#ground dogwood

[croc-odette]

its both

[uniqueartisanconnoisseur]

Mother's Day Gift Ideas

It will soon be that time, to honor mom. The first proclamation of Mother’s Day in 1870 was by Julia Howe. She asked women everywhere to join for world peace. What are your Mother’s Day Plans? Are you planning a trip? Do you want dinner out, or are you just looking for that perfect gift? Everyone celebrates in different ways, but here are a few ideas to help out along the way. A hike, or patio…

[headspace-hotel]

There, in the sunlit forest on a high ridgeline, was a tree I had never seen before.

I spend a lot of time looking at trees. I know my beech, sourwood, tulip poplar, sassafras and shagbark hickory. Appalachian forests have such a diverse tree community that for those who grew up in or around the ancient mountains, forests in other places feel curiously simple and flat.

Oaks: red, white, black, bur, scarlet, post, overcup, pin, chestnut, willow, chinkapin, and likely a few others I forgot. Shellbark, shagbark and pignut hickories. Sweetgum, serviceberry, hackberry, sycamore, holly, black walnut, white walnut, persimmon, Eastern redcedar, sugar maple, red maple, silver maple, striped maple, boxelder maple, black locust, stewartia, silverbell, Kentucky yellowwood, blackgum, black cherry, cucumber magnolia, umbrella magnolia, big-leaf magnolia, white pine, scrub pine, Eastern hemlock, redbud, flowering dogwood, yellow buckeye, white ash, witch hazel, pawpaw, linden, hornbeam, and I could continue, but y'all would never get free!

And yet, this tree is different.

We gather around the tree as though surrounding the feet of a prophet. Among the couple dozen of us, only a few are much younger than forty. Even one of the younger men, who smiles approvingly and compliments my sharp eye when I identify herbs along the trail, has gray streaking his beard. One older gentleman scales the steep ridge slowly, relying on a cane for support.

The older folks talk to us young folks with enthusiasm. They brighten when we can call plants and trees by name and list their virtues and importance. "You're right! That's Smilax." "Good eye!" "Do you know what this is?—Yes, Eupatorium, that's a pollinator's paradise." "Are you planning to study botany?"

The tree we have come to see is not like the tall and pillar-like oaks that surround us. It is still young, barely the diameter of a fence post. Its bark is gray and forms broad stripes like rivulets of water down smooth rock. Its smooth leaves are long, with thin pointed teeth along their edges. Some of the group carefully examine the bark down to the ground, but the tree is healthy and flourishing, for now.

This tree is among the last of its kind.

The wood of the American Chestnut was once used to craft both cradles and coffins, and thus it was known as the "cradle-to-grave tree." The tree that would hold you in entering this world and in leaving it would also sustain your body throughout your life: each tree produced a hundred pounds of edible nuts every winter, feeding humans and all the other creatures of the mountains. In the Appalachian Mountains, massive chestnut trees formed a third of the overstory of the forest, sometimes growing larger than six feet in diameter.

They are a keystone species, and this is my first time seeing one alive in the wild.

It's a sad story. But I have to tell you so you will understand.

At the turn of the 20th century, the chestnut trees of Appalachia were fundamental to life in this ecosystem, but something sinister had taken hold, accidentally imported from Asia. Cryphonectria parasitica is a pathogenic fungus that infects chestnut trees. It co-evolved with the Chinese chestnut, and therefore the Chinese chestnut is not bothered much by the fungus.

The American chestnut, unlike its Chinese sister, had no resistance whatsoever.

They showed us slides with photos of trees infected with the chestnut blight earlier. It looks like sickly orange insulation foam oozing through the bark of the trees. It looks like that orange powder that comes in boxes of Kraft mac and cheese. It looks wrong. It means death.

The chestnut plague was one of the worst ecological disasters ever to occur in this place—which is saying something. And almost no one is alive who remembers it. By the end of the 1940's, by the time my grandparents were born, approximately three to four billion American chestnut trees were dead.

The Queen of the Forest was functionally extinct. With her, at least seven moth species dependent on her as a host plant were lost forever, and no one knows how much else. She is a keystone species, and when the keystone that holds a structure in place is removed, everything falls.

Appalachia is still falling.

Now, in some places, mostly-dead trees tried to put up new sprouts. It was only a matter of time for those lingering sprouts of life.

But life, however weak, means hope.

I learned that once in a rare while, one of the surviving sprouts got lucky enough to successfully flower and produce a chestnut. And from that seed, a new tree could be grown. People searched for the still-living sprouts and gathered what few chestnuts could be produced, and began growing and breeding the trees.

Some people tried hybridizing American and Chinese chestnuts and then crossing the hybrids to produce purer American strains that might have some resistance to the disease. They did this for decades.

And yet, it wasn't enough. The hybrid trees were stronger, but not strong enough.

Extinction is inevitable. It's natural. There have been at least five mass extinctions in Earth's history, and the sixth is coming fast. Many people accepted that the American chestnut was gone forever. There had been an intensive breeding program, summoning all the natural forces of evolution to produce a tree that could survive the plague, and it wasn't enough.

This has happened to more species than can possibly be counted or mourned. And every species is forced to accept this reality.

Except one.

We are a difficult motherfucker of a species, aren't we? If every letter of the genome's book of life spelled doom for the Queen of the Forest, then we would write a new ending ourselves. Research teams worked to extract a gene from wheat and implant it in the American chestnut, in hopes of creating an American chestnut tree that could survive.

This project led to the Darling 58, the world's first genetically modified organism to be created for the purpose of release into the wild.

The Darling 58 chestnut is not immune, the presenters warned us. It does become infected with the blight. And some trees die. But some live.

And life means hope.

In isolated areas, some surviving American Chestnut trees have been discovered, most of them still very young. The researchers hope it is possible that some of these trees may have been spared not because of pure luck, but because they carry something in their genes that slows the blight in doing its deadly work, and that possibly this small bit of innate resistance can be shaped and combined with other efforts to create a tree that can live to grow old.

This long, desperate, multi-decade quest is what has brought us here. The tree before me is one such tree: a rare survivor. In this clearing, a number of other baby chestnut trees have been planted by human hands. They are hybrids of the Darling 58 and the best of the best Chinese/American hybrids. The little trees are as prepared for the blight as we can possibly make them at this time. It is still very possible that I will watch them die. Almost certainly, I will watch this tree die, the one that shades us with her young, stately limbs.

Some of the people standing around me are in their 70's or 80's, and yet, they have no memory of a world where the Queen of the Forest was at her full majesty. The oldest remember the haunting shapes of the colossal dead trees looming as if in silent judgment.

I am shaken by this realization. They will not live to see the baby trees grow old. The people who began the effort to save the American chestnut devoted decades of their lives to these little trees, knowing all the while they likely never would see them grow tall. Knowing they would not see the work finished. Knowing they wouldn't be able to be there to finish it. Knowing they wouldn't be certain if it could be finished.

When the work began, the technology to complete it did not exist. In the first decades after the great old trees were dead, genetic engineering was a fantasy.

But those that came before me had to imagine that there was some hope of a future. Hope set the foundation. Now that little spark of hope is a fragile flame, and the torch is being passed to the next generation.

