Is Ulent (Plant dude) still alive my guy?

I miss the tired tree (´°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥ω°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥｀)

YOU REMEMBER MY OLD ASS SON ULENT?????

GEEEEEZ he’s such an old fard character I am shocked anyone remembers him! Let alone ask for anything about him-

He’s completely fine btw! Still being the ye ol tree man himself Enjoying tea and talking to the trees-

Bella Accidentally Calls Esme Mom: Part 1 (fic)

What if Esme and Bella had a greenhouse? What if they spent a lot of time together and became friends? What if they lived in Alaska and Renesme wasn’t a thing?

Based off of my post from a month ago

I had never thought my life would lead to this. Throughout my childhood in Phoenix, I had basked in the sun with my mother, surrounded by the sand and soil of the Arizona landscape that contrasts with the sleet and snow of the Alaskan winter that encompasses my current home. It was fairly new, even to the centuries old vampires of my family. While during past stays in Denali the Cullens had lived with their cousins, we decided to build our own home nestled among the snow covered peaks. After all, the addition of myself and Garrett to the covens a hundred years ago made things a little crowded. Esme had, of course, designed the white structure paneled with light wood in order to accommodate our family. Floor to ceiling windows, a book-lined office for Carlisle, closets twice the normal size for Alice, and a greenhouse for us.

I had never had much of a green thumb. Renee kept a garden off and on her entire life, but the citrus trees and tomato plants she tried to grow didn’t always last that long. I seemed to make things worse. I had a talent for killing even the most desert friendly succulents, and I would have killed the cactus I took to Forks ages ago if it wasn’t for Esme’s intervention. Under her guidance, I became a botanist extraordinaire. 

Little by little our traveling garden grew large enough to warrant the beautiful greenhouse attached to our far-from-humble abode. I was surrounded by a collection of flora unlike any other.Many plants were chosen for the memories they evoked when caught by our heightened senses: white and violet flowers from the forests of Forks, ferns and wide leafed plants from Isle Esme. Rosalie had begged for daisies and roses, the scents reminding her of long walks in the park from decades past. We had planted three young fig trees on Jasper’s request that had since grown taller than either of the boys could reach. I would often find him, after a long or trying day, sitting under the small canopy created by their interweaving branches. In his youth, he told me, his mother had grown a fig tree. It was her pride and joy, after her children of course, he said. I didn’t push him. I had already grown used to walking into Esme and I’s paradise to find him leaning against one of the trunks. But Jasper was able to confide in me, we had a bond, built of quiet caring and mutual understanding. Perhaps it had formed in the wake of the deep friendship Alice and Edward had, one so chaotic and unique that no one could ever understand, unless they possessed similar abilities. Whatever it was, I had spent hours sitting in the soil of the large planter box listening to Jasper reminisce about experiences almost lost to the waves of time, but now uncovered in the sand by the sight and smell of his fig trees.

Carlisle had suggested rosemary, basil, and other herbs, Emmett apples and cherries that he could help pick, Edward sprawling ivy that reminded him of his Oxford days. Alice near demanded “lots and lots of flowers” and in the spring you could find her happily humming in the kitchen arranging beautiful bouquets. Everyone had their own space in the greenhouse, even me.

The midday sun fell through the trees surrounding the greenhouse, casting dancing shadows onto the collection of cacti and succulents in front of me. The greenhouse was silent, save for the hum of its climate control and the sound of Esme watering Rose’s roses. The quiet was comforting. At first, it made me long for the days I spent in the Phoenix Public Library during my humanhood. Just like the shelves upon shelves of books promoted a muted atmosphere, the thick concrete walls and double paned windows of the greenhouse muffled any sound that came from the house and insulated the greenhouse from the cold outside. I still haven't gotten used to the surprising amount of noise the Cullens made. The sound of laughter and squabbles, of the clacking of fingers on the keys of Carlisle’s keyboard and Edward’s piano, were picked up by my enhanced hearing, even though they took place at the other side of the house. I still haven’t gotten used to it, and at times it was overwhelming. At least here, everything was softened. The greenhouse had become my haven, along with Esme’s companionship.

Today, there was no reason to be here except for that companionship. The rest of the Cullens had disappeared from the house, either hunting or over at the Denali’s, and their noise had vanished with them. Alice and Rosalie were helping plan Kate and Garrett’s second wedding, but if you asked Alice it was their first, because “If it is officiated by a man dressed as Elvis then it does not count.” The boys were out hunting, with Garrett and Eleazar tagging along. 

Quiet days like this gave me a peek into Esme’s world, back when the Cullens masqueraded as a blended family. She would often stay at home, working on projects and designing buildings that may never come to life. In recent years, however, we moved from small town to small town less and less, now opting to live in more secluded areas for decades at a time. My favorite was the Alps, but then again our greenhouse there wasn’t as big.

Bright light drifted in through the windows, reflected by the snow, settling on the collection of cacti and succulents in front of me. We had come a long way, the large barrel cactus I held in my hands and I. Cheerfully named Dorothy by Esme, my prickly friend came with me to Forks, and had accompanied me through the journeys of my second life. She was so small back then, but had grown over the course of the hundred years she was in my care. 80 years ago the cold climates and rainy area we favored took a toll on her. I was heartbroken, I couldn’t bear to part with my cactus, the last bit of Phoenix and Renee, of before, that I had left. But thankfully Esme had stepped in. Dorothy had flourished, producing small copies of herself and inspiring the garden we have now. But now, approaching the end of her life, she was looking a little dreary.

“Don’t fret, Bella,” Esme softly said as she approached me. “Giving her a pot of her own, in the sun, should help her out. She’ll be as good as new in no time”

“Thanks Mom” I said, before I even realized. Mom. The word echoed off the glass walls of the greenhouse quietly, but it was loud and clear to our heightened senses. When the sound ceased, the word continued to bounce against the walls of my mind, hitting memories that I would have forgotten, if it weren’t for Edward. Mom? MOM!?

Renee, my heart yearned. And I could see it in Esme’s eyes, a similar yearning, yet completely different from my own.

TWST Mond Twin Headcanons

((A masterlist of all the random facts and trivia bits for the Mond twins. I may create separate posts of new things in the future, but those new bits will always be added/archived in this post! As with some of my other character lists/profiles, a “last edited” date will be posted to inform when the last addition was.

Diamond Crown Academy, Katherine’s school, is created by @phoenix-manga.

Last Edited: 5-15-2020, added DCA Festival headcanons, corrected an old headcanon, newly added headcanons are in bold font.))

GENERAL HEADCANONS: headcanons that don't necessarily fit into a specific category, mainly little general snippets about the twins.

The Mond twins are a...peculiar set of siblings. They're friendly enough at their own schools, but get them together and you'll likely never see one without the other. They're very attached and seem to only trust each other. Despite how nice they seem, there always seems to be the aura that you talking to them feels like you're intruding in their space and better play by their rules because of it.

There's a rumor that the twins aren't entirely human, if they're human at all. Some believe they're fae or fairy. The twins have never addressed these rumors themselves and, if confronted with them, tend to give vague answers that neither confirm nor deny. Some believe that in of itself confirms the rumors, but the Monds have been known to be mischievous and may simply get entertainment out of confusing their classmates.

Despite their cunning, secretive behavior, the twins aren't bad or evil. They're mainly mischievous and distrustful of others. They're neutral at their worst, just wanting to protect each other above all else. They might relish in the chaos of something like a prank, but destruction and devastation doesn't sit well with them. They're not above schmoozing and sweet-talking to get something like an extension on homework or the last tart in the lunch line, but they wouldn't betray a friend to serve themselves. Ultimately, it's better to be on their good side, but being on their bad side isn't much of an inconvenience, unless the situation is very, VERY bad.

In regards to the above headcanon, the twins mostly represent characters that appear to be on the villain’s side before ultimately abandoning or straight-up betraying them, or characters that you’re absolutely sure are the main villains before the actual villain’s plot comes to light and you realize they were working against the evil.

"Canonically" for TWST Katherine might not be part of NRC due to the "all-boys school" angle, but at the very least she'd visit a lot; if she was part of a NRC dorm, it would be Ignihyde like her brother despite everyone and their grandmother expecting her to be sorted into Pomefiore. In Ignihyde, she'd specialize in web design, but she'd also have a knack for engineering; seeing various pieces like a giant puzzle to put together to make things work. Many classmates would come to her for help with building their own PCs.

Thomas and Katherine share a bank account, but have their own cards attached to it. Both earn relatively the same amount of money in their side jobs. Thomas' payments might be more substantial in the moment, but Katherine is commissioned much more frequently, either through bulk orders of products made by her own hand or companies paying substantial amounts for the rights to various recipes they pay her to concoct.

As proud as Thomas is of his sister's accomplishments, Katherine sends him a hysterical amount of perfumed goods of her own creation, asking for critiques. He does what he can, but to reduce them overwhelming his dorm room, he usually does his initial "testing" with them once before leaving them in a box on Pomefiore's doorstep.

Katherine's animal companion at DCA is an orchid mantis named Lamarie; while normally only the companion's owners can hear them speak, Thomas can hear Lamarie talk as well.

Lamarie is a very conceited, boastful little bug to the point where Vil would describe her as "full of herself" if he could hear her speak. Despite her selfish attitude, she cares about Katherine dearly and will go to great lengths to protect her, even if the effort isn't always necessary.

The Monds use a similar fragrance mainly comprising of cloves and fresh rosemary. Thomas' cologne also contains hints spearmint and bergamot. Katherine's perfume also contains hints of lavender and patchouli. Their respective scents are present in various products made by Katherine, and they regularly bathe with the pure oil mixtures stirred into their bath water. This leaves their smells being particularly persistent (almost overwhelming) and while Katherine says there's no magic additives, non- or weak-magicked beings tend to find themselves being slowly entranced or even "hypnotized" by the smell after a certain period, weakening their resolve and rationality.

While their favorite food is chestnuts, both of the twins' favorite dish is chicken curry, though Katherine likes Indian-style curry while Thomas likes Japanese-style curry. While both enjoy a certain level of spiciness, they tend to exaggerate their ability to tolerate it, leading to some...interesting scenarios when the host/cook takes their word on such.

While curry is their favorite food, Katherine enjoys caviar tasting, though Thomas finds caviar gross. However, Thomas enjoys artisan cheeses while Katherine loathes it.

Both twins love boba drinks, particularly ones with lots of fancy toppings. Thomas eats the toppings out of the whip cream with a spoon before drinking, Katherine likes to drink the toppings through her straw as they sink into the drink.

The twins are relatively neutral when it comes to sweets, though once in a blue moon they get plagued by a ravenous sweet tooth. They prefer baked goods over candy when it comes to satisfying their sugar cravings. Thomas is a straightforward cake-lover, especially chocolate (god tier: chocolate lava cake); Katherine will say her favorite dessert is French macarons because of the aesthetic, but she'll sneak out at the crack of dawn to get donuts for the aforementioned sugar craving above.

Thomas is naturally gifted in herbology and plant-based magic. Katherine grew into it in her teens with lots of training and practice, but she had the terrible luck of frequently killing plants when she was a child. When Thomas discovered his affinity, he'd often revive the plants to keep Katherine from crying. Katherine's prized possession is a lamb's tail succulent Thomas gave her when they were kids that he guided her into keeping alive. Thomas doesn't have a passion for herbology, but he keeps a small potted lilac tree in his dorm, as Katherine gave it to him as the first plant she was able to successfully grow during her first year at DCA.

On the flip side, Thomas could burn cereal as a child. Like how he helped Katherine with gardening, Katherine has tried to help his cooking skills. He learned well enough, but without a dedicated cooking class at NRC (chemistry being the closest thing, which HAS surprisingly helped), his learning process has been slow. He's an okay cook now, and what he does make is at least edible if not enjoyable, but it's definitely not pretty. (Thomas: *standing casually in front of a collapsed cake* "Started making it. Had a breakdown. Bon appetite.")

While Thomas is in the board game club, if the club is cancelled or on the days it doesn't meet, he sometimes sits in on magical shift or track and field clubs to help get regular exercise in; he also helps in tutoring/instructing junior students in the clubs.

If the gardening research club doesn't meet, Katherine might show up to the greenhouse/club room to watch and fuss over the plants, even if she doesn't actually interfere with them because she wants to be a good gardener. Sometimes other clubs, usually the volleyball club, will drag her to their meetings to keep her from worrying.

Thomas is usually on the magical shift team for Ignihyde during the tournament, but he's willing to yield his position on the team if there's 7 players stronger than he is.

BACKSTORY HEADCANONS: headcanons relating to their backstory or explanations of how their origins affect other aspects of their life.

The twins were taught how to read, write, and most basic skills by Mim, including how to use magic. This was to her advantage so they could be independent enough to follow her orders (and not bother her when she had no tasks for them).

However, King Arthur adapted magic into his being over his long life, both by being tutored by Merlin for so long and then over the course of his main journeys and triumphs. Spending so much time with the twins as kits, he imbued them with a little of this magic and is the main reason they remember him so well despite how young they were.

In short, the twins had an adaptation to both good and black magic when they were young.

The twins can change between being human and being squirrels. They themselves have wondered if they could transform midway into a hybrid form, but they’re worried about getting “stuck” and haven’t tried. They also don’t want to try because being born as squirrels is a secret they’ve kept from their classmates (they believe it’s a secret to the teachers and staff as well, but both Crowley and Citrouille are well aware of this, despite not knowing full details of the twins’ origins).

Since Mim is an incredibly powerful sorcerer, the twins adapted a human lifespan once they were transformed by her. They were only a few months old as young squirrels when she transformed them and they had become children as humans, but they also started to age as humans as time went on.

The twins adore mainstream human cuisine, but they still have the tendency to snack on nuts and berries they pluck straight off the plant. They have to be careful of this habit because while they can digest certain things like fresh acorns, they have to be mindful that someone might notice them eating raw foods that would normally be poisonous to humans, such as uncooked acorns.

Naturally, the twins excel at Animal Linguistics. They have to be particularly careful about this because animals on campus risk revealing the twins’ secret to other students proficient in Animal Linguistics if they’re spotted transforming. They have to feign natural excellency at the subject as humans, but also not be found out when transforming into squirrels to use their natural forms to their advantage.

The twins don’t remember Merlin very well from the short time he was looking after them. While he seemed kind enough in wanting to save them from Mim, they’re not interested in reuniting with him because they don’t know his true intentions.

What they don’t know is that Merlin had managed to locate them when they started school, but has decided to leave them alone for the most part. His original agreement with Arthur’s son was to make sure they were released safely into the wild and he sees their current situation as a way to interpret it. He’s normally away, but sometimes he checks in, guiding them as a disembodied voice or animating objects to lead them in the right direction. The twins write this off as normal absurdity in their magic-filled schools and don’t realize it’s him.

The twins weren't sorted into Savanaclaw or Sagamore despite being animal-humans partially because they're not clear hybrids. Another, bigger reason is that their memories from being in nature are not pleasant ones (first being orphaned as kits and then living under Mim's hand) and they want to distance themselves from nature and their "origins" as much as possible.

They put a lot of effort into learning as much as they could about the modern world in such a short amount of time. Their knowledge is certainly passable, but they still slip up here and there. They prioritized learning alchemy for potions that could help them stay awake to study longer or help retain information a bit better. The same came with learning how to use computers as they noticed it was important in the current society. It was difficult for them when they were in hiding before they enrolled, but their fear possibly being enslaved by another witch encourage them to study hard and get stronger in both knowledge and resolve.

Lamarie knows they’re origins and the twins know she knows, but she keeps their secret to respect their wishes and protect Katherine, worried that the witch from their past might be trying to find them.

Lilia and Malleus are also highly aware that the twins aren't human, but they keep it to themselves.

One reason the twins use such strong fragrances in their products is because when they were still hiding at NRC, one persistent Savannaclaw student could pick up on their scent in rooms they were previously in during the night. Even if they were in human form in that room, the student specifically mentioned picking up on the scent of "squirrel" so it lead the twins to believe that even as humans their natural scent/musk smells animalistic. They threw the student off their literal scent before he could find them out by slipping a potion into his drinks and food to give him horrible allergies for the rest of his time at NRC, making him unable to smell clearly until he graduated.

IN-GAME HEADCANONS: headcanons regarding how the twins would work as canon characters in the actual game.

Thomas' unique magic is called "Found Your Weak Spot". He zeroes in on an opponent's weakness, whether it's physical, emotional, or magical and identifies how to exploit it; his attacks become critical.

Katherine's unique magic is called "Take a Deep Breath". A pleasant, but abundant fragrance overtakes her opponents, confusing their minds and slowing their movements, making their attacks much easier to dodge.

If they were in the game, they'd have an overblot boss battle as a special event. During the event, a side story would unfold where the player finds out about their past. The event would reward the player for participating by giving them rare cards where the twins unlock a human-squirrel hybrid form (similar to Savanaclaw students). The cards would depict stories of the twins trying to come to terms with being more open about their origins with their classmates, as well as trying to adjust to their hybrid forms.

CHARACTER RELATIONSHIP HEADCANONS: headcanons explaining how the twins, either separately or together, interact with canon or other OC characters.

During holidays where students can visit home, the twins stay at NRC, normally spending it having huge gaming marathons with Idia. While it took years of getting to know Thomas for Idia to open up to the idea, he enjoys how they're much more willing to venture out to restock on snacks and other supplies in his place. Ortho, unsurprisingly, has to be the voice of reason and makes sure the trio doesn't die from their diet of pizza and chocolate pretzels during this time.

Going back to how the twins have relatively normal diets, they will eat the most decadent, indulgent food concoctions (think burgers with jelly donuts as buns or hotdogs with s’more toppings) in front of Vil just to horrify him. Vil’s motions to have them banned from Pomefiore dorm and a restraining order from him personally have gone unapproved.

While not particularly kid-oriented, the twins are very good at interacting with Ortho. Thomas tries to look after him when Idia isn't around, particularly performing small maintenance on Ortho's suit (such as replacing worn wires or tightening bolts) when it wears a little from extensive use in the middle of the school day. Katherine has had less interaction with Ortho, but gives him little trinkets and souvenirs from DCA when she visits Thomas.

