#tree trunk bud vase

[thebutlerspottery]

Tree Trunk Bud Vases – How I Make Them

I have described how I make bud vases that look like tree trunks. Included is a video showing how I made these bud vases.

[dozydawn]

Epergne with a silver plated base with figure of a stag leaping in front of a tree trunk; has an opalescent and yellow glass ruffled tray insert under a trumpeted bud vase.

[lives-in-midgard]

Happy Birthday my love

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Summary: Reader celebrates her birthday with Chris.

Word Count: 1.1k

A/N: Happy Birthday @secretswiftymarvelfan I hope you have a wonderful day!!! Here is something I wrote for you. At first it was meant to be a short fic but then I couldn't stop writing. I hope you and of course everyone else enjoys it.

You woke up to the sun shining through the curtains and birds singing. It’s your birthday, normally you wouldn’t be so happy about that cause you never really celebrated it. But it will be the first birthday you celebrate with your boyfriend Chris, and you are so excited about it. You couldn’t wait to see what he has planned. You laid there for a few minutes daydreaming about what he might has planned when your phone made a sound. You grabbed your phone from the bedside table and saw that Chris sent you a picture with him and Dodger and texted you.

Happy Birthday my love. Dodger and I can’t wait to spend the day with you❤️

You began to smile and text him back.

Thank you. Me too.

I’m glad. Make yourself ready we will be over in thirty minutes.

Okay, see you later. I love you.❤️

I love you too❤️

You didn’t have much time left till Chris arrived, so you took a quick shower, brushed your teeth but the difficult part was to choose an outfit. After looking for a while you decided to wear the dress Chris likes so much. While you were putting your shoes on you heard Chris knock on the door and your smile began to grow. You opened the door to see Chris standing there. In one hand he had a big bouquet with your favorite flowers, in the other hand he had dodger's leash and he had a big smile on his face.

“Happy Birthday.” Chris said.

“You got me flowers?”

“Of course I did” Chris handed you the bouquet with a smile on his face. You searched in the kitchen for a vase and put them in it and placed it at the kitchen table.

“You like them?” He asked you.

“I love them” when you said that Dodger began to jump at you, and you kneeled down to pet him.

“Of course, I love you too, you little troublemaker.” You said while petting dodger.

“And what about me?” Chris asked and you chuckled.

You stood up “I love you so much.” You walked to Chris and leaned in for a kiss.

“I love you too” He tucked a hair behind your ear and kissed you. When you heard dodger whimper you turned apart.

“I think you are right bud we should leave for our first activity.” Chris said while he looks at dodger.

He turned to you and asked “Are you ready?” you nodded and took your bag with your phone. You walked out of your home and Chris held his hand out for you to hold and in the other hand he had dodger’s leash. When you arrived at his car he opened the back door for dodger to jump in and the passenger door for you.

“You are such a gentleman.”

“Everything for my girl.” That immediately made you smile. You love when he calls you my girl. Chris turned on the music and the car was filled with lyrics to delicate by Taylor Swift. You started to sing along when Chris started driving. He began to smile. He loves hearing you sing and sometimes he even sings with you. While driving he had his hand on your thigh and you could even hear him humming to the songs. After driving for a while Chris pulled into a parking lot. You could see a lot of trees and a beautiful nature, but you didn’t know where you are because you haven’t been there before.

“Where are we babe?” You asked Chris.

“Let’s go and find out” he said and gave you a kiss on the back of your hand. He went out of the car to open the door for you and held his hand out for you.

“Do you take Dodger out of the car while I get something of the trunk?”

“Of course.” You opened the back door and dodger jumped out. You took his leash and when you turned around you saw Chris holding a blanket and a basket.

“We are doing a picnic?” Chris nodded and smiled at you. He went ahead and you followed him through the forest with dodger by your side. You didn’t know where you’re going but you would follow him everywhere. A few minutes later you ended up at a hidden lake surrounded with trees.

“Wow this looks so beautiful.” You said and looked over to Chris.

“It is but not as beautiful as you.”

You smiled and began to blush “Stop that.”

“What, I’m just saying the truth” he said and placed everything at the ground. After he placed the blanket you sat down, and dodger laid beside you. Chris put everything out of the basket and it was a lot. Sandwiches, drinks, strawberries, cupcakes. He really thought of everything. Chris even put a candle on the cupcake for you to blow out. After eating you laid there cuddled up and enjoying the view and each other’s company. You talked and took some cute pictures to remember that day forever. After a while Dodger started to get nervous and walked around.

“I think he wants to go home.” You assumed and looked over to Chris.

“I think so too but the good thing is I have something else planned at home.”

“I hope not a party.”

“Of course not, I know how much you dislike parties. This day is just for us.” Chris said and gave you a kiss. Back in the car Taylor started playing again and Chris sang along with you. Chris parked his car and you went into his house. You took of your shoes and went into the living room.

“See no people, just the two of us.”

“And Dodger.” You added.

“Yeah and Dodger.” Chris said. You sat down on the couch and cuddled up for a while. When suddenly Chris pulled away.

“What are you doing?” You asked him.

“Don’t worry I’m not going anywhere.” He said and pulled something out of the side table. He handed you the small box and you opened it and saw a heart necklace in it.

“Thank you, it’s so beautiful can you put it on me please.” You gave it to Chris and he put it on you.

“I have another present for you.”

“Another?” You asked.

“Yeah, follow me” He went towards the piano, sat down and you sat beside him. You laid your head on his shoulder and he started playing. You immediately notice the melody of the song. He was playing Lover by Taylor Swift. A tear rolled down your cheek you can’t believe this, he makes you so happy. First the beautiful picnic and now he is playing a song for you. You had the best birthday ever and you will remember it forever.

[michellebill]

Pruning and Training Techniques for Fruit Trees and Bushes: A Comprehensive Guide

 Pruning and training fruit trees and bushes is an essential practice that helps maximize their health, productivity, and overall appearance. By employing proper pruning and training techniques, you can shape your fruit trees and bushes, control their size, improve sunlight penetration, enhance airflow, and promote optimal fruit production. In this blog, we will delve into the world of pruning and training, providing you with valuable tips and techniques to ensure successful and bountiful harvests from your fruit trees and bushes.

Understand the Basics: Before diving into pruning and training, it's crucial to understand the basics. Learn about the growth habits of your specific fruit tree or bush, including whether it produces fruit on new or old wood. Familiarize yourself with the terminology, such as scaffold branches, central leader, lateral branches, and bud positions. This foundational knowledge will guide your pruning decisions.

Timing Is Key: Timing plays a vital role in pruning fruit trees and bushes. Prune dormant trees during late winter or early spring before new growth begins. Deciduous fruit trees are best pruned when they are still dormant but nearing the end of winter. For bushes that bear fruit on new wood, prune them in early spring before new growth emerges. Avoid pruning during frosty conditions to prevent damage.

Remove Dead and Diseased Wood: Start by removing any dead, damaged, or diseased wood from your fruit trees and bushes. These branches can harbor pests or diseases, compromising the overall health of the plant. Make clean cuts just above the branch collar, the swollen area where the branch connects to the main trunk or a larger branch.

Shape with Structural Pruning: Structural pruning helps establish a strong framework for your fruit tree or bush. Identify the central leader, which is the main upward-growing branch, and remove any competing branches or those crossing or rubbing against each other. Encourage an open canopy by thinning out excess branches, allowing sunlight to reach all parts of the tree or bush.

Promote Fruit Production: To encourage fruit production, it's important to strike a balance between vegetative growth and fruiting wood. Prune to increase the airflow and sunlight penetration, which reduces the risk of disease and promotes fruit ripening. Thin out crowded areas and remove small, weak branches that are unlikely to bear fruit. Additionally, selectively prune branches to invigorate new growth and stimulate fruiting.

Training Techniques for Trees: Different fruit tree species require specific training techniques. For apple and pear trees, consider using the central leader or modified central leader system, where the central leader is the main trunk and lateral branches grow at regular intervals. Peaches and nectarines benefit from an open-center or vase-shaped system, where the central leader is removed, and the tree has an open, bowl-like shape. Research the ideal training method for your specific fruit tree species.

Training Techniques for Bushes: When it comes to fruit bushes like blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries, pruning and training techniques vary. For cane berries, such as raspberries, remove spent canes after fruiting and tie new canes to supports. For blueberries, selectively thin out old, weak, or damaged wood, and encourage new shoots for future fruiting. Understand the specific requirements of your fruit bush and adapt your pruning techniques accordingly.

Ongoing Maintenance: Pruning and training is an ongoing process throughout the life of your fruit trees and bushes. Regularly assess the health, structure, and productivity of your plants. Remove any suckers or water sprouts that emerge from the base or interior of the tree. Thin out excessive growth and maintain an open canopy to ensure adequate light penetration. Continue to monitor and adjust the shape and size of your fruit trees and bushes as they grow to maintain an optimal structure.

Tools and Techniques: Invest in quality pruning tools such as sharp bypass pruners, loppers, and pruning saws. Clean and sanitize your tools before each use to prevent the spread of diseases. When making cuts, follow the natural branch collar and avoid leaving stubs or damaging the bark. Use proper pruning techniques such as heading cuts (removing a portion of a branch) and thinning cuts (removing an entire branch).

Seek Knowledge and Expertise: Pruning and training fruit trees and bushes can be complex, and it's always beneficial to seek additional knowledge and guidance. Attend workshops, classes, or gardening seminars to learn from experienced horticulturists or arborists. Consult local nurseries or extension services for specific advice tailored to your region and fruit varieties.

[delldarling]

forest vows | aspen iii

non-binary forest being x gender/body neutral reader 5100 words lemon | making out, multiple tongues, fingers, oral, size difference, sex pollen (but consent is Very Much still included) chapter one? or chapter two?