When a keystone is removed, everything suffers. What happens when a keystone is put back into place? The caretakers of the American chestnut hope that when the Queen is restored, all of Appalachia will become more resilient and able to adapt to climate change.

Not only that, but this experiment in changing the course of evolution is teaching us lessons and skills that may be able to help us save other species.

It's just one tree—but it's never just one tree. It's a bear successfully raising cubs, chestnut bread being served at a Cherokee festival, carbon being removed from the atmosphere and returned to the Earth, a wealth of nectar being produced for pollinators, scientific insights into how to save a species from a deadly pathogen, a baby cradle being shaped in the skilled hands of an Appalachian crafter. It's everything.

Despair is individual; hope is an ecosystem. Despair is a wall that shuts out everything; hope is seeing through a crack in that wall and catching a glimpse of a single tree, and devoting your life to chiseling through the wall towards that tree, even if you know you will never reach it yourself.

An old man points to a shaft of light through the darkness we are both in, toward a crack in the wall. "Do you see it too?" he says. I look, and on the other side I see a young forest full of sunlight, with limber, pole-size chestnut trees growing toward the canopy among the old oaks and hickories. The chestnut trees are in bloom with fuzzy spikes of creamy white, and bumblebees heavy with pollen move among them. I tell the man what I see, and he smiles.

"When I was your age, that crack was so narrow, all I could see was a single little sapling on the forest floor," he says. "I've been chipping away at it all my life. Maybe your generation will be the one to finally reach the other side."

Hope is a great work that takes a lifetime. It is the hardest thing we are asked to do, and the most essential.

I am trying to show you a glimpse of the other side. Do you see it too?

[breelandwalker]

Simple Spell - Full Moon Wish Jar

Intent: To harness the power of the lunar cycle for the manifestation and fulfillment of wishes.

Materials:

Small Jar with tight-fitting lid

Chime candle & fire source

Oil for sealing

Herbs and Items representing your wish

Ideal Timing: Waxing or Full Moon

Find a clear space to work. Make sure it’s free of fire hazards. If possible, try to work near a window through which you can see the moon. (If you don’t have one, that’s all right too, since you’ll be setting the jar out for the moonlight when finished.) Light your candle, focus your intentions, and get to work.

Select herbs and trinkets which fit inside the jar to represent your wish. For example, if your wish is for money or prosperity, you might include coins or small craft gems. If your wish is for health, you might include vitamin pills or a charm representing medicine. Check your books for herbs or crystals that correspond to your wish as well. This is your wish - make the spell your own. The contents of the jar can be whatever you want.

Use the materials that resonate best with you, but remember that your focused intention is the most important component of all. If desired, you can write your wish on a dried leaf or a piece of paper to give the spell a clear direction to work in.

Some common plants associated with wish-making include:

Bamboo

Bay Leaf

Blue Violet

Dandelion Seeds

Dogwood Petals

Nutmeg

Peppermint

Sage Leaf (any color)

Sunflower Petals or Seeds

Once your jar is complete, drip three drops of wax from the candle into the jar and circle the mouth of the jar three times with the oil to seal the charm. Then cap the jar and seal it with wax. Leave your thumbprint in wax on top of the lid. Place the jar somewhere that it will be touched by the light of the full moon and leave it overnight.

The jar should work for about a month, or slightly longer if you’re working with a supermoon. When the next full moon rolls around, you can recharge the jar by leaving it out overnight again, or make a new jar with a new wish.

Recipe suggestions under the cut. (And if you like this spell, you'll love my books!)

Happy Witching! 🌕💜

Health, Wealth, & Happiness

Lavender

Rosemary

Rice

Bay Leaf

Juniper Berries

Apple Wood Chip or Apple Seeds

Seal with Breath

Protection

Rosemary

Basil

Sea Salt or Table Salt

Holly Leaf

Juniper Berries

Seal with Sage or Dragon's Blood Oil

Healing

Basil

Echinacea

Horehound

Lavender

Hyssop

Seal with Basil Oil

Luck & Success

Clover Blossom

Galangal Root

Rosemary

Sassafras

Allspice Berries

Seal with Amber Oil

Money-Draw

Rice

Allspice

Orange Peel

Juniper Berries

Rosemary

Seal with Orange Oil

Love

Rose Petals

Apple Wood Chip

Lavender

Basil

Cherry Blossoms or Cherry Stones

Seal with Rose Oil

Jinx Remover

Sea Salt or Table Salt

Coffee Grounds

Rosemary

Sage (any type)

Black Peppercorns

Seal with Vinegar

[teletubbyinlipstick]

DogWood Tree

Artemis. R.

“Only do what your heart tells you” - Princess Diana

(18+ for themes of assault. MINORS DNI! You are responsible for the media you consume. You have been warned.)

----------------------------------------------‐-----------

You were new to the BAU, having only been fresh out of the academy for 5 months, and an official “intern agent” for 3. It was understandable that you'd have hiccups along the way.

Yes, you had the badge, the gun, and the FBI vest you so dearly loved, but they considered you an “Intern Agent” as sort of a preliminary to see how you do with the team. See If you integrate well and adapt to a new habitat. Of course, you were allowed on cases. However, you always had to have a Supervisory Special Agent with you.

In all fairness, you were the youngest. Sometimes you need a guiding hand, not in a babying way-as you are 23 years old with a sound mind and job- but more of a young doe, wide eyed and eager to please.

Eager to impress.

Hotch and Rossi pinpointed that in you the second you walked in for an interview. Nervously playing with your rings, flushed cheeks, and every couple minutes, you'd tuck strands of hair behind your ear. It was sweet, so young and open. Could you really blame them for their instincts? They instantly took a protectiveness over you, treating you like family, almost like a daughter.

Not to mention how sweet the others are, adored with your youth and energy. Penelope gave you stuffed animals upon accidentally learning of your ever growing collection. JJ and Luke somehow memorized your coffee order immediately, and since you tended to show up 40 minutes after everyone, the two often took turns bringing you coffee.

Emily and Morgan were definitely your big brother/sister; they teased you relentlessly, ruffling your hair during training or round table meetings. Being the youngest was something they loved to tease you about. Arguing over who gets to “babysit” first. Morgan likes to hold your badge out of reach and giggle like a psycho when you inevitably climb a chair to reach it. Although the look on his face when Hotch scolds him for teasing is so worth the irritation.

The only one you couldn't quite figure out was Reid.

Spencer Reid.

An anomaly like no other, a mystery by any other name. The man doesn't say much to you outside of work. He's very warm, open, to the others, but he shuts down a bit when it comes to you. In fact, you can count on one hand the conversations you two have shared that didn't involve work. Those moments are beautiful, the soft giggles and his lips quirking up as he gazes at you with something you can't quite put your finger on.

They never last long enough for you to decipher. You can tell when he comes to himself a sudden, sharp, intake of breath before he tenses clears his throat and makes a beeline for the opposite end of the room. It's a bitter end to the brief sweetness.

You've tried to soothe the burn of whatever scorn you've caused from him, bringing him ginseng honey tea because JJ said it was his favorite. Only for him to smile strainly and leave the cup full at the top of his desk…so maybe he's weird about people touching his food and drinks…that's okay! Generosity comes in many forms, so next you tried holding a door open for him and quickly never did it again because the look he gave you made you want to crawl into a closet and rot.