Cheka doesn't know the twins all that well, but he likes their long hair worn in braids (or, as he calls them, their "head-tails").

HOLIDAY HEADCANONS: headcanons specifically centered around how the twins celebrate the holidays.

During their first Christmas at NRC when they were hiding, they'd sneak into dorms and watch holiday movies any students were watching. They were enamored by gingerbread houses and managed to get a boxed kit each year to decorate, but now that they're older, they decide on a design and Katherine will bake the pieces herself when she visits NRC during the holiday break. Ortho typically joins them and has fun helping decorate the structure; he tries to get Idia to join, but the older Shroud tends to hyper fixate on one area to decorate and over-obsesses on how to make it "perfect" to not ruin the overall look of the gingerbread house. They're all glad Idia joins them, but they worry about whether or not he's actually having fun with it.

DCA FESTIVAL HEADCANONS: headcanons regarding the festival held by Diamond Crown Academy.

Katherine gives her bath products to be sold at the perfume booths by the alchemy students. She checks in occasionally to see if they need more of her products (and sometimes to man a stall for awhile so someone else can take a break), but she's normally involved in the more physically active attractions.

Katherine's duties for the festival rotates throughout the course of it. Since one of her strongest subjects is Obstacle Run (see: squirrel), she spends a good amount of time at the obstacle course being a potential challenger for the visiting students to race against.

Katherine is part of an idol group, but with rotating performances from different groups, she doesn't have to spend a lot of time on stage.

Despite not being a dorm leader, a lot of DCA students recognize Thomas as Katherine's brother (either as a formal acquaintance or just "hey, he looks exactly like the girl from Chateau Beastiale") so the native students are more open to approaching him out of familiarity. Some students even "drag" him to a certain booth or attraction to get his opinion on their hard work.

The first few years, Thomas was content to just wander around on his own. He tried hanging out with Rook during the festival for a bit, but the attention Rook tends to get got a little boring for Thomas to put up with. Now he just trades off who he hangs out with, if he hangs out with anyone at all while Katherine's busy.

Thomas doesn't realize it, but he has a bit of a "prince charming" reputation himself. This is because of his long hair and charming demeanor, but DCA students fawned over him at a distance one time while he was helping Katherine fix her hair before one of her performances, people swooning over his caring "older brother" instinct.

Aside from watching Katherine's group, Thomas tries to distance himself from the idol performances. Whether it comes from wanting to tease their colleague's brother or just wanting Thomas' attention, some groups will drag him on stage after their initial performance and encourage him to try and dance along to one of their songs. He goes along despite being embarrassed because he'd find it more embarrassing to "run away" or cause some sort of scene at Katherine's school by protesting.

Thomas usually spends his time trying out different foods, but he'll also find himself in the art gallery, trying to see if there's any pieces inspired by King Arthur or the twins' original home world. If there is, he purchases it immediately if he artist lets him, but given the unlimited points of inspiration in the world, he almost never sees any pieces.

He also spends a surprising amount of time at the Futterwacken dorm because the sentient tea sets stir a strange feeling of nostalgia in him. While he doesn't interact with Riddle too often, them both enjoying the tea parties at the festival allows them to catch up and have fun in familiar company, even if they don't usually hang out at NRC.

It's through the above that Thomas came into a possession of a very strange sugar bowl. The dish's enthusiasm humored him a great deal and when he asked about it, it brought attention to how nobody at DCA actually knew where that particular sugar bowl had come from and, with the staff's permission, they allowed Thomas to buy it and take it back to his dorm. The little bowl's antics still continue to amuse him, but he can't seem to make it understand that he doesn't want sugar in anything other than coffee or tea. He doesn't drink energy drinks or do his alchemy homework in his room anymore...

SPICY HEADCANONS: a link to general headcanons regarding NSFW headcanons about the twins. This set of headcanons will always linked at the bottom of the post. These headcanons will typically contain explict, sexual details so please do not read if you are not comfortable with such. (no link exists at this time)

Be Inspired by Great Nature Writers

Nature writing can transport us to new place, inform us of the world around us and open our eyes to the magic and beauty right in front of us.  Here are some ebooks currently available through the UCF Libraries to get you started.

The Essential Naturalist edited by Michael H. Graham, Joan Parker and Paul K. Dayton.

“The Essential Naturalist offers … a wide-ranging, eclectic collection of writings from more than eight centuries of observations of the natural world, from Leeuwenhoek to E. O. Wilson, from von Humboldt to Rachel Carson. Featuring commentaries by practicing scientists that offer personal accounts of the importance of the long tradition of natural history writing to their current research, the volume serves simultaneously as an overview of the field’s long history and as an inspirational starting point for new explorations, for trained scientists and amateur enthusiasts alike.”

Readings in Wood by John Leland

“Award-winning nature writer John Leland offers a collection of twenty-seven short, poetic essays that marry science and the humanities as the author seeks meaning in trees. Readings in Wood is an investigation of trees and forests and also of wood as a material that people have found essential in the creation of society and culture. Leland views with wit and erudition the natural world and the curious place of human beings as saviors and destroyers of this world.

Readings in Wood is a hybrid testament of science, faith, superstition, and disbelief learned from sitting on tree trunks and peering at leaves and fungi. Leland hopes others will join him in nature’s classroom.”

Where’s the Moon?: A Memoir of the Space Coast and the Florida Dream by Ann McCutchan

“In this coming-of-age memoir, McCutchan, a writer and musician, returns to Florida to reconcile with the life she had there [growing up]. Reconnecting with old friends and long-forgotten places, she confronts the transformation of wetland real estate she knew as a child into south Florida suburbs and the booming Space Coast… She … comes to a deeper understanding of the meaning of the cultural shifts she experienced in the sixties, and achieves a new appreciation of the history and aspirations of the two people who meant the most to her.”

The Great Clod: Notes and Memoirs on Nature and History in East Asia by Gary Snyder

“Over the course of his singular career, the Pulitzer Prize–winning poet, essayist, environmental activist, and Beat icon Gary Snyder has derived wisdom and inspiration from his study of Eastern philosophies, cultures, and art. Now, with this collection of eight essays, Snyder offers “a deceptively small book enfolding a lifetime’s worth of study” (Kirkus Reviews). The Great Clod is the culmination of a project that Snyder began in 1969 with the essay ‘Summer in Hokkaido,’first published in Coevolution Quarterly. In it and the subsequent entries… Snyder weaves together elements of travel memoir and poetic insight with scholarly meditations on civilization’s relationship to the environment.”

At Home in Nature: A Life of Unknown Mountains and Deep Wilderness by Rob Wood

“The compelling story of one family’s life among the rugged landscapes of British Columbia’s Coast Mountains, converting youthful ideals, raw land and a passion for the outdoors into a practical off-grid homestead.

Settling on Maurelle Island, he and his wife built an off-the-grid homestead and focused on alternative communities and developing a small house-design practice specializing in organic and wholesome building techniques. At Home in Nature is a gentle and philosophical memoir that focuses on living a life deeply rooted in the natural world, where citizens are connected to the planet and individuals work together to help, enhance and make the world a better …place.”

Want to explore more?  Check out the titles related to nature available from Ebsco Ebooks

Learn New Outdoor Skills

Expanding your skills is a sure-fire way to appreciate nature more deeply.  Want to know why the mocking bird in your neighborhood sings so many different tunes..including imitating your car alarm?  How about knowing what to look for to find water out in nature?  Want to be able to identify the plants and animals you encounter? There are a wealth of authoritative educational opportunities available online that you can use to build skills.  Here are some of our favorites:

Cornell Ornithology Lab Open Lectures

Here you will find free lectures given by world renowned experts in the field of ornithology.  This site also links to free learning games and instructional videos as well as the Lab’s online course offerings (for a fee).

Great Courses through Kanopy

Fundamentals of Sustainable Living “Become a more thoughtful consumer, save money, and reduce your ecological footprint with this course that teaches you how integrate sustainable practices into your everyday life. By learning specific knowledge and techniques on how to work more efficiently with the energy, water, and food you consume, you can live a more balanced and sustainable lifestyle that also positively impacts the world around you.”

The Science of Gardening “When scientists examine home gardens and landscapes, one fact stands out: The leading cause of landscape failure is not disease and it’s not pests – it’s our own gardening practices. Create a beautiful and sustainable home garden guided by the newest information from applied plant physiology, biology, soils science, climatology, hydrology, chemistry, and ecology.”

Plant Science: An Introduction to Botany“If you look around right now, chances are you’ll see a plant. It could be a succulent in a pot on your desk, grasses or shrubs just outside your door, or trees in a park across the way. Proximity to plants tends to make us happy, even if we don’t notice, offering unique pleasures and satisfactions. Open your eyes to the phenomenal and exciting world of botany!”

Our Night Sky “For thousands of years, the star-filled sky has been a source of wonder, discovery, and entertainment. All you need to feel at home in its limitless expanse is Our Night Sky, a richly illustrated 12-episode course that gives you an unrivaled tour around the sky–all while teaching you about the science, technology, and pure pleasure of stargazing.”

Add to the Scientific Study of Nature

Want to conduct some research?  Right now?  Even in your own backyard?  Join a citizen science initiative!  There are hundreds of projects actively seeking data from interested observers just like you.  Check out the projects listed on these resources and find one that’s right for you!

CitizenScience.gov

National Geographic Citizen Science Projects

SciStarter.org

Don’t worry if you don’t have a background in science, there are projects available at all skill levels!

Virtually Explore Our World

Want to walk the Kalahari? Climb to the top of a mountain? How about swim at the bottom of the sea?  UCF Libraries has hours of streaming video to inspire your love of nature!

BBC Landmark Collection

Check out some of the best nature documentaries of the last decade with this collection from Alexander Street Press.  Titles include Planet Earth I & II, Spy in the Wild, Big Cats and so much more.

The Swamp

Explore the history of the Everglades and the unintended consequences of man’s quest to control it.

Forces of Nature

This four-part series from PBS delves into the powers and motivators which influence our natural world.  Find out answers to such questions as “Why is water blue? How can a shape defy gravity? Why do bees make hexagonal honeycombs? And how do these things affect our own lives?”

Commit to One New Sustainable Practice

It can feel overwhelming trying to figure out the best way you can limit your negative impact on our planet, but don’t worry, it is not an all or nothing proposition.  Even small changes in your actions can have lasting impact.  I challenge each of us to commit to making one change in honor of the 50th Anniversary this Earth Day. Here are some ideas to get you started:

Choose one item you use regularly that comes in single use plastic and switch to more sustainable option.  Bonus: choose a zero-waste option.

Reduce energy consumption by raising the temperature on your thermostat. You can start small with one degree and transition over time.

Commit to only drinking from reusable bottles or cups for one week.

Eat plant-based meals one day a week, or three meals throughout the week.

Switch one cleaning product you use to an environmentally friendly option.

Want more information?  Check out our Naturally UCF Guide and our Anthropocene Reading List

Escapism I

Chapter one: Wlecome to Mount Eaton

I’ve always loved a biker!bucky Au so viola...

Bucky Barnes x reader

——————————————————————————

It was the perfect place to vanish. The whole town was nestled between the mountains at one end, and the lakeside off to the other. The only border was thick dense woodland. One where people who search for Bigfoot would only dream of going.

The town itself was a small four stoplight kind of place. It was the “They kept the old buildings in their original paint because it held charm” kind of place. A far reach from the hustle and bustle of where I once called home. I gripped the steering wheel as I drove down the mountainside. The olive green ford bronco held all the contents I wanted to take with me. All that I couldn’t find myself living without. It was a depressingly small amount. However over the course of my trip across states I had accumulated quite a bit.

I knew what was waiting for me in this sleepy town, as I drive through it I could see a few heads turned, given they had never seen my vehicle before. I could only give a tight lipped smile as I kept driving toward the outskirts of town, near the lakeside.

I pulled up onto the inclined street of my new residence, and was surprised to find a gathering of motorcycles on one side. There was a house on either side. The house accompanied by at least 8 motorcycles was bustling with life. The garage was blaring old classic rock music, it was his kind of music. I felt a chill run up my spine at the thought.

I turned my attention to the small house across the street. I recognized the small sedan from the realtor three weeks ago; back when I was motel hopping. The middle aged woman was busy on her phone glaring in sustain at the neighbors across the street.

I placed my vehicle in park in the driveway, taking a deep inhale before hopping out of my beloved Oliver.

“Miss Y/L/N; so good to see you again! I just came by to drop off your keys to your home.” The woman sauntered up to me as she finished her text.

“Thank you for meeting me. I’m sorry we couldn’t do this earlier. I just want to thank you for letting the movers in when I wasn’t here.” I smiled gratefully, letting my fingers drift over the keys. This was my house. This was to be my home. My new start.

“Oh it’s no trouble dear! You didn’t need to pay me extra for that. I know it’s hard getting your things across state lines at the same time.” She dismissed me with a small chuckle. She clearly liked the extra pay, as in she had only told me now about how it was extra.

“Well thank you again.”

“Just one last thing before you go sweetie. Be careful with your new neighbor. They are not particularly liked round town.”

My brows furrowed, and I peered across her shoulder toward the crowded garage. The music somehow got louder, and was project across the street. Truthfully, any noise complaint could be solved by telling them to turn it down.

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Honey, they are a biker gang.” She handed me a card; “This is my husband’s company card, I’ll put in a good word for you to get a security system.”

With that she went back to her luxury sedan and drive off. She didn’t mention that on the house tour, then again they weren’t there. Also that would explain why the house itself was dirt cheap, Apart from lack of curb appeal.

‘Just as long as they don’t come bothering me there won’t be a problem,’ I told myself. I walked up to the porch and unlocked the front door. Apparently my realtor also took up interior decorating. The place was arranged in all the wrong ways, there was barely any life in it. Once I got my stuff settled I would be sure to move it.

I couldn’t beat the backyard view, though. I had a lovely fire pit to stargaze with my telescope. The house was surround by the tall tall trees, and the music from across the street was muffled by the sound of the lake and the trees. A small dock led out far enough to dive right into the waters. Though I doubt, with how frigid the weather is right now, I would do that.

Still; it felt like I belonged here. That was a good omen at least.

I walked back and forth between the trunk of Oliver and my new home, every now and then glancing at my neighbors; intently watching for any movement toward my side of the street. As I went to grab the last box of my belongings, I noticed the garage was dispersing toward the curb.

It was quite the eclectic bunch, they were mostly broad shouldered, well built people all around. They certainly differed in height, ranging from my height, which was about five foot five inches; to the two tallest being about six foot seven. The eight of them planting themselves onto their respective bikes. They all however were giving me a kind smile, and a small wave before they rode off. At first I don’t know how to respond, but I simply just gave a small waving acknowledgment gesture akin to theirs and went on with my business. By this time it was just about sunset.

When I came back out to close Oliver up and place him in the old garage I found a lone figure, most likely my new neighbor; from his detached garage toward his matte black mailbox. He had on a leather jacket, black in color, under it a grey shirt. His pants were fraying at the knee, most likely from overuse.

He had this air about him, a cockiness. Whether it was from the cigarette that dangled between his lips; or the way he dismissively glitter through his mail. Something about him was both intriguing and at the same time, not.

I shut the trunk with a heavy sigh, purging my thoughts, not even sparing a second glance as I went to shut my front door.

—————————-——————————————

It had been two whole months since I moved here. By that time I had grown accustomed to the town, and them to me. The local florist began to supply succulents after I expressed my interest; thus the reason for my increased cactus collection. It also brought him more business with the children round town, or at least those with internet access.

The general store was the hub for everything groceries and town social meetings. The suburbanites would occasionally paruse into town, but only for school functions. Everyone and their mother was so intrigued to find out just why I, a young single woman with no children, had decided to move here. They were also interested about why I moved across the street from the local gang of bikers. They were more adamant about the latter.

Truthfully, I hadn’t had any trouble from my neighbor, or his budding social life. I wasn’t the only other young single woman in town, his nightly company was a clear indication of that fact. A new woman almost every other night. I never told anyone else that, mainly because I expected they already knew.

My job at the bookstore was perfect; everyone in town loved it because it doubled as a coffee shop. When you bought a coffee, you could also take a book off the shelves to read, as long as you left it at the table when you were finished, wed put it back. If you wanted to buy it, you could do that too.

I was probably the youngest employee these people ever had; by the looks of the town, not many young people were looking for a job here. However, the owners, an elderly married couple, happily accepted me. They were like the great aunt and uncle I never had. It was a refreshing spin from my old job, and I could still pursue my hobbies in the lulls between the breakfast and lunch rush.

“Y/N dear, would you mind closing up tonight?” Edna, the owner and coworker piped up from the back.

“Not at all,” I wrote down the order of the tall blonde in front of me, asking myself why someone should name their child Thor. His accent was Norwegian, so I couldn’t really fault them there. Then again, I’m not about to pick a fight with the leather clad lumberjack.

“What book would you like, sir?” I asked, as was routine.

“The Silmarinion if you have it.” He smiled warmly. Couldn’t fault him for having great literary taste either.

“Edna! One coffee with milk; Two lattes, one iced tea, a hot chocolate, and one black coffee to go if you’d please!” I called.

“Oh! Thor’s back?” I’ve never seen a 72 year old move so fast. I chuckled as I went to find the book he requested. I searched through the aisles, with no such luck. I remembered that someone else had asked for the book and they had already left. Perhaps it was on one of the tables outside, it was a bright day and the weather just right. I walked outside and checked the outdoor tables, finding the book instantly.

As I went to reach for the book, the roar of an engine made me jump. I couldn’t understand how a bookstore coffee shop was so close to an auto part store garage that loud, and still have such healthy business. I glared at the storefront, it’s open garage adjacent to our windowed storefront. ‘Barnes & Rogers’ had to be some sort of trademark infringement. The amount of motorcycles outnumbered the automobiles. The music radiators from the shop with a heavy rock and roll base you could feel from across the street.

