back into your room. 

There was a noticeable difference about the space now, the wolf was gone. The only sign he had ever been there being the large dip in the snow that his form had disrupted and a track of paw prints headed into the forest. How strange. 

You shook your head in an attempt to clear your thoughts, you didn’t want to think about what you would have to do if the creature returned. The shotgun looming over you from above the front door said enough.

You couldn’t allow a predator to get comfy around your home, that would only invite trouble into your life.

You dressed yourself quickly that morning in as many layers as you could. The walk to the bakery wasn’t a far one, but it was a frigid one. You made sure to wear your wool stockings and your leather boots, the snow looked to be thick and you didn’t fancy the idea of wet feet all day while you worked. 

You leaned over the side of your bed, scooping up your bag and throwing the keys inside of it in one motion. The extra sleep you had gotten the night before had cost you the time you needed in the morning to ready yourself. 

Once you gave yourself a quick look over and ran through your mental checklist, you rushed out of your room and into the main room of the house. Your house was more like a cottage, it was incredibly small. With only your mother’s room, your room, and the kitchen in one corner with the fireplace in the other it made for a quaint and cozy home. Albeit a cramped one. 

“Your breakfast is on the table.” Your mother said, smoothing a stray hair behind her ear with trembling hands. 

You could see her cleaning up the mess she had made that morning in an attempt to show you kindness. Normally, you were the one to wake early and prepare the both of you for the day ahead. But she had also told you many times before that she was your mother and she was supposed to take care of you as well. 

You eyed the bowl of steaming porridge that sat upon the rickety table. “I don’t think I’ll have the time to eat it.”

“Then you’ll make the time.” She huffed, wiping a wet rag over the counter in two swipes. 

“I shouldn’t have overslept.” You sighed, resting your bag on the floor as you took a seat. 

“You needed the rest, dear. You’re up every morning at the crack of dawn and you don’t come home until nightfall. You don’t need to work that much.” She chided you, smoothing her hands over your hair in a fond manner. 

“I do, for you and for Grandmother.” You reminded her. The cost of living was not cheap. 

“And what about you? You should be spending time with people your age, not working yourself to the bone.”

“I don’t need anyone but you, and Grandmother.” You smiled before sipping at your spoon quickly, hissing as you burned the tip of your tongue in your haste. 

“Youth is wasted on the young.” She chided under her breath, spurring a giggle from your throat. 

You finished your food as quickly as you could before excusing yourself from the table and heading for the door. 

“Your cloak, dear!” Your mother called as you pulled the door open, the chill of the snow seeping into your bones. 

“Yes, mother!” You chirped with an amused roll of your eyes as you curled your fingers around the crimson fabric of the cloak. Your grandmother had made it herself two winters ago, as much as you loved it and her you had to admit it was a tad ostentatious and you weren’t exactly one for attention. But it was warm and it served its purpose well. 

The door creaked shut behind you, squeaking softly as it settled back into the frame. The snow had fallen much higher than you had previously anticipated. You tightened the ties of your cloak and delicately flipped the large hood over your head before gripping your layers of skirts and hiking them up as you began your journey. 

It was rather slippery that day, you couldn’t restrain the slight squeals that fell from your parted lips each time the heel of your boot found a patch of ice and sent you sliding. You were certain you should have caught the attention of a few passerbys, but to your surprise a large group of them had become preoccupied. 

There were about fourteen of them, all in one great circle fervently discussing something. They seemed to be worried, panicked even. It had caught your attention now that the group was made up mostly of men excluding the butcher’s wife and daughter. Both’s cheeks were stained red, their eyes brimming with unshed tears as they held onto each other tight in the crisp air. 

Your face tensed in confusion as you approached the bakery, the group not too far away from you. 

“Oh, poor Sarah.” A tender voice cooed worriedly from next door. It was the tailor, she and her apprentice were stood outside, thick shawls wrapped around the both of them. 

You occupied yourself by rifling through your leather satchel, pretending to look for the shop keys you held in that very hand. You knew that eavesdropping wasn’t very polite, but you also were the curious sort, and that curiosity demanded to be satiated. 

“Don’t worry, miss. I’m sure they’ll find him soon, you know how the young ones are.” The apprentice said, her hand resting on the tailor’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort. 

“It’s not like William though, he’s a sweet boy. It doesn’t make any sense for him to go up and missing at the crack of dawn.” She replied, her dark eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I just find it funny is all, that a stranger shows up here the same day that Sarah’s boy disappears.”

“Coincidence isn’t evidence.” The apprentice hummed, pulling her shawl tighter around herself  as she began to back up against the shop door, aggravated by the chilly air. “I’m sure he’ll turn up, with a search party that size he’ll be back home in no time.”

