#ornate tiger moth

[modelhousemeltdown]

[deathfeigning]

ornate tiger moth, apantesis ornata

found in central PA

[naberrius]

I love utmv and I love moths so naturally this was the ideal course of action. I have moths assigned to wayyyy more sanses so I might make similar drawings in the future :3

Horror is a cecropia moth

Killer is a long - tailed burnet moth

Dust is an eyed hawkmoth

Cross is an ornate tiger moth

[cannibalcoalition]

New moth for the moth jar.

Tiger moths were all over the place when in lived in Montana, and I thought they were so pretty.

Get it on a sticker!

[myrmica]

hi!! what's your favorite moth species?

HELLO! WHAT A WONDERFUL QUESTION!!!

talking purely on aesthetic terms it's tiger moths i love those things. and they're what woolly bear caterpillars turn into which was mindblowing to me when i first learned this, because of how ubiquitous the caterpillars are and how often i'd find them as a kid without ever knowing what they were... it's interesting to me the way that complete metamorphosis can produce a disconnect between the different stages of an animal's life like that, and you can have a relationship with it in one form without ever knowing the others...

^ this is the ornate tiger moth she's the kind i'm most familiar with & have found irl before, i have one pinned although not in great condition because smaller moths/butterflies are really tricky to handle:

(the three big ones are a promethea moth, a polyphemus moth, and a luna moth from left to right. i used to live next to the woods and it's really easy to find cocoons in early spring if you know what their host plants look like.)

more generally speaking i'm very fond of saturniids, but who isn't. got a soft spot for silk moths because i wrote about them for a textile history class once, and bombyx mori is endearing for being the only domesticated insect... i name all my silk touch pickaxes in minecraft after them ...

[kanayatherainbowdrinker]

for that ask game: kanaya maryam (obviously) and jake english <3

grimAuxiliatrix [GA] began trolling diamondringsandGutterbones [DG] GA: The Closest Green Item To Me Well Id State My Blood But I Suppose Thats Not An Item GA: ... GA: Either My Black Razer Kraken Kitty Headset With Jade And Teal Coloring For The Lights My Ornate Flowery Bedding With Hummingbirds An Evergreen Tree Or Jade Dress GA: Because Youre So Cool Ill Answer The Other One For Me About My Most Loved Articles Of Clothing GA: My Favorite Hat Is A Sangria Bowler Hat With A Gold Stemmed Rose With Black Petals And Jade Peacock Feathers Attached GA: My Newly Acquired Green Tinted Prescription Glasses Quite Similar To Toastiedrawz Depiction Of Me GA: My Favorite Mask Has Evergreen Trees GA: My Favorite Eyepatch Has A Null Symbol On It GA: My Favorite Jacket A White Blazer GA: My Favorite Bra Teal Laced Geometrics GA: My Favorite Swim Top Teal Mermaid GA: My Favorite Collar Is Teal Trimmed Jade Leather With Black Spikes And Heart Lock GA: My Favorite Wings Are Galaxy Butterfly With Deep Purples GA: My Favorite Gloves Three Quarter Arm Neon Red Latex GA: My Favorite Top Is Ivory Turtle Neck Crop Top With Bosom Window GA: My Favorite Dress Low V Cut Deep Shimmery Jade With Full Back Zipper But Huge Back Windows From Back Of Shoulders To Top Of Hips And Short Hemmed GA: My Favorite Skirt Geometric Design Blood Red Ankle Length With Pockets Just Missing The Pearls To Be Identical To My Usual Skirt GA: My Favorite Heels Are Hot Pink Six Inchers With Toe And Ankle Strap Only GA: My Favorite Socks Are My Thigh High Jade And Teal Tentacle Socks On Purple Background GA: I Only Own One Merfolk Tail But Its An Orange Similar To Tiger Moths With Plum Purple Tips GA: ... GA: I Simply Love Fashion No One Asks About It So This Was Lovely Getting A Chance To Share Some Of My Ostentatious And Extravagant Pieces GA: ... GA: Okay Lets Describe My Greatest Adventure GA: Two Birthdays Ago I Visited The Pacific Ocean For The First Time In My Life GA: A Solo Camping Trip At An Official Park I Stayed In A Cabin For Two Nights Exploring There For Three Days GA: It Was Halloween Weekend Exceptionally Moderate And Clear Weather GA: Freshest Air Ive Ever Experienced Before GA: So Much Sunlight GA: Plenty Of Mushrooms Pretty Scraggly Trees GA: Exceptionally Windy Beach Flat As Could Be Gorgeous Dunes To Walk Over A Deafening Silence GA: The First Night I Was Overcome By Horror Terrors As Per Usual GA: I Walked To The Beach At Four In The Morning Feeling Smaller Than Ive Ever Felt Beneath The Expansive Clear Night Sky Waves Sparkling Like Silver Realizing Im Safe Alone Exploring This Universe Understanding It Gave Existence To Something As Small As Me So I Can Simply Enjoy It Because I Matter To Myself And It Was The First Time In My Life I Felt Whole GA: Made Myself Good Food Successfully Made My First Campfire By Myself The Second Night Set Up Halloween Decorations Swam In The Pacific And Listened To The Birds And Breeze And Waves Soaking Up The Sun And Being Content With Existing Gaining A Hope To Share That With Someone Someday grimAuxiliatrix [GA] ceased trolling diamondringsandGutterbones [DG]