I could only glare as I went back on with my day. I handed the book in question to the large burly man.

“Here we are.” I said with a smile. He gave a wide smile and a thank you before taking a seat. I went back behind the counter to help place the coffees into the to go bags.

“Y/N would you be a darling and help Thor deliver the drinks to his coworkers.” Edna wrote the respective orders onto the cups before placing them in their carriers; “My husband usually does it but he’s out sick today.”

“Sure, lemme just take the apron off.” I undid the bow around my waist and hung the emerald apron upon a hook.

“Thor honey; Thomas is out today, so Y/N volunteered to help you today.” She hand him one of the carriers. He traded her with the book, giving a grateful and gruff thank you.

“This way, Y/N,” he said with a bright smile. It was like he was a big teddy bear disguised as a lumberjack god. He held the door open for me as we walked down the street. It was nice, until I figured out where we were headed.

“So I hear you are the new girl? Yes?” He tried to make polite small talk.

“Yes I am? But you don’t sound like your from around here either?” I shot back playfully. He laughed.

“Indeed I am not, but I like it here. It reminds me of home.” He smiled fondly.

“That’s good.”

“How do you like your new home?”

“I couldn’t ask for better. The house is just the right amount of space for me.”

“And Bucky?”

“Who the hell is bucky?” I asked.

“You haven’t met your neighbor yet?” He quirked a brow. So that was his name. What is it with this town and their oddly named people?

“It appears I have not.” I said dryly, still somewhat grateful I hadn’t.

“Well we’ll soon fix that.” He opened the door for me as we walked into the shop. He ushered me through another door and we were both smack dab in the center of the auto shop.

There was a loft which led to what looked to be the office of the place. Cars were either on jacks high enough for the men to work below them, or being torn apart. Sometimes it was both. A few of the motorcycles were being worked on. And other people were fabricating iron. The sparks flew on the other end of the large shop. I watched as the masked figure welded metal together. The yellow glow making a heavily aura.

“Barnes!” His voice boomed like thunder; “coffee is here!”

“About damn time!” Voices chimed together. I watched as the welder looked up before setting the equipment aside. He removed his gloves and torn off his mask, revealing the head of brunette locks.

Of course my neighbor was the one I was ogling; How else could god make it more awkward for me?

“Who’s the girl?” The first man to approach said slyly. His smile was warm and kind. His hair was clipped close to his head, and a healthy stubble grown along his goatee.

“This is Y/N,” Thor explained, whilst handing the man his drink.

“As in the Shithead’s new cute neighbor he’s too afraid to talk to?” He raised a brow, as well as a smirk.

“Indeed;” Thor nodded with the same expression.

“I’m gonna get some mileage outta this.” He sipped his coffee before turning his attention toward me.

“Hi, I’m Sam Wilson. You can refer to me as the handsome one.” He joked. I chuckled, shaking his hand with a smile.

“Nice to meet you.”

“He isn’t be too bothersome is he?” Another tall blonde walked up, his hair a lot shorter than Thor’s. His white shirt was stained with grease and oil. He had a towel thrown over his shoulder, what he probably used to wipe his hands with. He himself looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place where.

“Not at all.”

“Here I’ll take that.” He gestured to the coffee carrier. I gratefully handed it to him.

“How you liking the house?” He asked, handing out the beverages to their respective owners. My eyes widened at the question, before quickly going into fight or flight mode.

“Excuse me?” I began to pale.

“Oh, sorry! That sounded really weird!” He quickly apologized.

“Well done Rogers.” Sam sipped his coffee to hide his smile.

“Can it Wilson.” He elbowed the man.

“I meant was we were there when you finished moving in. I mean, we’re always at Bucky’s house anyway, so we’re bound to see you on occasion.” He scratched the back of his neck.

Rogers. As in the name of the shop. And whom is a frequent to my mysterious neighbor. The one who is a leader of a biker gang. Who co owns the shop with Rogers. Which I am standing in and handing out coffee to.

Fucking hell. Don’t die just talking to them. Play it off somehow dammit.

“Oh! Right! Yeah, that doesn’t sound so weird after explaining it.” I said with nervous chuckle; “I do love the house, I can’t complain.”

I most definitely could complain, but not in front of them.

“Hey Barnes, come get your shit coffee!” Sam hollered toward my neighbor.

“I’m coming!” He yelled back dismissively ruffling his hair out of his low bun. His long sleeved black shirt stuck to him like a second skin, in which I felt bad for the seams.

“Come meet your neighbor while your at it. How come you never told us she was so cute!” Sam said condescendingly, only adding to the mans annoyance.

“What the hell are you talking about you fu-“ his cut short mid syllable as soon as he locked eyes with me. Me, in my striped three quarter shirt and jeans looking like a French tourist. The only pop of color was a pair of red sneakers due to my job description.

Him, in his taught black shit and dark washed jeans that looked like they were too tight around his thighs. His hair the perfect length to still be short and place in a bun without looking too creepy. The blue eyes that contained more depth than the ocean itself.

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” I outstretched my hand.

“Bucky,” he ignored me and walked toward Rogers for his coffee.

“Bucky, manners,” Rogers held his beverage out of reach.

“Screw you Steve; give me my coffee.” He clearly was irritated.

“Manners; then coffee.” The blonde said sternly, holding the cup close to his mouth. The brunette growled, sending goosebumps up my arms.

“Stop acting like you drink coffee Steve, we all know you won’t do it.” The brunette smirked. I guess I know who ordered the hot chocolate.

“My point still stands.”

“Nice to meet you too, Y/N,” he glared at Steve, who had maneuvered behind me, as he shook my hand.

“It’s nice to be met; I can’t say the same for you at the moment,” I couldn’t stop the sarcasm from spewing out my mouth. A silence fell over the room. The brunette in front of me gave a surprised look, our hands still clasped together. The tension made me start to sweat.

And then the room was filled with laughter once again. It flooded the entire plain.

“I like her,” Sam patted his hand upon my back. Steve at last handed James his coffee, and the man sulked back angrily over to his corner where he resumed welding.

“I think that was the first time I’ve seen Barnes speechless,” Steve spoke with a fond smile.

“Thor! Bring her around more often!,” another man, shorter with spiky hair shouted as he walked away; “wen need someone to keep Barnes’ ego in check!”

“I heard that!”

“Are you always like this?” I asked Steve. He shrugged.

“Pretty much, Besides me or Sam; Buck is in charger of the shop.”

“What he means to say; is that we’re pretty much one big happy family.” Sam three his arm around Steve’s shoulder.

“I’m not happy,” The spiky blonde spoke up again.

“Oh my god Clint! We know! You’re never happy until you see your wife and kids every night! Jesus you are whipped, man” Sam and the man Clint walked off, laughing as they did.

I could only glance at the man in the corner I had just met. He barely spoke a word to me, and yet I somehow found out more about him in the time he hadn’t spoke.

I could only watch as he finished the piece he was welding together, sliding his goggles up further upon his forehead. He stared at the piece with great scrutiny, making sure what he had was perfect. The intestity of those blue eyes. It had an effect upon me.

The same way a lamb had when facing a wolf, especially when those big blue eyes were on you.

Garden Report 20.01.13

The rain has made so much so heavy: the tree limbs, the plants, the mind. At least with all the rain it is not as freezing cold, just damp cold right to the bone. The sky is literally a damp grey blanket that keeps the garden sleeping.

I did get the Donald to help me with the fruit trees before he left for warmer lands. He needed a break from reality and was rewarding himself with a birthday vacation to have fun.  It took us five hours to do four trees.  I did get him to help me make a tree brake for the hazels. He also started lopping the kiwi but though it be winter and no swelling, the vine was literally running sap like a leaking spigot so we nixed further surgery for fear it would bleed out.

But the rains set in. I still have another grafted tree that needs pruning but it will take time because the grafting paint marking each graft has faded away and I will have to examine close for scar tissue (hopefully). Each graft is a variety of red flesh apple.  

I decided I need to make a pruning ‘slide’.  An apparatus of sturdy wood to make a frame much like an old fashion medical stretcher to hold together/ taunt a tarp that we can then base on my side of the fence but catch the clippings from branch fall as we prune and shape trees on the fence-line. We have new apartment dwellers that are a bit on the other side of friendly and has the personality of tweekers.  It just doesn’t do to try to be friendly/ neighborly as its not in their disposition. I won’t go more into it but that is my solution to them being overly paranoid about me cutting my trees. I want to trim my trees, not rip off your drugs!

The doves are back trying to nest in the camellias outside the back door. It is perfect place: food, water, proper shelter, all the amenities a dove could want. The male is insistent but the female doesn’ t like the neighbors >:) we just pop in and out at a moments notice (not to mention all the door slamming at all hours and that stinking dog!) and she just can’t abide with such unruly neighbors.  I totally understand and I try to tone down the household. I would be happy if they would take over the dovecote but I understand that its on the pergola and technically, predators could invade.

With all the rains comes the slickeries: green slimy steps, hand rails, walkways, walls.  The surfaces don’t have to be flat horizontal; any surface will do. The lovely pillows of moss are everywhere and great bunches of little fungus. The upside, it makes it easier to see the dog-doo in the garden. That and the little garden newts just love this dampness. I don’t know why but they remind me of puppies so we started calling them gnome’s puppies, newties, newtsomes. They are just so adorable!

I lost two troughs of succulents. The first was a long wooden trough about 2 1/2 meters in length on the orchard fence. Little J had her gnome garden nestled along there. That came crashing down a couple of days ago and I haven’t been out to salvage nor do a search and rescue of her gnomes. She doesn’t seem too concern so its all good until a sunny day.�� The second trough was a window box set up on little clay bunnies (pedestal feet). Either the slime, in conjunction with the slamming of the back door, caused an outer bunny to slip-slide-away, in turn causing the loss of another trough or its those bloody little mices that are having a free-for-all fun day in the digging up of all my potted daffs and tulips, in addition to any potted fruit tree and such, leaving the roots exposed. I can just imaging them giggling and shoving the little clay bunny out (I confess, this was probably influence too much by my love of Beatrix Potter or even the Velveteen Bunny). Either way, it did not bode well for the primo, blue ribbon trough! This was a most excellent quality of mature succulents.  I just swept up the mess and set it aside for another day when I was no longer upset.

Seed catalogues are coming in.  I have a stack that I keep in the bathroom so when I slip into the soaker tub, I can just dream away and study. Stars, hearts, arrows and big circles festoon every page. I can get absolutely giddy with my imaginary purchasing power: two of those, one each of those and yes! definitely need that!

Reality is that I need to get things together and decide how much space I have, do I really need four variety of toms, and what is the germ dates of the ‘essentials’.  I am getting slower and slower to the point I am actually considering just giving over to no annuals and just hardwood/softwood crops and allotting just some larger crop pots such as ‘salade bowls’ much like an apartment dweller… interesting prospect. I am hoping to feel better once the weather starts turning more Spring-like (please rain keep coming until that dreaded acacia finishes blooming!). I can deal with the mold and slime but not acacia pollen!

1) Are they woodier or leafier? Succulent, deciduous, evergreen?

honestly I've never thought about if much, but Ford's a weird sort of mid ground at the minute. Body wise he's more a softer leafier texture, but hair wise it's a toss up. His hair at the moment is mainly thorns but I’ve been imaging lately that if he grew it out it'd be more deciduousleaf that evergreen needle. So deciduousI guess 

2) were they modeled after a specific plant?

If not, what was your inspiration? Ford was honestly based off of a cat, I've always loved chimeras and other mutations - especially in how they present!

The only sylvari I have that's actually based off of a plant is technically Alasthaine - who's based off of albino plants! 

3) what kind of climate are they most comfortable in?

Ford's mostly comfortable when it's slightly warmer out, not blistering hot like the desert, but the general warmth of Caledon. Due to his dark and light patterning, extreme hot and cold occasionally flatten him a little more and it throws him off kilter

Muirghra will scream if you throw snow at him. He's not about that cold shit, give him desert or give him death 

 4) what kind of climate are they least comfortable in? 

 Accidentally answered Ford's in the question before! And Muirs.

If you put Gio in the cold, legend has it you'll learn new swears and see five invented and reinvented in two minutes! 

 5) what’s their relationship with gender?

(warnings, I'm dumb about gender and honestly still figuring out all of the cool ways to explore it! So if I say anything ignorant, my bad and please tell me so I can correct it!)

Ford identifies as non-binary, but largely uses male pronouns at present - he sees himself as a non-binary man, if that makes sense. (I actually wanted to explore intersexism with him due to the correlation that can be found between intersexism and chimeras, but was struggling to find resources, after chatting with some helpful folks, non-binary felt right, and it totally fits Ford to a T!) 

 6) what’s their relationship with the Pale Tree?

Ford believe his Mother has the sylvari races best interests at heart, but has emotionally cut herself off from her children for fear of them dying or turning. He understands her more as he grows, but occasionally doesn't agree with her methods or tone. He still behaves a bit like a child trying to get their parents attention around her though 

 7) how do they react to Mordremoth when they first hear him?

Ford felt dread since he knew all the information we know at the start of HoT. He was pushy and aggressive to be around and just, so scared that people would think he'd gone Mordrem or turn on his brothers and sisters, that'd he'd fail them 

Albuinn genuinely thought it was just some weird intrusive thoughts at the beginning, so he just sorta, shrugged off a dragon 

 8) during what cycle were they born?

Night cycle: Taihneford, Nuallslan, Lasairlugh

Dawn cycle: Albuinn, Ainlyne, Loefell, Giolladhe,

Noon cycle: The Quad, Bairnwen, Fionhuine

Dusk cycle: Murighra, Addryin, Mirfirth, Laoirech, Maevyn

 9) what are their opinions on Trahearne?

Ford had a big ol'crush. It started off in admiration for his big brother, and slowly as it crept more towards HoT, he caught serious feelings. He planned to confess once they got Trahearne out the jungle.

Giolladhe never met him, but always felt sorry for the Firstborn everyone had seemingly already buried 

 10) would they take selfies? 

Ford would attempt it and probably adore the stickers. He'd never post them though. 

Giolladhe would have an entire Instagram, tumblr and twitter dedicated to his selfies. He has mastered the artform complete with stickers and emojis. It burns people's retinas but they love it 

 11) random headcanon!

For the first month or so he was at the Vigil, Ford was desperately lonely, and had to largely rely on sympathetic people, older sylvari like Laranthir, and nearby villages for company, as he struggled to connect with the other soliders massively. He's still not close to anyone in the Pact really. Dragons Watch are essentially his first real friends 

The Quad have formed a bond with that child in the village below the wizards tower, and if anyone passing through harasses the kid, they have to deal with four mercenary siblings 

 12) how old are they? 

Ford's about 7 years old at this point! 

Mallus is the charr equivalent of someone in their 40s or 50s, and is the first to admit that retirement doesn't suit him 

 13) what does their love life look like, if they have one? 

 Ford makes eyes contact with them once then never goes near them again cuz he's a weenie. He relies on watching and listening to Kas and Jory for a guide to romance (they have no clue they're the Commanders guide to romance) 

Loefell loves his partner dearly, and is surprisingly practical for his age. He might be young and head over heals for tall, dark and brooding, but he's not quite as stupid as people seem to think. He would go to the ends of the earth for him though 

 14) what did they see in their Dream? 

 Ford saw Mordremoth, a white stag, and mainly his sister - they didn't react with much else till they merged and got yeeted out into a fight with the Court

Giolladhe saw gold 

 15) favorite thing about playing your salad? 

Ford is real dumb, and also very kind so it's a nice combo! The fact I can let the angst rip at any moment and have comedy the next also is just /chef kiss. In game I need to beef his ass up though, going all out burn wasn't my smartest idea! Albuinn is my old main, and boy do habits die hard! I can autopilot on him no problem! It feels nice to see his anxiety lessen and him grow character wise 

 16) what armor set are they currently wearing? 

Ford’s currently got a mix of Vigil, Tier 2 sylvari cultural, and Elonian - and a helmet that’s name escapes me

Stat’s wise it’s an absolute condition damage focused mess

 17) do they have a favorite major city? 

Ford loves the Grove, its home! 

Nuallslan used to love Lions Arch, don't think they'll let him back in though! 

 18) what’s their favorite food?

Lemon sherbets. Ford usually has some on hand and they just help with everything. 

 19) least favorite food? 

Omnomberries - Ford ate them constantly in Orr and has developed an absolute hatred of the things. It’s the one thing he won’t eat

20) their biggest secret?

I had one for Ford but I forgot it but this also came to mind 

Ford low-key wonders if anyone wants him around, and wishes once or twice that he’d simply, passed on during the Departing - duty and Aurene were what drew him back, not an overwhelming desire to survive. He’s doing way better now! (Going into War Eternal he was a ghost of himself) And he’d never act on such thoughts, especially not now, but they surface now and again

Also if you run your hands through his head thorns he’ll practically fall asleep then and there

Gio’s been eyeing up the higher ranks of the Court, and has slowly been using the fact he’s the more ‘fun’ and morally aligned (in his eyes) teacher, to low-key build enough for a coupe in the Court. He wants that metaphorical throne

A Study in Turquoise

Sybill was doing a pretty good job at blending in with the humans. She had set up her apothecary on a quiet street; customers would come and go throughout the day. No one seemed to suspect that a real Witch could be running this shop. Sybill assumed that her customers saw her as a weird and whimsical woman. Nothing more. She would sometimes get customers who seemed more outlandish than she did. This changed when a little blonde boy came into her apothecary one day in the summer. She remembered with a small smile the words he said to her, though she was not smiling when he had first spoken: “Can you make the purple fireworks come out of your hands again?”

