#wildwood flower

[edenparkway]

“But I will dance, I will sing, and my laugh shall be gay I will charm every heart, in this crown I will sway But I long to see him then regret the dark hour He's gone and neglected this frail wildwood flower Well, he taught me to love him and he called me his flower That was blooming to cheer him through life's scary hour And my heart is now wondering, oh, misery can tell He's left me no warning, no words of farewell”

From Wildwood Flower, June Carter Cash

Art By  @Sayuri527art

Nastya M.  Illustrator/character artist  NSFW artwork - 18+ patreon.com/sayuri527

[sleepingangelmusic]

"Wildwood Flower" arranged for Ukulele by Terry Carter & McNally Strumst...

[brightpawstims]

elli [cattails: wildwood story] stimboard with themes of flowers, books and cozy stuff for myself ! the cattails hyperfixation is real

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[grabyourhatphotography]

[mysticstarlightduck]

Heads Up Seven Up

I was tagged by @tabswrites for this one, here! Thanks for the tag!

Rules: post the last seven lines you wrote! Then tag others!

It's not exactly seven lines, I think, but here you go!

From Tales of Wilted Flowers -

“Out of all the bad ideas, my dear.” Xarian shakily called out [to Lorelai], not breaking eye contact with the beastly wolf currently a burning stick away from biting his neck off. Instead of standing by the snuffed-out fire, he’d moved forward. But that made him the only thing standing between a Faellyn petrified by fear and a ravenous shadow-hound. He scoffed, softly, at the situation they were in. “That has to be one of our worst.”

Tagging (gently) - @lassiesandiego, @sm-writes-chaos, @hrmkingizzy, @unstablewifiaccess, @aziz-reads, @writernopal, @steh-lar-uh-nuhs, @oh-no-another-idea, @elshells and @clairelsonao3

[muirneach]

i dont even listen to carter family that much and i wasnt particularly raised with them but interestingly wildwood flower and when the roses bloom again were the most foundational songs for my foray into tradfolk

[teresabeadle5]

"Dance like nobody is watching" by Nikki Heron Via Flickr: *Blooming Collection* Showcasing here is a pose from a wonderful collection from Seetra Poses. ❣️ 6 Bento poses. ❣️ 6 mirror poses. This can be found at the Flourish Event which is running now through to the 30th April, 2024. TP to the event here and for your convenience Seetra Poses inworld Seetra Poses Flickr Page Seetra Poses Marketplace Store Taken @ Wildwood Gardens Thankyou in advance for your support, faves, comments and awards! I do appreciate you all ❤️

[floristusa]

Flower Delivery in Wildwood, Missouri | Irene's Floral Design Florist

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[you-have-been-frizzled]

@crymeariveronceagain LOOK!!! it’s flowers Tattoos Tam!

the *star* kotlc *star* server came in clutch with finding the artist, special thanks to roisin

More genius courtesy of @silveny-dreams

[persephoneaangel444]

*⁠ﾉ♫ Pisces Ascendant as a form of literature (poetry/quotes) *⁠ﾉ♫

~~~ "she wears a crown of flowers, she speaks the language of the trees, her feet pad barefoot unafraid through mossy paths of the Wildwoods. The brave Little Queen of March."

~~~ "the dream of my life is to lie down by a slow river and stare at the light and trees, to learn something by being nothing "

~~~ "you make me sick with desire, with a desire to possess you, to have you around me."

~~~ "she is a beauty. A marble nymph, angelic eyes, unearthly lips.

[stargalaxy20]

Just thought I would introduce my gaming buddy named Silver to everyone. He particularly loves watching me play Stardew Valley, Wylde Flowers, and Cattails: Wildwood Story. 💚

[cheruib]

this painting for the song recommendation❣️

celia you always choose the most beautiful pieces of art🥹🩷 i can’t help but think of joan baez singing beautifully in the background, this song in particular 🪻hope u like it!

[macaron-n-cheese]

Been listening to southern country music, specifically to the Carter Family songs, and started to wonder if Thomas would like country music like from the Carter Family. Because honestly country music slaps genuinely, specially old ones.

YOU SEE IT TOO!!!!