───── ❝ ❦ ❞ ─────

Winter makes one last desperate grab for spring, sinking lightning strikes like talons into rain heavy clouds. The days are still cold and gray, still better suited to thick jackets and staying off the roads, but green finally appears on bare tree limbs, sprouting and unfurling into bright shoots before you can blink. All you can think about is visiting Aspen now that the snow has stopped falling. The heavy scent of them has been lingering in the air, the faint sweetness of nectar and the crispness of greenery. You know from experience that it isn't the wisest decision though, running off into the heavily soaked trees all on your lonesome. Then again, you’re not sure you can make any claims to being wise when you’ve been dating a creature of the forest, brought into being by human feelings of love and affection. And lust.

You can’t forget about the lust.

The bloom that Aspen had dropped for you that first night fed on lust, just the same as them. Small and dainty, with a single stem, you’d brought it home and put it in water, charmed by the gesture. You hadn’t thought much of it for a few days. Hadn’t done more than give it a few glances, thoughts drifting to Aspen’s rumbling voice and slick tongues. It looked normal enough, but after a few days you’d noticed that it was still fresh, and after a week that it had grown.

Nervous, and wondering if you were going to have to tend to some kind of child-like Ent creature, you’d brought it back to Aspen a day later, but the sight of the thriving blossom had only made them laugh.

“This was meant to be a gift only. A reminder.” Aspen had bent, their branches creaking, threads of lichen getting caught on your shoulder as they prodded the petals. The bloom hadn’t moved, hadn’t grown or opened beady little eyes, but then Aspen had tilted their head to rest upon yours. A leaf sprouted along the stem when Aspen touched you, quickly followed by another bud. The motion had left you both enraptured, wide eyed and silent until it stopped growing. “As long as you desire me," Aspen had murmured, lowering their voice as their wooden mouth brushed your ear, "I believe it will remain fresh. Indeed, it may well grow larger.”

“Will it be sentient?”

“I know not,” they’d confessed, truthful. You hadn’t missed the teasing glint in the depths of their dark eyes though. “But I doubt it. Many of my blooms have dropped here through the years, but none have lingered for long.” Aspen had plucked the bloom out of your fingers and then had tucked it behind your ear. It had sprouted more leaves, had grown a small offshoot, but a day after you’d gone back home, it had… If not exactly withered, had returned to its original state. And then every time you’d been in the same room as the bloom, every time you’d even felt a hint of arousal, the flower had perked back up, had flourished like it had roots and the perfect soil. Until midwinter.

Aspen, for all intents and purposes, hibernated during the coldest months of the year. There had been little reason to try and stay awake when humans stopped coming to Makeout Point before you, but even with your presence and touch bolstering them, Aspen had begun to grow drowsy. Three days before midwinter, they’d barely been able to speak past cracking yawns, the moss and lichen on their shoulders and chest grown dry and brittle. The lack of them, of being able to look forward to seeing them, had put a damper on your spirits. And then the bloom going into stasis three days later had been a bit worse.

Winter felt like it lasted an age, but two days ago the little white flower had perked up again. You’d been walking past the small vase, lonely and lost in thought when the moving petals had caught your eye, reaching slowly towards the weak sunlight shining through the fogged windows. You’d assumed it had only been disturbed by a breeze until you’d reached for it, extending two fingers. The blossom had shot up, stem growing long until it bumped into your skin, Aspen’s heady scent filling up the room until you’d breathed deep and, overwhelmed, sneezed. You’d felt a bit silly asking the little plant if Aspen was awake, and even sillier when it hadn’t reacted in the slightest. There was little cause for doubting though, not after the flower had followed Aspen into its own rest, all you need to do now is wait.

But waiting is proving much harder than you want it to be. You miss Aspen, have been missing them and their rumbling laugh. You miss the way they can’t seem to stop stroking your cheek or your shoulder, eager to touch you, to have your attention. You’ve thought about them frequently through the winter, but that nectary taste is so heavy on the back of your tongue now, no matter what you drink, no matter how deeply you breathe in that it feels… Off. I should go, you tell yourself a few times a day, but as soon as you make it to your car, you find a handful of excuses to stop. To stay. The winter might have been long, but another week won’t hurt anything, will it?

Twice you drive halfway there, but the state of the roads always sends you back. Rain has been pouring from the sky, leaving the underbrush of all forested areas slogged with mud, and Makeout Point will be the worst of all. The normally well traveled paths are always dotted with leaf litter, and this time of year they’re likely to have puddles, floating with decaying leaves, unassumingly deep. All it would take is one misplaced step, your feet gliding through the slick mud, for chaos to reign. If Aspen is awake, they would most definitely attempt to help, but you can’t imagine a giant tree person carrying you back to your car without a few lingering consequences.

The rumors about Big Foot and wandering bears died down towards the end of November, but at best that would start them up again. At worst—well, you don’t really want to imagine the worst. Most of those thoughts have to do with mob mentality, and you can’t let yourself imagine that fallout without feeling sick.

You swallow, finding yourself back on the road to Makeout Point, heart beating a bit too fast. You don’t fight the urge to go this time. The flower had been much larger today, dotted with new buds and leaves, and all it had taken was a single inhale of the little thing to make you ache.

Even if all you do is spend a short time by Aspen’s side, you have to see them. Just to make sure they’re awake. Just to make sure they’re okay.

You’re clutching at the curved handle of your umbrella, rain splattering against the arch of water-proof material, as well as the sleeves of your zip-up hoodie, when you realize you may not have thought things through. Again. You look down at your feet, frowning at the amount of mud already caking your boots, and glance back up at the winding path disappearing through the trees. It would be smartest to head back, rather than risk a dangerous slip down a too-soft hill. Smarter to keep the visit short, rather than risk getting soaked through.

You think of the soft fan of Aspen’s fern-like eyelashes when they blink, and the way they shiver every time you press a kiss to the whorls on their cheek. They always turn to kiss you in the best way they know how, afterwards. A gentle tilt of their head, the slow, slick curl of one of their tongues around yours. You can taste the faint sweetness of them on your lips, can feel the pressure of their fingers on your back. You’ve already come this far out to see them. You can take a few minutes to give them a kiss, despite the chill and splatter of rain, can’t you?

The trail becomes worse as you go on, the rain having battered down the dirt in places where the branches overhead are thin. You have to hug the trunk of a twisted oak as you slip by one of the deeper puddles, fingers scrabbling at the craggy bark when a root proves too slippery. You don’t fall, but it’s a near thing, and your heart doesn’t thank you for the scare. Moving slower becomes necessary the longer you walk, searching out patches of thick moss to dry and wipe your boots on. Even on drier patches of dirt you’re still sliding with mud and leaves sticking to your boots. When you finally crest the small hill that leads to Makeout Point, you assume your impatience will wane, that this arduous ache will ease now that you know Aspen is close. Instead, it grows tenfold.

It’s cold outside, the rain is freezing, but as soon as you see the riot of fauna and moss crawling down the path, you feel terribly hot. It’s like you’ve been running a marathon in your winter clothes, like the umbrella is keeping the relief of the cold rain from your face.

You toss it aside, striding up the path, barely paying attention to the unsteadiness of your steps. You can still feel the mud sliding under your feet, you recognize the sensation of rocks and bits of dead branches catching in your boots, but none of that matters now that you’re here.

Makeout Point no longer looks like a mildly haunted hangout for people looking to bring a bit of a thrill back into their lives. The rough campground atmosphere has vanished in the wake of springtime. The sky overhead is still grey, still covered over with clouds, but they’re thinning, bathing the spot in the promise of sunshine soon to come. The fire pit, made of forest found stones or carefully cultivated bricks, is overgrown with ferns and green and purple leaved clover. Dainty white flowers are brilliant in the tide of greenery, drawing the eye like a meandering path of scattered stars. As gorgeous and awe-inspiring as Makeout Point currently looks, the calm feeling that you came here for, prior to Aspen finally deciding to speak to you, is utterly absent.

The humidity has risen, and sweat dots the back of your neck while you slowly creep closer, staring up at the ocean of thick leaves and blooms and buds swaying with the breeze. It’s always been shadowed, has always sported full branches, but this is almost overkill. The branches are so heavy with buds and new growth that they’re bowing, and the gentle weight of a single bird looks like it could make them snap. You breathe in deep, fumbling with your hoodie, eager to shrug out of it, when you finally turn and spot Aspen, standing straight and tall in their normal place.

They’re waking, the obsidian gleam of their eyes mildly unfocused as they blink. The horn-like branches on their head are draped so thoroughly with vines and thick leaves, and the blooms that match the one you have back home, that all you can bring yourself to do is stare. You’d thought that Aspen looked impossible the first time you’d seen them, a being so strange but artfully put together that surely they could be nothing but animatronic, something you would normally only ever see through a movie screen. A creature pulled straight out of someone's imagination.

“Lovely,” they say, and their name for you reaches right down into your depths. Your bones, you realize, have felt like kindling placed too close to the fire, and Aspen’s voice is the bright burst of heat that finally makes everything pop. They take a step away from their spot, caught midway between two towering redwoods, and half the branches overhead seem to come with them. They have to pull free of a net of vines, so thickly overgrown that when the vines and loose branches fall, and they do, scattering like a strong storm has passed through, you have to skip back a few steps to avoid being caught in the deluge. You suck in a breath, almost choking on the sweet taste of them as your eyes catch on their shoulders. The tiny mushrooms that had dotted them all through autumn have grown, tall and thick, and faintly yellow or white, and then there are shelves of them trailing down Aspen’s biceps, edges gone periwinkle blue.

They cross the little clearing in a handful of steps, swooping you up into their arms and cradling you against their chest. The thunder of their movement startles near-by birds into screeching and taking flight, branches snapping as they take off, and then Aspen turns in place. They’re a walking, talking tilt-a-whirl that leaves you breathless until you rap your knuckles against the least green covered spot you can find, closing your eyes to try and keep them from stinging.

“St-stop spinning!” You gasp and the world jolts to a halt, leaving you blinking and panting. Aspen is ripe with the scent of growing things, and it feels like you’ve been rolling through a field absolutely chock full of sweet smelling flowers and the tang of pine. If you thought Aspen made you weak kneed before, with their scent and taste and rumbling voice, it’s nothing as to now. You’re overheated and happy to see them, and blood is rushing to all the right places—but your wanting is so terribly strong that it still leaves you feeling off kilter.