What am I gonna do with this kid? Sybill thought to herself. No human could know she was truly a Witch. Her father would be more understanding, but this is something unacceptable for her mother. Sybill’s mother came from a very large and ancient family of practitioners, some Wiccan, some not, but all were Witches. The old Witch had very traditional ideas, but they were based on sound principals. Her most important was that humans can have no knowledge of the witchcraft that coexists with their mundane practices. Witches have to make a living, after all. Sybill was what could be called a “pureblood” in the magical world, but she tried to conceal this as much as possible. Purebloods tend to have a bad rep for their snobbiness and superiority complexes. This was not Sybill. She was a quiet Witch who just wanted to run her apothecary peacefully and eventually make her girlfriend her wife. Then, they could live quietly with Sybill’s familiar, a noisy and opinionated Siamese cat named Kratos.

On the day that the little blonde boy came in, Sybill got the shock of her life. She was very sure that she had only ever cast spells in her back room. She only ever opened her Book of Shadows after closing the shop, and she had definitely set up wards against any malicious beings that would mean to harm her. So who is this kid, and how did he see me casting that endurance spell?

“Well, hello there. What did you just say about the fireworks? We don't have any of those here, just plants and books, little boy. What’s your name?” Sybill squat down to the little boy’s level. He couldn’t be more than five years old. Where are his parents?

“My name’s Felix. I saw you make little purple fireworks. How did you maked that?”

Thinking quickly, Sybill thought quickly of something that would make sense for a human. “Oh, you mean the sparklers? I use them sometimes to entertain my cat. Do you wanna see him?”

At the word “cat”, Felix’s green eyes lit up. “Kitty? Where?” He was very excited now, and seemed to forget about the spell he witnessed. Sybill stood up and held her hand out for Felix. He took it as she walked to the front corner of the main room by the big windows that overlooked the street.

“Kratos! Here, kitty!”

Who you calling kitty? You look like an albino Willow tree today.

Thanks, I try. Just come down here and watch this kid for a little while. I think he may have seen me cast that endurance spell earlier. I need you to distract him while I get a memory wipe potion from the back.

But what if he pulls my tail like the last kid?

This kid is… different. I can’t explain it, so just come down here and see for yourself.

The most important thing about familiars is that they are definitely not your pets. A familiar is a Witch’s companion. The familiar comes to the Witch when they decide they want to, not when the Witch decides. Kratos came to Sybill when she was only 10 years old; they’ve been together for almost 20 years now. A Witch and her familiar can communicate through thought if desired. Sybill usually speaks aloud to Kratos, it helps her focus and adds to her “weird apothecary shopkeeper” aesthetic, but she didn’t want to risk any more magical exposure to this little kid. Kratos hopped down from the hanging potted plant he was sitting in. He got dirt everywhere, as he usually did. He even added to the shop’s collection of dirty-paw-prints-all-over-the-wood-floor.

“Does he like toys?” Felix asked. Sybill had momentarily forgotten about the little blonde boy.

“Good question. Why don’t we ask him? Kratos, do you like to play with kitty toys?” Sybill was totally not making this difficult for Kratos on purpose. She would never.

The cat meows loudly in response, You saw what I did to your fern bush, right? Same thing’s gonna happen to this kid if you leave me alone with him.

“He said yes!” Sybill clapped in a childish way, her many rings and bracelets jingling together.

Felix clapped happily too, “Yay! Kitty likes to play!”

Sybill summoned a few cat toys behind her back and handed them to Felix. “Be gentle with him,” she warned with a pointed index finger. She didn’t know if she was talking to Felix or Kratos.

She quickly moved to the back of the shop, taking a quick look over her shoulder to check on the little boy. Sybill quietly slipped into the back room where her potion supply was. She tied up her unruly mop of blonde curls so that it was out of her face. It was totally a hazard for casting, summoning, and brewing, but Sybill felt proud of her hair. Stark blonde hair was something like a trademark for the Blackwood family. Sybill hadn’t cut her hair in many years, and it reached all the way down her back.

She found the potion bottle she wanted. “Simple memory wipe. Use when needed to wipe a single memory. Dilute potion for children under 13 years of age. Add 3 poppy seeds for humans. Focus intent over a heated cauldron to target undesired memory.” This will do. Now, I probably shouldn’t just make him drink this… I’d have a lot of explaining to do if I got a customer. I can put it in a sweet, like a cookie. That’ll work. Sybill took several strides across the room to one of her many cauldrons, started a fire under a small one, and poured the potion into it. She followed the directions exactly, and finally she had her memory-wipe cookie. I’ll have to add this to my Grimoire.

Sybill finally emerged from the back room to return to Kratos and Felix. She found the little boy sitting on the floor. The Witch got the second biggest shock of her life next. Kratos was curled up in a ball in Felix’s lap, happily purring.

“Well, it looks like you guys became best friends,” Sybill sat on the ground next to Felix and looked down at Kratos.

“Hey Felix, did you come into town with your mommy or daddy? Where are they?”

“Mommy said me and my big brother could go shopping today. Kris is shopping too.”

Sybill was a little frustrated that Felix didn’t answer the question, but she knew how little kids were. “Hey Felix, do you want a cookie? I’ll trade you Kratos for this chocolate chip cookie. It’s his nap time, so I gotta put him back in his bed.”

“A cookie! I want a cookie!” Felix’s eyes lit up again. Sybill started for only a second. The little boy’s eyes seemed to literally light up. It’s probably just the sunlight making them change colour. Sybill handed Felix the memory wipe cookie, and waited for him to finish it. In the meantime, she scooped up Kratos, and stood up to return him to his potted plant. Kratos opened one eye at her and purred. Traitor, she muttered. Sybill brushed the dirt off of her harem pants and got yet another shock.

“Can you make the purple fireworks again?” Felix asked. He looked up at her through his golden hair with anticipation. The potion didn’t work. Great! Fucking great! What am I gonna do now? I have no idea where this kid’s “big brother” is, the potion didn’t work, and I can’t just dump him on the street. I am so not prepared to play babysitter today! What the fuck!

Why are you screaming? Kratos meowed. You woke me up…

Kratos, the potion didn’t work.

Bullshit, you’re the best brewer in the country.

Thanks, that doesn’t help the fact that it didn’t work. What are we gonna do now? I do not want to call Mother. She’ll teleport all the way over here just to hex me in person. And she’ll find out anyway if I tell Father.

Well, you did say this kid was different. You were right, as much as I don’t want to admit it. Maybe he’s not human.

I don’t know… Well anyway, it looks like we’re babysitting today.

You can count me out, it’s my naptime, like you said.

You’ll be in a time-out if you don’t get your fuzzy rump down here right now.

Yes, ma’am.

Don’t call me that, Kratos. We talked about this.

“Okay, Felix, well does your brother Kris know you’re in this store?”

“Yea, he saw me come in.”

“Do you know when Mommy wants you home?”

“No.”

Great. “Okay, well you can hang out here with us until it’s time to go home.”

“Okay.”

Sybill stood there awkwardly with her hands on her hips watching Felix brush around the dirt on the floor.

“Okay, Felix, come on. I’m gonna show you the coolest parts of my store,” Sybill crouched down to pick up the little boy. He was surprisingly light for a toddler. “Felix, how old are you?”

“Five.”

So I was right. She carried him to the check-out desk in the back of the main room, and set him on the desktop. He immediately started swinging his little legs around, and looked around at the stuff on the desk.

“Okay, Felix. We’re gonna learn about plants today. Can you read?” Sybill pulled her hair down and ruffled it.

“Yeah, Daddy taught me how to read. Your hair is pretty. We have the same hair,” he reached out to touch a strand of Sybill’s hair. She noted that he was right. They both had very blonde, curly hair. But they couldn’t be related. Sybill would have instantly known if Felix was a Blackwood. She checked that off the list of “Things That Felix is Not”. She looked into his big green eyes before changing gears. She motioned for Felix to wait there, and he obeyed.

“Kratos, where are my Succulents?”

“Meow,” They’re in the front window, section 4a.

Felix clapped happily, “Kitty meowed!”

Sybill returned to the check-out desk with two, large, potted Succulents. She put one down on the desktop and held up the other one for Felix to see.

“This is a Succulent, Felix. Can you say Succulent?”

“Suckylent”

“Good enough. These little guys are really cool. You see their special leaves? Look, they’re green and pink. They like a lot of sunlight, so I put them in the big windows in the front. They like water, too, but not too much. These guys right here don't have names yet. Do you want to help me name them?”

“Yeah! I want to name them!”

“Great! Do you have an idea?”

“Uhm, I like the name George.”

“George it is then!”

Sybill continued like this for quite a while, telling Felix about many different plants, and their properties. He seemed very intrigued for a five-year-old. She was just about to tell him about her Lamb’s Ear when the entrance door bell rang.

Kratos meowed, Couple of teenage girls. Definitely not Felix’s big bro.

Sybill turned around to greet the girls, holding Felix’s arm to make sure he wouldn’t fall off the counter. “Welcome, ladies, to the Granite Cauldron. Can I help you find anything today?”

One of the girls spoke up, “We’re looking for some small potted plants that will fit on a windowsill? Like, something I can hold in my hand?”

“Ah yes, it seems the Succulents are what you desire. Come, I will show you,” Sybill paused before deciding she should probably bring Felix with her, lest he hurt himself unattended. She placed him on the floor and held his hand as she led the girls to the Succulent section in the front window. She showed the girls the Succulents and provided some care tips. The girls seemed very understanding, which made Sybill happy. After several minutes, the girls were ready to check out. They all headed back to the check-out desk; Sybill let Felix sit on the counter again.

“That one’s name is George,” the little boy said very seriously. “He likes sunlight and not too much water.”

The girl smiled brightly and thanked Felix. “Is it bring your kid to work day? He’s so cute!”

Sybill was about to say no, but then realized just how odd it would be if she admitted that they weren’t actually related. What’s a random kid, who looks just like me, doing in this shop if we aren’t related? “Yes, his name is Felix,” Sybill finally said.

���He’s adorable!” Another girl said. “Thank you so much, have a great day!”

“Blessed be, ladies.”

The door-bell jingled and the girls were gone.

Sybill put her face in her hands and let her blonde curls obscure her vision. Ugh, I have got to get this kid home ASAP.

~

It felt hours since the little blonde boy entered the store, and still no sign of his “big brother Kris”.

Some big brother, alright, Sybill thought.

Do you think he forgot about him? Can we keep him? Kratos leaped from one shelf to another, watching the little boy as well.

Kratos!

What? He’s entertaining…

I can't just keep the kid, how would I explain that to literally everyone I know?

Right, of course, sorry. It was an option.

Sybill had left Felix near the check-out desk, surrounded by books to entertain him. She got the usual amount of customers trickling in, all asking if Felix was her son. She had to say yes to all, which will definitely prove a problem in the future, but Sybill couldn't afford to worry over that now. Every once in awhile, Kratos would leap down from his various perches (more hanging potted plants) and rub up against Felix to get some pets. Felix would sometimes ask Sybill what a word was, or ask her to explain something. He was very smart for a five-year-old. She was thankful to every god and goddess in existence that the little boy was not a nuisance. He just sat there peacefully reading. He didn’t touch anything that he was not supposed to, nor did he pester Sybill with annoying questions, crying, or temper tantrums. He was the most well mannered and patient toddler she had ever encountered. Sybill was curious about something, though. She couldn’t erase the image of Felix’s eyes lighting up. Part of her told her that it was just a trick of the light, but she wasn’t totally convinced. Sybill has had many encounters with creatures that only look human. Maybe Felix was one of their kids. Maybe he is only a half-blood. Like half a feral creature or a nymph, or something. That would explain why he is so smart, and weighs so little for his size. Sybill could only guess, until her answer finally came to her in the form of Kris, Felix’s big brother. Kris really was a big brother.

The entrance door bell jingled, and Sybill waited for Kratos’ meow to let her know who to expect, as she was overlooking a book on the Natural Life of Switzerland. Her familiar was cut off mid-meow, and when Sybill stood up, she saw why. Her next customer was a seven-foot-tall elf, and he did not look very happy. This was nothing new to Sybill. She got a nice mix of humans and magical beings alike. The elves, however, were rare, and always hard to please.

Kratos finally meowed his report, I think this is our guy…

You think? Sybill replied as she picked Felix up off the floor.

The elf, Kris, had the same blonde curls as Felix, and his eyes were also very green. The one difference was that his eyes were glowing. Definitely an elf.

“Felix, what are you doing in here? You were supposed to meet me by the river at exactly 14 minutes past the hour. It is now 20 minutes past the hour. It is past time to go home,” the Elf said in a stern tone. He continued, speaking to Sybill this time, “I apologize, Witch, for this rascal causing distractions from your practice.”

“He- well- he was not a distraction for me. I’m just glad you came back for him. But he didn’t impede on my practices at all, nope. Not a worry here…” Sybill replied awkwardly. She was not the best at conversing with elves. They spoke in a very odd and proper way that made Sybill feel self-conscious of her thick Northerner accent.

“That is pleasing, then. He has much to learn still. As only a half-elf, he is slower at developing the proper memory skills at this age. It’s the human part that dulls his mind a little, you understand. Thank you for watching over my kin. Take this,” Kris handed Sybill a pinecone, “You may use it for one favour of me, should you need me.”

“Thanks,” Sybill accepted the pinecone with a quick glance to Kratos. He only cocked his head to the side and blinked his big blue eyes.

He took Felix into his own arms and stroked the little boy’s hair.

“Bye, Witchy! Bye, kitty!” Felix yelled over his big brother’s shoulder. Sybill waved and Kratos howled, which caused the little boy to squeal and clap happily. His eyes glowed for the third time, and that confirmed it for Sybill.

A half-elf, huh?

You think they call that a Helf? Kratos leapt from a bookshelf to the check-out desk.

Shut up.

You think we’ll ever see the kid again?

“I hope so,” Sybill said aloud, turning the pinecone over in her hands with a small smile.

All sylvari asks for Paps!! All of them!! 🍇

1) Are they woodier or leafier? Succulent, deciduous, evergreen?

Woodier, on surface it’s similar to a bark, but it gets more softer inside. Their hair is the only more leafier part of them. They are closest to deciduous, but that usually happens in response to their emotional state, like hair wilting and changing colour after something traumatic. 

2) were they modeled after a specific plant? If not, what was your inspiration?

They aren’t really based on any plant, despite the name. Papaver was my first character, and I like purple. I think those were the two biggest things. 

3) what kind of climate are they most comfortable in?

Cool and colder climates, since their forge works as a heater.

4) what kin of climate are they least comfortable in?

Hot and dry climates, since the forge overheats more quickly, which makes it more dangerous to use.

5) what’s their relationship with gender?

They don’t really resonate with any particular gender, but like to present masculine.

6) what’s their relationship with the Pale Tree?

A bit distant. I think they even resent her a bit for being such a passive figure, but they still love her.

7) how do they react to Mordremoth when they first hear him?

I’m really feeling this scene from Steven Universe, so I’m gonna go with that.

While they do resist Mordemoth’s influence, they also slip up a few times. This is how they grow the horns, mainly.

8) during what cycle were they born?

Pops a dawn bloom!

9) what are their opinions on Trahearne?

They respect his calm-headiness and analytical mind, and they think he’s a better strategist than he gives himself credit for. The two met once or twice in a mission to Orr, since before the Pact only few were foolish enough to brave the dangers, and your chance of success doubled if you teamed up with the rest of the fools.

10) would they take selfies?

When they feel they look good. More the type to have a photo account for cute dogs they’ve seen (as they don’t yet have own dog)

11) random headcanon!

Even though in-game I have them as the chef, they are actually pertty lousy cook. Not a kitchen in fire kinda cook, but still, you’d be better off eating in a tavern or anywhere else.

12) how old are they?

They are 4th generation of Sylvari, so I’d imagine they awoke a bit after Faolain and Caithe had their falling out, and the Nightmare Court established themselves.

13) what does their love life look like, if they have one?

It looks bad, tbh. They can have a casual sex partner here and there, but no loving since the Nightmare Court incident during their sapling years. They are probably not in a good place to love anyone either, but after some major things being resolved, and having finally time for themselves at present, they’ll be finally able to do some healing.

14) what did they see in their Dream?They don’t remember their Dream, and it had always bothered them a bit.

15) favorite thing about playing your salad?I love the Holosmith as a class, it was my favourite to play as until they nerfed the forge. Plus I like the VA for male sylvari, especially during HoT, the way he made the character sound like they’re on the edge all the time??? delicious.

16) what armor set are they currently wearing?

Dragon’s crown (shiny), T1 Sylvari shoulders, Nightmare Court coat, T3 sylvari gloves, halloween noble pants, T3 sylvari boots, Caithe’s bloom sword and Glint’s shield

17) do they have a favorite major city?

They like Rata Sum the most, they like how the city is chaotic and in symmetry at the same time.

18) what’s their favorite food?

Spicy foods, such as sweet and spicy butternut soup. Also a sweet tooth.

19) least favorite food?Does Tyria have liquorice? If so, it’s that.

20) their biggest secret?

Pops has problems with alcohol, but they rarely drink in public. Stays sober after PoF.

Namjoon x Reader - Pages of Petals

Summary: A change in the weather stirs a sweet encounter between a florist and a bookshop owner, where one begins to learn the language of flowers.

Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

Genre: Sweet romance, chance meetings

Author: Pilot

A cool droplet of rain falls onto your cheek. Then another and another. The rain picks up and you bring your hands up to cover your head. You spot a flower shop at the corner of the road.

A mustard yellow bike sits outside, resting against one of the windows to the flower shop. Its walls are painted a shade of blue. A young cherry tree stands in a brown terracotta pot next to a small table and two chairs. Pot plants sit on upside-down brown crates that you presume used to hold apples and oranges. A short step ladder is home to succulents and pink, yellow and white daisies, comfortably framed on each step. It’s charming.

Looking left and right, you jog across and take shelter under the beams of the shop. You wriggle your pale grey beret off your head and hold it out in front of you, patting the droplets of rain from it. The weatherman hadn’t predicted rain today.

You had been on your way home from the bookstore you owned, although you hadn’t walked home this way before. You had made a quick book delivery that afternoon, after you had given your delivery boy the day off. He had wanted to take his girlfriend out for her birthday. You smile to yourself at the sentiment, watching as the passers-by on the street rush to escape the unexpected rain, their arms up over their heads in an effort to momentarily shelter themselves from the downpour. 