[headspace-hotel]

Moths are some of the most elaborately colored and designed animals in existence. They're on a similar tier as nudibranchs and hummingbirds. Even the drab ones often have such gorgeous patterns

Princely Tiger Moth, Luna Moth

Iridicolor Emerald, Ornate Bella Moth

Scarlet Bodied Wasp Moth, Walker's Moth

Alder Kitten, Laterite Matron

Horehound Longhorn moth, White Tangle Moth

btw we as a society need to redeem the reputation of moths. Butterflies are seen as beautiful and beneficial and a normal thing to like, but moths are gross and creepy and ugly???

It's so dumb! Moths can be beautiful and colorful like butterflies can be and they are important pollinators! They visit flowers that bees ignore! Moths are a way larger and more diverse group than butterflies anyway!!

[onenicebugperday]

@glitchyartist​ submitted: I've been working at a house that has these adorable little white moths hanging around, and this morning one of them had a cool black and orange friend! Someone on discord said it might be a Grotella Blanca moth? I live in California and would love to know what this little guy and their spooky colored friend are

What cute and fuzzy little pals! They’re both tiger moths. Grotella blanca looks similar but doesn’t occur in California and is actually a noctuid rather than a tiger moth in Erebidae. I think it’s most likely a vestal tiger moth, Spilosoma vestalis, but I’d need to see the underside to be more confident on that. The second fancy fellow is a tiger moth in the genus Apantesis, probably an ornate tiger moth, Apantesis ornata.

[celestialmango]

A list of moths from my state that are either interesting to look at, have interesting names or both!! Sorry for it being so long

Abbreviated button slug moth

Afflicted dagger moth

Ailanthus webworm moth

Arcigera flower moth

Beautiful wood nymph moth

Black waved flannel moth

Blackberry looper moth

Buck moth

Clymene haploa moth

Confused eusarca moth

Confused woodgrain moth

Dot-lined white moth

Drab prominent moth

Eight-spotted forester moth

Elder shoot borer

Gaudy sphinx moth

Giant leopard moth

Gold moth

Green arches moth

Hag moth

Harnessed tiger moth

Hera buck moth

Honey locust moth

Ornate bella moth

Painted tiger moth

Parthenice tiger moth

Pearly wood-nymph moth

Pickle worm moth

Regal moth

Sad underwing moth

The badwing

The beggar

The betrothed moth

The gem

The halfwing

The Hebrew

The joker

The scribbler

Zebra conchylodes moth

Zig-zag furcula moth

I'll be sure to check them out later.

[marinedragon]

Debut of my character Pacan (pronounced Puh-khan) who is a Mothfolk sorcerer I created to play as in D&D someday. He’s a friendly, innocent, and curious boy who is from a small hidden Mothfolk village deep in the forest. Mothfolk were created by the fae and thus the forest they live in mingles closely with the Faewild. Pacan’s fae ancestry gives him a natural affinity to using magic but he’s not very good at it yet so he often makes mistakes. Like instead of trying to float an object, he might set a nearby table on fire by accident. He grew up in the forest his whole life so he really wants to explore the world, get better at magic, and help people. He’s partially based on an ornate tiger moth.

[tatticstudio55]

Daenerys as an anti-Cinderella?