"Will the Circle Be Unbroken" is the most Martha Jefferson jr. coded song I've ever listened to. The "mom is dead" lyrics is so perfectly vivid to illustrate the effect of Mrs. Jefferson's death on the family. If anyone has read "As I Lay Dying" by William Faulkner this song also has very strong vibes for that novel.

These country/folk songs are so unique and I love them so much. They feel like familial love, sweet iced tea, sitting on the porch in a rocking chair during a warm summer sunset, looking at sampler embroidery and other homely embroidering. This feels like the purest portion of Jefferson, the one that's beneath his cringe 18th-century and elite worldview, the part of him that believes in the goodness of humanity and it's ability to achieve greatness through honest work. It is somewhat representative of Democratic-Republican values that Jefferson cherished as this music is representative of satisfied living that escapes the fast-paced and worldly position that Federalists focused on.

I'm looking through their catalog and they have so many of my favorites I'm becoming hyperfocused :))))) sdiuvhsuidyfgbvsdu I can't believe they did Wildwood Flower, Keep on the Sunny Side, Weeping Willow, AND Storms are on the Ocean!!! Those are some of my favorites but I haven't listened to their covers before!

A lot of these songs are in my other history playlists. I actually have more of their songs on my Grant playlist 💀

This is the Jefferson playlist btw hehe

[apoemaday]

The Hurting Kind

by Ada Limón

1.

On the plane I have a dream I’ve left half my torso on the back porch with my beloved. I have to go

back for it, but it’s too late, I’m flying and there’s only half of me.

Back in Texas, the flowers I’ve left on the counter have wilted and knocked over the glass— I stay alone there so the flowers are more than flowers.

At the funeral parlor with my mother, we are holding her father’s suit, and she says, He’ll swim in these.

For a moment, I’m not sure what she means, until I realize she means the clothes are too big.

I go with her like a shield in case they try to up-sell her— the ornate urn, the elaborate body box.

It is a nice bathroom in the funeral parlor, so I take the opportunity to change my tampon.

When I come out my mother says, Did you have to change your tampon?

And it seems a vulgar life all at once. Or not vulgar, but not simple.

I’m driving her now to the Hillside Cemetery where we meet with Rosie who is so nice we want her to work everywhere. Rosie as my dentist. Rosie as my president.

My shards are showing, I think. But I do not know what I mean so I fix my face in the rearview, a face with thousands of headstones behind it. Minuscule flags, plastic flowers.

You can’t sum it up, my mother says as we are driving and the electronic voice repeats, Turn Left onto Wildwood Canyon Road,

so I turn left, happy for the mundane instructions. Let us robot at once.

Tell me where to go. Tell me how to get there.

She means a life, of course. You cannot sum it up.

2.

A famous poet said he never wanted to hear another poem about a grandmother or a grandfather.

I imagine him with piles of faded yolk-colored paper, overloaded with loops of swooping cursive, anemic lyrics

misspelling mourning and morning. But also, before they arrive, there’s a desperate hand scribbling a memory, following

the cat of imagination into each room. What is lineage, if not a gold thread of pride and guilt. She did what?

Once, when I thought I had decided not to have children, a woman said, But who are you to kill your own bloodline?

I told my friend D that and she said, What if you want to kill your own bloodline, kill like it’s your job?

In the myth of La Llorona, she drowns her children to destroy her cheating husband. But maybe she was just tired.

After her husband of 76 years has died, my grandmother, (yes, I said it, grandmother, grandmother) leans to me and says,

Now teach me poetry.

3.

Sticky packs of photographs heteromaniacal postcards.

The war.      The war.        The war. Bikini girls, tight curls, the word gams.

Land boom. Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe. Southern Pacific.

We ask my Grandma Allamay about her mother for a form.

Records and wills. Evidence of life. For a moment she can’t remember her mother’s maiden name.

She says, Just tell them she never wanted me. That should be enough.

“Red sadness is the secret one,” writes Ruefle. Redlands

was named after the soil. Allamay can still hold a peach in her hand

and judge its number by its size. Tell you where it would go in the box

if you’re packing peaches for a living. Which she did,

though she hated the way the hairs hurt her hands.

4.

Why do we quickly dismiss our ancient ones? Before our phones stole the light of our faces, shiny and blue in the televised night,

our elders worked farms and butchered and trapped animals and swept houses and returned to each other after long hours and told stories.