A spring shower. It had been such a long time since it had rained like that. You put your beret into your tote bag, joining the five books you had stashed inside and look down. You watch as the concrete path slowly becomes a darker shade of grey with every droplet of rain.

You turn around and bring your nose up against the window of the flower shop, cupping your hands in front of your face to better focus your view. You peer inside and spot the back of a young man who is moving around the store, a small bouquet of flowers in his hand. You scoot over, tiptoeing to get a better view, wondering if it’s still open.

You pull yourself from the window. You’d have to wait for the rain to pass. Your shoes weren’t meant for walking through puddles. You pause in front of the glass door, checking it’s open, reading the words on the small chalkboard hanging on the other side of the glass. The name of the flower shop is scribbled in white chalk, the handwriting elongated and messy. Sough Flower Shop.

You open the heavy glass door and step inside. As you close the door, the most beautiful mix of perfumes drift to your nose, enhanced by the scent of the rain on the pavement outside. Your eyes scan the store. Empty pots, glass jars of various shapes and sizes are stacked oddly on the bottom shelf, next to a large metal watering can with a long spout. A long workbench takes up one wall. On it sits rolls of brown paper, bundles of ribbons in varying thicknesses and yellow tissue paper.

Dried flowers and tree branches hang from the roof beams, wrapped with white and brown twine. Buckets of flowers, organised in sharp bunches of colour sit on top of a hand-made wooden table in the centre of the shop. They’re housed in a mix of tall and short cylindrical glass vases. Small ready-made bouquets of flowers in colourful, atomic, complementing colours, are wrapped in brown paper and sit in tin milk buckets.

There’s a little sink area tucked away at the back of the shop. A white tiled splashback is adorned with another small string of dried leaves, hanging upside down, accompanied by pegged polaroid photographs and torn scribbles of paper and receipts. Edison light globes hang from the ceiling.

On the opposite side of the shop, near the door, a small and thin bookshelf houses three shelves of old vinyl records. You note a record, slightly open, the black vinyl hanging out, balanced precariously a top a pile of books. 

He watches as you inquisitively scan his flower shop. He had noticed you outside before, when you had been hovering by the window. He had watched you, as you had bounced on the balls of your feet, peering into the store. 

He continues on, snapping the leaves off the long-stemmed rose in his hands. You glance at him. He’s wearing a checked shirt, a brown newsboy cap and a brown apron. A pair of scissors and roll of twine stick out from his apron pockets. He’s wearing glasses, simple wire frames that pinch the slight bridge of his nose. He is handsome, in an understated way.

The table is a complementary mix of flowers and greens and you begin to move around the table inspecting the flowers, your fingertips gently touching the fragile petals, some of which are ready to bloom and others already blossoming.

It’s still raining outside, you can hear it pattering on the roof. One particular flower catches your eye and you pull a stem of it from the bucket. It’s unique, the long, sturdy green stem covered in sweet purple clusters, four petals to each flower.

“Lilac. It means love at first sight.”

You jump back, slightly startled. You bump into the bookshelf behind you and he quickly moves over, steadying it with his hand. The vinyl clatters to the floor. You apologise and he smiles down at you. 

“Sorry.” You say, picking up the vinyl, sliding it back into its thin cardboard case.

“No, it’s okay. It’s probably a sign that I should listen to these a bit more…” he says, sticking the flower he’s holding into the front of his apron as he takes the record from you. He moves over to the record player, lifting the needle and placing the vinyl down. A soft and melodic sound of piano and violins fills the little shop.

You bend forward, examining the titles, curious as to what he was just reading. He watches you and cocks a brow, smiling to himself.

“Moyes?” You say, taking the first book from the pile on the shelf, turning it over in your hands. She was one of your favourite authors.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Do you know this author?” he asks, walking over to you.

“Yes, it’s funny actually. I own a bookstore.” You say, sheepishly.

“Raconteur bookstore?” He asks.

“Yes...how did you -”

He eyes your tote bag and his face breaks into a smile. You close your eyes and sigh at yourself. Of course. It was written on your tote bag. You had made a number of them especially, screen printing your bookshop name and logo onto the canvas which you gave out to customers instead of paper bags.

You go to pull your tote bag around in front of you but in the process accidentally bump one of the tin milk buckets from the table next to you.

You pause and just look at him, a little frustrated and embarrassed that you were so clumsy.

“Sorry. Again.” You say. It’s rocking side to side between your feet. “Maybe you should pick it up. I might end up knocking something else over.” 

He chuckles and does as he’s told. He inspects it, pointing at a dent you had caused at the base of the tin.

“It looks a little like my dimples, don’t you think?” He says, examining the dented tin bucket, smiling proudly, making his dimples ever more evident. You laugh at his joke, noticing his left dimple is deeper than his right. You resist the urge to bring your finger to his face to poke it.

“I’m really sorry -”

“Don't worry about it. One of my friends owns a farm. I can always get more.” He says. “Besides. I think the dent adds character.” 

You ease and smile again. He pops the tin bucket back onto the table and pulls the stem of the flower from his apron, popping it into the bucket.

“I don’t think that the rain is stopping just yet.” He says, looking outside. “I have to close up now, but - do you want some cake?”

“Cake?”

“One of my other friends had made some yesterday and brought it over. It’s really nice. I have a lot left.”

“Oh, I really shouldn't intrude.”

“It’s not intruding.” He smiles, luminous. You watch as he moves outside, pulling in the set of tables and chairs to the door. You rush up to him and hold the door open as he wriggles the legs of the chairs across the floor of the flower shop. Once he’s happy with where they are, he goes to the kitchen sink and grabs a tea towel, using it to dry off the water.

He then walks around the workbench, heading up a staircase you hadn’t realised existed. You follow him to the base of the staircase, peering up. He's rummaging around, opening and closing drawers in his kitchen upstairs. 

He soon patters back down, joining you again in the flower shop, a single piece of cake on a teal coloured plate in one hand, two forks stuffed into the front pocket of his apron. He sets them down on the table and ushers you to sit while he heads back up to his living quarters, the wooden steps creaking as he takes every step. He comes back down again, this time with two cups of coffee.

“I would have offered tea but I don’t have any...” he says, placing the mugs on the table next to the cake. “I drink more coffee than I probably should.” he admits, pushing the chair with his feet and sitting down.

He picks up a fork from the plate and hands it to you. You take it from him, carefully, swiftly cutting through the crumb of the cake with the edge of the fork. You pop a piece into your mouth. The cake is baked beautifully, the small mouthful of lemon sponge drizzled with tangy and sweet sugar glaze ignites your tastebuds.

“Good, huh?” he says, watching your expression change and eyes widen in wonder.

He leans back in the chair, one hand in the pocket of his trousers as he picks up the cup of coffee and takes a sip, pleased with himself. He found you to be cute, with that beret of yours and your captivating eyes.

You hadn’t ever experienced something like this before. Met someone so sweet, so endearing and welcoming. Your heart flutters, thinking about what he had said before. The meaning of the flower you had picked up. Love at first sight.

“Do you know the meanings of all the flowers?” You ask him, curious.

“Yes - flowers have a language too, you know.”

“Language?”

“The language of flowers.” He smiles, taking a bite of the cake, a little mysterious.

“So, do you work at the bookshop?” he continues, changing the subject.

“I do. Well. I own it.” You go on to explain how you had always wanted to own a bookstore, fascinated with stories and adventures and the lives that others led. He links his fingers like a bridge to hold up his chin as he leans on them, admiring you with sparkling eyes. He’s completely enamoured by you.

“Why did you choose Raconteur as the name of your shop?” he asks, thinking back to your tote bag.

“I’m an aspiring writer. I’ve been working on a novel for a while and I’ve always loved books and stories. My shop is full of raconteurs, so to speak.”

You can tell his next question is going to be about your novel so you quickly interject before he has the opportunity to ask. You had never felt comfortable talking about it to anyone, much less to think to share it. It’s a part of you, in it taking your insecurities and your thoughts and could have beens, page after page. Too much of it, you felt, revealed your psyche. You’re surprised at the fact that you had even revealed you were writing a novel to a complete stranger.

“Have you read much of Murakami?” You ask, feeling both the urge to change the conversation and to get an understanding of the books he liked. You found yourself wanting to know the books he read and the characters he liked and what resonated within him.

“No, not really.” he says. He bites his lip. He had. He had read plenty of Murakami’s novels. Wind Up Bird Chronicle had been sitting on his bedside table for years, although he had read all but the last chapter, too unwilling to complete the book and part with it. “What is it?” he feigns, “Is it a novel?”

“No, he’s an author.” you begin to explain. He listens to you intently, asking questions here and there, showing genuine interest in your thoughts and views. You find yourself smiling the whole time.

“What about you, what does Sough mean?”

The corner of his lips quirk upwards.

“It’s a verb. And a noun. Verb. to moan, rustle or sigh.”

You find yourself blushing at the thought of something deeper, passionate. With simple words, he had revealed his sensual side.

“Noun, the soothing, gentle murmur of wind or water.” He continues, his voice is poetic, deep, playful.

You felt as if he is just that, an oxymoron. Two contradicting properties, two contradicting states of being, two contradicting thoughts, embodied in a tall, young man, with proportions that made sense to no-one but him. He’s soft and sweet but passionate and sensual.

The rain patters to a stop outside. Your belly is full and you feel all kinds of warm and complete. You figure it’s about time you go.

“Thanks for the cake.”

“Any time.” he says, smiling brightly. You go to push the door open but he stops you, placing his hand on your arm. 

“Wait here.” He hurries off upstairs and comes back down, two steps at a time, almost as if he’s worried that you’d leave before he’d return. He takes your hand in his and he places a small plastic container of cake into them. He says nothing, instead leaving the gesture to speak mountains.

You thank him and leave, promising you’ll return the container soon. He waves you off and shuts the door. He stands there for a moment, then he turns around, picking up the lilac you had grown fascinated with.

You’re a few steps down the street when you stop. You get the sudden and overwhelming urge to go back to him. You take a breath and pluck up your courage. You knock on the door of the flower shop which he had since locked. Confused, he opens the door. He hadn’t expected to see you again so soon. Had you already eaten the cake?

You fumble around in your tote bag and pull out a book. 

“Read this and tell me what you think.” You say. 

He looks down, examining the hard navy cover. You smile at him.

“Swing by my shop when you want to return it.” You instruct, stepping out of the shop backwards. 

“Til next time?” You ask.

“Til next time.”

You giggle to yourself, covering your mouth with your hand. You make your way down the street. Everything is glistening from the rain. You look up at the sky. A rainbow has formed, arching itself across deep blue.

//

You sit behind the counter in your bookshop, your head leaning on your arm. You’re scribbling notes down into a book, brain storming ideas for a chapter of the novel you were working on. 

It’s a slow day. You look out the door. A pot of flowers holds the door open. You find yourself admiring them. He had gifted them to you a few weeks ago, when you had visited his corner shop.

You had walked to the flower shop in the spring sunshine weeks before, a little nervous. You had really wanted to see him, but it is taking longer than you expected for him to finish reading the book you had given him. You had thought up an excuse, to purchase some flowers for a friend. If you were being honest to yourself, which you hadn’t been, you missed him.

He had been sitting on the table and chairs outside, reading a book. He was wearing a pale and thin yellow sweater and white trousers, his white sneakers tapping on the base of the table stand. Tunes from his record player floated from the open shop door, out onto the street, billowing and muffling sweet sounds in the cool breeze.

He stood up quickly, upon seeing you, scooting the chair backwards. He had admired you, eyes washing over your white cardigan that you had pulled on over your brown corduroy dress. He noted the big brown buttons running down the front of your dress and considered what it would be like, to slowly make his hands run down your dress, to unbutton each and every button, to unwrap you like a delicate gift. He cleared his throat. He had let his mind get away from him.

“Hi” you had said, walking nervously up to him. You had pulled the container out from your bag that had carried the lemon cake weeks before. “I’m here to buy flowers.”

He nodded. He had been drinking coffee at the table, a piece of toast discarded while he read the book you had given him. He had placed it face down, to save his pages.

“Come inside.”

You followed him into the shop, again met with a deep deliciousness fragrance. He extended an arm and let you browse the arrangements. You spotted lilies, soft sophistication embodied in five simple white, elegant petals.

“What are you looking for?” he had asked.

You paused. You hadn’t given it much thought.

“Make me something.” you had said, teasing, putting him to the test. He smirked, looking at you with determination.

“Take a seat.”

You had sat down at the high stool near his workbench, and leant your elbows onto the worn wood. You watched him as he worked, as he moved around his shop, slowly examining each and every flower and leaf and branch that he had. His chin stuck out as he concentrated, swiftly pulling out stems and stalks and small clusters of seemingly iridescent petals. Finally, he pulled together a small arrangement to the workbench.

You watched as he brought out his iron scissors, snipping off the leaves and gently arranging the stalks into a thin, turquoise vase. Yellows and purples, blue hues and dabbles of white were pulled together. The colours were reminiscent of dusk, the colour of the sky just after the sun had set over the horizon.

He had slowly snipped off a semi-transparent ribbon, tying it around the waist of the vase. He slid the arrangement over to you, curious as to whether you’d like it. You took it between your hands, lifting it up to the light. Silky smooth petals seemed almost incandescent. Your heart swelled, ultimately touched. You had never seen something as beautiful, quirky or unique as this.

He watched you, pride filling his chest. His eyes trailed from the vase in your hands to your fingers, noting how the cardigan sleeves hung from your wrists and gathered at your elbows. He watched as you tilted your head, examining every petal, every sternum. He continued to languish you with his eyes, thoughts flowing through his head, the same ones that had distracted him before. Your legs were crossed over and one of the buttons of you dress had come undone at the hem, revealing more skin than you had intended.

You were too engulfed in the flowers to notice that he had moved away from the bench and had crossed over to where you were seated, closing the distance. He had taken your hand in his, his warm touch warming your skin. And although you hadn't felt cold, your skin rippled and raised goosebumps at the touch. You had placed the jar back down on the table, the sound resounding. A comfortable silence settled between the two of you. 

He towed you up from the stool and you stood, your skirt adjusting itself, falling around your legs. He gently led you back around the workbench and your body followed his, up to his bedroom, both pairs of feet creaking on the stairs. He had pulled you to him and you had fallen onto his bed together, wrapped up in his soft white sheets.

When were you going to see him again? You sigh. You’re back to watching the petals shift in the wind absent-mindedly when he walks through the door. You sit up abruptly and he looks around the store and spots you. He smiles and walks over.

“Hey.” 

“Hey.” You’re both quiet, caught in each other’s eyes. His are the most beautiful colour of the earth. Seeing him again sends tingles up your spine. Memories of laying in bed with him, wrapped up in creased sheets, him kissing your forehead as he read you poetry, soft melodies creeping up the stairs from the record player in the flower shop. 

“I’m here to return your book.” He says, handing it over to you. “I really enjoyed it. Thank you.”

His words fill you with glee, but then he continues “I can’t stay long today. I’m sorry. I have a big order that’s come through.”

You nod, accepting the book from him. He’s a little nervous today, bouncy even. For a moment you wonder if you shouldn’t have followed him up the stairs to his bedroom, the last time you had seen him. Before you can consider it any further he asks you a question.

“Do you have another book recommendation for me?”

You nod, placing the returned book down onto the counter. You hop off the stool and scurry off to the back of your shop. He follows you, carefully, steadily, his hands trailing the rows of books on the shelves. He loved reading, too. Absolutely adored it. 

He was enamoured with the way you could be transported to places and times and people without so much as leaving your bed, how you could read about history and psychology and determine the traits of the human condition. He read often.

You scan your collection and spot it. It’s on a high shelf. Your employee must have put it up there. You turn to go and get the step ladder.

“Is it here?” he asks, pointing to the row of books.

“Yeah, it’s called Almost Transparent Blue.” You respond, realising he’s standing closely to you. You catch the scent of him, he smells like iced coffee and the earth after rain.

He leans across you, careful not to touch you, but it feels almost as if he has, his presence is too strong. He gingerly pulls the book out from the shelf with his forefinger and it slides out. Your heart pounds in your chest as the two of you stand there, bodies against each other, tucked up among the rows of musty pages and stories.

He clears his throat and places the book against his chest, stepping aside to let you pass. He resists the urge to push you up against the shelf, to take you in the middle of the foreign memoirs and gardening section. He knew if he started he would not be able to stop. He really had to go, but you had that affect on him. He fights his wants and his responsibilities and decides against his urges.

Your bodies brush again and you feel blush creeping along your cheeks, a strange flutter settling in the pit of your belly. You head back to the counter, trying hard not to let on that he’s stirred something within you from something as simple as that.

He goes to leave.

“Wait.”

He halts at the door, looking over his shoulder to you.

You open up your drawer and pull out your manuscript. You lean over the counter and extend it to him, hopeful that he takes it quickly and prevents you from thinking it’s a mistake to do so. 

“It’s my draft novel. My manuscript. It’s done. For the most part.” You pray he takes it from you to stop your hand from shaking, nervousness and self-doubt filling you. He steps forward and accepts it from you, flipping through the pages, a questions in his eyes.

He doesn’t say a word, instead smiling softly. 

“I’ll let you know what I think.” He says, waving farewell. He smiles, stepping out the door of your bookshop. His smile gets bigger as he spots the jasmine he had gifted you a few weeks ago, acting as a door stopper for the door to your book shop. He breathes out a sigh, his pent up yearning escaping languidly into the air.

You stand up, poking your head out of the door as you watch him walk down the street and turn the corner. You slowly head back to the book you had left on the counter and pick it up, sighing. You had wanted him to stay. You flip through it and a small, dried flower falls out and floats to the floor. You crouch down and pick it up carefully, between your fingers, holding it up to the light. You recognise it instantly. It’s peach blossom.

//

You had begun to build a small collection of dried and pressed flowers as a result of the petals he left for you, between the pages of borrowed books. Some of them still held their soft, delicate scent.