Another asoiaf/fairy tales meta

It’s always fun to wonder which fairy tales goes best with which asoiaf characters (especially the girls, for some reason). For Sansa and Arya, the references are overflowing. With Dany it’s… trickier. Only two – or maybe three �� classic tales really fit. Two of those I’ve already talked about in previous posts (Thumbelina and The Fire Bird). There are some general “clues” pointing to Cinderella…

-Viserys, the Anastasia & Drizella duo to Daenerys’s Cinderella

-In ADWD, Cleon the “butcher king” of Astapor make a marriage offer to Daenerys and gift her with a pair of slippers, but

Irri slid the slippers onto Dany’s feet. They were gilded leather, decorated with green freshwater pearls. Does the butcher king believe a pair of pretty slippers will win my hand? “King Cleon is most generous. You may thank him for his lovely gift.” Lovely, but made for a child. Dany had small feet, yet the pointed slippers mashed her toes together.

-Cinderella is named as such for her habit of retreating close to the ashes-filled hearth once her work is done (from “cendres”, the French word for “ashes”). Bettelheim view Cinderella’s behavior as a product of sorrow and grief for her dead mother. For Dany, ash is also linked with sorrow and, first inverted trope, with the mother mourning her dead child:

She could feel the heat inside her, a terrible burning in her womb. Her son was tall and proud, with Drogo’s copper skin and her own silver-gold hair, violet eyes shaped like almonds. And he smiled for her and began to lift his hand toward hers, but when he opened his mouth the fire poured out. She saw his heart burning through his chest, and in an instant he was gone, consumed like a moth by a candle, turned to ash. She wept for her child, the promise of a sweet mouth on her breast, but her tears turned to steam as they touched her skin. – Daenerys, AGOT

There’s also the “Queen of ashes” nickname Dany is sometime dubbed with (more so in the show) and the fact that Cinderella herself is a “queen” of the ashes, somewhat (hence why she’s called “Cinderella”).

-Mirri Maz Duur is an inverted fairy godmother to Dany.

But these are details. Overall, Dany comes off as the anti-Cinderella of asoiaf. This becomes especially apparent in ADWD, where she’s, essentially, a glorified slave to her duties who dreams of escapes with her “prince charming”, i.e. Daario. This all reach a culmination point when she goes to the “ball”, i.e., the grand reopening of the Daznak’s pit. Unlike Cinderella, who’d give anything to attend the ball, Dany would give anything to skip it:

“Even if the pits must open, must Your Grace go yourself?” asked Missandei as she was washing the queen’s hair.

[…]

She would rather have drifted in the fragrant pool all day, eating iced fruit off silver trays and dreaming of a house with a red door, but a queen belongs to her people, not to herself. – Daenerys, ADWD

Whereas the ball meant dreams and freedom for Cinderella, for Dany, it’s the perpetuation of a nightmare. They both present themselves at the event under a veil: a literal one for Dany,

“And over it, the long red veils.” The veils would keep the wind from blowing sand into her mouth. And the red will hide any blood spatters. – Daenerys, ADWD

A metaphorical one for Cinderella, garbed so elegantly that her step mother and half sisters don’t recognize her. This idea of disguise is interesting. For a start, it contrasts with Dany’s refusal to put a veil between herself and Astapor in ASOS. To borrow Clapton’s words on Dany’s white garments in the show, the purpose of the veil is to “remove herself (Dany)” from the situation. Dany’s choice of clothes is a mean of non-attendance, while Cinderella’s costume allows her to go incognito and enjoy the moment. There is the contrasts of colors: Cinderella wears an immaculate, pure white dress (at least in the Disney version), whereas Dany wears yellow silk and a blood-colored veil. Finally, in some versions, the ball attended by Cinderella is a masked ball. This could be significant, since the reopening of the pits prove to be its own kind of masked “ball” (and even more so in the show, where the sons of the Harpy creep inside the pits wearing literal masks):

At the base of the Great Pyramid, Ser Barristan awaited them beside an ornate open palanquin, surrounded by Brazen Beasts. Ser Grandfather, Dany thought. Despite his age, he looked tall and handsome in the armor that she’d given him. “I would be happier if you had Unsullied guards about you today, Your Grace,” the old knight said, as Hizdahr went to greet his cousin. “Half of these Brazen Beasts are untried freedmen.” And the other half are Meereenese of doubtful loyalty, he left unsaid. Selmy mistrusted all the Meereenese, even shavepates.

“And untried they shall remain unless we try them.”

“A mask can hide many things, Your Grace. Is the man behind the owl mask the same owl who guarded you yesterday and the day before?

How can we know?”