“I have to ask,” you get out, doing your best to breathe through your mouth. It doesn’t help much, you can still taste everything on the back of your tongue, can see their wooden jaw lowering, writhing tongues just barely visible. “In Spring, your… You said once, that I made you feel like Spring when—”

“Ahh,” Aspen murmurs, and then very, very gently, lowers you back to your feet. They keep hold of your shoulder until you’re standing straight, and only then do they take a few careful steps away.

The space is a little maddening, even though you’d been hoping for it so you could get your head in order. You have to swallow to keep from following after them, to tamp down the urge to move your feet and instead make your mouth speak. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, knowing where you come from,” you say with a wry laugh, clutching tightly at your sweater sleeves. “...Does, has your presence always been a kind of aphrodisiac in spring-time? Or is that just with me?”

Aspen flutters those little fern eyelashes, slowly crouching, elbows resting on their knees. Considering. “Perhaps it has been. I don’t intentionally give back what was given to me, but it’s hardly outside the realm of possibility.”

And it might well explain why, even after it became a little less cool to wander through the forest rather than head to the movies, couples still continued to flock here. You’d noticed that Aspen had fed from your pleasure, had bloomed every time you kissed or touched, so it isn’t entirely a surprise to know that they feed upon others. Granted, in a much less hands on kind of way.

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” Aspen asks, reaching for you, and then thinking better of it. Their long, branch-like fingers curl, hesitating before dropping back to their side. “While I am wonderfully glad to see your face, Lovely, if you want to leave—”

You wave away their words, closing your eyes to see if that will help with anything. The ache of yearning for them is still very much present, but you’ve yearned for their touch since the night you first had it. It’s stronger now, but you were still able to reason through it enough to ask. You were still able to stop yourself and think before stripping off your clothes. You forget to breathe through your mouth though, and that sweet scent makes you shudder, makes your mouth grow terribly dry and then fill with saliva to overcompensate. If you stay, or if you wait and come back when the height of spring has passed, what will change? You’ll still want Aspen. Still crave their company and the refuge that their home has become. You’ll still want their touch. You’re just… A little more horny than normal right now, and a little more willing to speak about it.

“Not leaving,” you finally say, blinking your eyes open when one of their fingers presses against your shoulder. You’re swaying forward, most of your weight balanced against their precarious hold. “I want- I want to stay, but I have to tell you: All I can think about is getting out of my clothes.” Whether the statement might have shamed you normally or not doesn’t seem to matter. The words are so overwhelmingly true that a weight vanishes from your shoulders, decision made. You do your best to slow your movements though, trying to straighten your stance as you lift both hands to grab hold of their arm. Your fingertips brush over the spongy edge of a mushroom on their forearm, and another mushroom promptly pops into existence right next to your hand.

“Oh, good,” Aspen says, reaching out for you with both hands now. You let them lead you close, let them lift your feet onto the bend of their knee, leaving you within range of their mouth. “I dreamed of you while I slept,” they confide in you, and the deep rumble of their words makes your knees want to buckle.

Even with the heavy humidity pressing in on you from all sides, making your back faintly damp with sweat and pushing your hands to quest for zippers and buttons, your brain is still working. A flicker of half recalled knowledge about dreams clamors for attention. If they were dreaming of you, if Aspen is more akin to humans that either of you think, their dreams were recent, had in the moments or days just before waking. Maybe that was why the bloom grew, why it started budding, why whenever you breathed in the faint scent of nectar, you started to ache for the lack of them. “And what did I do in these dreams?”

For a single second, Aspen looks abashed, ducking their head close enough for you to press a kiss upon. Their eyes fall closed when you brush your lips on their face. Your hoodie comes off, tossed over your shoulder to land somewhere upon the carpet of multicolored clovers. “Shall I tell you? Or would you rather I show you?”

There it is. Their mouth opens, a single fingertip finding your chin. It’s softer than normal and cool compared to the normally temperate feeling of their wooden body, and you have a split second to glance down and see that those blue edged mushrooms are growing along the length of their finger. Then Aspen is tilting your head back to kiss you. Like the first kiss you’d shared, they start out slow. A single, sticky-sweet tendril traces your lips until you part them and then slips into your mouth to curl around your tongue. You suck on it, hands pausing in their overeager quest to strip off your clothes. You want to brace yourself against Aspen’s face, to press your hands to their chin as you roll your tongue, arousal flooding you so fiercely that you can barely breathe. You forget about your clothes entirely when you tilt your head back a little more, gasping as another one of those thin green tongues flicks out to touch your lower lip. Aspen’s hand, gentle in the middle of your back until now, curls around your torso, fingertips pressing a little uncomfortably into your ribs. They groan, in that lovely, low tone of theirs, the noise filling you up with a gentle, steady vibration until you wonder if you could get off on that alone.

You pull back, just trying to get a hint of space to breathe, but Aspen chases after you, more green tendrils flicking against your lips and trying to slip into your mouth until you gasp out for them to slow. You tip your head to rest against theirs, breathing hard and smiling too wide, and then get back to the business of shedding your clothing. Aspen’s grip on you trembles, but they allow you the space to shuck what feels like yards of material, fingers tensing like they half want to help. They tried, just the once, in the very middle of November, thumb and forefinger pinching at the end of your sleeve. They’d been careful, truly, but Aspen had still moved a little too fast, a little too sure. They’d split the seams of one of your jackets at the arm and then nearly dropped you in fright. For both your sakes, it’s better that you handle most of your own clothing. Now they just stick to watching. You can catch the vague shape of yourself in the dark mirror of their eyes, and can feel the soft wind of their breath on your quickly bared skin.

“Is all of this you?” You ask, looking away when your face becomes a little too clear in their large eyes. Makeout Point is rife with plants now, and looks more like humans haven’t been in the area for decades as opposed to a single winter. A cool drop of water splashes onto your shoulder from the crown of greenery still circling their horn-like branches. You jump, and Aspen reaches out to swipe the scattered droplets away with their finger while you unlace your boots and push your clothes down your hips. “The new growth. The flowers.”

Aspen hums, turning their finger until the new blue tinged mushrooms drag over your skin, leaving behind a trail that tingles, even after they’ve stopped. “I suspect so. I’ve never been quite so ardent in my dreams of spring as I was this year. But then I’ve never gone to my dreaming knowing I may well wake to your Lovely face.” The end of their finger comes to a stop in the hollow of your throat, eyes dropping to watch you swallow, to watch your pulse speed faster. You shake one of your legs, letting your boot drop to the ground and clothes slide down your skin. You switch, uncaring about the muddy boot print you’re putting your foot back down on. The other boot and the rest of your clothes drop to the ground. The chill in the air is all but gone, or what senses you have that would notice it have been overwhelmed by lust alone. The press of your thighs, the warmth of your own skin, is enough to make you want to slide your hand down yourself. As impatient as you are though, you want Aspen’s touch more. You tilt back your head again, reaching out to rest your hands against their jaw—and pause.

“After this, the growing is going to get a little out of hand, isn’t it? Will I still be able to make it through when it comes time to leave?”

It takes a fair amount of effort for Aspen to drag their eyes away from you, but they make a quick glance around Makeout Point, noting the shiver in the still moving plants. “I won’t let the forest cage you,” Aspen promises and then huffs when you grab hold of one of the dangling vines twisted about the branches on their head. They let you tug, let you pull their attention back to you, and their eyelids lower as you tilt back your head for another kiss. When Aspen’s vine-like tongues curl around your tongue this time, there’s more than just the one. They angle their head to the side, pale green shoots tracing your lips before pushing into your mouth with the others. Aspen doesn’t choke you, leaves plenty of room to breathe, but it’s still a little overwhelming, have that many vines snaking into your mouth. They twist and writhe against your tongue, drag over the edges of your teeth like they enjoy the sensation, and desperate ache for them grows stronger, until it feels like you shouldn’t need to breathe. Aspen picks you up off their knee, a deep rumble echoing through their chest when you keep hold of them.

They’re slower even than they were the first time, without the cushion of your clothes to keep your skin from pressing too hard on some of their fingers. They cradle your back and neck and head with one hand, while the other curls around your hips and thighs as they stand up straight. The rush of movement is strange when you’re still holding onto their face, still sucking on their tongues, eyes closed, but you don’t care about it right now. You trust them, and nerves have been pushed far to the wayside when you want them so badly that every inch of you feels like it’s on fire.

There’s a gentle pressure as they urge you to open your legs, but you barely need the prompting. You part your thighs willingly, gasping when they finally pull their mouth away from yours, tongues flickering over the hollow of your throat and along your collarbone. You expect them to lift you higher, to angle you towards their mouth as their tongues are still sliding down your chest. Instead Aspen’s thumb, ridged with those blue edged mushrooms, drags over the top of your thigh. That tingling feeling spreads over your skin and then your legs start to shake as the mushrooms press between your legs, soft and growing warm from your own body heat. The tingling sensation turns sharp as they stroke their thumb gently over you, and you can’t help but whimper when they drag the gills of the mushroom down to your ass and then back up. You can’t see what it looks like with their head in the way, Aspen’s fern eyelashes closed as their tongues curl and pluck at one of your nipples, but it's starting to feel like the mushrooms must be secreting something slick. The next drag of their thumb, the tip of it pressing into you, makes you arch and moan. You reach back to grasp at the finger bracing your head, legs shaking as you get closer to orgasm and then Aspen pauses, one of their tongues fluttering over the edge of their wooden mouth.

“Did you dream of me, Lovely?” They ask, but not entirely like they expect you to answer. “Was that why you rushed to see me when spring dawned?”

“Yes,” you gasp, immediately. That was partially why you came, but every inch of you is hot, and you’re still right on the precipice of coming. It’s too hard to cobble together a coherent sentence.

Aspen’s thumb pushes and turns and then your eyes are rolling into the back of your head as you come, breath leaving your lungs in a harsh, almost painful gasp. Their mouth finds you as you do, slick, sticky vines pushing into you alongside their mushroom ridged thumb. They drink down your pleasure, moaning when your thighs tremble against their face. They don’t seem to notice when you dig your fingernails into the smooth wood of their skin, they just keep moving, the pressure of their tongues and thumb leaving you full and clenching as you finally whimper. “Fuck, fuck, fu- Aspen! Aspen, I’m-” You buck against their face, noise dying on your parted lips as that only presses them deeper. You kick out your leg, bare toes brushing over the moss on their shoulder, but that only makes Aspen adjust their hold.