With that, you finally retrieved your “missing” keys and unlocked the door, sliding into the safety of the bakery. You knew William as well, he really was a sweet kid...to most. Your heart did go out to Sarah though, you didn’t know the pain of a missing child but you could empathize. The sight of her broken face remained burned into your mind as you readied the shop, lighting the hearth and preparing your materials to start your first batch of bread for the day. Your late start was going to nip you in the behind, most of the women arrived by noon to get their first pick of goods and the two hours it would take to make your batches was going to loom over your head the entire time. 

You were mid kneading your dough when the familiar tinkle of the bell above the shop door demanded your attention. You paused for a moment, your aching arms thanking you for the short reprieve. Almost immediately your breath was caught in your throat. You had been expecting one of the regular mothers wandering their way in, or perhaps even one of their children running errands. Not this man that stood before you. 

This was most obviously the stranger the tailor had been referring to moments earlier, there was no mistake. Your village was small, everyone knew everyone and this stranger looked nothing like any of the people in your town. 

He was so much taller than anybody else, broader too. But most astonishing was his pure silver hair and the deep honey shade of his eyes. You had never seen anyone as young as him with hair that light, it surely wasn’t grey, the shade far too bright to be mistaken with something that dull. He was damn near ethereal and unfairly attractive. His looks had almost distracted you from his attire but now that you were paying attention, he was severely underdressed for the weather. He had to be freezing cold. 

“Hello, can I help you?” You asked softly, patting your hands against your apron to remove the excess flour from your skin. 

He had a rather confident stance, like he was the owner of the shop instead of you, you who was slightly cowering and thrumming with anxiety. 

He sent you a wide grin, his teeth were pearly white and for some unknown reason that sent your heart crashing into your stomach. You could have sworn they even looked slightly pointy at the ends, not unlike those of the creature you had seen outside your window that morning. You had almost been distracted by the sweet dimples that rested in his cheeks. What duality he had. 

He tilted his head back slightly, peering down at you from above, “Hm, I’m looking for something sweet.” He hummed. 

“Sweet?” You mumbled to yourself, resting your hand on your hip in thought.

“Oh! I made some sweet rolls yesterday, how about that?” You said with a snap of your fingers, retreating further into the shop without a response from him. 

Now in work mode you busied yourself with preparing the stranger’s order. You couldn’t help but wonder why he had arrived, what his reason for being there was. Barely anybody passed through your village, and they certainly didn’t stay as long as he had. 

Once you had retrieved the tray of rolls you set them on the counter before grabbing a pot of freshly warmed icing and gently drizzling it over top. Once each roll had been thoroughly coated, you set the pot aside and headed to the cupboard to retrieve a bag for them.  

“Perfect.” You sighed in irritation, craning your neck back to see the top of the shelf. 

Normally, you had endless amounts of bags and never needed the ones stored on the top shelf. But this winter had been far more difficult than past ones and your stock had not been refilled in quite a while. 

Desperately not wanting to search for your wooden stool, you stubbornly resorted to balancing on the tips of your toes, your fingers just barely brushing against the material of the bags. You groaned in frustration, bouncing up slightly only to knock the bags back further on the shelf and worsen the ache in your shoulder. 

Just as you were about to give up and resort to looking for your rickety stool, you felt a hand settle on your waist and a chest press against your back as the stranger reached up and grabbed the bags for you. He was incredibly warm, so warm you thought he may even be sick. He felt as warm as the heat emanating from a fire of fresh coals and that was incredibly alarming, but also explained his state of dress.

You flinched in surprise as you felt him set the bags aside and settle his other hand on your shoulder. It was deathly quiet, the only sounds being his slow, steady breaths underlying your panicked ones accompanied by the calm rise and fall of his chest against your back. You had never been this close to anyone before, it was incredibly uncomfortable. 

You felt much like a rabbit, cornered, panicking, and believing that if you stayed still enough he wouldn’t see you and would go away. 

He gently rested his forehead against your hair, nuzzling from side to side before reaching up and playing with a stray strand. You could feel him taking a deeper breath this time, humming softly like he was pleased. 

“Sweet.” He mumbled to himself. 

Oh. Oh, no. Who did this man think he was? You were not on the menu. You shuddered in fear before jerking away, smacking his hands off of you. 

You turned on your heel, backing away from him as you fixed him with an annoyed glare. The look he gave you was one of clear confusion, a layer of hurt and frustration buried beneath. 

“I’m not sure how things work where you come from, but normally you ask for permission before you go touching someone you don’t know.” You huffed, slamming the empty bag on the counter as you began to package the rolls. 