“How should Meereen ever come to trust the Brazen Beasts if I do not? There are good brave men beneath those masks. I put my life into their hands.” - Daenerys, ADWD

Behind the drum marched Brazen Beasts four abreast. Some carried cudgels, others staves; all wore pleated skirts, leathern sandals, and patchwork cloaks sewn from squares of many colors to echo the many-colored bricks of Meereen. Their masks gleamed in the sun: boars and bulls, hawks and herons, lions and tigers and bears, fork-tongued serpents and hideous basilisks. – Daenerys, ADWD

In fact, some descriptions of the event, when taken by themselves, almost make it sound like there’s an actual ball happening inside the pit:

Across the pit the Graces sat in flowing robes of many colors, clustered around the austere figure of Galazza Galare, who alone amongst them wore the green. – Daenerys, ADWD

We could even dig further: dancing, in asoiaf, is often used as a euphemism for dying, or is used in scenes going heavy on the death-related subtext. What do people do in a ball? They dance. What do people do in the pits? They die.

“Barsena is very quick,” Reznak said. “She will dance with the boar, Magnificence, and slice him when he passes near her. He will be awash in blood before he falls, you shall see.” – Daenerys, ADWD

Cinderella’s ball is a dream and Dany’s “ball” is a nightmare, but both are woken from it, for the twelfth stroke of midnight will lift the charm. Fun fact, if I’m not mistaken, there were twelve fights planned that day: Khrazz, the Spotted Cat, a “Lysene youth with long blond hair”, an elephant, a bull, a mock battle, a folly with dwarfs, Barsena, a folly with old women and “three more matches”, according to Hzdahr… yup, that makes twelve. Each fight is a “stroke of midnight” for Dany, pulling her from the nightmare, urging her to wake up. At Barsena, she snaps. The charm falls, her carriage turns into a pumpkin and her gown into rags:

She lifted her veil and let it flutter away. She took her tokar off as well. The pearls rattled softly against one another as she unwound the silk.

“Khaleesi? ” Irri asked. “What are you doing?”

“Taking off my floppy ears.” – Daenerys, ADWD

In her haste to flee, she loses a shoe:

“Let me go!” Dany twisted from his grasp. The world seemed to slow as she cleared the parapet. When she landed in the pit she lost a sandal. Running, she could feel the sand between her toes, hot and rough. Ser Barristan was calling after her. – Daenerys, ADWD

The aftermath finds her alone in the grass sea, wearing literal rags (again, not unlike Cinderella), in a dream-like state and wondering what just happened. Unlike Cinderella, Dany has no desire to relive the ball and would much rather stay where she is, with her rags and her animal companion. Both girls experience an unpleasant return to reality. Cinderella must go back to being a slave to her step-mother and half-sister, while Dany knows she must go back to Meereen (which doesn’t quite work out, but).  

Yet for everything nightmarish about it, the reopening of the fighting pits meant something Dany deeply dreamed for and desired: peace. No more bloodshed in the streets of Meereen. The safety of her people. She wanted it and she got it, until the whole farce blew up in her face and the pit of Daznak turned into a pumpkin. I think that’s when she realized it: that the peace was never real, that Hizdahr’s “peace” was an illusion (as many before me have pointed out), a veil that got lifted with the twelve death blows of the pit.

[2bitnoir-blog]

Kitten Island

                                                               1.

First he noticed the noise.  Tiny eeks, like squeaky baby birds.  Birds were all over, different birds, and they squeaked but not like this.  

The veranda was long and low.  Jutted out the back of the house like an afterthought.  Stubby tree ferns squatted the length.  

At the tank-stand end a rabid bouganvillea threw purple and green up onto the corrugated tin wave of the roof. Unsatisfied and still reaching it tried to hook tendrils onto the sky.  

There was a bald spot of ground by the back door that was dead and smelled of piss.

Straight from dim indoors, his eyes squinty.  The bright was broken glass.  

Almost afternoon now, his morning was wasted.

Splat flat on the lawn, he listened.  Slim grass tongues licking his toes. Bright yellow dandelions smearing sunny paint onto his face.  

Wondering at the sound.

Sunlight stenciled prison bar shadows onto the dirt through the cracks in the boot-worn boardwalk. The noise came from somewhere under.  

He crawled closer.  

Many indignant insects in his face.  Buzzing and clicking and skittish.

He could see movement like the swirling grey on black when he closed his eyes at bedtime.  Something moving in the underhouse.

                                                               *

A stray thought to be turned and examined like something found. Could he make the same sound?  

He had a talent for it.  For mimic. He could give the three-bell ‘all’s well’ signal to the rosellas.  Match the laconic caw of the greasy black crows.  

Maybe this was another he could do.  A new one.

He drew his lips across his teeth and squashed his tongue.  It was a kind of squeaky-yowling he made in the back of his throat.  It was “Yew, Yew…”

Wrong.