In order for someone to be “good” do they have to have seen the full tilt world? Must they believe what we believe?

My grandmother keeps a picture of her president in the top drawer of her dresser, and once when she was delusional she dreamt

he had sent her and my grandfather on a trip to Italy.  He paid for it all, she kept repeating.

That same night on her ride to the hospital, she talks to the medical technician and says,

All my grandchildren are Mexican.

She says it proudly. She repeats it to me on the phone

5.

Once, a long time ago, we sat in the carport of my grandparents’ house in Redlands, now stolen for eminent  domain,

now the hospital parking lot, no more coyotes or caves where the coyotes would live. Or the grandfather clock

in the house my grandfather built. The porch above the orchard. All gone.

We sat in the carport and watched the longest snake I’d ever seen undulate between the hanging succulents.

They told me not to worry, that the snake had a name,

the snake was called a California King,

glossy black with yellow stripes like wonders wrapping around him.

My grandparents, my ancestors, told me never to kill a California King, benevolent

as they were, equanimous like earth or sky, not

toothy like the dog Chacho who barked at nearly every train whistle or roadrunner.

Before my grandfather died, I asked him what sort of horse he had growing up. He said,

Just a horse. My horse, with such a tenderness it rubbed the bones in the ribs all wrong.

I have always been too sensitive, a weeper from a long line of weepers.

I am the hurting kind. I keep searching for proof.

My grandfather carried that snake to the cactus, where all sharp things could stay safe.

6.

You can’t sum it up. A life.

I feel it moving through me, that snake, his horse Midge sturdy and nothing special,

traveling the canyons and the tumbleweeds hunting for rabbits before the war.

My grandmother picking peaches. Stealing the fruit from the orchards as she walked

home. No one said it was my job to remember.

I took no notes though I’ve stared too long. My grandfather, before he died, would have told

anyone that would listen, that he was ordinary,

that his life was a good one, simple, he could never understand why anyone would want to write

it down. He would tell you straight up he wasn’t brave. And my grandmother would tell you right now

that he is busy getting the house ready for her. Visiting now each night and even doing the vacuuming.

I imagine she’s right. It goes on and on, their story. They met in first grade in a one room school house,

I could have started there, but their story, their story is endless and ongoing. All of this

is a conjuring. I will not stop this reporting of attachments. There is evidence everywhere.

There’s a tree over his grave now, and soon her grave too

though she is tough and says, If I ever die,

which is marvelous and maybe why she’s still alive.

I see the tree above the grave and think, I’m wearing

my heart on my leaves. My heart on my leaves.

Love ends. But what if it doesn’t?

[nearen]

Prompt #7: Morsel

tw: child endangerment, death

“Stick with me, pup,” she’d told him. “I’ll look out fer ya.”

Her name was Violet. Violet was older than him. Not by much, but she talked like she knew all there was to know, so she must. She also had a head’s height on him, with chiselled shoulders carved for archery and arms broad as boughs. She’d taken a shine to him, so staying under her wing was smart for practical purposes.

He was a waifish scrap of a lad when the band took him off his mother’s hands. Barely looked his age then, and he was only grazing ten. The price he fetched? A good meal, but not for him. He went hungry that night, huddled alone in a cramped cage to keep him from bolting.

Not that he would’ve.

Violet shared her watery stew with him next moonrise. Antelope, mostly gristle, seasoned with nettle leaf. It was awful, and he relished every bite.

The next sun, they let her take him to the river to wash off the grime and the lice. She’d had to swallow a shriek when she moved the locks behind his ear and his scalp crawled. Apologising with every breath, she spent the next bell carefully shaving away matted hair at the root with a paring knife while he sat unshivering in the icy water, knees pulled up to his chest.

With nowhere to hide, his itchy passengers were rinsed away. Ticks were twisted ‘n’ plucked, leeches peeled off. She scrubbed him down and bundled him up in her own spare clothes, leagues too large. He said nothing the whole time, staring at her while she asked all kinds of questions and made up the answers when he wouldn’t give one.

“What was yer village like? Why did yer mum give ya up? Didn’t she want yer? Did ya do somethin’ bad? D’ya have any brothers? Sisters? Did they die? D’ya talk at all. C’mon, say somethin’. Did they take out yer tongue?” She grabbed his chin and made him open his mouth to check. He let her.