It didn’t matter if he was attractive or not, you were not going to let him touch you as he pleased or get the wrong message that you weren’t even conveying in the first place. 

The stranger rounded the counter, the block of wood effectively separating the two of you, making you feel a little safer. His eyes looked darker than before, less like honey and more like amber. 

His confident demeanor had returned, effectively confusing you even more. 

“Forgive me,” He said, another smile gracing his lips as he rested his forearms on the countertop, “It seems we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot? My name is Namjoon, and yours?” 

So, he did have the capability to be somewhat of a gentleman. He was rather well spoken, and his strange mannerisms and quiet demeanor had all but disappeared in a flash. 

So, begrudgingly, you replied with your name. 

He repeated it after you, his tongue swiping over the full flesh of his lower lip like he was tasting it, sending a chill down your spine. 

“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, you were correct in assuming where I come from we do greetings a little differently.” He said with a soft chuckle, his amber eyes tracing every movement you made. 

You did feel a little bad now for how you had lashed out at him. Normally, you weren’t one who was quick to anger, but that still didn’t excuse what he had done. 

“It’s alright,” You said, slowly, “You need to be more careful though, if that had been anyone else I don’t think you would have gone unscathed.” 

“Are most of your people so quick to violence?” He asked, titling his head slowly, a strong sense of intrigue exuding from his form. 

“I wouldn’t say so normally, but we’re all a little on edge as of late. Our livestock has been attacked and just this morning one of us went missing.”

“Missing?” He asked, a new glow to eyes. 

“Yes, I’m afraid so. The butcher’s son hasn’t been seen all day, it’s very unlike him.” You said, your teeth sinking into your lower lip, unsure if you should tell him more. But, considering it concerned him you felt maybe it was in his best interest to tell him. 

“If I were you, I wouldn’t stick around for too long. Some find it suspicious you turned up the same day that William went missing.” 

“And what if I don’t feel like leaving just yet?” He asked, disregarding the information you had just given him as if he had no reason to be worried. 

You had no answer for him, truly you didn’t. The packaged rolls sat between the two of you and a long stretch of silence as he stared at you and waited for a response that didn’t come. And, without another word, he dropped a few too many coins on the counter, gathered up the bag, and headed for the front door. 

He stopped for only a moment, his fingers gently stroking at your red cloak you had hung up beside the door. His amber gaze trailed over each stitch as he lightly grazed the material a few more times. 