Close, but not the same.  

He shushed. Listened.  

No noise. No movement.  No swirling grey, just black.

He pressed his fingers hard into the corners of his eyes.  Scrubbed at his eyeballs, a trick to bring the sparkling fairy goldies.  Friendly twinkling lights, sometime companions that came when he stood up too fast or sat too long on the toilet.  

They didn’t appear.

A cloud blotched the sun, shat dim light over all.  

He waited for it to fly by in the sky.

Frogs gronked down by the creek.  Blowflies farted and zoomed. Cicadas tore strips off the air.  

His heart thudded.  Distant marching soldiers, louder the longer the cloud lingered.  

He tried again.  “Eew, Eww…”  

It was closer.  Almost there.

He worked the sound around.  Chewed on the shape of it.

                                                               *

“Ehew. Ehew…”  He had it.  Spot on like a lyre bird, or near as.  

Again. “Ehew. Ehew…”  

He waited.

Nothing. Just screaming insects because it was so hot.  

He drifted for a while under the warm and blue.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmm...  The afternoon hummed.

                                                               *

“Ehew. Ehew…”  

Piercing, the noise stabbed the still.  

He was swimming, swimming in the creek with the platyp-.

“Ehew. Ehew…”  

Awake now and aware.  Under the ferns, with a crook neck and itchy mosquito bites.  

He responded.  

“Ehew. Ehew.”  

Two blue eyes peeked out at him through the gap in the boards.  He saw them and they saw him.

“Ehew, Ehew…”  

It wanted something.  He wasn’t afraid though.  It was something good.

“Ehew, Ehew…”  He spoke to it.  

“Ehew, Ehew…”  It answered.  

This was great.

It was joined by another.  Then another.

They too said “Ehew, Ehew…”  

“The bloody heck?”

Grey on black swirling.  Blue eyes peering at him through the cracks.  

“Ehew, Ehew…” he said.  

“Ehew, Ehew…” the underhouse things said, then ventured out into the day.

                                                               2.

Raggedy kittens, as many as the fingers on his hand.  They blinked flinty eyes.  Tried to focus on everything at once, swaying their little heads.  

Grey tabbies with stripes like tiny tigers, crooked tails hoisted.

Impossibly cute.  

Fragile magic, delicate and exposed.

The boy grinned from happy.  “Ehew, Ehew…” he said.

                                                               *

They looked at him in unison.  It was funny. Then they looked at each other.  

They were wary of the stranger who spoke kitten.  

He was like nothing they knew.    

Tempted to flee, follow instinct and scatter, run, hide.  

He made his new sound, rising like a plea.  “Ehew?”  

The kittens stared at him, afraid to move and afraid to come closer.

                                                               *

He could wait.  

He would wait.

He could smell the sweet grass, the moist earth slightly cloying.  

He thought about all the things that lived and grew and died there.  

Slugs, seeds, caterpillars, weeds.  

Harlequin beetles, grasshoppers and lizards.  

Butterflies, stick-insects, bugs, lots of different bugs.  

Bugs in your face, bugs in your eyes, eat a horse manure pie.  

Too many things to count.

                                                               *

A cold shock dabbed briefly his hand.  Silk brushed past his elbow like a whisper.  

He lay still as a dead rabbit.  

A wet kiss in his ear, startling.

The kittens were there, soft and suddenly all around.  Jumping, climbing, scrambling over him. Scratchy claws catching in his t-shirt. Paws poking into his back, trotting down his spine. Whiskers swiping his nose and tickling his legs.  

An adorable patchwork menagerie, stuffed toys come wonderfully to life.

“Ehew, Ehew, Ehew, Ehew, Ehew, Ehew, Ehew…”

                                                               3.

A head picture flickered, took form, played like a movie.  He was the hero, the star, an idea that literally moved him.  

Carefully so as not to alarm, he sat up.

The kittens looked up at him wide-eyed.  

He slowly stood.  They were unsure, but still squirming on the grass.  

Then he moved quickly.  He didn’t look back lest the magic vanish.

                                                               *

The shed was peeling weatherboards on an exposed wood frame and a dark mouth yawning.  

Shabby white sheets nailed to an elephant’s skeleton full of spiders.

Hanging waving cobwebs and the strong smell of rats.

Moldering piles of junk almost to the roof and sprawling across the crammed gravel floor. Stuff and more stuff.

There were lead pipes and a bicycle pump.  

Gamey horse blankets, horse ropes and leather bridles, horse medicines, horse shoes, horse stuff.  