Maybe it’s because it’s spring time, or because yearning for you has been building up in them as steadily as it had for you during the winter, but even after you stop shaking, even after your legs go limp, Aspen isn’t quite done. Their thumb pulling out of you makes your back bow again, and then they turn you over. You’re on your stomach in their giant hands, Aspen’s tongues filling you up over and over again before you breathlessly ask for them to cease. Your legs feel like jelly, and that strange, hot ache has finally ebbed.

When you blink, glancing around the circle of trees, it looks like the forest has erased all signs of humanity. Vines are thick and tangled over every inch of the area, laced between trees. Ferns peek out from the ground, and those pale, white blossoms are scattered around the area like wedding petals. Aspen’s next lick is gentle, cleaning rather than fucking, and you shudder in their hold.

“I don’t know if I want to leave,” you mumble, tired and sated. “I missed you something awful.”

There’s a creaking noise and then you clutch at their fingers as they sit, flowers and leaves puffing up into the air and raining back down. Aspen carefully turns you to sit on their thigh, arranging you against their midsection until you’re lounging and grinning for all their effort. “...shall I come with you?” They ask, and when you glance up at them their head is tilted to the side. “While I know you will return now, it’s always difficult to part.” Aspen hesitates and then places a fingertip to your lips, eyes filling with pleasure when you kiss it tiredly.

You’ve watched them turn back into nothing more than a tree in the presence of others, and… And a bigger yard would be nice. A backyard, you amend, thinking of neighbors catching sight of a moving tree, or simply noting the fact that a tree has switched places somehow overnight. “Not yet,” you say, trying and failing to hold back your grin. “I think the park rangers and the rest of the town might notice if you were following my car back to my house. But… But soon. I would like that.”

Aspen hums again, that deep rumbling noise making you warm a fraction. “Simply tell me when, Lovely, and I will always follow,” Aspen vows, and plucks your hoodie out of the nest of vines. They spread it over you like a blanket and a spiral of flowers blooms along their forearm.

...Maybe you should just find a house out in the middle of the forest.

───── ❝ ❦ ❞ ─────

[verberation]

There’s something so good about getting your hands dirty; like, taking a plant from the pot and teasing all the soft, brittle roots outwards and then gently, thumbs and hands cradling the dirt ball of a living thing, easing it into the cool damp earth of its new home and knowing that even if you left tomorrow, it would still be there like this mark of your presence on the world, but until then you can tend it and watch it grow. The house I live in used to be a rental to two university students who planted two persimmon trees in pots in the back yard, and those trees rooted theirselves beyond the pots and into the ground and now those trees would have trunks thicker than my torso and branches that hang over the roof. And those students left this place years ago, but what they did remains. Those persimmon trees live and grow and drop their leaves in autumn and bud flowers in spring and there’s something deeply satisfying to know that some things continue on even after we’re gone. My grandma passed away four months ago, but the roses she planted in her front yard years ago are still there, and just this week my mother went by and took some cuttings of the roses and their big sunset-coloured flowers. And it’s like she’s still with us. The roses are sitting in a vase on the kitchen table and it’s like she’s still here, sitting at the table; sitting at the table with her hands around the secateurs and waiting for me to ask how her peaches are growing.

[inazumafocus]

A sanctuary of eternal love

AFUHIRU MONTH

DAY THREE: In the language of flowers RATING: Green TAGS: major character death (i’m sorry), fae!afuro, human!hiruma, secret crush AO3 LINK: HERE

Once upon a time, just outside the city's walls, was a forest. Local people used to tell stories about the creatures living inside, dangerous and alluring, deadly and beautiful. Creatures no one could resist. Then there was a man in the local market, smiling at everyone who passed by his shop and offering free sample of his sweets. You were not to eat them if you wanted to live, or so they whispered to young children in the streets. The man was a fae, one of the creature of the forest, who gained human form in order to steal kids away and eat them for dinner, but no one could chase him away. Every once in a while somebody tried, but the man just smiled and all the will of that person would vanish, making them feel weak and accept the fae's sweets. Those were never seen again.

"Beware of the enchanted forest, younglings, for there is no coming back once a fae lays its eyes on you"

That was what every teacher, adult or grown up would say again and again to scare kids away from the city's walls. And it was what Hiruma Yoichi had grown up to as well. Little did everyone know, that the blue eyed child had a different destiny wrote in the stars.

He must've been around the age of ten when he first ventured in the market on his own, the voice of the orphanage caregiver now lost somewhere far behind him. It was already closing hour, the sun was setting, painting everything with its warm orange light before disappearing completely behind the walls and all the shops were now closed, letting him run around freely with no adult to stop him by his slender arm. He loved it. Everything was quiet and mysterious, casting shadows on the walls that looked like strange creatures to his curious eyes. He chased down a beautiful red cat down some alleys, lifting up puffs of dust with his consumed leather shoes and finding himself on the main street. The cat was gone, the road deserted. He was about to turn around and find the screaming caregiver, since the light was almost out, when a rich chocolate smell tickled his nostrils. Hiruma followed the smell, mouth already watering and tummy aching in anticipation and when he looked up there was an abandoned cake on a bare table on the side of the road. There was no one in sight. Strange. A part of brain tried to remind him that it was unadvised to eat things we don't know the origin of, it was like taking candy from a stranger. Also, who was the idiot who left freshly baked cakes around? ... But no one ever let him had chocolate back at the orphanage, and surely just a quick bite wouldn't hurt him, right? His tummy agreed. But by the time he got his first small bite, the taste of it made his eyes shine and hunger grew stronger, he couldn't help but eat it all. He looked around, scared someone might have seen him eating a whole cake by himself in a matter of seconds and as he brushed some crumbles away from his cheeks, he could've sworn there was a shadow smiling just outside his field of view. Very strange. That night his stomatch did not ache, so he simply forgot about the suspiscious looking cake and began to live his life as if faint voices didn't suddenly bagan to speak wherever he went. It was probably just his imagination.

At the age of fourteen the townspeople sent him away. Bringer of misfortune, that's how they had called him for the past four years, because everywhere he went, soemthing bad happened. May it be a vase shattering right after he touched it, kids falling and breaking their legs if they bumped into him or just about anything even remotely bad, everythig had been tied down to him. They had nothing against him to burn him down for witchcraft, but when he tried desperately to tell them it was the small voice's fault and not his, everyone knew there was the faeries curse at work. He was marked and could no longer stay there. So they abandoned him, closing the door shut to never open it again. There was nothing but forest in front of him and not even a path to follow and maybe reach another city. He had no other choice but to venture inside, eyes shifting and adjusting to the dark as the sun was setting low and the trees let no light filter between their ancient branches. The voices were still there, higher, closer than ever before and for the first time he was scared. They were laughing, snickering when he flinched for a broken twig or a rustling of leaves. As time went by, he grew scared and lonlier, walking in the dark with no idea of where he was going as he kept moving forward, testing the ground for solid footing. He surely didn't want to fall into a bottomless pit and he really hoped there weren't snakes out there... By the time his legs had started to feel numb his heart had sank into despair, he was ready to fall to his knees and ask the faeries to just eat him up quickly, for he was tired of the voices all around him and in the back of his head speaking without him being able to understand. It was in that moment, when he had leaned on a trunk, that the melody started. Soothing, Alluring, It made his heart flutter. He had to follow it. The voices sounded angry, they tried to talk louder but Hiruma's ears were only for that gentle chant. He didn't even know how lucky he was, for the trunk were he intended to rest upon was home to a poisonus spider... Only when dawn came, the voice stopped and he woke up from the enchantment that gave him enough strength to walk all night long. Suddenly, he dropped to his knees, weak and tired, body shaking with fatigue and shadows of fears clutched on his heart. With heavy eyelids he looked around, wondering where the sweet voice went and why did it left him alone again. There were flowers all over him, he could barely see their shapes but they looked like small cushions and he so desperately needed a bed.

"Sleep, lost child, and have plenty of rest. For no harm will reach you here"

And so he did, heartened by that voice speaking to him in a tender whisper against his ear. He fell face on the ground with a faint smile, hidden by the white field of carrot's flowers.

A melody woke him up and for a second he thought he was still sleeping. Right there, standing on top of his nose, was a very tiny person, but instead of jumping up with fear and disbelief, his heart felt safer than ever. He blinked twice, making sure he wasn't actually hallucinating because of some poison hidden in the flower buds.

"You finally decided to woke up, child, I was starting to worry"

Definitely not an hallucination. Hiruma cleared his throat, trying to look at the tiny creature without hurting his eyes too much in the process.

"Uhm, not to be rude but, are you a fae?"

The thing crooked its head, letting tiny long blonde hair fall over as he looked at him with a small smile.

"Do I look like a troll?"

"NO! No that was... that was not what I meant but- then why did you... help me" he paused, looking around at the flower field from below "it was you, wasn't it?"

A small chuckle like tiny cheerful bells filled the fresh morning air and he blushed as the fae rose up with its thin wings

"Not all fae are ill willed, I'm a Queen Anne's Lace solitary fae, or a carrot one for short, and wherever there's a carrot flower there's a sanctuary for the needy. You looked like you needed a helping hand, was I wrong?"

It was now far too close to his face and Hiruma could clearly see its shiny red eyes and its curved up lips. He smiled as well, a bit awkwardly as he sat up legs crossed, cleaning himself from the dirt.

"I was, well, I still am I think? I have nowhere to go and... I have been hearing voices for the past four years, but now they only grow stronger in the forest"

The fae smile wavered as it kept flying in front of him

"You ate some of our food outside our kingdom and the others got interested in you, now you can hear them more as you stepped into it like they wanted you to-"

Silence fell upon them as Hiruma remembered of that strange chocolate cake. He felt like an idiot. So that was it? He was going to be taunt by faeries wherever he went? He would've been marked as a bringer of misfortune for the rest of his life?