“I’ll be seeing you soon, little red.” 

~~~~~~~

After he had left, your day had not gotten any easier. Just as you had expected, it had been another busy day. You had managed to satisfy all of your customers, despite that late start you had made. 

There were a few upsides to the job you had, one being that it allowed you to tune into any gossip you would normally miss out on. You were more of a hit with the older women of the village, the people your age finding you to be a tad strange and off putting. 

That day your shop had been filled with hushed whispers of what had come to pass, the search party still had not returned from their trip to recover William. The outlook was not in the boy’s favor, not with the increase in predator activity you had been receiving as of late. You weren’t so sure you would be seeing William walking back into town any time soon. 

Once the day had come to an end, the sun dipping just below the tree line and casting shades of red over the snow, you had extinguished the lights of your shop and were locking up, your hood drawn over your head. That was when you found out the horrible truth. 

As you slid the shop keys into your bag and turned on your heel, you saw the search party emerging from the woods. And with them, you could see a blanketed form lying in the snow, the sheet swaddling the body slowing turning red. 

You swallowed harshly, turning as quickly as you could and beginning to make your way through the snow and away from what you knew was coming. You didn’t want to see the look on Sarah’s face, you didn’t want to watch her go boneless in the arms of her husband. But it didn’t matter what you saw or didn’t see, you would never forget the sound of her screams piercing the crisp, snowy air.

Your breath was visible in hot puffs in front of your face as you felt the burn of tears beginning to prick at the corners of your eyes. It didn’t matter if you didn’t care for William, it didn’t matter if you knew what he was really like, there was nothing quite like the sound of a mother’s heartbreak. It was enough to send anybody down to their knees. 

Your numb fingers wiped away the warm tears rushing down your cheeks, and amidst your blurry vision you could have sworn you saw a familiar figure slinking off into the woods, a flash of silver hair that just barely materialized. You could have sworn that that was Namjoon disappearing like a ghost into the frigid depths of the forest. 

You shook your head, you shouldn’t bother yourself with what he was doing, your main goal should be getting home before the sun completely dips below the horizon and plunges you into darkness. So, with that thought, you rushed home. 

Once you entered the cottage, things didn’t get any better. Your mother was stood there, waiting anxiously for your arrival. As soon as you had stepped foot inside she whipped the door shut and helped you remove your cloak as you toed your boots off. 

“No more working late, do you hear me?” She said, gripping your shoulders to get you to look at her. “It’s not safe out there.”

“Word travels fast then?” You asked humorlessly. 

“It’s a shame what happened to that boy, and I’ll be damned if that happens to you.” She replied sternly. 

“And what about Grandmother then? What do we do about her? She’s out there, all alone, with no one to protect her.”

“She has the lumberjack-”

“And he only checks on her every two weeks.” You interrupted, “Let me go out tomorrow and bring her back to us. I’ll go first thing in the morning.”

Your mother bit her lip, her hands shakily settling on her hips as she thought to herself. “I’ll go with you then.”

“No, you can’t possibly think you’ll be able to make the trip. The snow is thick and it’s a long walk there, you’ll exhaust yourself. It’ll be better if I go, faster too.” You said as you approached the fireplace, raising your hands to the flames to warm them. 

“And your grandmother, you think she’ll be able to make it back through the snow?” She probed, raising her eyebrow. 

She had a point, if you were saying she wouldn’t be able to make it there how would you expect your grandmother to make it back with you? 

You rested your hand on the back of your neck, pacing the floor and causing your layers of skirts to swirl around your ankles. You came to a sudden stop, your eyes settling on the shotgun that was mounted above your front door. Idea.

You didn’t like the thought of her being out there all alone, but if you knew she had something to protect her from the wild animals that would make you feel much better. 

“Alright, what if I bring her some supplies instead? I’ll grab some things that’ll last her a good while and I’ll show her how to use the shotgun. I’ve saved up some money of my own, I could purchase us a new one.” You mused out loud.

You loved your grandmother, she was the last living member of your father’s side of the family, she was the only connection you had to him at this point. You couldn’t bear the thought of losing her just yet, not when you could prevent it from those creatures that were beginning to terrorize your people. 

Your mother was silent once more, her thumb settled between her lips as she nervously chewed at the nail. She didn’t like the idea of you headed out into the woods alone, but she was comforted by the thought of you taking the shotgun with you, that much you were certain of. 

“We don’t know when the next storm will hit, and the last thing we need is for her to be stuck out there, all alone, with no food, surrounded by the wild. Let me go.”

And that was enough to break her resilience. 

“Promise me, promise me that you’ll come back.” She whispered, her body visibly sagging as those words left her lips. 

“It goes without saying.” You murmured, wrapping her up in your embrace. 

It was easier this way, you didn’t want to make a promise you had no certainty in keeping. 

The air in the cottage had lost all tension, everything was much calmer than before. But your peace could only last for so long. It was when you entered your bedroom that you realized something else was wrong.

The room was positively frigid, and upon further inspection you realized that your window had been pried open, the cold winter air surging forth and snuffing out any traces of heat. 

You surged forward and grasped the window, attempting to swing it shut as quickly as you could to try and insulate whatever warmth was left. But the thick scent of copper quickly stalled your movements. Instead of closing the window, you found yourself leaning forward into the brisk air, sniffing intently as you tried to make out where the scent was emanating from. You didn’t have to look far.

Your hands sealed themselves over your mouth, smothering the scream that threatened to break through them. 

Sitting in the snow where the wolf had once laid, was a human heart. The snow seemed to sizzle around it, the organ still warm and slick with blood that carved rivers and valleys into the pure ice. 

You could feel bile rising up your throat, your vision shaking so violently it made it appear that the heart was vibrating with steady pumps like it was still alive. 

And, to your horror, you could make out a form a few feet back in the snow. The only thing that was visible in the pitch black were it’s molten gold eyes, shining back at you in recognition before it scuttled away into the darkness.

You frantically slammed the window shut and drew the curtains closed tight. 

There was no mistake now, someone or something had been following you. 

~~~~~~~

When you awoke the next morning from a restless sleep, you elected to keep your discovery to yourself.

Although you were incredibly frightened by what you had seen, the last thing you needed was to scare your already frail mother. Your grandmother was still in need of assistance, and you couldn’t allow your mother to halt your plans. You had a mission to accomplish, and you were set on completing it with a shotgun slung over your arm and a picnic basket on the other. 

So, you shakily grasped your red cloak and wrapped it around your shoulders in haste, your fingers struggling to do up the ties at the base of your throat. Once you had completed the normally easy task, you slipped your basket onto the inside of your elbow and pulled down the shotgun from its resting place above the door. 