A metal bucket, a selection of birds nests and a big tractor tyre.  

An untouched packet of ratsac and a half-full bag of super-phosphate.  

A butcher’s knife, a fishing pole, a kerosene lantern.  

A bunch of thick maroon books, pages slowly fleeing their bindings.  

A stringless tennis racket, a box of nails, a mangy or moth-eaten fox’s tail.  

A bunch of empty plastic bags, brittle and disintegrating.

                                                              *

It was resting on its side close to the back of one of the smaller piles.  

Woven by some deft hand, the cane basket Mum used to haul fruit up from the orchard.

Peaches, pears, apricots, apples.  Whatever the coddling moth or possums hadn’t got to first.  He was pleased; it would be ideal.  

He grasped the handle and hoisted.  

It felt good in his hand and smelled faintly of lemons.  

It was dusty so he wiped the inside of it with his shirt.  Now he was dusty too.  

That shirt would be big trouble later with Mum.

Sunlight fingers felt through the cracks in the shed wall.  Motes swished in the shards, swirled, slowly fell.

                                                               *

The flattened patch of grass by the veranda was empty when he returned.  

He sat and called to the kittens.  “Ehew, Ehew…” he said.  “Ehew, Ehew?” he asked.  There was nothing.  

“Ehew, Ehew…” he said louder.  “Ehew, Ehew?” he asked louder.  

The emptiness ached a bit, so did his stomach.

He called until at last they answered, little mouths opening to show little pink tongues.

Little inquisitive faces poking out from the gloom.

                                                               4.

“Ehew, Ehew…”  Up from inside the basket, a swinging pendulum from the crook of his fingers.  Rock-a-bye-babies, his responsibility now.

Panicked blue eyes, they couldn’t get out.

He couldn’t see Mum.  That didn’t mean she wasn’t watching, but he didn’t think so.

There was no yell to “Get here right now.”

He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but she wouldn’t understand.  

She would take the kittens away.  Hurt them, kill them.  

Ferals.

This was no place.

He carried the basket like a secret up the garden path.

Grey concrete pavers, fragrant roses along the way.  

At the end a wrought iron gate, ornate but exhausted.  Old paint flaked off like dandruff.  

Its hinges complained bitterly when he shoved through with his hip and into the back paddock.  

It was ill, he should show more respect.

                                                               *

He wasn’t supposed to be in the back paddock, there were bulls.  

He couldn’t see any but Mum said so.  He’d never seen any but the fear was there all the same.  

Bulls were all big horns and snorting fury.  

A lone crow wheeled above and decided on the bony remnants of a gum.  

Brooding and dreadful it sat in judgement.  Then with a flap and dismissive “Waark…” it was gone.

A cockatoo shrieked and for a second he thought it was Mum.  

No, not her.

Just a bird.

The sun baked the side of the hill.  The air wavered in the heat.

Thump, thump, thump.

His feet determined thumps in front.  

Over short crunchy stubble, summer-scorched pasture parched and beaten.  Mainly kikuyu, some dock here and there.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The kittens weeped, their eyes pleaded.  

He made the sound to them.  “Mhew…”  It didn’t help.  

                                                               *

Reaching the base of the hill, he approached with caution a crowd of scotch thistles, most standing taller than him.  

They were menacing, alien things.  Huddled in groups, dire needles sharp and glinting.  

Vibrant purple crew cuts sprouting from faceless heads held together in nodding conference, watching, whispering.

He picked his way through, feeling an occasional quick sting to his legs.  They tried to grab the basket but he wouldn’t let them.

He was relieved when they thinned out and he spotted the creek fence, bedraggled posts struggling to stay upright under the constant duress of standing.  Two strands of barbed wire hung red-brown and speckled with bird shit, drooping like a low clothes line.

                                                               *

He stooped and lifted the top wire, careful of his fingers, careful of the tet-nus.  

Tet-nus meant big needles in his belly Mum said.  Doctor’s needles, bigger and sharper than even thistles.  

The kittens begged him to stop.

He squatted through into the rudely lush foliage edging the blasted paddock.

It was a riot of green.  

Patches of clover, milkweed and waving bracken.

Long grass probably full of snakes.  

Bunches of turnip gone wild, a hang-over from earlier days when the farm was still being properly worked.  

Sweet yellow wattle.  Ragwort, also yellow but sour.  

Clumps of slicing razor tussock, innocuous enough but with hidden bastard blades.  

He couldn’t see the water, but he could smell it.