Your watch as your friend pokes them with her finger. You had done as he had, strung them up and pegged them on a piece of string in your store, so you could admire them as you worked.

“Tell me again what you two do?”

You look up from the cashier at your friend.

"I lend him books and we swap. Each time he returns my book there is a single flower inside. Maybe he uses it as a book mark?"

"What sort of books do you lend each other?" she asks, taking a sip of her juice.

"Poetry, science, philosophy, novels..."

"Does he have feelings for you?"

You pause and contemplate it. You had no idea. “I think so...” you say, a little unsure. “Maybe not... I don’t know.”

“Do you have feelings for him?”

You flush. She smiles knowingly.

“What’s his name?” she asks.

Your face gets redder. You had never asked. Like a character in a story, you had let yourself get wrapped up in the romance, the chance meetings and the subtle courting.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know his name?” she exclaims, slapping her hand down on the counter, causing some of your customers to turn their attention to you.

“Shh!”

She leans in, whispering. “You’re having this poetic back and forth with a handsome florist but you don’t even know his name?”

“I know. I know.”

She laughs at you.

“The funny thing is, I gave him my draft manuscripts to read the other day.”

“What?”

“I know.”

“You don’t even let me read those!” Your friend says, shocked.

You sigh, sinking to the wall behind you. For some reason you trusted him the most with it. You weren't quite sure what you had been thinking at the time. It was in a drawer, you had been working on it when he had entered the store and you just had the urge to share it with him. He had accepted it graciously, curiosity and fascination flickering across his face.

You hadn’t seen him for a while, not since you had given him your manuscript to read. A twinge of regret niggles at you. Maybe you shouldn’t have given it to him. The twinge grows, morphing into doubt, anxiety and irritation in your chest.

After your friend leaves, you decide to close the store early, plucking up your courage to pay a visit to his flower shop. When you get there, your heart sinks. It’s closed. His mustard bike isn’t there and the lights aren’t on. You consider knocking but decide against it, instead heading back home.

//

Weeks past and you had given up hope on seeing him again or getting your book and manuscript back. You close the store and begin to pack up. You stare at the flowers hanging on your wall. You begin to slowly unclip the dried flowers from their pegs, placing them on the counter.

You hear a knock on the door. Curious, you go to answer it.

It’s him.

He smiles at you softly from the other side of the door. You unlock it and open the door. He steps inside and spots your string of flowers and the ones that you had taken down. He cocks a brow, just a fraction, and turns to you.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

“I’m returning your book.” He says, a matter of fact. He’s only standing there, but he’s taken your breath away. Your heart beats faster. It had been so long since you had seen his face, his unique and contradicting features of soft and strong. His hair, his glasses. 

“I went to your shop, you weren’t there.” you say slowly.

“My friend, the one who owns the farm, he needed some help urgently. It’s in the middle of no where. Sorry. I had no time to let you know.” he looks at the flowers on the table that he had gifted you. “I realised we didn't even swap numbers.”

He looks at the dried petals. “Are you throwing these away?”

You don’t meet his eyes.

He bites his lip, worry seeping into his skin. He had been telling you the whole time how he had felt, but you had no clue.

“Here.” he hands you your manuscript. “I read it. It’s brilliant.”

He had spent some time on the farm with his friend, reading through the pages. Every word gripped him, every sentence stirred his emotions. He had sighed, leaning back into the bench, laughing out loud, throwing his head back, slight tears prickling in his eyes. Your story had made him feel things. His friend had come out to the patio where he was, cool lemonade in hand.

“What is it?” his friend had asked. “You finally finished it?”

“I finished it.” He said.

“And?”

“I’m in love.” he had responded.

You accept it from him, scrunching it slightly in your hands, your own self instigated shame running over your body. You’re not sure if you want to believe him. A red tulip flutters from the pages.

“Before you throw them away... let me tell you what they mean. Then you can decide whether or not you want to throw them out.” he says.

You breath catches in your throat as he steps closer to you, reducing the space between your bodies.

“Lilac.” His eyes glimmer in the afternoon light. “You know what this one means.”

“Love at first sight.” You say, breathless. A faint smile tugs at his lips, happy that you had remembered.

“Circaea, fascination. Alstroemeria, devotion, loyalty.”

He looks down at the pot of jasmine you had brought inside, sitting by the door. All of these flowers. All of these feelings. They had represented how he had felt about you the more he got to know you and spent time with you. The feelings that had festered and swelled in his heart and mind when you weren’t there, when it was only him thinking of you.

“Jasmine. I am happy.” His voice soft and low. “Purple pansy. You occupy my thoughts. Peach blossom. I am your captive.” His gaze is strong, certain of his feelings for you in his confession.

You blink, completely and utterly caught up in his words.

He bends down and picks up the tulip from the floor by your feet. He straightens up and holds it out to you.

“Red tulip. A declaration of love.”

Your heart hammers hard in your chest as the words permeate through you. He reaches down, taking your hand in his. Your skin is buzzing, warm. He tucks your hair behind your ear, it’s a simple and intimate action and you inhale sharply, your lips parting slightly.

He can’t hold back now. His gaze moves to your lips and he leans into you, gracing you with a soft, slow kiss. Your eyes flutter closed, your eyelashes tickling your skin as they do. You kiss him back, helplessly needing to satiate a desire that’s built up inside you. You sigh into his tender kiss and it transitions into something more, it’s deeper, passionate, yearning. Your head feels dizzy and your hands find their way to his chest, crinkling the papers you’re still holding onto.

It’s as if nothing but whole-hearted reciprocation of the same, burning, loving feeling mattered.

He pulls back, finally, a little out of breath, his eyes scintillating. 

“My name is Kim Namjoon. I think I love you.”

When Moments slip through our fingers...

Hunter used to love playing with Hot Wheels cars. We would sit in his room on the floor for hours as he’d think up different ways to play with them. Sometimes he would line them all up in a long line going from his bed through the hallway. Sometimes he would arrange them by color. Other times he’d get out his tracks and race only his favorite cars. His Big Wheels car was a hit. He’d drive that thing around the yard until the battery died. He’d lift the hood, grab Anthony’s tools, and pretend to fix it before he’d push it back over to the garage to charge. Baseball used to consist of getting excited when he could hit the ball off the tee and run in the direction of first base instead of straight up through the pitcher’s mound into second. Mud pies were also popular. The more worms the better.

Brooklyn was obsessed with anything girly- littlest pet shop, Barbie dolls, American girls... you name it, she probably had it. They always involved small pieces that required some sort of organization- something she had no desire to learn. We would sit in her room and brush hair, braid it, use pretend voices on each of the dolls and animals. This girly girl also loved to get dirty. She quickly realized her love for farm life when we bought her six new baby chicks. Not only that, but she’s always had a green thumb. She loved to garden and grow plants. She’d spend hours outside. She too created mud pies, but hers were decorated with carefully placed dandelions and rocks she had found that would fit perfectly for a gift for me- a stepping stone for the garden.

This was a period of time I never realized in the moment that I would miss.

My how times have changed. Now instead of playing with hot wheels cars, Hunter drives me around in the UTV or has me sit and watch the cars he creates on his video games. Instead of tball, we play select baseball and the intensity of the competition has changed drastically. We now get excited for pop flies that he catches, and runners that he can get out as he plays second base. We shout when he hits a double with those little tiny arms of his. Instead of mud pies, he now enjoys hunting, fishing, and shooting his BB gun.

Brooklyn doesn’t play dolls anymore, but she still loves small things. She’s a collector of make up. Recently, for her birthday, she used her gifted money to buy organizers for her hair scrunchies, pens, lip gloss, eye shadows, and mascaras. She is collecting plants for her room now- succulents and trees. She has started a garden on the front porch- veggies and flowers. They’re all starting to sprout. She doesn’t much like to play with me anymore, but every once in awhile she enjoys my presence enough to come paint my nails, play her flute, show me a dance she learned, or to show me the stories she wrote. She also loves to bake. She still enjoys those farm animals and seems to be able to communicate with them on some level the rest of us can’t.

They are now almost 11 and 14 years old. I didn’t realize the last time that I would sit and play hot wheels or the last time that we would get out those American girls, change their outfits, and brush their hair. The next thing I knew we were packing things away in boxes to save for their kids when they grow up and move out.

I wonder if I’ll learn from the past and hold onto these fleeting moments that we experience with them as a preteen/teenager. Will we relish these moments the same as I wish I would have relished their childhood? Or will I wish these moments away in the hurried fashion that I often did when they were little? I remember looking forward to the days that mothering wasn’t so much work. Now that they’re older, it’s just as much work, but the responsibility has changed. Instead, we have busy schedules, harder homework, and lots of hormones.

I’ve had a lot of downtime to think recently. As challenging as some days can be, I wouldn’t trade them for the world. I’ve reflected recently on all the things that we once found to be a burden- driving them around everywhere, scheduling sleepovers, chore charts, shopping for clothes, etc.... are now things that we miss. This is part of their childhood and these are moments we shouldn’t take for granted. These moments are fleeting and are meant to be enjoyed.

As we sit in our homes during this worldwide pandemic, we have learned to find joy in different things- playing in the creek, campfires under the stars, nights in the hot tub, baking, videos games (🙄), less schoolwork, game nights, alternate birthday celebrations, social distancing play dates (adults too), and zoom calls with our church.

Life looks different than it did 5 years ago. It also looks different than it did 2 months ago. Regardless, I will try to choose to live in the moment. I will try to find joy even through the hormones. I will find joy in the few moments I get with my teenage daughter. I will find ways to connect with my videogame loving son. We will make the best with what we have because I don’t know when the last time will be for any of these things. Despite our circumstances, life is meant to be enjoyed.

Arplis - News: Great Tips for Selling a Tiny House: Your Guide to Landing a Big Offer

In 2007, tiny-home enthusiast and builder Jay Shafer gave Oprah a tour of his 97-square-foot house and the modern Tiny Home Movement took off. Today, it’s estimated that there are 10,000 tiny homes gracing the U.S., and over half of Americans are open to the possibility of buying a house of tiny proportions (under 600 square feet). Good news for you, now that you’re selling one! Generally, the number of tiny homes sold per year averages about 30,000 nationwide and has risen in lockstep over the years with the blossoming interest in simple living. However, selling a tiny house in a country where the average home runs about 1,600-1,650 square feet remains an intimidating prospect. To overcome the biggest buyer objections around the lack of space, limited privacy, and zoning complications, follow these tips for selling a tiny home from tiny-home builders, owners, and an agent who managed to attract multiple offers on her client’s tiny cabin. With their advice, you’ll be in great shape to market this lifestyle while highlighting the versatility and benefits of your unique tiny home, whether it’s on wheels or affixed to a piece of land. We’ll cover how to: Create curb appeal with window boxes, vertical gardens, and fresh paint Keep your staging minimal, using mirrors and curtains to your advantage Showcase your tiny home’s space-saving and convertible features Highlight your tiny home’s unique features and upgrades Sell the tiny home lifestyle, from jet-setting to cost savings Capture photos with a wide-angle lens on a sunny day Price your tiny home with a pre-listing appraisal and top agent’s expertise Be clear about local zoning and building rules Source: (Tiny Home Builders)Create curb appeal with window boxes, vertical gardens, and fresh paint Tiny homes get automatic curb appeal points for being so darn cute. But a few simple projects can take your tiny home exterior to the next level (and improving curb appeal is the no. 1 thing you can do to boost the marketability of your home, according to nearly 77% of top real estate agents across the country polled by HomeLight). 1. Install window boxes for a touch of charm Window boxes filled with colorful plants are ideal for improving curb appeal when you don’t have a lot of outdoor space to play with or if you’re selling a mobile tiny home. You can purchase window boxes from any major home-improvement retailer. They come in a variety of colors and styles to match your home, and you can spend as little as $10 or as much as $100 on a single box depending on how high-end you want to go. The more expensive boxes tend to have more intricate detailing (like this White Cape Cod Self-Watering Window Box for $65 — lovely!), but the simpler and cheaper designs come in shades of green, black, and dark orange to boot. You can hang window boxes yourself with a drill, 3-inch galvanized screws, and this handy guide from This Old House, a 40-year-old home-enthusiast brand. (Make sure to choose a window box that’s about 6 inches longer than the window). Then it’s a matter of which plants to choose for your boxes. According to the Old Farmer’s Almanac, a periodical started in 1792, window boxes look best with lots of plants arranged close together. The Almanac recommends anchoring your window box with some base flowers like: Petunias Geraniums Zinnias Nasturtiums Begonias Then, you can fill the gaps with varieties like wandering jew, ivy, euonymus, heather, or vinca. Succulent window boxes with special draining trays are also rising in popularity — they look great but remain low-maintenance! You can buy a variety of succulents for around $20. 2. Make your own vertical gardens Don’t have a huge yard with big mature trees and perfectly groomed shrubs? Such is the plight of tiny-home owners the world over. Vertical gardens — which are plant arrangements that grow in an upward or stacked fashion — are another great way to add curb appeal to your tiny home. There are lots of different types of vertical gardens, but here are a couple of the easiest ones to DIY: Flowerpot tower (from The Self Sufficient Living) Buy a few terracotta planters of ascending sizes. Use the biggest planter as your base, and fill it with soil. Place a rod in the middle of a planter. Stack remaining planters on top of the base, from big to small (like a pyramid) using the rod to connect them. Add flowers of choice to each planter. Violets, nasturtiums, daisies, marigolds, and pansies will be tower-garden friendly, according to TowerGarden.com. Tiered hanging baskets (from BobVila.com) Purchase a few durable, woven hanging baskets like these Madras storage baskets from World Market. Connect the baskets with braided rope in a color of your choosing. Add your potting soil and flower varieties, and hang the tiered baskets with a strong hook. Ladder garden (from Ana-White.com) Ladders serve more than their practical purpose of helping us reach high places. The right kind of ladder (preferably wood) in the right setting can be the perfect structure to support a vertical garden that you prop up against your tiny home. Ana-White.com has a great tutorial for how to build your own ladder garden planter using cedar fence pickets. The project costs about $20 but does require using a compound miter saw and a staple gun. However, this DIY option allows you to add your soil and flowers/herbs directly into the runged planters. Alternatively (for the more novice DIYers) you could buy a tiered ladder like this natural wood variety from Home Depot ($131), and place your plant containers on top of each tier. You could even paint the ladder a fun outdoorsy shade like robin’s egg blue or sunny yellow. 3. Give your front door a fresh coat of paint Take a look at the condition and color of the front door. If it doesn’t wow you, dress it up with a fresh coat of paint for a dash of instant pizzaz. If your tiny home exterior is neutral, consider a bold color like Moroccan red, blue loch, lemon twist, or sassy green. Alternatively, you could stick with earthy tones like olive, jade, or black. Source: (Filios Sazeides / Unsplash)Keep your staging minimal, using mirrors and curtains to your advantage When it comes to staging your tiny house, less is more. With so little square footage to work with, it’s very easy to over-stage, which makes the space feel cluttered and small. Your top priority, before you bring in any extra decorative items, is to keep an exquisitely neat and tidy home. If your closets and cabinets look stuffed, eliminate items such as excess coffee cups, clothes, and kitchen gadgets to make each precious storage area appear sufficiently spacious. What you do with the overflow is up to you: Sell, digitize, donate, and box up anything you can’t part with. Temporarily place your boxes in an offsite unit or friend’s garage, but get it off the property. As for other tiny home staging techniques: Limit your use of rugs to keep the room-flow open and stick to smaller furnishings proportionate to your square footage. Paint walls a shade of white. Draw the eye outdoors using large mirrors. Hang curtain rods 4-6 inches above windows and use rods that extend 3-6 inches beyond both sides of the frame. Select curtains with a subtle vertical stripe or pattern to add the illusion of height to the window. Showcase your tiny home’s space-saving and convertible features People out shopping for tiny homes may be coming from regular-sized, single-family residences with walk-in closets and tons of cabinets. They know they’ll need to downsize their belongings to comfortably live in a tiny house and shift gears on how many guests they can entertain. However, the more you can show off the storage potential and modifiable room arrangements of your tiny home, the more attractive it will be to those coming from different ends of the “I’m a minimalist” spectrum. Take, for example, the 304-square-foot, off-the-grid cabin of John and Fin Kernohan in the woods of Georgia. The Kernohans, who are also the founders of United Tiny House Association, an organization for the advocacy and support of the tiny house movement, shared that their L-shaped sitting area serves three purposes: Entertaining room in the daytime and evenings Sleeping quarters with two convertible single beds for overnight guests Storage with 48 cubic feet of space beneath the seating   View this post on Instagram   “Living in 304sqft off-grid doesn’t mean ‘roughing it’… we love our Beloved Cabin!” – John & Fin Kernohan #belovedcabin #tinyhousemovement #tinyhousepeople #tinyhousefestivals #tinyhousecommunity #tinyhouses A post shared by United Tiny House (@unitedtinyhouse) on Mar 21, 2017 at 3:30pm PDT If the Kernohans were (theoretically) selling their tiny cabin, they would want to include images of this space that illustrate each of the three setups and include a summary of the convertible options in the listing description. This differs a bit from a regular listing, where you’d likely capture photos of each room but wouldn’t have to demonstrate multiple arrangements. Highlight your tiny home’s unique features and upgrades Our homes are extensions of ourselves, and that sentiment is amplified among tiny-home owners. Whether you built your tiny home from scratch or selected each update with care, you take great pride in every little detail. Meaghan Baker, a top-selling real estate agent in Dickson, Tennessee, found this to be the case when she sold a client’s one-bedroom, 528-square-foot house in her area. “When I was doing the property description, I tried to really focus on the fact that it was a little cabin, a getaway in the woods,” she recalls. “The house had a connection to the land and it also had a connection to my client — because that’s his family’s land and he really put a lot of thought and a lot of his heart into creating this home for himself.” This particular seller had invested in what Baker estimated to be $3,000 African mahogany countertop in the kitchen. He also hand-built — with wood right there from the land — a cherry barn door to separate the bedroom and living room. The best way to convey these details about your own home to potential buyers? Have a conversation with your agent about your home’s history and what makes it stand out. “I really sat down with the client and asked him to give me all the details on every type of wood he used and where he used it,” Baker says. “It was really important to emphasize that in the listing.” Her strategy worked: The tiny home she was selling (much to her surprise!) attracted multiple offers and sold over asking. At the end of the day, ensure that whatever features are unique to your tiny house shine through as you market the property, whether it’s a high-end stackable washer and dryer, your dedication to using sustainable building materials throughout, your handy bike storage contraption, or a rooftop terrace. If your tiny home is permanently placed (i.e., not on a trailer with wheels), highlight the parcel of land your property is on. Show how it’s nestled at the foot of a mountain or situated in a beautiful wooded area. High-end professional photography is a must, and you could even capture some aerial shots using drone technology. Sell the tiny home lifestyle, from jet-setting to cost savings In Baker’s experience, “Offers [on the tiny home] came in from everywhere, but each of the buyers was looking for the same thing — a more minimalist lifestyle to get away from the upkeep.” What a great insight for tiny-home sellers! You too can highlight how low-maintenance your home is (“It only takes 30 minutes to clean from top to bottom!”) and everything you’re able to do because you’re not tied to a traditional house: Travel, spend time outdoors, work fewer hours, whatever the case may be. “Believe it or not, one of Fin’s main reasons for going tiny is the ability for us to clean our house quickly and thoroughly in a very short amount of time,” John Kernohan says. You should also spell out the cost savings, including what you normally pay in utilities each month. “Utilities in a tiny home are just a fraction of the cost of living in a conventional home, as much as 85% less,” says Dan Louche, the founder of Tiny Home Builders, one of the country’s largest tiny home manufacturing companies. Tiny house living can relieve dwellers of many expenses, leading to debt-free living, and who isn’t excited about that possibility? Depending on your comfort level, the more personal you can be, the better. When buyers are new to the tiny house lifestyle, it pays to educate and share your experience with the home and to really illustrate what your day-to-day life looks like. You can include an FAQ sheet in your marketing materials or provide a personal statement with the property to give potential buyers insight into the tiny home benefits they’d never dreamed of. Source: (Tiny Home Builders)Capture photos with a wide-angle lens on a sunny day “In our experience, a wide-angle lens is a requirement [for marketing tiny homes],” Louche says. Wide-angle lenses have a wider field of view than the human eye and the photos they’re able to capture make tight spaces look roomier. The trade-off with a wide-angle lens, however, is you’ll get a distorted fish-eye look in your photos if you don’t use the technology properly. To avoid that, Louche recommends running the images through software (here are a few methods with varying degrees of difficulty), to correct the images. When in doubt, hire a professional photographer with experience using a wide-angle lens to photograph your home. Be sure to capture photos on a clear bright day, as “You’ll want to show off the natural light that pours into your home,” advises John Kernohan. Lighting a tiny home naturally is much easier than bringing in professional lighting equipment, which can be challenging in a cramped space. Price your tiny home with a pre-listing appraisal and top agent’s expertise According to a Reader’s Digest interview with the producer of Tiny House, Big Living, tiny home prices can range anywhere between $10,000 and $180,000 but tend to average around $30,000-$40,000. All in all, valuing tiny homes can be tricky. For one, from a price-per-square-foot perspective, tiny homes are expensive, making it hard to compare them to any other kind of real estate. Data show tiny homes cost $300-$400 per square foot to build, compared to $150 per square foot for regular homes. When you’re packing so much function into a small space, each part of that space becomes more valuable. Think about how, in a tiny home, kitchens, beds, and baths account for a greater proportion of the total square footage that would otherwise go to hallways, closets, entryways, etc. You also have to adjust your price based on the features and upgrades of the home. Expensive materials and selections (like the luxury cabin in the woods offered) are going to sell for a premium while a no-frills basic version won’t fetch a fraction of the same cost. Pricing is also completely different depending on whether you have a permanent location versus mobile tiny home on wheels. A mobile tiny home isn’t going to gain value in the same way. It’s actually the land your home is built on that appreciates, which is why location has such a big impact on a property’s value. With all of these factors to account for, you can opt to get a pre-listing appraisal from a professional appraiser to use in your pricing strategy. If you need to factor in any land, you can look at comparable land sales in the area to get a price-per-square-foot comparison. Baker’s experience is an excellent example of how pricing a tiny home can be a bit of a moving target: “The seller had gotten an appraisal on the house a few months before we put it on the market,” she recalls. “We took his appraisal, and we looked at the other land that had sold in the area and got the square footage price, which brought our price down a bit to $129,900. We ended up selling it for $140,000, which was close to the original appraisal.”  Be upfront with buyers about zoning and building rules It’s no longer the Wild West (as fun as that would be!) Today, city and state zoning laws set rules for how land can be divided and which types (and size) of structures you can put there. Unfortunately, tiny homes often clash with building and zoning regulations, particularly local minimum square-foot requirements for new construction. When a house doesn’t meet these local requirements, you can’t build it on a residential lot. To circumvent this issue, many tiny homes are built on trailers and parked in lots or RV parks (which may require appropriate permitting). In that case, you’re selling a personal property, which can be registered as a trailer, explains Louche, and you should be transparent about what buyers are getting, i.e., just the house — not any land. If you own, instead of lease or rent, the plot of land the tiny house is on, you’ll need to consult with your real estate agent and possibly an attorney about the legal requirements in your area. If the home’s foundation is in the ground and your utilities are wired into the grid, you’ll have little choice but to package the home with the parcel of land. When looking for a top local agent to sell your tiny home, make sure whoever you choose has experience in the market and strong familiarity with the zoning laws in your area to help you navigate these intricacies. Header Image Source: (Tiny Home Builders) #QuickTips&Tricks #SellingAdvice