You regularly cleaned it, a task your father had enjoyed teaching you at a young age, so you were certain it wouldn’t jam if you needed to use it in a hurry. You slid a box of ammunition into your pocket, one for you, and another box into the picnic basket, one for your grandmother. 

And then you were off, bidding your mother goodbye with a hug and a swift kiss to her cheek, and an unspoken promise tittering on the edges of your lips saying that you would be home for supper. But those words were better left unspoken. 

The sun was just barely peeking through the thick clouds overhead, you were certain a blizzard was brewing. This only urged you to move quicker through the cleared paths. 

But the clouds weren’t the only foreboding message that morning, it was the mother’s wailing in the town square. There were three more now, holding each other in a comforting manner as they wept into each other’s shoulders. 

More children had been snatched from their mothers.

Sarah sat by herself, of her own volition, an obsidian mourning veil obscuring her tear stained features. A chill ran down your back as you urged yourself to walk by them quicker, she looked more like an executioner than she did a mourner, surrounded by a choir of weeping women. 

You could still hear the echoes of her cries in the back of your mind, the raw chords striking your ears once more. 

You tightened your grip on the strap of your shotgun, your pace slowing as you reached the bridge that led you into the forest. You felt like you could breathe now, despite the knowledge that people your own age had lost their lives in the thick overgrowth before you. The relief that you felt from the women in the square outweighed your fear.

The bridge creaked in protest as your boots tapped against the wood. It would need to be repaired come spring. 

“Little red!” A voice called from the treeline causing you to suddenly stop, snow kicking up beneath your boots. 

Moments later, a familiar figure emerged from the frost coated trees, tall, ash hair, and honey eyes. Namjoon. 

“Where are you off to, little red?” He cooed, his voice low with a sultry edge that sent shivers down your spine. You couldn’t tell if they were delighted or terrified chills. 

“My grandmother’s, what are you doing here?” You asked, your body tense and defensive. 

He drew nearer now, a wide grin gracing his lips with a set of teeth so white they resembled the snow beneath your boots. The closer he got the more you noticed about him. His perfect white teeth seemed a little sharper than most, and the clothes he wore were once more, not suited for the frigid weather. 

“I caught sight of this old thing,” He hummed, his finger tracing over your cloak and the strap of your shotgun as he slowly circled you, “And couldn’t help but see you.”

You stepped back hesitantly, his presence was unnerving. Without saying anything more you pulled away from his reach and began to walk by him briskly, headed into the woods. 

“Leaving so soon? We only just met.” He laughed, it would have been a nice contagious laughter had you not heard the bitter edge to it. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have the time to dawdle, Namjoon. I need to reach her before the storm hits.”

“Well then, won’t you let me accompany you?”

“I don’t need an escort, I know my way just fine, thank you very much.” 

“And what about the beasts then?” He asked from beside you, sending you halting to a stop. 

“Beasts?” You asked slowly, gazing up at him from beneath the cover of your hood. 

“Well, surely you know?” He asked in a patronizing tone, his honey eyes narrowing. “Four people from your village have gone missing, red. Surely you know that wasn’t an accident. Great beasts have roamed this forest for centuries and they don’t take kindly to intruders. It would be much safer if I came with you.”

You stood there for a moment in silence, contemplating his words. He was not wrong, two people were much safer than just one. 

So, begrudgingly, you accepted his offer. 

His hand quickly captured your own, his fingers intertwining with yours as he pressed his side tightly to your own with a grin. How bold. You were struck once more by the fact that he was incredibly warm, it was no wonder why he wasn’t bundled up like you were. It felt like he had struck a fever. 

Namjoon filled the silence between the two of you surprisingly well, telling you stories of the great beasts that roamed the woods, effectively scaring you and holding your attention. He had a way of speaking that drew people in, like a siren from the stories your father had read to you. 

It was easy to forget with him, easy to forget why you had been frightened in the first place, easy to sink into his side as his warmth seeped into your flesh, and easy to get lost in his voice. 

That was of course, until you felt him pulling you off of the path. 

You dug your heels into the snow, tugging at his hand violently. “Namjoon!”

“Yes?” He asked.

“What are you doing? Her cottage is this way, we stay on the path, we never leave the path.” You said, gesturing towards the dirt pathway beneath the two of you. 

That was a spoken rule in your village, never go off of the path. 

“That’s ridiculous,” He chuckled, “If we continue the way you were going, that doubles the time it takes to get there, it’s better we take the shortcut.”

“No.” You sternly said. 

“And why not?”

“Because, there’s predators out there! Mountain lions, bears, wolves!”

A mischievous smirk pulled at the corners of his lips, “Are you scared of wolves, little red?”