"You could stay here, if you wanted"

He looked up, eyes wide with disbelief. No words left his slighly parted lips. What?

"I'm offering you a safe place to live, you big doofus. I can bring you the human food you need and you can tell me stories about the outside world. Deal?"

There was no hesitation in Hiruma's eyes, for some strnge reason he firmely believed whatthe fae was saying was true and the feeling of safety he had before falling asleep still lingered in his heart, reassuring it with a tender caress. He held his index finger, a bright smile on his lips

"Deal!"

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

Two year had passed and Hiruma never once had missed his old home among other humans. Everything was mesmerising in the enchanted forest and with the small fae as his guide and protector, he really had nothing to fear. The magic creature had taught him everthing about the flowers, the medical herbs and how to treat wounds. He had learnt more about the world when casted aside than when he was actually living in it and the stories, oh the stories were his favourite part of it all. Trolls, giants, witches, shapeshifter, they were all real not only a cautionary tale to set children straight! The only thing it was never revealed to him was the fae's name, but he didn't pry. It was a bit disappointing to not be able to call it by that though...

One day as he sat in the sanctuary field tending a hurt rabbit, the fae approached him looking gloom. His heart flinched at that, it was something new and he definitely didn't like it. It stopped its sad flying only to sit on his shoulder like it was now used to do. Hiruma was uncomfortable for the first time in two ears, and he had seen the fae gut a squirrel for him, just saying.

"What's wrong pixie?"

It didn't react to the dumb nickname telling him to stop calling it by that as would usually happen. There must've been something really big bothering it and in his heart he began to feel restless to know, so that he could put an end to whatever it was and get it to smile again. The fae sighed, kicking air with its tiny feet while looking at the ground to hide his pained expression.

"You have to go"

"Wha-"

"You can't keep living here in this small field, you're a human, you need to live a human life"

Hiruma frowned. Where did that came from? Him? A human life? He didn't even want one at that point!

"Humans casted me aside as if I was a plague, you were the one who saved and took me in, why should I go back to that?!"

He saw it biting its lip, struggling with words as a fae never did.

"Well, you could go to another city, start a new life, get an occupation. Now you know how to use herbs to cure and treat wounds-"

"They'd think I'm a witch and you know it. What's up with all this urge for me to leave? Did I do anything to make you hate me?"

The tiny creature flinched and looked up with teary red eyes and Hiruma's heart cracked a bit.

"I do not hate you, you stupid kid, but how selfish would I be to keep you here forever with me?"

He was taken aback

"Selfish? What exactly would make you selfish if I stay here with you forever?"

The fae sighed again, looking up at the clear blue sky

"You're hundreds years too young to understand it, kid"

Something moved inside him, making him gently take it in his hands to better fix his burning blue gaze on its wet cheeks.

"Then let's live hundreds of years together so I'll understand and be able to never make you cry again!"

He tought he did good, that his words were right, but he only managed to make it cry even harder while it shook its head with a small smile. It spread its arms, beckoning him to hug his face like he rarely ever did. Hiruma's heart fluttered as the fae hid against his cheekbone.

"Ok then"

A soft whisper against his ear that made his heart ease like that night of two years ago. He could stay, he wasn't going to be alone ever again.

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

He didn't live hundreds years to finally understand what had bothered so much his little fae. A disease no magical herbs nor heartfelt tears could heal made him lay on that field for three days and three night, unable to move anything if not his eyes. But before he withered away, the creature finally stopped crying and got closer to his ear to reveal him its last secret. Its name was Terumi and by knowing a fae's name one had complete power over it, so if he wanted, Hiruma could make it say what had bothered it for so many years. Yet the human smiled and closed his eyes, slowly parting his dry lips.

"I don't need to, if I can ask you anything now that I know your name, I ask you to find me again in another life, Terumi. Find me and tell me your secret yourself, this is my final wish and request for you."

Once upon a time just outside the city's walls, was a forest. Now there are buildings as high as trees and the townspeople know nothing about faeries and magic. But there's a park and in that park a larg white spot. A field of Queen Anne's Lace, a sanctuary for the weary. And in the middle of the field, a small spot of red Globe Amaranth. It is said that a heartbroken maiden died there, for those red flowers were the symbol of an "unfading eternal love" and anyone who passed by could still hear a sorrowful melody whispering at their hearts. No one could know that was the mourning voice of a fae waiting patiently to fade from existence. Waiting for its time to come and for the breeze to bring it to where its forbidden love now was.

After all, Terumi had something really important to say to him...

[jeremystrele]

A Dreamy, Nostalgic Family Home in Melbourne’s Suburbs

A Dreamy, Nostalgic Family Home in Melbourne’s Suburbs

Homes

by Lucy Feagins, Editor

Handmade Portuguese tiles from Urbanedge. Kitchen cabinets by deVOL Kitchens UK. Stone benchtops from CDK Stone. Antique workbench kitchen island found at auction. Antique bread proofing bowl from Bells Vintage. Antique stone mortar and pestle. Antique mezza luna from Found Hepburn. Bowl holding garlic from our garden by Andrei Davidoff. Ceramic platter holding quinces by Seala Lokollo. Vintage swinging door found at a salvage yard. Spray painting artwork by Charles Blackman framed by Icon Framers. Ilve freestanding oven/stove. Steelframe casement windows with original brass hardware found at a salvage yard. Tapware in nickel by Perrin and Rowe. Bamboo blinds from Cobra Cane. Fiberglass hand sculpture found at auction. Copper kettle from Mr Kitly. Rocket Giotto Cronometro coffee machine. Artwork ‘Here comes your man’ by Kirsty Budge. Vintage milk jug. Light mill from Garden Objects. Vintage glass cabinet to the right Angelucci. Antique bobbin corner chair found on Gumtree. Antique farmhouse dining table found at auction and restored by Anastasia. Antique original Thonet bentwood chairs from eBay. Pendant light by Anna Charlesworth. Vintage Italian bar cart. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Josh, Reuben, Stella, Anastasia and dog Henri standing on the front porch. The family built a new path from bluestone steppers salvaged from Port Melbourne docks, which is now dotted with self-seeded seaside daisies. Vintage mid-century planter bought at auction. ‘I’m looking forward to watching the wisteria blossom this coming spring, I have been carefully training it up the front columns over the front porch this past year now,’ says Anastasia. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The view to the quince tree through steelframe casement windows with original brass hardware found at a salvage yard. Curtains from Pottery Barn. Candlesticks by Astier de Villatte. Black vase holding dried scabiosa stellata seed heads by Asobimasu Clay. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The kitchen looks out to the rear garden over the vegetable and herb garden. Vintage jug. Kitchen cabinets by deVOL Kitchens UK. Artwork ‘Here comes your man’ by Kirsty Budge. Vintage milk jug. Light mill from Garden Objects. Antique workbench kitchen island found at auction. Tapware in nickel by Perrin and Rowe. Bamboo blinds from Cobra Cane. Stone benchtops from CDK Stone. Ceramic platter holding quinces from our tree by Seala Lokollo. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Antique workbench kitchen island found at auction. Ilve freestanding oven/stove. Kitchen cabinets by deVOL Kitchens UK. Ceramic platter holding quinces from our tree by Seala Lokollo. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Handmade Portuguese tiles from Urbanedge. Kitchen cabinets by deVOL Kitchens UK. Stone benchtops from CDK Stone. Antique workbench kitchen island found at auction. Antique bread proofing bowl from Bells Vintage. Antique stone mortar and pestle. Antique mezza luna from Found Hepburn. Bowl holding garlic from our garden by Andrei Davidoff. Ceramic platter holding quinces from our tree by Seala Lokollo. Vintage swinging door found at a salvage yard. Spray painting artwork by Charles Blackman framed by Icon Framers. Ilve freestanding oven and stove. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Tahlia sofa by Molmic sofa. Hale Mercantile stripe bolster cushion. Steel frame French doors from The Steel Design. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

‘Daphine’ floor lamp by Lumina from Enlightened Living (formerly ECC). Curtains from Pottery Barn. Antique armchairs purchased at auction, reupholstered in fabric from ‘Westbury’ fabric by Keane Living. Stripe cushions made from antique linen from Bells Vintage.  Antique Tudor coffee table purchased from Gumtree. Coffee table books on Anastasia’s favourite artists such as Kiki Smith, Agnes Martin, Henri Matisse. Ottomans designed by Anastasia. Bud vase holding dried poppy seed heads by Cecile Daladier. Hand dipped beeswax duplero candle made in Italy and handmade terracotta Italian candle holder, both from Elias Mercantile. Preserved dandelion globe from Elias Mercantile. Anastasia’s collection of rare and out of print books about and by Edna Walling, her garden hero and inspiration! Kelly Wearstler marble sculpture.  Antique French milking stool purchased at auction. Antique Jacobean barley twist side table, antique bobbin corner chair and vintage lamp purchased from Gumtree. Steel frame windows with original brass hardware found at a salvage yard. Tahlia sofa by Molmic sofa. Hale Mercantile stripe bolster cushion. Steel frame French doors from The Steel Design. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Sisal square rug from the Natural Floors company. Antique Tudor coffee table purchased on Etsy. Hand-dipped beeswax duplero candle made in Italy and handmade terracotta Italian candle holder, both from Elias Mercantile. Preserved dandelion globe from Elias Mercantile. Anastasia’s collection of rare and out of print books about and by Edna Walling, her garden hero and inspiration! A small bronze vase found on Anastasia’s travels in India. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Curtains from Pottery Barn. Antique armchairs purchased at auction, reupholstered in fabric from ‘Westbury’ fabric by Keane Living. Stripe cushions made from antique linen from Bells Vintage.  Antique Tudor coffee table purchased from Gumtree. Coffee table books on Anastasia’s favourite artists such as Kiki Smith, Agnes Martin, Henri Matisse. Ottomans designed by Anastasia. Bud vase holding dried poppy seed heads by Cecile Daladier. Hand dipped beeswax duplero candle made in Italy and handmade terracotta Italian candle holder, both from Elias Mercantile. Preserved dandelion globe from Elias Mercantile. Anastasia’s collection of rare and out of print books about and by Edna Walling, her garden hero and inspiration! Kelly Wearstler marble sculpture. Antique French milking stool purchased at auction. Antique Jacobean barley twist side table, antique bobbin corner chair and vintage lamp purchased from Gumtree. Steel frame windows with original brass hardware found at a salvage yard. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Antique trunk from Etsy to hold fireside tools and kindling. Curtains from Pottery Barn. Antique armchairs purchased at auction, reupholstered in fabric from ‘Westbury’ fabric by Keane Living. Stripe cushions made from antique linen from Bells Vintage.  Antique Tudor coffee table purchased from Gumtree. Coffee table books on Anastasia’s favourite artists such as Kiki Smith, Agnes Martin, Henri Matisse. Ottomans designed by Anastasia. Bud vase holding dried poppy seed heads by Cecile Daladier. Hand dipped beeswax duplero candle made in Italy and handmade terracotta Italian candle holder, both from Elias Mercantile. Preserved dandelion globe from Elias Mercantile. Anastasia’s collection of rare and out of print books about and by Edna Walling, her garden hero and inspiration! A small bronze vase found on Anastasia’s travels to India. Antique French milking stool purchased at auction. Antique Jacobean barley twist side table, antique bobbin corner chair and vintage lamp purchased from Gumtree. Japanese ceramic bud vase. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