“Pff. Y’can talk. Say somethin’. ‘Ey. What’s yer name? Y’must know yer name. I’ll call ya… eh, pebble. ‘Cause rocks never say nothin’ but yer too small t’ be a rock. So yer a pebble. Like what y’get stuck in yer shoe.” She glanced at his bare feet, caked in river clay. “Oh, right. Y’need shoes. Should have some that’ll fit at the hideout. Let’s go, pebble.”

Violet took his hand and started to walk, but he dug his heels in, his hazel eyes pointed downwards. He muttered lowly, under his breath.

“What’s that?”

“Osric. I’m Osric.”

The girl cracked a smile. “Y’can talk. Knew it. I’m Violet. Like the flower. I was born while they was in bloom. It’s too late t’ see ‘em now. Turnin’ cold. But when spring comes, I’ll take ya t’ pick ‘em. What’s yer name mean?”

She walked him back to ‘the hideout’, a cluster of huts and tents lodged into the rocky, wooded hills of the South Shroud, not unlike a true hornet’s nest. The hive that dwelt there was led by a wildwood woman who styled herself their queen. All Osric had known until then was life with his siblings and his mother, but the queen wasn’t his mother, and the wasps weren’t his kin. The hive wasn’t his home.

Violet felt like a friend, though. Maybe his first.

They wasted little time putting him to work. They’d taken him in for his potential uses, not out of the kindess of their hearts. He was small and slight, which meant he was the one getting shoved into a cellar through the window to unlock doors, or helping them empty larders. He’d climb into wagons to relieve them of their goods, waded through forests of legs in crowded markets to lighten pockets.

Osric was good at it, all of it. Too good, and that was the problem. It didn’t take long for his impulses to land him in trouble. Violet was the first to find things that didn’t belong to him hidden away under his blanket. A search of his pockets turned up more.

“Y’don’t take these,” she’d warned him, waving a bejewelled bracelet in his face. “Food, I get. They don’t give ya enough.” He worked harder than half the hive, and he still only ate what he could steal and squirrel away. They wanted to keep him small. Useful. “But what would ya even do with this?”

She’d laughed. It was always kind of funny, the first time. The first few times. They tried the bracelet on his slender wrist and it looked silly, hanging there like a loose, shimmering shackle. He didn’t know what to tell her, so he just shrugged. He hadn’t even remembered picking it up or where he got it. Violet knew whose it was, so she took it back before it was missed. But it wasn’t the last time she had to cover for him, and even her patience started to wane.

“D’ya want t’ get into trouble? I’ve told ya before. Y’don’t steal from yer fellow wasps. They’re not playin’ around, Os. They’ll have ya fer this if they catch ya.” He stared at her, like he always did. It was like he got it, but if he got it, why’d he keep doing it? Her face changed. “This is why yer mother got shut of ya. En’t it.”

It hurt. He could tell she was only angry because she cared. Violet’s anger was different from his mother’s. She didn’t want to see him hurt, or tossed out to fend for himself.

“Won’t happen again,” he swore. She hit him, and he fell back into the grass. He lay there, stunned. But he understood why. It was her way of saying she didn’t believe him. Because he broke his last promise, and he was going to break this one too.

They went fishing as the colder moons set in. She taught him things he didn’t know, like how to fashion together a makeshift rod, and the kinds of bugs that were better as bait for this or that kind of fish. He didn’t have much patience for it, and he usually ended up in the river, fishing for crayfish with his bare hands.

Violet showed him how to cook their catch, starting with how to make a fire. The rocks that made the base, first. “It needs t’ breathe,” she told him. Then the right tinder, and finally how to make a spark by striking firestone. “Cook it through,” she scolded. “Fish’ll make ya sick if the middle’s not done.”

She taught him how to set snares for small game, and the mechanism for basic traps. He wanted to learn how to hunt with a bow like she did, but he wasn’t strong enough to draw back the string. His arrows nicked off the outer bark of the tree they used for target practice while hers lodged themselves ilms deep. It made her laugh until she cried every time his shot went wide, and he started doing it on purpose just to see her smile.