It seems whatever kind favor you do for him irritates him greatly time and time again. It's exhausting and you can't imagine what you've done to warrant such…animosity. You were determined to please. To get to the bottom of this.

You were nothing if not stubborn!

Currently, the team and you are in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Having been flown out the night prior for 4 missing women reports, 2 bodies showed up downstream a river right outside a camp ground. All young, early 20s, camp counselors.

Upon landing Rossi and you were paired and sent to the camp, specifically the cluster of cabins where two of the women bunked together. In the car you both bounced theories back and forth a major one being he was a camp counselor who was rejected/humiliated by other counselors. Perhaps he was a grounds keeper, a sudden stressor has him reacting.

Rossi heads towards the front office intent on having a looj at the files. You trek on to the first cabin, Rebekah Daniel's was the first to go missing. The door was taped off caution signs covering the blood and dirt stains across the porch.

Entering the place was foul, it smelled of something awful and it was throughly trashed. A clear sign of a struggle. You do a swoop of the room where you find a snapped necklace caught under a window pane. Possibly where he had dragged them out.

Hotch calls not long after Rossi and you meet back up. Stating him and Reid might have a more defined geographical location of the unsub. You both conducted interviews with the other campers, splitting them into groups before dwindling down to one on one.

It unfortunately didn't bring much to light, so, heading back to the station you give Rossi and run through of what you found. He squeezes your shoulder, a proud grin on his face. Giving you a "good job, kid." For the effort.

It was time for the second update on JJ and Emily as they interviewed the girl's families. Something felt off the rest of the night. You couldn't pinpoint what exactly, but you were on edge and frustrated with how the interviews had gone…you're missing something. You just know it.

Now, technically you weren’t allowed to get on crime scene sites without a Supervisory Agent with you…but you had a random stroke of luck when remembering the writings on the bathroom stalls out near the campground you and Rossi had Investigated hours prior. So, really, who could blame you?

And that's exactly how you ended up running through the woods in nothing but sweatpants, sneakers, and a baggy t-shirt. It was almost 2am, your phone was gone, your jacket was gone, and most of your dignity was also gone. When you arrived, it was quiet, settled, and you were quick in getting to the stalls and snapping photos of the writing. Intending to study them at the hotel rather than in the woods…in the middle of the night. So imagine your surprise when your full force body slammed into the wall, ears ringing as a boot stomps onto your stomach. You have enough sense to latch on the leg the second time it comes down and use it as leverage to kick up into the man's groin. Scrambling up and over him crashing through the bathroom door frantically dialing Morgan's number.

You can hear him behind you. A snarl sound coming from his throat as he chases, It's predator and prey. Morgan picks up on the 4th ring.

“Yo, this better be good, kid.”

Barely managing a sharp squeal/wail when you're tackled again, phone flying from your grasp. Not hearing the frantic tone of Morgan calling your name. The man - who you now know is the unsub - grabs a fist full of your hair, his hand as big as your head as he shoves your face against the rough dirt and rocks.

“What a sweet little lamb you are. What're you doing all by your lonesome?” his voice was gravely, almost ill sounding, and you cried till your voice was hoarse struggling under him. A horrible sound of a zipper has you tensing, your left arm frees with his sudden pressure change. And you take that opportunity to pull your arm back, then snap it against the unsubs nose, and you can hear the sickening crunch of cartilage and bone. It's pitch black, and you don't notice the steep drop both you and the unsub come close to. Desperate to live and running on animal instincts, you use another pushing point on his outer thigh to create distance. You're up and on your feet, balancing on your left leg to deliver a swift kick to the head with your right when the unsub gets to his knees. motherfuckers got perseverance.

A brief glint catches the moonlight, and your eyes widen. Oh fuck.

He's got a gun.

Your delay was your downfall. In your sudden pause, it gave the unsub enough time to aim and fire. The bullet takes home in your shoulder, stumbling back, almost dazed as the ground gives way, and you plummet down a steep hill.

Oh god...

The team is gonna kill me.

------------------------------------------------------

This is nothing but one big rough draft I edited where I could, but yeah, it's not meant to be perfect. I hope you enjoyed it tho! Please feel free to give advice or point out any errors! I have a whole story in my mind, I'm negl. I don't know if I'll continue it, but imma try because I have a huge idea where it goes next so....maybe expect? I'll update more if anything changes.

[dangraccoon]

Dogwood Flowers

Wrecker x Reader

@clonexreaderbingo

Square filled: spring

Word count: 631

Warnings: none; all fluff 💛

Mando'a key: cyar'ika - sweetheart olarom yaim - welcome home

“How much further?” you whined, dragging your feet for dramatic effect. 

“Just a bit, cyar’ika,” Wrecker laughed.

Doing your best tooka eyes, you pouted up at your partner. “Carry me, baby?”

Wrecker chuckled again. “You’re not gonna like how that ends.”

“Wanna bet?”

Wrecker laughed wildly, grabbing you by your hips and throwing you over his shoulder. You squealed in protest, your laughter filling his chest with warmth.

“Wrecker, I look like you caught me while you were fishing!”

“Prettiest fish in the whole galaxy!” he cheered.

He carried you through the streets of Lower Pabu, grinning widely and waving at each neighbor passing by, as your face flushed deeper and deeper as you saw the others chuckling.

The further he walked, the less people you saw. This was a newer section of Pabu, having been undeveloped before the sea surge. 

“Where are you taking me?” you giggled.

He chuckled, but didn’t answer. The sun was beginning to set, the new lamps flickering on, lining their path with light.

“Alright, cyar’ika,” he smiled, placing you down on the path, still facing him. “You ready?”

“For what?” you questioned, trying to read his expression beyond the excitement. 

He nodded to turn around. So you did, taking in a set of three new houses with the path circling to connect them. At the center of the circle was a small tree, its white flowers in full bloom and swaying gently in the spring breeze. 

“That one’s Hunter’s,” he said, pointing to the middle one. “Echo’s got a room when he’s here.” He pointed to the one on the right, closest to the water. “Tech and Crosshair are there.”

“They’re willing to share?” you chuckled.

Wrecker shrugged. “Cross said it was twin stuff.”

“Where’s Omega living?”

“She’s got the choice of all three, but she’ll probably be with Hunter most of the time.”

You nodded slowly. “So the one on the left…”

“Mine,” he confirmed, taking one of your hands in his. “And yours, if you want,” he added, his voice wavering just a little as he dropped a knee to the dirt.

Realization dawned over you, and he saw it on your face. “Wreck-”

“You make me so happy, and I-'' he began, desperately trying to ignore the tears beginning to drip down his face. “I think I make you happy, too. I don’t know how much time I have, but I would really, really like it if you would spend it with me. Cyar’ika, will you marry-”

“Yes!” You answered, jumping into his arms. 

He audibly sighed with relief as he pulled you close, lifting you off the ground.

“Oh, good; you agreed,” Tech said, stepping out of the middle house.

“Like there was ever any doubt,” Echo grinned from behind Hunter and Omega, who was running towards you. Crosshair smirked. “A little.”

Wrecker set you down just in time for you to catch Omega, who was throwing her arms around you.

You began to try and answer all the questions Omega had about your upcoming wedding as the others congratulated (Hunter, Tech, and Echo) and teased (Crosshair) their brother. 