“I’m scared of anything that wants to eat me.” You replied with a dry tone. 

“Well you do smell very sweet-”

“Namjoon!”

He took a deep breath, his eyes darting between you and the shortcut. “I promise you, nothing will hurt you while I’m here. Besides, did you know some flowers bloom in the winter?”

“What? You can’t be serious.”

“I am, there’s a field of flowers this way, all different breeds that bloom in the dead of winter. Don’t you think your grandmother would enjoy those?” 

You chewed at your lip uneasily. He knew exactly what to say to make you question your own actions. You would be lying if you said you didn’t want to see what he was talking about, and you knew that yes, your grandmother would be elated by something so cheery in the bleak winter months. 

So, after a few moments of consideration, you agreed.

And Namjoon had not been lying. After a few minutes of trekking through the deep snow the two of you emerged into a clearing, and just like he said, it was filled with flowers of all different breeds. 

You found yourself crouching down into the field, your fingers trailing over each velvety petal that had somehow found a way to survive in the clutches of an icy death. Your favorites were the deep red roses. They were a dead match for your cloak, a beautiful color that was delicately dusted with soft flakes of snow. 

You couldn’t help but greedily pluck several blossoms from the foliage, slipping them into your basket. 

And, amidst your excitement, you hadn’t noticed just how close your companion had gotten until you felt him. That incredible warmth had returned as he crouched down behind you, and just like he had in the bakery, you felt him lightly nuzzling your head and breathing in your scent as he pressed himself closer to you, his arms winding around your body in an attempt to pull you even tighter to him. 

You froze, your finger mid pull on the rose’s stem causing you to slice the appendage on a stray thorn. You hissed in pain as you watched the blood drip from the tip of your finger before rolling down your wrist and carving a pool into the snow beneath you. 

And, without a thought, Namjoon’s hand encircled your wrist and yanked it up to his face. 

His once honey eyes appeared brighter than before, his long lashes fluttering as his warm breath misted over your skin. And before you could stop him, he licked a line up your wrist, collecting the blood, and pressed your finger to his lips swiping his tongue over the wound. 

You yelped in surprise, wrenching your hand free from his grip as your heart pounded violently. You rose to your feet and stumbled backwards through the snow. 

Namjoon remained where he was crouched, a sudden hunger evident in his honey gaze, a gaze that was not so unfamiliar. 

“We-we need to go!” You stuttered, turning on your heel and retreating from whatever had just happened. 

You held your hand close to your chest as you walked, frightened by what had just transpired. A part of you suddenly wished you had made your journey alone as you had previously intended.