He didn’t get it back then; why she did all that. He figured they were just having fun together. That she was proud to teach him all the things she knew and show him how clever she was—and she was.

The take got harder. It always did through the winter moons, Violet told him. This one was leaner than most, though. Bad weather set in and buried the roads in fulms of snow. They had to travel further, and the risks were greater.

Osric was sent out to scout. He didn’t mind the cold much and it meant he got lucky finding something to eat every once in a while. A warm glow amidst the trees alerted to him to a camp’s presence. The guards were few in number and half-asleep. He snuck in, clambering onto the back of a cart laden with salted fish and meat. He ate until he felt sick, then more, until his stomach hurt. It was tempting, too tempting to doze off right there in amongst all the bundles when he was done, but he willed himself to retreat—pockets stuffed with as much as he could carry—back to the nearest outpost.

He hid his haul before reporting in, but he smuggled some mackerel for Violet. Her favourite.

The ‘stingers’, they called them, were assembled. Archers all, and Violet was among them. Following Osric’s lead, they retraced his steps back to the camp to assess numbers and the viability of their task.

It was near dawn by then, but it wouldn’t get light until late morn this season. The boy had an idea of what was going to happen when he reported in, but he’d never been there for it before. They hadn’t needed to mobilise the stingers since he was taken on. His talents had helped to keep them well-enough supplied.

But they’d missed too many meals.

They took to the trees, found their positions: Clear sight of the guards and the tents they watched over. The boy stayed on the ground, with Violet. She was down there to give chase if they sought cover. A body dropped, its fall softened by the snow. Osric watched it turn red with clinical interest.

The next shot must have missed its mark. A man’s scream pierced Osric’s ears. He sounded so pained that it made his stomach lurch, and he regretted his earlier gluttony. Figures poured out of the tents, more than he’d banked on. They were in their smallclothes but had bows in their hands, and were in various stages of hastily slinging quivers over their shoulders.

A woman dressed in a long, woollen robe with a wooden staff took stock and said—

“Leave this to me.” The staff spun, palm over wrist, and Osric flinched back and ducked low as a fierce gale billowed out from her position, scattering supplies and raising up the snow off the ground into a whirling blizzard.

“Fuck!” he heard Violet cry, but he couldn’t see her. Cold winds blew right through him, chilling him to his core. He heard dull thuds and ivory cracks from the west and north, where the stingers had been poised to strike. Blinded and panicked, he pulled up his hood to shield his head and ran.

“Violet!” he bleated, but he heard his own voice die in the gale. He leant against a tree to gather his bearings, and a whistling thunk carried an arrow deep into the bark, ilms from his ear. Peeling away, he scrambled through thick brush that snared and scratched bare skin. He grabbed a skinny sapling for support and doubled over. Each panicked gasp was being stolen from him. I can’t breathe, he realised, cold dread pouring down his back.

He couldn’t muster a scream when a powerful arm closed around his torso, thrashing in vain against their strength. He was thrown over a shoulder, and jostled as his captor ran. Drifting in and out, Osric felt the winds die, watched the snow start to settle.

“Yer safe,” was the next thing he heard, and he trusted the voice that told him so. She set him down in a snowdrift and knelt over him protectively while she surveyed the woods. “Can’t say if we lost any. We’re s’posed t’ regroup at th’ outpost if somethin’ happens. But only if we’re not bein’ followed.”

Shivering, Osric sat up and buried his face in her chest for a moment, gripping her shoulder. Fear still prickled the inside of his skin, and he shook from the itch. “I dun wanna do this again, I hate it,” he choked, breath shuddering. “I wanna go home.” He didn’t know where home was. Just that it wasn’t here.

“I know, pup.” Taking his hand, Violet rose. “C’mon. Stick with me.” Osric climbed to his feet, unsteady as a fawn. He registered the whistle too late. The arrow’s path scored his cheek and struck her chest.

─ • ─

Come spring, her namesake was in bloom. Pretty purple petals that flourished where sunlight spilled into the forest. He gathered a bunch and brought them to her.

[avampyone]

Prompt #2: In his snare

Characters: Gabriel Devrau, Ange B'londe

Synopsis: Ange wishes to throw an important party, but a few obstacles are in the way.

Setting: In the depths of the Great Gubal Library.