The only way down was a steep narrow cow-track scar worn into the slope by generations of hooves.  He used his free hand to grasp tufts of whatever; anything to steady.  

He dug in his heels and slipped straight onto his arse, still holding the basket but quickly sliding out of control.  

A jarring stop at the bottom and he saw the goldies at last.  

It felt wet where he was sitting.  The kittens were frantic, spitting and trying to climb out.

“Ehew, Ehew…” he said to them.  

“We’re here now.  Calm down. Don’t cry.”

                                                               *

He stood on the edge of the squishy bank and dipped his toes just into the water.

The intrusion stirred the silt.  

Brown clouds drifted.  

He stepped in up to his ankles.  

Brown clouds billowed.  

The basket was heavier now than when he’d left the yard. The handle seemed to strain in his hand just from the sheer weight.  

Paddling water-clocks tilled the surface and left expanding Vs in their wake.

They paused occasionally to make the crazy ticking circles that gave them their name.

Weeping willows trailed golden strands from above, languid in the drowsy breeze.  Tangled limbs embraced, rubbing and knocking, their gnarled bark skins as tough as tonka.

Friendly guardians of the creek, his favourite trees by far.  Tall and stooped like Grandad, nicer even than oaks or poplars.

He would sometimes swing on them with a big handfull of their hair, out over the water, feet kicking, before returning safely to shore. Sending haphazard leaves spiralling down. Miniature yellow gondolas that settled to drift untethered, race trills and currents, or float helplessly caught on some piece of jetsam.  

The sky, blue like no other colour, reflected up at him from the water.  

It was a mirror.  In it he looked small and weak.  

It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair.  

He looked at the wriggling kittens.  They were small and weak too.  

It was easy to get lost watching the water.  

Time flowed gently down the stream.  The creek was beautiful, but not to be trusted.

There were deep holes with snags where kids could drown.  

Slippery black eels hungrily patrolling the depths, bellies white and fleshy.  

Crayfish with snipping claws and beady eyes on stalks in hollow-log lairs, scuttling under shelves of wormy willow roots or flipping their tails and shooting backwards through the murk.  

Mesmerising sounds, hypnotic ripples, boggy traps of sucking quickmud, dangerous crossings…

Once in winter he had seen a platypus playing.  

The water was brown and fast, right up the sides of the creek and spilling over.  

Mum told him falling in meant dead as dead so to stay away.  

The platypus was rolling on its back, bobbing and diving, having fun in the speeding flood.  

Dead was dead though, so he’d just watched until eventually it bobbed under and didn’t come back up.

                                                            5.

The bridge to the island was a half submerged root, like a pale wet bone reaching.

The island itself no more than a bump.

Two slow roads flecked with whitish foam flowed around.  

Cress and water-weeds fringed the shore.  Baby gudgeons bulleted, flashed, sucked at the waving strands.  

Fishbone ferns gave an impression of solidity, alongside blanched drifts of disintegrating leaves.  

Piles of wattle baubles - no longer golden but gritty soaked orange.

                                                               *

He tried not to think and just did.  

He walked the root.

He jumped at the end, planted his feet and landed with a splotch.  

He stepped forward. He hadn’t fallen in.  

Tawny water seeped shallowly into his left-behind footprints.

                                                               *

At last they had arrived.  Kitten Island.  

A place away from all the bad things in the world.  

A place he could visit any time he wanted.  

A place where he could watch them grow, his beautiful secrets.

Tenderly he tipped the kittens out of the basket.  They toddled onto the ground, lost and frightened.  They were not where they thought they belonged.

He was sure they were wrong though.  

They would be happy here, safe and privileged and private.

                                                               *

The way back was easier without the weight of the kittens in the basket.

It felt so much lighter.  

He felt so much lighter.

                                                      Epilogue.

After a sweaty night he wakes still tired.  

Rags of lucid dreams.  Something about his stuffed toys attacking him, circling with bared teeth.

Then he remembers the kittens and leaps from the bed.

                                                               *

A hurried bowl of coco-pops and a disapproving scowl from Mum.  

He smiles and tells her he’s going outside to play.  

“Alright,” she says. “But stay in the yard.”

He steps off the veranda into a scalding wind.  

No noise from the underhouse.

The insects scream about the heat.  He doesn’t care, lets them scream.  

He feels a sort of thrumming anticipation, the twitching tug of a line running to his guts and pulling at his insides.  

How happy they will be to see him.  

They’ll purr and rub his bare legs with their chins.

Little darlings.

A blowfly buzzes by.  Fat and slow, patrolling for a feed or somewhere to lay its eggs.  