After a little while, Wrecker smiled at you, gently offering his hand. You took it, allowing him to lead you into his house- your house. A big living room and kitchen on the first floor and three bedrooms on the second. 

He led you into the master bedroom, complete with an oversized bed that you were sure even your soon to be husband would fit in it. 

“What do you think, cyar’ika? Is it okay?” he asked. 

You smiled, reaching up to hold his face in your hands, your thumb tracing over the lines of his scar. “‘Okay’? Wrecker, it’s perfect.”

Wrecker pressed his forehead to yours, whispering softly. “Olarom yaim, cyar’ika.”

Thanks for reading! - River

My Clone x Reader Bingo Masterlist

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[slippinmickeys]

Prompt: the first time Mulder and Maggie meet in Proof of Life verse (obvs no pressure if you don’t fancy this but I’ve been wondering what she’d make of him once she found out about what happened in room 1055)

Mulder stands on the stoop, holding a bowl of pasta salad with plastic wrap pulled tightly over the top. Scully looks up at him with a nervous smile and presses the button to ring the doorbell. From inside the house comes the sound of a vintage Miami-Carey Westminster chime, muffled by wood and drywall and insulation. Mulder hasn’t been in the US for almost three years, and suddenly he feels launched back into the patrician hallway of his childhood home. But it is Scully’s mother who opens the door, who pulls her daughter into a tight hug. She then turns to Mulder, giving him a long, assessing look. 

“Mom, this is Fox Mulder,” Scully says, pressing her lips together. 

Mulder awkwardly shifts the bowl to the crook of an arm and holds out his hand for a handshake. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Scully,” he says. 

Margaret Scully gives his hand a brief, polite squeeze and takes a step back. “Come in,” she says. “Please.”

***

The table is covered in classic red gingham, citronella candles guttering in a breeze that curls around the back of the house and through the flowering dogwood trees that are planted beside the garage. The meal is largely over, having hummed along with small talk that waxes and wanes with occasional awkwardness. Though Scully has talked about her family at length, Mulder is still categorizing who these people are; how they fit into his life, and where he fits into theirs. 

“So you were embedded with the 41st?” Bill Scully Jr. asks him, his arm around the back of his chair, his posture artificially lackadaisical. 

“And the 103rd,” Mulder answers. 

In front of them are the remains of an elegant picnic lunch; a pitcher half full of lemonade, salt and pepper shakers, two leftover ears of corn beginning to wrinkle in the shade of Mrs. Scully’s back yard. On the plate in front of him are the oily remains of a charbroiled hamburger and a glob of potato salad he couldn’t bring himself to finish. 

“They saw some shit,” Bill says, a little bit of challenge in his voice. 

“Bill,” Margaret Scully says lightly, scolding him for language. 

Mulder glances at her and turns back to the man. 

“We did,” he says. He might not have been fighting next to the troops he was embedded with, but he saw all the same horrible things they saw.

Bill gives him a tight nod, and Mulder thinks he’s maybe won Scully’s brother’s approval. Or at least they’ve dispensed with the lekking ground enmity of their first 90 minutes. 

“He doesn’t do that anymore,” Scully says from beside him. She’s sitting up straight, and tilts her chin up at her brother. 

“What are you doing now, Fox?” Tara asks from next to Bill. Her voice is bright and conciliatory. 

“Wildlife photography,” he says simply. 

“I’m sure that’s a big change,” Tara says. “Is it as peaceful as it sounds?”

“It’s nice shooting something that doesn’t shoot back,” he says. 

He hadn’t meant to distress anyone, but Mrs. Scully swallows audibly and puts a hand to her chest. Scully takes a deep breath and stands. 

“I’ll go cut the pie,” she says, standing from her seat and brushing her hand along Mulder’s arm. “Is the ice cream in the garage fridge, Mom?”

Margaret blinks several times and then nods. 

Tara stands as well. “We’ll clear the table. Bill?”

Mulder half rises to help, but Tara tells him to sit, and in a moment, it’s just him and Scully’s mother sitting at the outdoor table, songbirds calling to each other from the maple trees overhead. There is a long, awkward silence that stretches out between them, punctuated by cheerful chirps. Mulder doesn’t know what to say, unused to the social graces of family dynamics. Finally, Mrs. Scully rescues him. 

“Dana seems to be doing well?”

Mulder feels a small smile lift his cheeks. “She’s happy,” he says softly. “We’re happy.”

The woman nods, a long, slow, drawn out gesture. 

“For a long time, she wasn’t,” Margaret finally says. So this isn’t polite small talk. It’s something else entirely. 

“And you’re together now, the two of you?” she goes on.

Mulder’s eyes find his lap. He isn’t sure what to say to that. Perhaps the woman is looking for reassurance that he won’t intentionally hurt her daughter after everything she’s been through. If she wants to be upfront and open, he can be too.

“Dana means more to me than anyone will ever know,” he says thickly, looking up to meet the woman’s eye. “I’ll never leave her.” He holds her gaze. “Never.”

The emotions swirling on Margaret Scully’s face are varied and intense. She reaches up to pull on her earring and seems to settle on determined. 

“Then where were you?” she says with a slight tremble of emotion. “Where were you when she came home? She went to a place so dark I feared we couldn’t get her out.”

It’s not necessarily a time he likes to think about. “With respect, Mrs. Scully, I went to that place too.” 

Her face immediately registers regret. “Of course. Of course you did, my apologies.” 

“There’s no need to apologize,” he says, reaching for his glass of lemonade, which bites at the back of his throat when he swallows. 

She takes a deep breath and sits up straighter, holding both hands together and putting them in her lap. 

“Nevertheless. I’m sorry, Fox,” she goes on. “I’m still dealing with everything that happened. It was a hard time.”

“It was hard for everyone,” Mulder agrees, more earnest and honest than he’s been with anyone other than Scully. Her mother loves Dana as fiercely as he does. 

“It’s just that…you were and seem to still be her only lifeline. And I found out about what you were to her on TV.”

Her honesty is straightforward and he feels a connection begin to form between the two of them. “The interview?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He sighs, remembering. “I think that interview gave Dana a chance to communicate what she needed to with everyone that was important to her.”

“You think that was her cry for help?”

“I think it was her call to arms,” he says. 

From inside the house, Mulder can hear the gentle clamor of dishes being moved around the kitchen and then Tara’s high, friendly laugh. A bumblebee buzzes lazily over the table, pausing briefly over Mulder’s lemonade before moving off into the yard. 

Margaret Scully looks at him with an emerging respect. She softens and leans forward. “Were you able to get help? After?”

Mulder thinks of his time in Paris. “I was able to reach a place of peace,” he says after a long moment. 

Margaret nods thoughtfully. “Did you have someone to help you?” 

There was Langly. There was Asuka. He gives her a gentle nod. “In a manner of speaking.”

The older woman reaches for her own glass and shakes the ice loose before taking a long drink. “Ethan was…” she starts.

At the name, Mulder pulls back a bit. He remembers the moment he saw the man on the base TV. The way his stomach dropped. He’s never told anyone about it other than Scully. He has to give her mother credit for talking about hard things. It’s something neither he nor Scully are necessarily good at. 