‘We shifted a wall in the hallway to open the space up and increase the size to match the size of the front entrance which was wide,’ says Anastasia. ‘The hallway used to be 800mm wide, it is now almost 2m wide, it feels much more spacious now and the children love to run laps.’ Original hardwood floors. Antique Aubusson Verdure 17th-century tapestry from Brownrigg UK. Antique farmhouse dining table found at auction and restored by Anastasia. Antique original Thonet bentwood chairs, the first ever piece of furniture Anastasia purchased as a 16 year old from eBay. Pendant light by Anna Charlesworth. Vintage Italian bar cart. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Oak wall system by Kai Kristiansen from Nord Modern. Vintage glass bottles and ceramic cup. Face plate by Oscar Piccolo. Wax artwork by Merylin Lloyd. Bud bowl from Isla & Olive. Antique brass candlesticks. A paper nautalis shell found in a rockpool along the Great Ocean Road. Bowl holding shells and coral collected on Anastasia and Josh’s honeymoon by Astier de Villatte. Bronze pendant and small vase found on travels in India. Portrait of a pregnant Anastasia by Ophelia Mikkelson. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

deVOL bathroom cabinets in ‘Linen’. Mirrors from Schots. Bronze batten light holder from Fat Shack Vintage. Tapware in nickel by Perrin & Rowe. Catalano vanity. Towels by Hale Mercantile from Manon Bis. Terrazzo floor tiles from Fibonacci Stone. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Antique lead and alabaster ceiling light purchased at Armadale Antique Centre. Antique linen press found at an antique store in Tyabb. Artwork by Jahnne Pasco White on the mantle. The Bbd cover by Elias Mercantile and Charvet Editions. Antique bedside tables found at auction. Custom Beni Ourian natural wool rug from Etsy. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Wall pocket by Numero 74. Filled with handmade toys made Anastasia’s mother. Antique pine sleigh bed from Bells Vintage. Various artworks on the window and walls by Reuben. Ladderex shelving from Smith Street Bazaar. Antique wicker toy box and picnic basket found on Gumtree. Vintage bedside table, handmade wooden train and lamp found at op-shops. Handmade wooden train toy from Epoche. Vintage drum found in America. Wooden fairy house from Honeybee Toys. Striped floor mattress from Yoli and Otis. Linen pillow cases by Hale Mercantile. Ikea doona cover. Quilt by Basshu Japan from Heffernan and Haire. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Shelf made by Josh. Vintage box holing small toys found at an antique bazaar. Toy car by Wooden Story. Collection of Ostheimers wooden animals from Honeybee Toys. Handmade whale and merman dyed with avocado pits by Full Flower Moon. Ammonite fossil purchased from the Melbourne Museum Store on Reuben’s birthday. Wooden truck from Such Great Heights. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Tapware in nickel by Perrin & Rowe. Towel by Hale Mercantile from Manon Bis. Scented terracotta pomegranate by Santa Maria Novella. Rose geranium plant in a vintage terracotta pot. Window salvaged from the demolished original kitchen and repurposed in place of a smaller window originally in the main bathroom. Tiles from Earp Brothers. Stone surround by CDK Stone. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Antique pine sleigh bed found at an antique store in Castlemaine. Muslin canopy made by Anastasia.��Pillowcases by Camomile London. Doona cover from Ikea. Daisy pillow by Oeuf. Music box bear by Kallisto. Handmade gnome doll ‘Dandelion’ made by Anastasia using scraps found around the house during the first 2020 lockdown. Floral floor mattress from Yoli and Otis. Vintage bookshelf purchased at auction. Vintage bedside table purchased from Gumtree. Vintage cane chair purchased at a bazaar. Maileg deer toy. Original leadlight windows. Bunny Rabbit money box from Big Dreams. De Noest butterfly silhouette light from Honeybee Toys. Raduga Grez mountain stacker from Tanglewood Toys. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Read our separate story about Anastasia’s glorious family garden here! Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

The front entrance overgrown with verbena bonaris, seaside daisy and an array of perennials through the borders. Photo – Eve Wilson for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Josh and Rueben playing in the street. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files.

There aren’t many people who can take an already renovated 1930s property, renovate it again, and end up with an even more characterful, charming home.

Instead of trendy fixtures and an ultra-contemporary extension, owners Josh and Anastasia Elias updated their Malvern East home to feature recycled materials and secondhand furniture throughout. 

‘When expanding the footprint of the home, we didn’t want to impose upon the original character,’ says Anastasia, founder of new homewares business Elias Mercantile. ‘We loved the warmth that came with the age of the original home and wanted to help it grow a little to accommodate our family.’ 

Josh and Anastasia designed the renovations and extensions themselves under the tutelage of Nick Gribble from Restored Building Co, interior designer Studio AMI, and consultant Moyshe Elias. 

Works in the original portion of the home involved shifting the previously narrow and dark hallway; dividing the formal dining room into a powder room, walk-in wardrobe and en suite; and converting the attic into storage space. 

The kitchen, sunroom, outhouse and laundry were demolished to create the rear extension, but original materials were salvaged in the process. Anastasia explains, ‘We stacked every brick, chipped off the plaster and mortar, and then later reused them to build the extension.’

Several reclaimed windows with steel-frames and brass hardware now open this rear area up to embrace the outdoors.  

Other reclaimed materials in the home include several internal doors, and a glass window used in the en suite. ‘I have such wonderful memories racing around Victoria to visit far off salvage yards, searching for that perfect something that would form the tapestry of what would become our home,’ Anastasia says. 

The handmade and hand painted kitchens cabinetry is the work of UK cabinet maker, deVOL Kitchens, who Anastasia came across on Pinterest. Initially out of reach due to budget constraints, these were able to be included after reworking the design. Anastasia says, ‘After doing some research we realised that if we kept the design of the kitchen simple we could feasibly import our kitchen and mix the cabinets with loose furniture.’ 

The couple’s existing large mid-century glass-fronted cabinet in particular works to soften this space, while increasing valuable storage space. ‘We wanted to use it in the kitchen, so that was a great influence on the layout for the kitchen and how it evolved. We then found a beautiful old workbench at an antique auction which became the island,’ says Anastasia. 

The home’s main bathroom was also reconfigured at the suggestion of Anouska Milstein of Studio AMI to accommodate a separate bath and shower. Surfaces inside and out have been painted with Dulux Natural White. 

The cherry on top of this delightful renovation is the abundant garden, which was planted with help from Bespoke Landscapes just two years ago! A neighbour’s towering historic tree canopy including an enormous Norfolk pine further adds to the landscape, while inviting dramatic silhouettes into the home on clear nights. (Take a closer look at the garden here!)

Anastasia describes the completed property as nostalgic, and timeless. ‘It is a true reflection of what we believed would be the best outcome for the home; a response to what it was lacking, with an open mind to what it could be.’

If you love Anastasia’s style, check out her brand new homewares business, Elias Mercantile.

[bigdumbguy2]

I saw this and got inspired to write something for the first time in a looooong time and then stayed up until 4am writing. Might repost later on a separate post so it’s not tangled up with this nice artist’s post. 

I was only a boy when I learned of the things hidden among the trees. My mom would take me to the field behind our house to play and lounge in the sun. She would bring a blanket and a book, and I would pick the weeds near the forests edge, flowers as I saw them, to be placed in small vases at the kitchen table. “You can pick the flowers, but don’t wander into the forest! Stay where I can see you.” Any ideas I might have had about disobeying this wish were quickly snuffed out by an odd sense of pleading that could be heard at the edges of my mother’s voice, though I never lent too much thought as to the origins of the tone. As I picked my flowers, I would try to peak into the wooden world beyond, hoping to catch some hint of magic or some glimpse of a fairy tale. The trees there loomed endlessly above me, earthen streaks of lightning that arched up and away into the sky. Staring up at them filled me with torn feelings, a bristling need to both run away and stand calmly, a precarious median between fear and faith.

The forest for me was locked away wonder and I wanted to know all the secrets it held. I’d ask my father about it and he would tell me stories of his own childhood among the trees, berry picking and climbing rocks and playing in the stream that snaked quietly near the edge. “You can go in when you’re older,” he’d say, building upon my already growing enthusiasm. My grandfather would also tell me stories of the woods, though not all of his were told with as much joy as my father’s. I don’t remember the details of his stories well, as he passed when I was young, but I do remember bedtime stories about games and shadows and running. I remember the way his voice would sometimes grow softer as he spoke, tucking his words into whispers, as if somebody might hear the things he was saying. As if somebody were listening.