It diverts to the plum tree, attracted by the soggy bombs that sticky the ground dark red with juice.  

He avoids going over there this time of year.  Hates the disgusting feel of the plums under his his bare feet.  Imagines walking across a field of bloody eyeballs.

Spring is better.  Petals cover the ground in pink snow.

He makes his way up the path and through the gate.  It’s still sick and lets him know.

                                                               *

Mum is wrong, the back paddock has no bulls.  

He isn’t afraid.  He’s yelping and rushing forward, his feet quick thumps in front.  

Thump, thump, thump.

Whacking the thistles with a picked-up stick, laughing.

Through the fence, the green curtain, sliding down the slope easily.  

His heart drums fast-marching soldiers.  The blood sings sugar in his ears.  

Nothing could be better.

The creek is a shiny silver worm, a dark mirror over which iridescent dragonflies skim and linger.  

The weeping willows groan and sway in the hot gusts, tossing leaves to the cool water below.

He looks to the island and his smile sinks like a clod thrown into a dam.  

It sinks like Mum’s smile when he’s again broken something.

“Ehew, Ehew..?” he asks.

Kitten Island is empty.  

The kittens are gone.

[vedikapriyam-blog]

Vedika’s Tattoos | an (ongoing) masterpost

Right Arm: (from shoulder to elbow/half-sleeve) A red tiger ripping its way out of a complex chain/net trap.

The Red Tiger is a reference to one of the Five Tigers of Chinese myth that balance the cosmic forces and prevent the universe from descending into chaos (White, Black, Blue, Red, & Yellow); it represents Summertime, and the Fire element. Furthermore, tigers represent power and royalty, and are said to be protectors of the dead. The tiger is meant to represent Vedika, escaping from death on more than one occasion, or more specifically the deaths of her loved ones.

(from elbow to wrist) Coming Soon

Left Arm: (from shoulder to elbow/half-sleeve) A black rabbit surrounded by thorny brush which is covered in flames.

The rabbit has many symbolic meanings, the most significant here being love, cautiousness, intuition, curiosity and deep emotionality. Also, black represents silence and unconsciousness, especially hidden desires or dreams. The black rabbit depicted here represents Vedika’s student Rikona Matsuda, who was one of three casualties from the Brightmoor Academy fire, and the only student to be killed. She was also romantically involved with Veda at the time. Her nickname, Rini, means “little bunny” in Japanese.

The rabbit also represents herself and her sisters to a degree- as triplets they were all born the same day in 1987, the Year of the Rabbit. Specifically, they are known as Fire Rabbits. Those under the sign of the Fire Rabbit are said to be especially broad-minded and intelligent, with a particular ability to adapt and form unique ideas and perspectives.

(from elbow to wrist) Coming Soon

Chest: (just below throat and clavicles) Three eyes- two that are closed below her clavicles, and one in the “third eye” position that is open, just below her throat.

(above breasts) An ornate scene of lotuses with intricate linework.

Torso: (beneath breasts) A bat hanging from a flowered branch with its wings open, ready to take flight.

The flowered branch represents Professor Jasir “Mizhir” Abbasi, and the bat represents Professor Anthony Luis De León, who were the two professors killed in the Brightmoor Academy fire. They were close colleagues and confidantes of Vedika’s.

Stomach: (between hips from belly button to pubic region) A night scene with moths fluttering between a moon on her left hip, and the flame of a candle on her right hip.

Back: (complete back piece) A six-armed, three-faced goddess in the style of Vasudhara (or Lakshmi), seated on a lotus throne. In her hands she holds- a golden vase, a conch shell, a sheaf of grain, a book of ancient wisdom, a precious gemstone, and finally, a songbird taking flight. One of her feet is folded beneath her, and the other extends down off the throne. The foot on the ground has two snakes coiled around her ankle. Of the three faces, one is watching the bird fly away, one looks serenely out at the viewer, and one is looking down at the snakes.

This piece represents herself and her sisters as three aspects of the same energy. The goddess also specifically symbolizes the eldest triplet, Anandi, whose name means “jovial goddess”. The songbird taking flight from her hand represents the youngest, Maina, whose name means “innocent songbird”. The ornate background and lotus throne could be taken to represent Vedika herself, whose name means “altar”.

Thighs: (front and rear) Coming Soon

[julierie]

Ornate tiger moths

[jayrockin]

Ornate tiger moth, spotted on the UCSC Coastal Biology Campus.

[fungusqueen]

Ornate Tiger Moth (Grammia ornata) on my porch