“Ethan was no help,” Mrs. Scully finishes. “I suspect their relationship was done long before Dana was…before you were…before,” she finishes somewhat lamely. 

Mulder merely nods, somewhat stoically.

“What must you both have gone through,” Mrs. Scully says thickly, shaking her head. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like in that hotel room.”

Mulder returns his gaze to her, and after a moment, she looks embarrassed. Margaret Scully knew about her daughter’s miscarriage. She knows what they did in the hotel room, but perhaps not all of what they were to each other.

How to tell her? Mulder thinks. How to tell Dana Scully’s mother that in the dark winter of that prison, her daughter was the ultimate apricity. That he found his salvation in her arms, in her mind, in her quim. The coarseness of the revelation makes it no less true. Without the love they’d found in each other, neither would have survived. 

“Things there were…simple. Barring everything else… things were simple,” he says. 

Mrs. Scully nods at him sadly. 

“And we got out,” he says with finality. 

At this, the older woman’s eyes mist over and she leans forward, reaching for his hand. He has to lean toward her to bridge the gap, but her small hand gives his a hard, reassuring squeeze. They have reached an understanding that will last through all of their days, Mulder knows this somehow, fundamentally. 

The moment, though significant, is brief. The sliding door opens and Tara comes out, followed by Bill and Scully, each of them with small plates in their hands gobbed high with cherry goop and bright white clouds of ice cream.

“Who’s ready for pie!” Tara calls out. 

Plates are passed out and everyone retakes their seats with loud scrapes of metal chairs being pulled across concrete paving stones. 

“Shit, I forgot the forks!” Bill says the moment he’s finally pulled up to the table, and he pops back up. 

“Bill!” Margaret scolds, though with a smile. 

Scully, who had clocked the handhold of her mother and Mulder when she came out the door, holds Mulder’s gaze as she sits down. And, ignoring Tara’s chatter and Bill bumping the table and her mother asking if anyone needs another napkin, Scully slowly leans in and presses her lips to Mulder’s. The world turns, as does everything in it, arcing towards chaos. Arcing towards light.

[highlynerdy]

Time for another installment of I Don't Think The Creators Of "Kill Me Love Me" Know How Time Works (I'm working on the title). Okay. Here we go.

Episodes 1-7 - lots of fur wearing, shots of the wilderness with barren trees. So. Winter? Probably end of??

Episode 8 - they go to the Shangsi/Double Third Festival, which usually happens in late March, early April. Cool. We have a precise time. We also have more EPIC 👀 INTENT 👀 GAZING 👀.

Episode 10 - The Dance. He sits in front of what looks like a Saucer Magnolia tree. Or at least some type of Magnolia. Which typically blooms between March and May. Cool cool. Still keeping with the correct time.

The cherry blossoms (dogwood flowers??) rain down on Wu Jinyan as she dances. Gorgeous. Stunning. And still the right flowers for our time of year. Excellent.

(Also. Does she have a clause for this in her contracts? I'm not complaining. She's a goddess and deserves to be showered in flower petals set to dope music but that's two nickels if you count the guqin battle music scene from The Double.)

Episode 11 - just moving right along now and whoops, ol' boy is a little sauced! It happens when you're mourning the long fallen soldiers you're trying to avenge. I get it. Pour one out, my good dude. And look! They're sitting in a gorgeous courtyard. But now?? It's Autumn?? Leaves on the ground and red and orange?! The fuck just happened?! Did we time travel 6 months and no one told me?

Episode 12 -That's fucking Forsythia! The opening shot of the litchral next episode is a plant that blooms in the early spring. What. Is. Happening.

Where is the continuity person on this show?? Did they wander off?

Is that why he was somehow able to paint this exceptionally large, ridiculously detailed watercolor/gouache painting while she sat there? That's not how any of this works! What did they do while the layers dried?? Just stare at each other more? Because that's how water based media works. Lots. Of. Waiting. hhhhhAaanyway. I really am enjoying the show. But gods above, they need a little help with the concept of time because it doesn't make sense with what's going on in the story for almost a year to have passed.

[talonabraxas]

The Flower Moon Talon Abraxas

Flower Moon Meaning

The Flower Moon’s name isn’t much of a mystery given the time of year it graces the sky. Gardens and landscapes are in full bloom with perennials such as primrose, bleeding heart, bloodroot, iris, violet, hellebore, peony, et cetera; flower trees such as pear, crape myrtle, crabapple, magnolia, redbud, dogwood, and others; and spring bulbs including bluebell, hyacinth, lily of the valley, tulip, daffodil, crocus, and more.

As for the May full moon’s other names, this is the time of year when the tribes and farmers plant corn. The frogs are singing their mating songs, and milk-producing livestock such as sheep, goats, and cows now have lush green pastures to fill their bellies and produce more milk.

Flower Moon Spiritual Meaning

The May full moon embodies the spirit of Beltane and all the energy of new life, passion, fire, and rebirth. It brings creativity, inspiration, and a sense of purpose with it.

The Flower Moon in May is a spiritual reminder that our goals should be manifesting. This is the blooming season, but it’s also the planting season. Tap into the energy for growth and fertility. Take some time to think about your intentions and what needs to be done in order to reach your goals come harvest season. This may mean asking yourself some hard questions and reevaluating your priorities and plans.

Don’t feel overwhelmed if you feel like the goals you set at the beginning of the year are still far away. We can’t magically leap to the top of the staircase in a single jump; the journey happens one step at a time. If you feel like you aren’t progressing, take a moment to focus. What do you need to prioritize? What is the next step forward that needs to be taken? What is holding you back (and therefore needs to be released)?

Let the spiritual energy of the Flower Moon inspire you to continue growing, even though it comes with a reminder that we can’t move forward until we let go of what’s inhibiting our ability to fully blossom.

Flower Moon Altar Tips, Colors, & Crystals

The most common altar colors for the Flower Moon are yellow, red, orange, and green. Freshly cut flowers make a perfect altar decoration.

In fact, you can go even further and find many more ways to incorporate flowers on this special night. Arrange them in vases to decorate your home. Integrate them into your tea and cooking. Add them to your bath. Press blossoms that you can later use in your book of shadows, journal, artwork, or even a thoughtful surprise tucked in a card for a loved one.

Crystals that work well with the Flower Moon include:

Moonstone – new beginnings, fertility, intuition, lunar/feminine energy

Selenite – purification, cleansing, protection, a symbol of light, ties to the moon

Labradorite – connect with the psyche, dreams, creative muses, spiritual awakening

Amethyst – spiritual protection, insight, self-reflection, shadow work

Rose Quartz – love, friendship, romance, self-love

Rhodonite – “stone of love,” passion, fertility, grounding energy, healing emotional scars

Flower Agate – new beginnings, self-growth, restores emotional balance

Moss Agate – restoration, healing, rebirth, a connection with earth and plants

Black Tourmaline – strength, stabilization, grounding, alleviating fear (onyx and obsidian are also good alternatives)

Smoky quartz – grounding, emotional calmness, stress relief

Clear quartz – healing, peace, cleansing the mind and aura, divination

[shieldofiron]

La Hiedra Venenosa

The soil remembers what Billy forgets.

In fact the last thing that he remembers is the cement slamming into his face once more, his dads finger in his hair and Max screaming.