The trees were old of course, older than my father and my grandfather, older than our neighborhoods that had grown up around them. The land had belonged to them long before the roads and homes of human lives began etching themselves into the soil. The trees had seen generations come and pass, memories tucked away into roots and later into leaves. Their lives stretched farther than our stories. And as we grew among them, they watched and listened. They absorbed. They drank in our lives. But not just the lives we shared among our homes. They bore witness to the lives we took care to hide. In the solitude of the forest, true people emerged, hidden away from the eyes of their family and friends. Wishes, tears, love, violence, all tucked away among the boughs of the trees where no one would see, no one would know. But the trees saw. The trees knew. Their branches grew heavy with the unheard and the unseen, their bark thick with hiding. The soil grew rich with secrets and from it, something secret grew.

I saw the shadows only once myself. The day was warm, sunlight bright on the pages of my mother’s book. I was running along the edge of the forest as usual, my hand clutching an assortment of dandelions. Stopping to catch my breath I shoved the flowers into my pocket and kneeled down to begin picking another handful near a small boulder. As my hand began to fill with yellow buds, I felt an uneasy prickling at the base of my spine, a feeling of being watched. I looked upwards to the trees. Their branches swayed lazily with a light wind. A trio of jay birds sat quietly on a lower limb of a nearby spruce. But it was not their eyes I felt on my neck. I listened briefly for the stream and let my eyes follow the sound of bubbling, tracing slowly down from the upper branches and the jays, and along the thick trunks until they rested on a face. Or as much of a face as a shadow can have, for that is what stood before me. One hundred feet in, spying from behind the needles of another spruce was a darkness, a wisp of a being. It had a form like forgetting and my eyes struggled to focus on its existence. It watched me as I watched it and I found myself unable to move. The sound of the stream was slowly replaced with a growing sound of wind, a low howl growing stronger, though the trees around me did not move. As the bristling tearing feelings began rising swiftly in my stomach, two more shadows slipped silently out of a nearby tree like smoke rising from a smothered fire. The first shadow tilted a head curiously, fixing its gaze on me, through me. My feet refused to move, filled with a slithering sinking feeling, like slow spreading roots. I wanted to yell, to scream for my mother but my mouth would not open. Instead it felt solid and tight, and the taste of tree bark began growing at the back of my throat. I felt heavy, my eyes sinking into the shadows in front of me. And then I felt familiar arms and familiar hands, and there was a feeling of being ripped away. My mother had come to me, was lifting me in the air. I felt dirt falling from my shoes as she hoisted me up to be carried, more dirt than I remember standing in. She was speaking but I could not hear her. My ears were filled with wind and a sound like rustling. As she carried me away back toward our house I looked back toward the forest, to the trees and the jay birds, to my mother’s book left beside the blanket still spread in the grass. The bristling feeling in my stomach was just as strong, though now it had been joined by a new feeling, a longing, a feeling like leaving home against your will.

I moved away from home three years ago for school, but I always try to visit when I can. I try to make it for the important dates, holidays in the Winter, my mother’s birthday in the Spring, and my father’s in the Summer. I tell them stories about my classes and they tell me stories about horseback riding and movies they’ve seen. My mother and I still go out to the field on occasion. She’ll bring her book and now I bring mine as well. Sometimes I’ll pick a few dandelions to bring back to the kitchen table, but I now maintain a steady distance between myself and the towering lightning trees. I know now about the dark things that grow among them. I know about things long hidden in their roots. I no longer wish to learn all of the secrets the forest holds. And more importantly, I do not wish to become one.

“just one more minute.”

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[thebutlerspottery]

In the evenings I relax by watching T.V., but I can't just sit and vege-out. My hands need to do something. I brought my underglazes and these 2 bud vases from my pottery studio to paint my pal trees. They are bone dry, greenware, not fired in the kiln and fragile. I prefer to paint on greenware as the paint absorbs in and I only need 2 coats instead of 3. Tonight I'll do the trunks, accents and touch ups. #budvases #palmtrees #Tropical #pencilholder #homeandliving #homedecor #officedecor #artrailmuskoka #artrailmuskokapurplebanner #etsygifts #etsymudteam #thebutlerscreations #muskokaart #handpaintpottery (at The Butler's Pottery & Photography) https://www.instagram.com/p/CHQVvIaDjQL/?igshid=1k00mop4ta9x0

[michellebill]

Camping Gear 101: Must-Have Equipment for Your Next Trip

Pruning and training fruit trees and bushes is an essential practice that helps maximize their health, productivity, and overall appearance. By employing proper pruning and training techniques, you can shape your fruit trees and bushes, control their size, improve sunlight penetration, enhance airflow, and promote optimal fruit production. In this blog, we will delve into the world of pruning and training, providing you with valuable tips and techniques to ensure successful and bountiful harvests from your fruit trees and bushes.

Understand the Basics: Before diving into pruning and training, it's crucial to understand the basics. Learn about the growth habits of your specific fruit tree or bush, including whether it produces fruit on new or old wood. Familiarize yourself with the terminology, such as scaffold branches, central leader, lateral branches, and bud positions. This foundational knowledge will guide your pruning decisions.

Timing Is Key: Timing plays a vital role in pruning fruit trees and bushes. Prune dormant trees during late winter or early spring before new growth begins. Deciduous fruit trees are best pruned when they are still dormant but nearing the end of winter. For bushes that bear fruit on new wood, prune them in early spring before new growth emerges. Avoid pruning during frosty conditions to prevent damage.

Remove Dead and Diseased Wood: Start by removing any dead, damaged, or diseased wood from your fruit trees and bushes. These branches can harbor pests or diseases, compromising the overall health of the plant. Make clean cuts just above the branch collar, the swollen area where the branch connects to the main trunk or a larger branch.

Shape with Structural Pruning: Structural pruning helps establish a strong framework for your fruit tree or bush. Identify the central leader, which is the main upward-growing branch, and remove any competing branches or those crossing or rubbing against each other. Encourage an open canopy by thinning out excess branches, allowing sunlight to reach all parts of the tree or bush.

Promote Fruit Production: To encourage fruit production, it's important to strike a balance between vegetative growth and fruiting wood. Prune to increase the airflow and sunlight penetration, which reduces the risk of disease and promotes fruit ripening. Thin out crowded areas and remove small, weak branches that are unlikely to bear fruit. Additionally, selectively prune branches to invigorate new growth and stimulate fruiting.

Training Techniques for Trees: Different fruit tree species require specific training techniques. For apple and pear trees, consider using the central leader or modified central leader system, where the central leader is the main trunk and lateral branches grow at regular intervals. Peaches and nectarines benefit from an open-center or vase-shaped system, where the central leader is removed, and the tree has an open, bowl-like shape. Research the ideal training method for your specific fruit tree species.

Training Techniques for Bushes: When it comes to fruit bushes like blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries, pruning and training techniques vary. For cane berries, such as raspberries, remove spent canes after fruiting and tie new canes to supports. For blueberries, selectively thin out old, weak, or damaged wood, and encourage new shoots for future fruiting. Understand the specific requirements of your fruit bush and adapt your pruning techniques accordingly.

Ongoing Maintenance: Pruning and training is an ongoing process throughout the life of your fruit trees and bushes. Regularly assess the health, structure, and productivity of your plants. Remove any suckers or water sprouts that emerge from the base or interior of the tree. Thin out excessive growth and maintain an open canopy to ensure adequate light penetration. Continue to monitor and adjust the shape and size of your fruit trees and bushes as they grow to maintain an optimal structure.

Tools and Techniques: Invest in quality pruning tools such as sharp bypass pruners, loppers, and pruning saws. Clean and sanitize your tools before each use to prevent the spread of diseases. When making cuts, follow the natural branch collar and avoid leaving stubs or damaging the bark. Use proper pruning techniques such as heading cuts (removing a portion of a branch) and thinning cuts (removing an entire branch).

Seek Knowledge and Expertise: Pruning and training fruit trees and bushes can be complex, and it's always beneficial to seek additional knowledge and guidance. Attend workshops, classes, or gardening seminars to learn from experienced horticulturists or arborists. Consult local nurseries or extension services for specific advice tailored to your region and fruit varieties.

[theron-darksunder]

Continuation of the Hunt

[ The Flower Vase, The Velvet Satchel, The Box , Grizzly Hills ]

The spread of Grizzly Hills had not changed save for the seasons.  The trees remained the same, generic though one could see far more conifers than the bare trees that grew in other forests in Azeroth. The verdant branches would continue to defy the elements, giving forth their greenery even in the dead of winter. There was a true irony in the way life and nature defied each other, a push and pull as the changing of the seasons brought death and rebirth.  Nature itself was not the epitome of good or evil but a true balance.  She was neither dark nor light, a simple grey that held true to the balance that was to be maintained.

The method of transportation had been tailored specifically for her.  Not only had she the key that could open the box and reveal the rose but only her kiss activated the rose’s magick so that she was taken to the forest. A forest that, with a soft sway of wind and cool winds, held many secrets that not many would ever hear.  It was this place that had been the proud stage for two antagonists that had faced each other with nothing but malice strewn betwixt mischievous mouths and lascivious glances.

What had been the driving force that had pulled them together?  What had it been about him that sparked her interest?  What had it been about her that made him agonize over tasting her cerise lips once more? What odd curiosity had led them to reach for each other when he had wanted nothing but to pay her back for a raping of the mind?  What had lured her to trust the male that had blatantly shown his disdain for her and teased her in the same breath?

Love?  A certain need to be close to another soul that felt familiar despite the lives that they lived?  Had lived? There had been a familiarity in the fierce pull that had lured the sorcerer back within her grasp.  It had brought him close enough for her to reach out with claws only to feel his own sink in.  Very few understood that he proudly bore those marks.  Not even he understood the call of her wildness but he knew it was where he wanted to be.  At least once he swallowed the pride that had held him at bay.

The tree she had declared as her own during her time in Grizzly Hills had been reclaimed by nature, showing that no one else had bothered it.  Yet as she climbed the trunk and settled upon the branch she had deemed her perch, her lullaby grew louder overhead.  On ebon wings, the song carried over the woods though this was no voice any raven held.  This was Theron’s Rose and an avian that Celestine knew very well.  The soft flapping of wings would grow near, along with the rustling of leaves as the bird appeared above the Queen.