Arplis - News source https://arplis.com/blogs/news/great-tips-for-selling-a-tiny-house-your-guide-to-landing-a-big-offer-1

“One-Story House” by Rebecca Solnit

[An extraordinary essay from Rebecca Solnit’s A Field Guide to Getting Lost on dreams, extinction, memory, the American landscape, the architecture of the psyche, familial figures, turtles, and place. The bottom of the pool...]

I was carrying the tortoise in both hands, holding it out in front of me like an altar boy’s Bible or a divining rod as I walked around the periphery of the room. Each plate of its ruddy shell was distinct. It leaked as I carried it. More water came forth than a tortoise that size could possibly store. The creature was a fountain, a cleft rock in my hands, and when I awoke I realized that the room in which I paced was my childhood bedroom.

I had been wandering through that house every now and again ever since I’d left it at age fourteen. A quarter century had passed, and I still wasn’t out of it, in my dreams. It was a classic suburban house of its era, single-story, L-shaped. The houses children draw look like faces with upstairs windows for eyes and a door for a mouth. They have a solidity and a centrality that makes them home as the head is home. This house, with its public rooms that opened one into another as though they were only distended passageways and its bedrooms appendix-like cul-de-sacs, had no center, but my psyche was stuck in it. The previous owners’ plantings all around it were strange, exotic, bottlebrush and artificial strawberry tree, a spruce the same powder blue as the corduroy pants boys wore then, succulents and other plants that were nameless, unrecognizable, inedible,  with shiny leaves or spiky ones. One plant up a narrow side plot in perpetual shade bloomed annually with a single colossal lily that looked as though it were made of crumpled black leather from some thin-skinned creature. In front of each of the two children’s bedrooms facing the street was a misshapen juniper, and at night the headlights of passing cars made the shadows of their branches whirl around the walls like pterodactyls. Awnings, eaves, and patio roof prevented sunlight from reaching in directly to this place made of formica and tile and linoleum and dark green wall-to-wall carpeting with a nap like aerial photographs of forests. Everything about it seemed to be made of chilly alien materials, and the swimming pool was strangest of all.

The pool was unheated, too cold for skinny kids to jump in most of the year, but it always needed sweeping and skimming to get the dirt and debris out, and the tools for doing that were fantastically long, like cutlery for a Behemoth with its head up in the clouds. It was the usual pale turquoise with a pink cement rim that abraded bare feet and the sharp smell of chlorine emanating from its waters. There’s something fearful and mysterious about every body of water, murky water that promises unseen things in unseen depths, clear water that shows you the bottom far below as if you could fall into it, though the water would buoy you up in that strange space neither air nor ground. The term “a body of water” is apt, for here was a mysterious body thirty feet long, eight feet tall at the far end, a transparent captive into whose depths you could throw yourself. Even the lightest breeze patterned the water on the surface, and the sun turned those patterns into strange skeins of light that fled across the bottom, endless nets cast across a fishless sea. Afterward I dreamed over and over of the pool as well as the house. It was as though I couldn’t find my way out of the house, as though I was still lost in it, but the pool was less part of the labyrinth than its holy well.

Terrible things happened in that house, though not particularly unusual or interesting ones; suffice to say there’s a reason why therapists receive large hourly sums for listening to that kind of story. Or maybe there’s one thing to say, about the capitalism of the heart, the belief that the essences of life too can be seized and hoarded, that you can corner the market on confidence, stage a hostile takeover of happiness. It’s based on scarcity economics, the notion or perhaps the feeling that there’s not enough to go around, and the belief that these intangible phenomena exist in a fixed quantity to be scrambled for, rather than that you can only increase them by giving them away. A story can be a gift like Ariadne’s thread, or the labyrinth, or the labyrinth’s ravening Minotaur; we navigate by stories, but sometimes we only escape by abandoning them.

Some years ago, I dreamed that my mother had fixed up the house, or had done so in dream terms, heavy-handed ones: the swimming pool was surrounded by broken glass, the bathroom had two sunken tubs shaped like coffins, and my own small bedroom had been brightly repainted with a line of dancing skeletons on one wall. I dreamed of my father every now  and again too, and long after his death, not long after the hermit taught me to shoot, there was a period in which I told him to stand back because I was armed. After this series of victories, he became harmless. Clearly, I was getting somewhere over the years. I took over the master bedroom and decided to move, I drove the family out of my own room, and then came the dream of the tortoise.

In dreams, nothing is lost. Childhood homes, the dead, lost toys all appear with a vividness your waking mind could not achieve. Nothing is lost but you yourself, wanderer in a terrain where even the most familiar places aren’t quite themselves and open onto the impossible. But the morning after I carried the leaking tortoise, I knew I was no longer stuck in the house. The weight of a dream is not in proportion to its size. Some dreams are made of fog, some of lace, some of lead. Some dreams seem to be made out of less the usual debris of the psyche than bolts of lightning sent from outside.

I wondered where the tortoise came from. I remembered riding a Galapagos tortoise in a zoo when I was two, remembered a box turtle my middle brother had as a pet, and the small red slider turtles painted up for Easter back when animal cruelty standards were lower, read about how the Zuni think of turtles as the spirits of the dead returned, noticed that every image of turtles and tortoises had a sort of pull on me. Months passed before I remembered an encounter with a desert tortoise almost a decade earlier, when I was camping in the Mojave with a few other women. I saw the full-grown  tortoise in the center of a secondary road near Death Valley and stopped my truck. We got out to look at it, and I recited what I knew: that it is bad to touch these creatures, because they are stressed by the transformation of their environment, vulnerable to illness and to infection, particularly to a respiratory disorder, and touching could contaminate them. In crisis, they sometimes void all their stored water, water slowly extracted from leaves and gulped up from puddles after hard rain, water that can make up to forty percent of their body weight, and losing their water is a crisis itself.

But they are also prone to being run over by cars and off-road vehicles throughout their territory, the Mojave and western Colorado deserts. We watched the tortoise, which had stopped when we did, watched a few approaching cars in the distance, and then I took out a clean dish towel and, with the dish towel between my hands and its shell, lifted the creature. It had retracted its head and limbs, and so I carried a heavy dust-colored dome with each plate etched in concentric lines, a mosaic of mandalas. Holding it before me, I strode about fifty feet into the scrubby desert and set it down facing in the direction it had been going. Put down, it walked again with an odd tipping motion, its shell lurching a little with each step. One of the most famous Buddhist tales is about a pair of monks sworn to keep apart from women. One day they come to the edge of a turbulent river. A woman there implores them to help her cross—old fables are short on athletic women—and one of them carries her through the waters. After the two monks have been walking for some time on the farther shore, the other monk reproaches him for breaking his vows. His companion replies, “Why are you still carrying her? I put her down on the far side of the river.” Several years after that little encounter in the desert, I was still carrying the tortoise, but it had become a compass, a visa, an amulet. The desert tortoise is in danger of extinction—it officially received “threatened” status from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service in 1990—because of human encroachments. The causes of its diminishing numbers are many. Nonnative plants have disrupted its diet, and grazing animals, dogs, vehicles, development, military bases have all had their impact, as has the widespread capturing of the creatures for pets. An increase in garbage dumps in the desert has vastly increased the raven population, and ravens prey on young tortoises during the five years or so before their shells harden sufficiently to protect them. (The hermit once found a young tortoise with severe pecking wounds in its shell; he brought it home and called in a zoo veterinarian he knew to try to save it with kitchen-sink surgery—I was away then, and he delivered telephone reports on “Miss Tortoise” for a few days, then told me that “Miss Tortoise didn’t make it.”) The desert tortoise can go for more than a year without food or water, hibernates several months a year in its colder northern reach, stays in its cool burrow during the hottest part of summer, seldom roams more than a mile from its burrow, walks slowly, lives slowly, to a great age, upward of a century.  They have existed for sixty million years or so. The plan to save them is designed to give them a fifty percent chance of existing in five hundred years. The government is unwilling to dedicate more resources or curtail more activities than make the odds even.

In 1919, a young ethnographer fell in love with a blacksmith from the Chemehuevi tribe whose large territory is the heart of tortoise habitat. The blacksmith, George Laird, was already forty-eight, and as a boy he had learned much lore that was being forgotten and lost and diluted. The winter he was sixteen—about 1888—he nursed a man in the agonizing last stages of syphilis, and the dying man taught the boy a purer form of their language and “filled the long, sleepless nights with tales of the Immortals, the pre-human Animals Who Were People, told with great style and elegance.” During the twenty-one years the Chemehuevi man and the ethnographer, Carobeth Laird, were inseparable, she learned the language, the songs, and the stories he knew, and long after he died, when she herself was old, she turned her notes and memories into a book of ethnography. Of the tortoise, she recorded, “This reptile was desirable for food, but it also had a peculiar aura of sacredness. It was and is to this day symbolic of the spirit of the People. ‘A Chemehuevi’s heart is tough, like the turtle’s.’ This ���tough-heartedness’ is equated with the will and the ability to endure and to survive.” But the tortoise is not surviving us well.

It is in the nature of things to be lost and not otherwise. Think of how little has been salvaged from the  compost of time of the hundreds of billions of dreams dreamt since the language to describe them emerged, how few names, how few wishes, how few languages even, how we don’t know what tongues the people who erected the standing stones of Britain and Ireland spoke or what the stones meant, don’t know much of the language of the Gabrielanos of Los Angeles or the Miwoks of Marin, don’t know how or why they drew the giant pictures on the desert floor in Nazca, Peru, don’t know much even about Shakespeare or Li Po. It is as though we make the exception the rule, believe that we should have rather than that we will generally lose. We should be able to find our way back again by the objects we dropped, like Hansel and Gretel in the forest, the objects reeling us back in time, undoing each loss, a road back from lost eyeglasses to lost toys and baby teeth. Instead, most of the objects form the secret constellations of our irrecoverable past, returning only in dreams where nothing but the dreamer is lost. They must still exist somewhere: pocket knives and plastic horses don’t exactly compost, but who knows where they go in the great drifts of objects sifting through our world?

Once I found a locket with a crescent moon and star spelled out in rhinestones on one face, unreadably intricate initials on another, and two ancient photographs inside, and someone must have missed it terribly but no one claimed it, and I have it still. Another time, traveling down a river in one of the last great wildernesses, a roadless place the size of Portugal, I lost a sock early in the trip and a pair of sunglasses later, and I think of  them littering that wilderness so clear of such clutter, there still or found by someone who might have wondered as I did about the woman with the locket. On that trip I leaned over the side of the raft and stared straight down for hours at the floor of that river whose name almost no one knows that flows into another little-known river, stared at thousands of stones, hundreds of thousands of millions of stones sliding by, gray, pink, black, gold, under the clearest water in the whole world, floating for miles and days on water I drank straight out of the river. Material objects witness everything and say nothing. Animals say more. And they are disappearing.

That things should be lost to our knowledge is one thing, in which we don’t know where we are or they are; that things should be lost from the earth is another. There is a strange crossroads these days, between the actual and the known. Biologists estimate that about 1.7 million species are known, but that there are between 10 and 100 million on earth. Our discovery and categorization of species increases at a manic rate, but so does the disappearance of both known and unknown species. More is known; there is less to know; we lose both what we know and what we don’t. It is certain that species are vanishing without ever having been known to science. To think about this is to imagine the space inside our heads expanding but the places outside shrinking, as though we were literally devouring them.

In dreams I have been an eagle and a green finch, have met a three-headed coyote, wolves, foxes, lynxes, dogs, lions, songbirds, fish, snakes, cattle, seals, many  horses and cats, some who talk, a woman giving birth by cesarean to a full-grown stag that ran away, still wet with the juices of birth, down a dark, tree-shrouded road, a gazelle fawn that a woman breast-fed, a brown bear who married a woman. “They are all beasts of burden in a sense,” Thoreau once remarked of animals, “made to carry some portion of our thoughts.” Animals are the old language of the imagination; one of the ten thousand tragedies of their disappearance would be a silencing of this speech. A man once told me that much of my writing was about loss, that that was how I imagined the world, and I thought about that comment for a long time. In that sense of loss two streams mingled. One was the historian’s yearning to hang onto everything, write everything down, to try to keep everything from slipping away, and the historian’s joy in retrieving out of archives and interviews what was almost forgotten, almost out of reach forever. But the other stream is the common experience that too many things are vanishing without replacement in our time. At any given moment the sun is setting someplace on earth, and another day is slipping away largely undocumented as people slide into dreams that will seldom be remembered when they awaken. Only the continuation of abundance makes loss sustainable, makes it natural. There are more sunrises coming, but even dreams could be emptied out.