Warning to suggestive themes.

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

“Rise and shine!”

There was something that pressed against the tip of his noise that made Gabriel twist in his sleep out of frustration in disturbance from his deep slumber, fingers digging into the thick blankets around him. If not for the flickering of the gaudy neon light of pink and purple that spelled out the line “Kiss Me” lined on one of the many shelves nearby, Gabriel may have never even seen him. He rapidly blinked his bleary pale eyes to see someone crouched down on the side table nearest to his bed. The blonde-haired Wildwood lay strewn out, short thick locks sticking out in many directions and his wrinkled shirt only partially unbuttoned. He still wore his tight leather pants and buckled boots. He had passed out some time before he’d managed to get fully undressed.

That wasn’t what bothered him. There was a tall figure that sat proudly on the corner of his coffee table, grinning wildly like some gargoyle keeping watch. He didn’t even think twice whenever he grabbed a small vase nearest to him containing the remains of a withered daisy before chucking this at the ‘creature.’ In one smooth motion, there was no one there and the vase crashing into the wall to crack into a million tiny little pieces with a growing mixture of water and left-over dried bits of the poor flower.

“What the hell?! Do you have any decency-at all-? I could have been naked, you know…Besides, I was having a nice dream about two blondes and a redhead. Seeing you was an instant turn-off; I’ll have you know.” He growled, pale eyes not hesitating to glare upon the well-dressed figure. Slowly, he pulled himself from the tangle of blankets to shift himself up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. Metal hands, one of which glowed with a distinctly purple pulse of light emitting all throughout it, lifted to rub the corners of his eyes in such a life-like way that one might question if they were metal at all.

“Anyone with decency would never make a deal with a man like me. You should know this very well, darling~” The voice was maddeningly cheerful in such a manner that always grated on his nerves. With long straight pale hair framing his pale features, Ange stood there looking as immaculate as ever in his black suit and shining black shoes to match, making Gabriel question if it had been him on his coffee table or not.

As usual, his eyes lay hidden behind the thick frames of the glasses he wore with one leather clad gloved had coming to delicately grab ahold of the other betwixt his fingers to give a light tug, “Oh, who cares about the details anyway?! What’s most important for you is to know that tonight is a very special night. All my friends will be in attendance for an underground black-tie soiree. The sort of event where we drink fine wines, dance, and laugh together and make dreadful small talk well into the evening hours. There will be theater! And- “

“Get to the point, will you?! What do I care about this party of yours? Sounds boring as hell...” Gabriel openly insulted in his tiredness with arms crossing over one another petulantly, uncaring if his open shirt laid his broad chest bared with no care if Ange looked. Not that he thought he would – With the glasses, who knew?

Ange had turned to stare upon the shelf that contained the many guns he possessed, humming playfully to himself when it looked like he had lost his train of thought, “Right, about that. You do enjoy your toys, don’t you…How useful they will be in this task. All you must do is lure out the feral into the horizon and leave them there to let the rising sun do the rest when the morning comes. Unfortunately, a few have crawled out into the basement of my chateau. It will not do to have them chewing on my guests~” Striding up in a few quick movements, Ange’s gloved hand had ruffled back through his hair before suddenly clenching in a tight unmovable hold that Gabriel tried to pull away from – He couldn’t when Ange inched closer.

A chilly coldness emanated from him that the blonde found himself pushing back away from the best he could, yet still he glared at him dangerously, “Before the morning sun rises, Gabriel - I should not have to remind you what could happen if you do not play your part in our little game...” Ange let him go, dusting his hands off like to be rid of him for now and strolled on right out of the room in a merry little gait.

“Fine. Fine! Damn it all...” Gabriel didn’t even bother to change at this point. Why bother when dealing with the ferals? His clothing would become torn and blood splattered mess before the morning came. He reached for the half-filled bottle of vodka nearby, putting it to his lips to take a generous drink from before placing back onto the coffee table for later.

With a heavy breath leaving him, he stood to peruse the selection before him. Picking up one magitek gun from the top shelf with a long barrel that lit up with a panel of lights to his touch, Gabriel slung the leather strap over his shoulder. He reached for a large black casing from his desk, opening the flat end of the gun to replace the batteries that lie within, “Let’s get this over with…”