Dark wisps of violet clung to the bird’s feathers, her own eyes the same color of her Master’s so that they seemed to be one in the same.  Not many would be able to tell the difference given that they appeared to be exact replicas of each other; his familiar an enigma as much as he was. That Rose was no simple raven was easily deciphered but what more was she?  She and her Master shared quite a few different tricks, that was for sure. For Celestine, however, it was clear who the bird was.  Rose’s connection to the Queen was far less pronounced than the bond that was shared with the redheaded sorcerer.  

As if she were a cardinal, black and not red, she continued with the song that the Queen had hummed to her.  Not once did she stop, maneuvering the last lingering note into the beginning chord.  Idly, she flew down to another low hanging branch before looking back at the Queen with an expectant cock of her head.  Another spreading of dark wings would send her to yet another branch, leading away from the once inhabited camp.  There was no use in stirring up those old ghosts.  They were shadows, a past not to be lingered on.  Dead and gone; graves best left untouched.

The path slowly became familiar.  Not in the way that sight worked but in the way that the sixth sense remembered a place. It was the sensation of having known the area once before.  Rose led her through the woods, heralding her presence though no one else lingered about.  Nature was the only other that joined them in this hunt, the scurrying of small animals and wild calls of birds overhead.  The closer Celestine drew to the destination, the more a coppery smell pervaded her senses.  It tickled and taunted her, the sanguine scent familiar and enticing.

A fur-lined cloak was folded neatly on a fallen and rotting tree when she reached the particular clearing that had been theirs to share.  The clearing had been where with no one but Mother Nature and the Great Mother of the Skies as witnesses, he had bowed.  It was the very same place where he had declared his allegiance to her, both fearful and thrilled at the dark goddess that he knew he would give his soul to. It had been the beginning of knowing that he would do anything for her, the beginning of another fear not of her but for her.  

Tucked within the cloak was another note, his impeccable penmanship present once more.

Wicked temptations brought me to your door,

And there I stood, defiant in the face of the storm.

In arrogance I thought little of the fiend I would adore,

Thinking only that my salvation would be in standing firm.

‘Twas another game and dance that I thought you offered,

A dangerously sweet seduction intended to go awry.

But it was here that we ventured past the point of no return,

Upon the final threshold where words and speech ran dry.

Beneath a starlit sky, we wandered to truths untold.

Yielding, we let the sleeping bud burst forth,

Allowing the flames to spread with actions so bold.

Forever lit within since that night in the frozen North.

Seven hearts to be staked, none as worthy as mine.

O’ heart thief, claim them all as you have consumed me.

Seek the prize that remains so hidden in this shrine,

Where, for a Queen, I bent the knee and did not flee.

If she had not seen them upon entering the clearing, they would be plain as day now.  Four of the seven hearts could be seen suspended within the tree branches like some macabre ritual. Fresh they still were, or rather seemed, as they continued to drip as if they had just been pulled from the chest cavities of the living.  They still contracted as if trying to keep precious blood flowing through a body.  To trained ears, the rhythmic beating and the soft tick, tap of each droplet would be almost deafening.  

Some could not even be seen while a few others were at near impossible heights, barely visible as they hung in the air with nothing but the dissonance of dripping and beating. There was no way that the chorus of heart beats and of tick, tap, tap was natural for surely they were enchanted to make such sounds so that she could find them.  

But how was she to claim the hearts that were strewn at odd places? Surely he had forgotten this little piece of his hunt.  One might have thought that.  A careful sweep of the area would reveal  a bow and a quiver hanging from a tree trunk.  The draw weight was similar to the one she practiced with at the Estate, perfect albeit foreign in her hands.  The quiver, however, only held seven arrows.  Seven arrows.  Seven hearts. It was clear she needed perfection to claim this prize.  Or at least hope that she could retrieve the projectiles if she missed.

When her aim was true and the hearts were pierced as if from Peddlefeet’s own bow, the hearts burst into black and red rose petals.  Once she managed to find all seven, not an easy task as he had hidden some well enough that she would have had to work for them, a small thump would be heard as a package materialized out of thin air but a few feet from the ground. It lay, oddly foreboding in the middle of the clearing.

Upon closer inspection it would appear to be a thin square box.  The outside was lined in supple black leather.  A stamp could be seen on top of the container, an anatomical heart, a crown and wings extending from the heart itself.  Within she would find a necklace settled in black silk and another note:

Join me where starlight roses flower,

And the arcwine flows in excess.

Kiss the rose once more, use its power

Heed my call, listen to a love fool’s longing plea.

[ @wolf-queen ]

[ahamiltongarden]

AT AUTUMN’S END, TOM’S PUMPKINS, AND THE LAST ROSES

The last day of autumn, and what a colour spectacle it has been this year. We have already mulched some of the garden with all the fallen leaves and there are still more coming to do us a favour. 

Tomorrow marks the beginning of winter and I am determined to enjoy its good qualities - those intensely coloured sunrises and sunsets, all the deep green of foliage and grass, the white frosts and two church steeples clouded by mist, the sunny and still days with wood smoke in the air, observing all the patches of velvet mosses and lichens which grow on the ground, the trunks of our trees and the volcanic stones and old brick garden edgings, the wet nodding snowflakes and jonquils and violets, the dramatic dark days of slanting rain and hail and thunder - and looking out on all this from the warmth of our house. I have hellebores, daphne, camellias and violets in the garden to bring inside, as well as various foliages and citrus fruits, and a new vintage container from Casterton to put them in. 

Here above, we have English roses ‘Grace’ and ‘Heritage’, with lacy geum leaves. If you look closely there are a surfeit of buds. It feels quite luxurious to pick these as each bud represents a potential open flower but I doubt if many of these would have opened now. But they are so lovely in a vase, with their elegant green sepals cradling the coloured buds. The vaseful is a celebration of the end of one season and the beginning of yet another in that great succession of cycles that just keep flowing on, and on, and on, through the centuries.

[hdelor2-blog]

Tree’s on Campus

There is so many trees on this campus and in Ohio let alone. To start off, right when you leave the MOORE building there is a few common trees. There is the Buckeye tree which has 5 leaflets and they are lobed. The Buckeye tree is the state of Ohio tree, and the mascot for Ohio State University. Go Blue! The Black gum tree is also out there, and its main trait is the branches are horizontal with the ground. There is also dogwood which has red/and green splotches on its droopy leaves. The Sassafras has many leaves in a compound formation with smooth leaf edges and small leaves. Outside of Sycamore building there is Sycamore trees and their defining feature is the peeling bark on the tree, mostly from the top down. The base of the stems is hollow as well. There are also big leaves. Another big tree is the Cotton wood. Beware of squirrels in the Hickory trees, especially the Beech Hickory ones by the library with the shingled looking bark. Those darn squirrels will chuck nuts at you. Sweet gum trees are cool. They have nuts that look like spikey balls. The Sweet gum is made up of yellow leaves that get brighter towards the top. Red Maple trees are smaller than sugar Maple trees in leaf size too. The Norway maple has smooth, and lobed leaves. Silver Maple trees have leaves with a white tint on the back. These Maples are compounded which means many leaflets come from one bud. In simple form the leaflets come out of separate buds. We saw a white Oak and it has 5 needles in a bunch. The Red oak has only 3 needles in a bunch and its leaves are pointy while the White Oak is rounded. We saw a crab apple tree that had small apples that are poisonous to humans. The Tulip Tree is known for its super tall trunk and branches up high. The Shagbark hickory has rough coated bark and 5-7 leaflets as its defining feature. A Mulberry tree looks like a Sassafras, but its leaves edges are Surayud. The Black cherry tress have small green leaves with what looks like twisted bark. This kind of tree attracts all kinds of butterflies. We also saw a Green Vase tree, which literally has the shape of a vase that you put flowers in. These are the only trees on campus that I know so far!

[myers0613-blog]

TREES TREES EVERYWHERE

Other Blog Posts #5/10

On Monday we went on a tree tour and traveled around campus identifying and looking at all the different trees.  We also learned a few identifying factors for each of them, and here are some of the examples that I found very interesting!

The Elm tree is a tree with toothed leaves.  These leaves are very tough and leathery.  The leaf buds are alternate, and the tree that we saw had been eaten up by bugs very bad.

The Sycamore tree is very distinctive because it has peeling bark and exposed branches due to this peeling.  The trees are very large shade trees, and have large leaves like Maple Trees.  The difference in these leaves is that the leaf stems are hollowed out.

The Black Gum tree is seen best and recognized for its horizontal branches.  The branches shoot straight out from the tree trunk.  These leaves are smooth and are one of the first trees to turn red in the fall!

Green Vase trees are SO PRETTY because the tree is shaped like an upside-down vase and has a beautiful dark green color.  One of these is found in front of the Student Center here on campus, and the branches are usually pointing upwards.

White Pine trees are very distinctive because they have pine needs first off, not leaves.  You know it is a white pine because there are five needles on the Pine Spring, just like there are 5 letters in the word white.

The Red Oak tree is very distinctive from its brother the White Oak because the leaves are pointier and very broad The White Oak on the other hand has skinnier lobed leaves.

Shag Bark Hickory was one of my favorite trees to learn about. This tree is so interesting because the bark on the trunk of the tree is starting to bow off the tree, making it look like it is shagging off the trunk.  This is different than the Sycamore because the bark is sharding off, not peeling.  There are also hickory nuts on this tree, and the leaves are compounded with 5-7 leaflets per leaf.

The Sweet Gum trees have very sharp maple looking leaves and contain a very weird nut that is very distinguishable from other trees.

The Cooper Beech Tree was another very fun tree to learn about because it is a very large shade tree that when looked at from a distance almost has a coppery color.  This tree has a very smooth trunk and very smooth leaves.

The Tulip Tree have leaves that at the top of them are almost flat.  So, they look like a maple leaf whose leaves are just flattened at the very top.

The Eastern Red Bud tree is a legume tree that’s leaves turn red in the fall.  This tree has almost bean pods that hang from the branches and this is their seeds.

Sugar Maple this tree is seen distinguishable from having three large lobes and two small lobes on the leaves.

all pictures were taken in class with my iphone