Then the dirt, the aching packed lung feeling and digging his way out. A new way of breathing, breath that stretched up to big sur and down past pathetic human boarders. He’d been buried in a forgotten little sliver of land off of a closed off road. The land was forgotten, but it never forgot, not anything.

His dad never laid a hand on him after that. Not after Billy came back to the house covered in grave dirt and a vine of California Dogwood grew through the floorboards, through Neil’s boot.

The people at the ER didn’t know what to make of that.

No, Billy’s dad never laid a hand on him again, freak though he was. He settled for words at a distance, but Billy wasn’t listening any more.

The soil remembered. It spoke to him, though that word didn’t feel quite right for how it happened. How he would go wandering late at night, his mind filled with blood watering the ground. The soil remembered and it taught Billy.

His friends weren’t quite sure what to make of him anymore either, and when Neil announced that they were moving, only one of them said he would miss Billy.

“La hiedra venenosa,” Argyle frowned, “Who will become luchadores with me when you’re gone?”

“You can do it by yourself, Argo,” Billy laughed.

“But who will have your plant power,” Argyle smacked the back of his own fist, “Miss you brother. Don’t fall in love and never come back, okay?”

Billy made the promise not knowing, making Argyle laugh by recreating Neil’s face when Billy had grown a redwood through the house, busting its retail value and leaving the area to the land, because who would cut down what appeared to be a thousand year old redwood.

Funny how it grew right through the garage of a regular suburban house. Right through the concrete.

His dad wanted him to give up and be normal again but Billy wasn’t interested in that. The dirt remembered, taught Billy not to forget. He wouldn’t reveal all his tricks to these Indiana hicks right away though. Not before he could be sure his new friends wouldn’t fly off the handle.

Billy didn’t know what Indiana would be like, but he never expected the plants to weep over a hidden weed, tunnels that ripped through their roots and a rot that wasn’t of this earth.

The first night he’d tried to drown it out, drinking until he could hardly see. But he sobered too quickly when he saw him. Prettiest face Billy ever saw.

That’s him, the dirt said, That’s her.

Billy almost didn’t believe their story until the face floated up. Baseball bats and hesitating at a car. The rot going dormant, no longer sheltering itself in the trees. The girl, the dark haired skinny one who had ventured through the rot and come back out. They were missing the haunted looking boy, but the plants screamed out for Billy to go to them, so he did.

Tommy Hagan’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard, but Billy was swimming through images of the woods, glowing tree bark and the pretty boy’s face bloodied and bruised.

Don’t fall in love, Argyle had said. But it was too late, not when he saw that face. The girl turned to leave and the pretty boy followed. Billy was helpless to do more than follow too, honeysuckle knotting into the carpet with every step he took. His boots always had dirt on them, and the soil never forgot. He caught the pretty boy on the edge of tears, fleeing down the upstairs hallway.

Billy’s arm shot out, and he blocked him.

“Harrington, right?” Billy lifted his chin, noting how the boy’s dark eyes slid down Billy’s chest, “I’m Billy. Billy Hargrove.”

“Not now,” The pretty boy scowled, “I gotta-“

“Tell me about these tunnels with underworld monsters,” Billy said.

“What? What… what are you talking about?”

“Monsters, heads like flowers, but there ain’t anything natural about them. At least nothing native to earth.”

The pretty boy gaped, “How do you know about that?”

“Friends of mine.”

“What friends?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“I think you’d be surprised,” The pretty boy crossed his arms.

Billy reached out, fingers circling one of Harrington’s wrists. He wasn’t thin, not like the girl. His hands were big too, masculine and lightly dusted with hair.

Harrington jerked back, nearly falling into the wall when he looked down and a honeysuckle vine circled his wrist like a bracelet. Lonicera hispidula, California Honeysuckle, more precisely.

Harrington’s eyes were wide, his big soft Bambi lashes fluttering.

Billy was too drunk to think of the risks of Harrington flying off the handle. Somehow, instinctively he trusted the dirt, the way it felt about Harrington. Billy didn’t have to be there last year for the memory to stick. Harrington would take out the rot.

“Amazing,” Harrington breathed, touching the honeysuckle with long pretty fingers, before he glanced up. “The monsters are back? In… tunnels?”

Billy smiled, “Yes.”

“Then… fuck, I guess there’s some people to introduce you to.”

Funny how things worked out. When the Pretty Boy took his hand, Billy let the vine grow up and along, locking them together.

“You’re fucking weird,” Harrington said, but he didn’t tug away either. His dark sad eyes just fluttered, sticking on Billy’s chest again.

Billy licked his lips, smiling, “Normal’s overrated.”

---

Thanks to @adelacreations for lending me the Poison Ivy Steve-verse for a little what if. Can you tell I was listening to Pet Semetary too much this morning and I'm longing for Halloween Season? Also on AO3 here.

[zazter-den]

Stained Glass Circumstances

Series: Snippet 1, Current, Ch. 1 Foul-Mouthed Frit,

Synopsis- Captain Kirishima tries to focus on duty among the dogwoods of the onsen. Easier said than done.

Warnings- Servant Dynamics, Concubine Dynamics, Suggestive Themes, Hot Spring Setting.

Tags- Less explicit prologue, No Sex, Fantasy AU, Dragon!Kirishima, GuardCapt!Kiri,KingConsort!Reader, Black Haired Reader.

Word Count- 800 Prologue II

As Captain Kirishima traversed the dimly lit hallways, he couldn't help but catch whispers and curious glances from the castle servants and guests. The news of King Bakugou's latest acquisition—the very person he now cradled in his arms—was spreading like wildfire throughout the castle grounds.

The eyes of the castle staff, those less accustomed to the extremes of the king at least, lingered on the pair as they passed. Some glanced with genuine curiosity, while others showed a mix of respect and envy towards the Captain of the Guard. Yet, Kirishima's focus remained solely on the task at hand, one he cherished: ensuring your well-being after your night with the unconventional ruler.

Leaving the confines of the castle, he stepped into the castle courtyard, embraced by the stillness of the night. Above him, the starry sky spread like a sparkling blanket, the moon illuminating his path. The sweet scent of blooming dogwoods filled the air, their delicate petals scattered across the ground like silken confetti.

In the tranquil beauty of the gardens, still groggy from the earlier encounter with King Bakugou, you stirred in Kirishima's arms. The sound of a voice, drowsy and sweet, reached his ears as you expressed your appreciation for his assistance. He chuckled, the sound a pleasant rumble you could feel, and a warm smile graced his lips.

"It's my honor." Captain Kirishima replied, his deep voice laden with a tenderness only reserved for those closest to his heart. "Rest assured, you're in good hands." Barely restrained adoration for you lighting up his scarlet eyes.

Approaching the entrance of the hot spring cavern, you marveled at the sight before them same as every night, the Captain never failed to find your awe endearing. The cave was carved from a giant geode, its walls sparkling with an array of crystals that shimmered in the moonlight. Smooth pools held healing mineral water bubbled up through the tiny cracks and fissures below, warm water surrounded by the gentle embrace of towering dogwoods within the geode walls. Their delicate blooms added a touch of softness to the surroundings, the ombre petals floating upon the water's surface.