But the harsh crunch of snow behind you reminded you of the choice you made, and the molten glare digging into your back exemplified it. 

~~~~~~~

The rest of your journey was made in complete silence, a new tension had settled between the two of you. And, true to Namjoon’s word, the way he had taken you was indeed a shortcut. So, you felt no remorse as you sprinted toward the cottage ahead of you and threw a weak thank you over your shoulder. 

You couldn’t stand the awkward tension anymore, you couldn’t stand being in his presence any longer than you needed to. 

As soon as you approached the front door, you threw it open and let it shut behind you. You leaned against the door for a moment to catch your breath before you shrugged the shotgun off of your shoulder and strung it up on the hook beside the front door. 

“Grandmother!” You called as you began to approach the kitchen door, “I’m here!”

And upon opening it, a blood curdling scream broke free from your lips. 

The sight before you could only be described as a massacre. Your hands desperately tried to cover your eyes, but the damage had already been done. There was blood, so much blood amongst other things laid out atop the counter. 

You fell backwards, your body sliding down the wall as hoarse screams raked through your throat. The unmistakable scent of blood was thick in the kitchen sending your stomach churning in your gut. You knew that scent, it was clear as day whatever had remained in that room had once been human. 

“Sweetheart?” A familiar voice called out to you. 

And upon opening your eyes, you saw your grandmother standing before you. The sudden feeling of elation surging through your body at the sight of her alive quickly died out. She wore a leather apron stained with blood, both fresh and old, and her hands were gloved. You quickly stood and began to back away from her, your sense of self preservation suddenly kicking in, your eyes zeroing in on the meat cleaver she held in her left hand. 

“Sweetheart, calm down.” She whispered softly, carefully setting the blade down on the counter beside the gorey mess. 

Your eyes were darting everywhere but her, panicked breaths leaving your parted lips. Your gaze finally settled in the corner of the room where a pile of clothing sat and a familiar axe. The lumberjack, she had murdered the lumberjack. 

“Why?” You cried, trembling as if you had been drenched to the bone. “Why did you do it?!” 

“I had too sweetie, I have to feed them.”

“Them? Who?” You asked, backing out of the kitchen as she followed your trail, her face soft with sympathy despite the flecks of blood that decorated her cheeks. 

“The wolves, of course. I made a deal with them long ago, if I fed them in the winter I could stay here.” She replied, her voice alarmingly calm. “The lumberjack was a sweet man but this winter was a rough one, not many travelers I’m afraid.”

“You’ve gone mad.” You whispered. 

“I know this is a lot to take in, but it’s best if you listen to me darling. Your grandfather was one of them, he courted me and then we had your father and your uncles. It’s always tricky with litters, you never know who is going to take after who. Your father though, he was the most human out of all of them. Poor thing couldn’t even shift.” She sighed, her eyes glazing over.

“You need help, you’re not well.” You tried again, doing your best to keep distance between the two of you.

“I know you’re a bit shaken up, but you need to listen to me, it’s in your best interest.” She sighed, untying the leather apron from around her waist. 

“That cloak you’re wearing, it’s a symbol that you’ve come of age and Namjoon has had every intention of courting you. He’s been rather obvious really, he’s becoming quite frustrated with you.” 

You suddenly became still, your mind flashing through every time Namjoon had ever touched the very item you were wearing. What she was saying, although deluded, had some semblance of truth. 

“I-I have to go.” You mumbled, your throat tightening from the copper scent and smell of flesh that hung heavily in the air. You needed to get home and far away from her before she killed you too. 

A deep sadness spread over her features as her head hung low, shaking from side to side. “Don’t run,” She breathed, “They find the chase seductive.”

All this time you had been slowly backing away from the person you loved the most, and now you had been stopped by the feeling of a solid form behind you. You quickly spun around, a shriek of horror escaping you as you met the bright, gold eyes of your escort, Namjoon. 

And, without thinking, you ran. 

Your cloak was fluttering behind you rapidly in the harsh, cold winds, the snow coming down thicker than it ever had before. And, to your absolute horror, a loud howl was echoing throughout the trees. 

You peered over your shoulder as you sprinted to the best of your ability through the snow drifts. The wolf that had sat outside your window days before had returned and was chasing you down. Now that there was nothing separating you from the creature you were terrified, it was massive and hunting you down. It had the clear advantage, you were inevitably going to die. You were never going home again, another child was going to be ripped from their mother. 

Tears were pouring down your cheeks like waterfalls as you blindly ran, unsure as to where you were going. You knew that you didn’t have time, four legs were faster than two and you were greatly impaired by the weather. 

With no goal in mind, no destination in sight, you ran in hopes you would be able to live for a little longer. You did your best to weave between the trees, slide down hills of snow, and keep running for your life. Your lungs burned and your legs ached but still you ran, even as you heard the loud steps of the wolf coming nearer and nearer.

And, just as you had lost all hope, an outcropping of rocks became visible at the base of a snowy hill. And with every intention to save your life, you recklessly threw yourself down the hill allowing gravity to take over for you. 

The second you felt yourself cease rolling, you rose to your unsteady legs and dizzily stumbled into the cluster of rocks, pulling yourself into the shelter away from the blizzard.

But your hope was fleeting as you came to a realization. The shelter was a den, one that had clearly been in use. It was littered with furs, blankets, books, and materials for a fire. The creature had been corralling you to this very location. 

You turned as another burst of adrenaline shot through your body only to be stunted by the sight of the silver wolf blocking the exit to the den. 

It’s bright eyes stared back at you with a gleam of satisfaction as it crouched down, shimming it’s way into the den and backing you up further into its depths. 