The most captivating feature of the structure was the giant hole in the ceiling—nature's own skylight. It allowed the moon's luminous rays to stream in, casting a ethereal glow on the warm pools. The combination of moonlight and crystal created a dreamlike ambiance, enchanting anyone who set foot in the cave.

Every night the sight would take your breath away. And every night Captain Kirishima would lose his in response.

He carefully set you down at the edge of your favored pool, turning away to offer privacy as you unwrapped the crimson Captain's cloak enveloping your tired body. It was a reminder of the boundaries that existed between them—the duty that he held to both his king and his own code. A boundary that Captain Kirishima knew he was beginning to toe.

With the warmth of the onsen air embracing them, you slowly entered the healing water, the delicate dogwood petals floating on the surface shifting as you made your way further in.

Turning back to face the water, to face you, Kirishima's heart ached as much as his sore body. His mind fully aware of the consequences that awaited him if he were discovered lingering.

But still, his gaze stayed on you, captivated by the sight of you wading closer to the ethereal glow of moonlight, surrounded by the enchanting ambiance of the cave. As you settled into the middle of the healing waters, Kirishima knelt by the pool's edge. Nights like these stirred a tender and treachorous longing within his heart. Despite his position as a loyal servant to the king, his feelings for you undoubtedly went beyond mere duty.

Gently, Kirishima reached down, trailing his bruised hand along the smooth surface of the water, ancient minerals slowly began to knit the laceration from this afternoon, causing ripples to dance across the pool's surface. The reflections of the stars and dark sky above seemed to come alive in the swirling water, mirroring the turbulent emotions within the captain's own heart.

He shouldn't be this close.

Kirishima reluctantly forced himself to stand. Pivoting on the balls of his feet, facing away from the pool, a quiet sigh escaped his lips. He knew he shouldn't have developed these feelings for one of the concubines of Bakugou, the barbaric royal he swore to serve. But the heart, the soul, has a way of weaving its own tapestry, ignoring the boundaries set by duty and loyalties.

The impacts from King Bakugou's winning blow during their sparring match still rattled his body, adding an additional injury to insult this time around. Residual pain etched on his face as he began to walk away from the steamy waters, towards the cavern exit.

"Wait, Captain…!" your voice reached out to him from behind, words soft and filled with a gentle insistence. "You…should join me."

Taglist: @themythicaldisaster

Wishing nonnie and you all the sweetest of dreams ❛ ֊ ❛

Comment/tag for what you might like to see of this series!

[the-silent-troubadour]

there’s just a few

black eyed susan’s an one remaining coneflower

left in summers garden

there’s red leaves and berries on the dogwoods

an browning leaves that lay on the ground

the earths still wet from nights rain

while

late leaves of summer

hang heavy in

diamond like remnants

[blackswallowtailbutterfly]

My Garden Flowers Part 3

All photos mine. The small buttercup and evening primrose are edited for colour since the camera didn't catch it and washed it out.

In order of appearance:

In order of appearance:

061. Wild Basil (Clinopodium vulgare) Didn't do so well the last place I had her in, but she seems happy in this spot, so fingers crossed.

062. Crested Iris (Iris cristata) Not pictured as she hasn't flowered yet.

063. Smallflower Buttercup (Rancunculus abortivus) Not much to look at compared with other buttercups but one of the only native buttercups with (limited) edible uses.

064. Smooth Solomon's Seal (Polygonatum biflorum) Not pictured as she hasn't flowered yet. Soon, hopefully!

065. False Solomon's Seal (Maianthemum racemosa) Not pictured as she hasn't flowered yet, but she's growing well so hopefully next year.

066. Blisterwort (Ranunculus recurvatus) I didn't plant that. She just turned up last year. Not pictured as I haven't got any pictures yet.

067. Fairy Spuds (Claytonia virginica) Not pictured as she hasn't flowered yet. She's a wee little spud in the ground.

068. Flowering Dogwood (Cornus floridus) Not pictured as she hasn't flowered yet but she is slowly spreading out.

069. Plantain-Leaf Sedge (Carex plantaginea) Not pictured as I haven't got pictures yet. I should. It's a neat plant. Evergreen, too!

070. Virginia Bluebells (Mertensia virginica) One of the prettiest plants I've ever seen, from the shape and texture of the leaves to the purplish pink buds to the bright blue bell-shaped flowers. They're spring ephemerals, though, so they're long gone by now. But will emerge next spring!

071. Evening Primrose (Oenothera biennis) Only lives for two years and reseeds itself. It's a common weed along sidewalks, but its flowers glow yellow in the evening and often remain in bloom at night.

072. Squirrel Corn (Dicentra canadensis) Not pictured as she hasn't flowered yet. The leaves are really cute, though.

073. Large Toothwort (Cardamine maxima) Not pictured as she hasn't flowered yet.

074. Wintergreen (Gaultheria procumbens) Not pictured as I haven't got any pictures yet.

075. Great Burnet (Sanguisorba officinalis) A cultivar, not sure which one. I'll get the wild type if/when I can.

076. American Plum (Prunus americana) I was not expecting her to flower this year! Hopefully she will next year too, and without aphids this time so I can have some plums. :)

077. Smooth Aster (Symphyotrichum laeve) So like I said, I do think New England asters are the prettiest of this genus, but smooth asters are very nice in their own way. Tender bluish leaves, and delicate light purple flowers.

078. Sweet Grass (Hierochloe odorata) Not pictured as I haven't got any pictures yet. She only flowered one year. Hasn't since. I won't miss a photo next time.

079. Nodding Onion (Allium cernuum) What's better than pretty flowers? Tasty pretty flowers!

080-081. Swamp Rose Mallow (Hibiscus moscheutos) Two different cultivars and the red one has died, but I did get my hands on the wild type! That will hopefully bloom this year.

082. Stiff Sunflower (Helianthus pauciflorus subrhomboideus) Holds her own against the much more aggressive Nuttall's sunflower. Sometimes called beautiful sunflower. I don't know how one decides which species of a very showy genus gets that name, but I guess she won out.

083. Pearly Everlasting (Anaphalis margaritacea) Another one that was hard to choose a photo of. You just hardly believe they're real!

084. Marsh Marigold (Caltha palustris) I planted her where there's a drip from the eavestrough so she can get very wet when it rains. :) She is not a marigold but instead part of the buttercup family.

085. Nuttall's Sunflower (Helianthus nuttallii) Whenever I am expressing frustration about sunflowers, it is almost always this species. lol Very beautiful but very aggressive.

086. Larkspur Violet (Viola pedatifida) Not pictured as she hasn't flowered yet.

087. White Turtlehead (Chelone glabra) Not pictured as she hasn't flowered yet.

088. Small Sundrops (Oenothera perennis) Not quite as intensely yellow as some of her relatives but still very bright.

089. Bigleaf Aster (Eurybia macrophylla) You generally grow her for foliage rather than her flowers, but flowering she is! Very drought-tolerant, but spreads more readily in less harsh conditions.

090. Bride's Feathers (Aruncus dioicus) Southern Ontario and surrounding area's evolution really went off on the lacy white flowers, and this species' flowers might be the laciest of them all.

[baufive]

Had hoped to get things up and running yesterday - now it's a question of if I can get it done today. TLDR: I'm a bum and an old one at that.

Planted a Forest Pansy redbud yesterday. We lost a red dogwood (one of three) that never really took off like the others. It opened an opportunity to have a tree I have wanted for years. Small as it is - I think it will be perfect for the yard. Pinky purple flowers in the early spring, purple leaves through to the summer, deep green over the summer and then turning to yellow in the fall. It really is a gorgeous tree. We purchased a Floating Cloud redbud for the front yard that is spectacular - I am hoping this grows to be as interesting.

In the background you see a Red Rocket crepe myrtle that is bronze color in the fall. Next to that is a service berry for the birds - kind of barren of leaves by this time of year. We also picked up a blue lace Jogasaki hydrangea. The soil here is very acidic, but we'll lace the ground with lime to give it some more variegated color from pink to indigo. That'll be next weekend. This wore me out in a way that I have not experienced before. Between aging and surgery at the beginning of the year - I am not fit for yard work like I was.

Today I hope to get the set up - we're running for a laser eye treatment for the hubs - he's been diagnosed with glaucoma and the drops are a major drag. Seeing if this will be a better alternative.

So - back to sims - the Memento Mori skulls - the specular was changed this morning. I realized I did not like the sheen level on the frames while I was editing photos - it was supposed to look like acrylic. NOW I am happy.

[kimberly40]

🌸Facts About The Dogwood Tree:

•The dogwood is the state tree of Virginia, Missouri and North Carolina, and is also Virginia’s state flower.

•There are over 50 species of the dogwood tree.

•Native Americans planted their crops, particularly corn, when the dogwoods bloomed.

•Native Americans used the root of dogwood to attract muskrats into the traps.

•The name Dogwood comes from the word “dog-tree”, which was introduced into English in 1548. Dogwood is also thought to derive from “dagwood”, which would involve using the tree’s thin twigs for creating daggers.

•In the Victorian Era, young men used to present dogwood flowers to unmarried women to convey affection. If the woman kept the flower, it was considered a sign of mutual interest! Women who wanted to convey indifference used to return the flower!

•Dogwoods have been used medicinally for generations; the bark is rich in tannins, so ground bark or leaves are used to treat pain, fevers, backaches, dizziness, weakness, excessive sweating, uterine bleeding, and incontinence.

•Dogwood plays an important role in traditional Chinese medicine where it is used in the treatment of dizziness, weakness, pain in the knees and back, uterine bleeding, and excessive sweating.

•Dogwood flowers are not "true" flowers. White petals are actually bracts, modified leaves that surround centrally positioned miniature yellowish-green flower heads. Each flower head consists of 20 to 30 individual flowers.

•Wood obtained from the tree is quite hard and strong and is hence used to make different types of tools, such as walking canes, loom shuttles, etc.

[waltwhitmansbeard]

y'all had to have seen this coming after the most recent 4sd

Vax can't keep up with Keyleth's schedule these days, but honestly, he doesn't even try. Ever since he and Vex left Syngorn, he's had so little time to stop moving, stop running, stop thinking, and he's more than content to spend these day being the Voice of the Tempest's trophy boyfriend, the new guy in town who helps out when he can and tries his best to stay out of everyone's way. Zephrah thrives under Keyleth's leadership, though she'd like nothing more than to give her father all the credit, and Vax isn't going to insert himself into a well-oiled machine when he isn't needed.

So most of his days are spent walking around, talking to their neighbors, joining the Blades on their exercises, using his god-given wings to help patch roofs and harvest fruit from the tallest branches in the orchard. It doesn't take long for him to learn everyone's names, calling out to familiar faces as he passes them by. This, he comes to realize, is community, family, home, and he knows that there is nowhere on Exandria he'd want to spend the rest of his days.

On a spring morning, when the cherry trees are in full bloom and the whistling winds have just lost that winter bite, he strides happily through the center of Zephrah, hands in his pockets, having just seen Keyleth off through a tree to a meeting with the Tal'dorei Council in Emon. He nods his hellos to the Zephrans starting their days, stopping to help an elderly air genasi man wrangle his three ornery goats, and turns down a little path he hasn't visited in a while. Within a few seconds, he's greeted by a half-strangled "NO—" and then a mischievous giggling. He turns toward the source, and there, in the front garden of a garden so small and picturesque it looks like it belongs on a postage stamp, is a frazzled-looking halfling woman, her sandy blonde hair falling out of a bun on the crown of her head and her apron askew. Her hands are on her hips as she glares up at the dogwood in front of her.

Vax follows her eyeline and spies a cherubic face peeking out between the green leaves and white blooms of the dogwood. "Is everything okay?"

She sighs. "My son, he's—he'll climb anything taller than he is, which, at four, is basically everything." She sucks in a deep breath, then hollers, "ORYM, DO NOT CLIMB DOWN ON YOUR OWN, DO YOU HEAR ME?"

The giggling continues. "I'm tall!"

The woman pinches the bridge of her nose with a long sigh, and Vax bites back a laugh. "Here, why don't you let me." It's nothing to whip out the Deathwalker's Ward's wings—he's glad he thought to wear it today, usually he doesn't unless he knows he'll be using it—and flies up the side of the tree. He pulls back the branches to spy a tiny halfing boy, who might come up to Vax's knee on his tiptoes, and meets the boy's grin with his own. "You made it pretty far up here, little man."

Orym nods, then sticks a thumb toward his own chest. "Good climber."

"Yeah you are." The branches are hell on the wings, but Vax manages to poke inside, just enough to reach a hand out toward the little boy. "How'd you like to go really high?"

Orym's eyes widen, and oh, Vax could get used to this, the wild wonder of children. It seems that Orym has only now noticed the feathery black wings protruding from Vax's back, and he nods eagerly, putting both of his hands into Vax's. Vax slowly extracts him from the branches of the tree, and then murmurs, "Can you hang on really tight?"

The little boy obediently wraps his arms around Vax's neck, and hell, he might be little, but the kid's got one hell of a grip. Vax calls down, "We'll be down in a minute!" And then he shoots up, climbing ten, twenty, fifty feet above the ground. Orym's delight is a breathless cackle in his ear, and Vax wants this, the joy and the discovery and the little hands clutching tight.

He only lingers up for a few moments, just long enough for Orym to see his hometown from an impossible angle, before gently swooping back down toward his mother. He lands and takes Orym by the ankle, delivering him giggling and upside-down to the woman. "I believe this is yours?"

She takes her son by the waist and sets him on her shoulders. "Thank you."

Orym tugs on the point of his mother's ear. "Did ya see, Mama? We went up!"

"I did." She pats his leg. "But no more up without permission, alright dear?"

"Yes, Mama," he replies obediently, but Vax knows that look of mischief in Orym's face, has seen it in his sister's far too many times to believe he won't be getting himself into all manner of predicaments for years to come.

Vax reaches up to ruffle the boy's hair, and then says, "Feet on the ground, little man." To the mother, he smiles and says, "Let me know if you need him extracted again. I'm happy to be on kid-retrieval duty."

"Thank you," she repeats, and then Vax watches her return to her cottage, Orym happily chattering in her ear about how thrilling it was to really fly. When the door is closed behind them and Vax is alone on this little path, he knows more clearly than ever before what he wants from this one wild, precious life—and he'll wait as long as it takes for Keyleth to be ready for it, too.