You watched, horrified, as the wolf began to whimper, it’s body shaking violently as the sound of bones beginning to snap and crunch echoed throughout the space, reforming and distorting themselves into vaguely familiar shapes as it’s fur began to melt away. 

Those bright golden eyes faded to a recognizable honey shade, and the silver fur disappeared and showed itself as ashen hair. On the floor of the den sat Namjoon in the place of where the powerful wolf had once stood. 

He carefully rolled his head from side to side, his neck cracking loudly in response as he rose to his feet. A mischievous smirk pulled at his lips, a triumphant gleam to his eyes as he confidently approached your trembling form. 

A broken cry escaped from your throat as you felt him press his forehead to your own, lightly nuzzling his head against yours. His strange behavior now made sense, he had been courting you in a way that was unfamiliar to you, but natural to him. 

All of the people that had gone missing were male’s your age, he had been wiping out the competition. 

And the bloody organ he had left outside of your window, had been a horrific present. A show of his dominance and his twisted affection. 

You were crying uncontrollably now, everything you had experienced suddenly crashing down on you. You flinched in terror as you felt his fingers grip your jaw, his lips just brushing against your own and he hummed happily.

“You have nowhere left to run, little red.” 

[abirpothi]

Grandma Moses: Acclaimed Self-Taught ‘Primitive’ Artist Who Started Painting In Her Late Seventies

Grandma Moses: A journey shows that age is not a bar for learning. In her late seventies, she decided to take up painting which was easier on her hands, as compared to needlework. She made her first painting using house paint. Her work was later displayed in museums and gained appreciation and fame from well-known artists.

On this day, 7th of September, 1860, Anna Mary Robertson Moses was born in Greenwich, New York, US. She was the third of ten children born to Russell King Robertson, a farmer, and Margaret Shannahan. Due to the lack of warm clothes, Anna Moses attended school only in the summer. At the age of 12 she left home to work as a hired farm girl. At the age of 26, while working for James Family she met Thomas Moses in 1886. The two fell in love and got married the next year. The couple moved to Virginia where they rented farms and worked the land. Anna gave birth to ten children but five of them died as babies. After some years Thomas became homesick, so he asked his wife to move back towards the north. Eventually they returned to New York and bought a farm there. By this time, Anna was called Mother Moses. She was skilled at various tasks and enjoyed doing needlework such as sewing and embroidering. With needle and thread she would make pictures on fabric, but she had developed arthritis, which made it painful for her to push the needle with through the fabric. In her late seventies, she decided to take up painting which was easier on her hands, as compared to needlework. She made her first painting using house paint.

Due to the artist being self-taught her paintings display a lack of nuanced application of Western painting conventions. For this reason, she is categorized as a ‘primitive’ or ‘naïve’ painter under art scholarship, terms synonymous with ‘outsider artist’. Moses’s journey shows that age is not a bar for learning, and that if you’re truly passionate about something, you can reap the rewards of your efforts at any age. Many of Moses’s paintings drew directly from her own life — mainly scenes from the landscape around her. In 1938, her paintings were displayed at a local drug store where an art collector Louis J. Caldor saw them and bought them all for a few dollars each. He inquired about the painter, contacted Moses and bought ten more paintings directly from her. He then arranged to have three of them shown at the New York Museum of Modern Art at an exhibition titled ‘Contemporary Unknown American Painters’, where they attracted wide public attention, leading to her fame. The works were also spotted by the Austrian-American art historian Otto Kallir at the exhibition, and he was highly appreciative of their inherent folk quality. Pleased with her work, Otto curated first solo show titled, ‘What A Farm Wife Painted’ in 1940 at the Galerie St. Etienne in New York. It was at this show that a reporter gave her the nickname, ‘Grandma Moses’.

The New York Times said of her the following: “The simple realism, nostalgic atmosphere and luminous color with which Grandma Moses portrayed simple farm life and rural countryside won her a wide following. She was able to capture the excitement of winter’s first snow, Thanksgiving preparations and the new, young green of oncoming spring… In person, Grandma Moses charmed wherever she went. A tiny, lively woman with mischievous gray eyes and a quick wit, she could be sharp-tongued with a sycophant and stern with an errant grandchild.”

Most of the artist’s paintings depicted scenes from upstate New York and Vermont. Several paintings show a particular ’checkered house’. She painted many scenes depicting farm life. Her paintings told stories about making apple butter, making soap and maple syrup, husking corn, and making candles. ‘The Quilting Bee’ shows how women would meet and visit while they made quilts.

Grandma Moses was awarded two honorary doctoral degrees. The first was bestowed in 1949 by Russell Sage College and the second, two years later by the Moore College of Art and Design. She passed away on December 13, 1961, in a medical center in Hoosick Falls, New York. Her works are included in the collections of the Art Institute of Chicago, the Phillips Collection in Washington, D.C., the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, and the Bennington Museum in Vermont. Her work ‘Sugaring Off’ sold at Christie’s New York ‘Important American Paintings’ in 2006 for $1,360,000.

In her autobiographical book Grandma Moses: My Life’s History (1951), the artist testified to the incredible strength and determination to fulfill her own life. She said, “I have written my life in small sketches, a little today, a little yesterday, as I have thought of it, as I remember all the things from childhood on through the years, good ones, and unpleasant ones, that is how they come out and that is how we have to take them. I look back on my life like a good day’s work, it was done and I am satisfied with it. I was happy and content, I knew nothing better and made the best out of what life offered. And life is what we make it, always has been, always will be.”

So, if you think you are too old to pursue your dreams, think of Grandma Moses, and know in your heart it may not be too late for you.