The golden age, the dreamtime, is the present, and too much in it is leaking out now. The Times Square clock that counted down to the millennium, its seconds, minutes, hours, days racing away on a digital display, could have been kept for endangered species, at least thirty lost a day, more than ten thousand a year, half of all of them to be gone in a century unless something changes radically, or everything does. Imagine the present as already a Noah’s ark, and greed and development and poison as a trio of pirates marching the animals and plants over the edge, to the bottom of the sea that is the past. No more flocks of passenger pigeons darkening the midwestern sky for hours and days in the past century, all known Sampson’s pearly mussels gone from midwestern rivers by the 1930s, no more Santa Barbara song sparrows since 1959, no more Tecopa pupfish since 1972, an estimated 142 Sonoran pronghorn left in the U.S. as of the late twentieth century but less than half that by 2002, seventy-two species of snail missing in Hawaii, the blue pike of the Great Lakes gone extinct right about when men first walked on the moon, the speckled cormorant gone from Alaska about the time of the gold rush.

During that California gold rush, Yankees in quantity first came through the heart of the desert tortoises’ territory. The Death Valley Forty-Niners were in haste to make it to the goldfields of the Sierra Nevada, and because they had arrived in the Great Basin too late to go over the Sierra’s snowy passes, they hired a Mormon guide to take them down the Spanish Trail to southern California. They called themselves the Sand Walking Company, a corruption of the San Joaquin Company, because none of them recognized the saint whose Spanish name had been given to a river and valley in  the southern mother lode. A twenty-year-old New Yorker named O.K. Smith showed up on the trail with pleasant stories of a more direct route to central California, and most of the wagons switched over to the alleged shortcut. The guide continued on the Spanish Trail with the few who didn’t. The strays were abetted by a map that government explorer John C. Fremont—“the pathfinder”—had drawn up, showing a long range running east-west that happened not to exist (a bad map had much to do with the Donner Party’s 1846 stranding too). “These mountains are not explored, being only seen from elevated points on the northern exploring line,” said the map, above an area marked in larger letters: “Unexplored.” The Sand Walkers thought they could travel along the foothills of the fictitious mountain range. Many turned back when the terrain became impassible for wagons, and the rest broke up into smaller parties. These parties got stranded in Death Valley, the lowest land in the Western Hemisphere, a dry lake bed like an empty mouth between two sharp rows of mountain ranges.

“We had been in the region long enough to know that the higher mountains contained the most water, and that the valleys had bad water or none at all, so that while the lower altitude to the south gave some promise of easier crossing it gave us no promise of water or grass, without which we must certainly perish,” wrote William Manly, half a century later. “In a certain sense we were lost. The clear nights and days furnished us with the means of telling the points of the compass as  the sun rose and set, but not a sign of life in nature’s wide domain had been seen for a month or more. A vest pocketful of powder and shot would last a good hunter until he starved to death, for there was not a living thing to shoot, great or small.” Manly was a skilled hunter and outdoorsman, and there’s no ready explanation for why the landscape through which he traveled in the winter of 1849-50 seemed to be so without wildlife. For these pioneers, the Mojave was an empty quarter, without water, without animals, without names, without maps, without all the things that give a place life and meaning. They were afraid of Indians, though the only two survivors of one party of eleven men made it because they were rescued by Paiutes. The skeletons of the other nine were found a decade later, inside a low circle of stones. Other parties were shown the location of precious waterholes, springs, and streams by Indians they encountered. Columbus had arrived in the Caribbean he mistook for the Indies almost four hundred years before, but there had been few direct disturbances of the indigenous inhabitants of the more remote western regions, and they were not yet resisting what was not yet a crisis.

One starving pioneer attempted to buy a biscuit off a neighbor for ten dollars and was refused. Another buried $2,500 to lighten his load, having been unable to find anyone who wanted to carry the gold coins for a half share of them. He was never able to find the burial spot either. Still others found ore that suggested rich mines, had they only the food and water to survive there. The  Lost Gunsight Mine, named after a silver-rich piece of ore that one of the Death Valley Forty-Niners had made into a gunsight, became famous, as did the Lost Goller Mine. The latter mine consisted of a few nuggets picked up by John Goller’s companion. Upon seeing them, Goller snapped, “I want water; gold will do me no good.” The mines themselves were legends later visitors would look for in vain, built out of bits of ore brought out by these desperadoes. It was a strange sojourn, this journey through a landscape where all their hopes of finding mineral wealth were set aside, where wealth meant nothing and water everything, where they were faced with critical decisions about sharing and surviving, where they all faced death and some met it. It was a detour into the essential and the introspective, as the desert often is, and they were lost in it.

The nomadic Chemehuevi navigated wide expanses of this arid terrain with songs. The songs gave the names of places in geographical order, and the place names were descriptive, evocative, so that a person who’d never been to a place might recognize it from the song. Carobeth Laird commented, “Nowadays when a song is sung it takes great leaps from one locality to another, because there is no one who remembers the route in its entirety.” She explained further, “How does that song go?” meant “What is the route it travels?” Men inherited songs from their father or grandfather, and the song gave them hunting rights to the terrain it described. Despite Manly’s experience, there seemed to be plenty to hunt for those who knew where  to look, and when. The Salt Song describes the route of a flock made up of every sort of land bird in the region, and it “travels all night, arriving at Las Vegas about midnight, at Parker towards morning, and back home to the place of origin by sunrise. If the night on which it is sung is very short, the Salt Song—as the other hereditary songs—may be shortened so that it will not outlast the night.” In that song the birds began to leave the flock toward morning, each dropping out into its own place in this orderly world of words and places. A song was the length of the night and a map of the world, and the arid terrain around Las Vegas was the Storied Land of the great myths. The Mojave people just to the south had a turtle song that also lasted the length of a night or several nights.

The silence in which Manly and a companion walked out of Death Valley to seek help for two families stranded there forms a strange contrast. They carried only small canteens and soon ran out of water. So they “traveled along for hours, never speaking, for we found it much better for our thirst to keep our mouths closed as much as possible, and prevent the evaporation.” They were unable to eat the dried ox meat they carried because their mouths were too parched, and when they finally found a small sheet of ice like “window glass,” they quenched their thirst only to find that they were ravenous. It took Manly and his companion twenty-three days to find help and return with provisions and a route out. By that time their traveling companions had despaired of the young men’s ability and  altruism, so they were surprised as well as rejoiced at their return. The whole party finally reached the settlements four months after they’d taken their shortcut. Afterward they returned to the mapped world and to their familiar way of living. “Every point of that terrible journey is indelibly fixed upon my memory, and though seventy-three years of age on April 6, 1893, I can locate every camp, and if strong enough, could follow that weary trail from Death Valley to Los Angeles with unerring accuracy,” wrote Manly in his memoir  Death Valley in ’49, and it was his party who named the place where they were stuck Death Valley.

I know the Storied Land or the country a little north of it. It’s the first desert I came to know and the place that taught me to write. In my late twenties, I started going to the Nevada Test Site, where a thousand nuclear bombs were detonated over the years, started going there with thousands of others to oppose the nuclear testing, a wild mix of Western Shoshones and pagans and Mormons and Franciscans and Buddhists and anarchists and Quakers. The place demanded to be described not with the straight line of a single story but with stories like the roads that converge upon a capital, for many histories had arrived there in the decades since the Death Valley Forty-Niners, and some of the old ones had not been forgotten. The people I met there invited me into a wider sense of home in the West, and a tortoise I picked up not so far from there would carry me out of my old home, a tortoise that might have been Turtle Island itself, the old name for the whole continent, as though the whole continent could be home, and perhaps it’s this sense of place that sprung me from the house I left a quarter century before.

Six or seven blocks northwest of where I live now is the hill where the last Brown Satyr butterfly was collected in the 1870s, as that intensely local species was going extinct. Some of the individuals of the gold rush were likeable, but their cumulative effect was terrible; they worked feverishly to acquire what could be hoarded—notably the tons of gold dug out of the mountains—and for it they paid with what couldn’t be hoarded and didn’t belong to them, the clear streams and rivers filled up with miners’ mercury and dirt, the salmon runs already starting to fail in their time, the forests chopped down for smelters, the California grizzly extinct everywhere but the state flag by 1922, the languages and stories of the tribes devastated by violence and by disease in this place that was blank and unborn to the miners. It was this acquisitiveness and its increasingly sophisticated new technologies that came to extract more and more wealth from the wild and remote places of the world to empty them out, filling up banks with more money than could ever be spent, more than there are things to buy. Now the scarcity is real, and growing.

It’s not as simple as a morality tale because what came into being is partly beautiful, and it has come to have its own complexities. There’s a Catholic university on the hill where the butterfly left off being, and I have heard great poets read there and environmentalists speak. About twice as far from my white birdcage of an apartment in the opposite direction is the San Francisco Zen Center one of the key locations for the arrival of Buddhism in the West. The handsome brick building in a poor neighborhood was erected long ago as a residence for Jewish women, and a few Stars of David are still worked into the iron balconies. One morning four months after my midsummer dream of the tortoise, I woke up knowing it was time to go there. I arrived in time for the Saturday morning talk and sat behind a huge African-American man. Whenever he shifted his weight the altar appeared and it was the more interesting in glimpses. That day, someone mentioned that the stone Buddha on it was from an Afghanistan that had ceased to exist long ago. I had just given the two wool blankets I had inherited from that house in my dreams to the Quakers for winter relief in Afghanistan. The statue with its serene full face seemed to be looking back from the place where the blankets were going. Its soft brown stone spoke of an aridity and solidity that made the place real, made me see stony mountains shaped by erosion into folds like the curves of the statue’s robes.

A gaunt man with cropped gray hair sat down cross-legged, arranged his dark robes, and without preamble began to tell a story, softly, slowly, with long pauses: “Good morning. For many years there was someone who used to come here and sell us boxes of candy. Actually they were tins of candy, and they were caramel-coated in chocolate, and they looked like little chocolate turtles. So we called him the Turtle Man, and the Turtle Man would come and sell us this very sweet  caramel-covered chocolate. And the Turtle Man couldn’t see. He was blind, so we bought two boxes instead of one. And then we’d put them in the desk in the office and then, even though we all thought they were way too sweet, we would eat them—quickly. The Turtle Man did this for many years. Like many blind people, he had a white cane, and he’d tap his way up the stairs and then he’d tap the door, and then he’d come in. We’d do our transaction, and then he’d leave.

“And one day I was out on the street right out here and I heard this voice go help . . . help . . . help . . . and it was the Turtle Man, and he was standing over there on the corner. He needed to cross the street and his way of crossing the street was to stand on the curb and say help and just say help until someone came along and helped him across the street. I didn’t watch him, but I assume that at each street crossing this was how the Turtle Man negotiated the crossing: he just stood there and said help, help.

“So I thought, Isn’t that really amazing? What an amazing life. You walk along and you reach a barrier and you stop and you just call out help. You don’t know who you’re talking to, you don’t know who’s around if anyone, and you wait, and then somebody turns up and they help you across that barrier, and then you walk on knowing that pretty soon you’re going to meet another barrier and you’re going to have to stop again and cry out help, help, help, not knowing if anyone’s there, not knowing who it will be that will turn up to help you across the next barrier.

“And yet somehow the Turtle Man could roam around the city selling boxes of turtle candy, coming to places like Zen Center and persuading them to buy a couple of cans.

“And he was, you know, a bit of a hustler. He knew we didn’t really want them, but he knew we were good for two cans. The Turtle Man wasn’t a fool. It was always a kind of a thrill to see him. It was almost like it was a miracle. It was like the Turtle Man defied gravity, he defied common sense, he defied conventionality. It was like the Turtle Man was a superhero, so it was always a little bit exciting and a little bit joyous when he turned up at the door.

“How else could we break through the spell that we weave if we didn’t have a little piece of Turtle Man in us? But this is a very dangerous proposition because most of us don’t have the excellent training of Turtle Man. Turtle Man had no option. It was either stay in bed or get up and meet the impassable barrier and cry for help. Those were the options.

“Maybe if I really paid attention to my life I’d notice that I don’t know what’s going to happen this afternoon and I can’t be fully confident that I’m competent to deal with it. Maybe we’re willing to let in that thought. It has some reasonableness to it, I can’t exactly know, but chances are, possibilities are, it’s not going to be much different than what I’ve usually experienced and I’ll do just fine, so we close up that unsettling possibility with a reasonable response. The practice of awareness takes us below the reasonableness that we’d  like to think we live with and then we start to see something quite fascinating, which is the drama of our inner dialogue, of the stories that go through our minds and the feelings that go through our heart, and we start to see in this territory it isn’t so neat and orderly and, dare I say it, safe or reasonable. So in the practice of awareness, which has gone on for centuries after centuries and millennium after millennium, human beings have asked themselves, Hmmmm, how do I engage this process in a way that I don’t become too frightened by what it might unfold or too complacent by avoiding it? This is the delicate work of awareness.

“You hear a sound, and you think, that’s a big truck going around the corner. It all happens in half a second. We see someone and make up a story about who they are, and sometimes we get ourselves into a lot of trouble with the stories we make up as we weave our world. And the practice of awareness doesn’t say don’t weave your world. That’s what we’re hardwired to do, it’s not a volitional thing to think ‘truck’ after hearing that sound. The practice of awareness says don’t grasp it too tightly, don’t be too convinced. And in that simpler way of being, it’s okay to become like the Turtle Man, it’s okay to sometimes experience not knowing what to do next, to run into a barrier. It’s okay to realize that life has a mysterious quality to it, it has an element of uncertainty, it’s okay to realize that we do need help, that calling out for help is a very generous act because it allows others to help us and it allows us to be helped. Sometimes we’re calling out for help. Sometimes we’re offering help, and  then this hostile world becomes a very different place. It is a world where there is help being received and help being given, and in such a world this compelling determined world according to me loses some of its urgency and desperation. It’s not so necessary in a generous world, in a world where help is available, to be so adamant about the world according to me.”

    Several months later, I was camping on the eastern side of the Sierra, in a forest of Jeffrey pines that stood far apart on that pale sand, speaking of vast root systems tapping out what moisture there was in that dry place. The pinecones fell in perfect circles under the trees, and the place seemed almost geometrically pure: the flat plain of volcanic sand, the tall straight trees, the dark circles of cones. In the warmth of day, the bark of these trees gives off a fragrance like vanilla and butter-scotch, a sweetness that added to the tranquility of the place that seemed when we were in it as though it was all there was in the world, as though the trees went on forever, as though time, history, obligation were no longer on the map. We slept in our cars on a night so cold that the water in our dishpan was frozen solid by morning. We’d camped there the year before, and that time I’d gotten my car stuck in the sand, several miles from the paved road. It had been a lovely moment to realize that I could count on my traveling companions, and they had gotten me out with good cheer and little fuss. This freezing night I dreamed I’d driven into the backyard of that childhood home and gotten the car  stuck again, but the yard and house belonged to someone else, a middle-aged Asian woman who had added a second story to it. It was her house now. I wasn’t going in, and friends were coming to dislodge the car.

And then as I was preparing to write this chapter, I dreamed of the place again, from the outside again. We were burying my father’s and grandmother’s hearts by rocky graves like ornamental excrescences around the edges of the swimming pool. This time the pool had dark dirt on its bottom, and its sides were no longer straight but wavering, encrusted with big stones. It was becoming a pond. The dark hearts had been in my refrigerator, in a Ziploc bag, like butcher’s meat. A dream doesn’t have to explain how long they’d been there. Which one was bigger, my dreaming self wondered, and did the size indicate generosity, body size, or unhealthy enlargement? Both died of heart trouble. And through a knothole in the tall back fence—and there was a real knothole I had forgotten, which in real life did look out onto the hilly pasture of a little quarter horse ranch—I saw horse-drawn carriages speeding by, then horses galloping faster and glossier than ever, exuberant with power, with life.

A few months later, I went to spend a few weeks writing in the county I grew up in, not the suburban corridor whose northernmost edge that house sat upon, but its wild west, mostly parkland and dairy farms. Geese were flying south, apples were ripe on the trees, and one day a naturalist named Rich took me around to look at birds. While we were watching a pair of white-tailed kites in the tree they roost in, he mentioned that they had  been thought to be extinct, and they were now doing so well that they were expanding their ecological niche and range. Almost everywhere but the black bands on their wings, the birds were as dazzlingly white as doves, though their contours were the condensed ferocity of hawks. Some people call them angel hawks. We went calling on dozens of shorebirds and waterbirds, a king-fisher, green herons half-hidden in the reeds, one gulping a blue dragonfly still whirring as it went down that long narrow throat, songbirds, and then a turtle peering above the still water of an old millpond. Reflection turned its tilted head in profile into a notched oddity with two yellow-gold eyes looking back at us. We traveled to several places not far from the road, and through this guide’s eyes and tales I saw a completely different place than this the one I had been coming back to almost all my life. My place had been made out of plants and landforms and light and some human histories. His was crowded with creatures going about their lives, each living according to a pattern, the patterns interwoven into a tapestry of formidable complexity.

Some ideas are new, but most are only recognition of what has been there all along, the mystery in the middle of the room, the secret in the mirror. Sometimes one unexpected thought becomes the bridge that lets you traverse the country of the familiar in an unprecedented way. You know the the usual story about the world, the one about ongoing encroachment that continues to escalate and thereby continues to wipe out species. Rich told a different story about how here for a hundred  years or so after the gold rush the newcomers blasted away at everything that moved, an era that let up half a century ago. And so, he said, in North America at least, a lot of species have come back. In this county with so many miles of open space, he told me, even coyotes became locally extinct. I realized that the hills I roamed as a child were empty and silent compared to what they are now. It was odd to think of what had been my paradise and refuge as an impoverished landscape, though I had long known its very grass wasn’t native.

Across the continent many of the common animals are coming back, the deer, moose, bears, coyotes, and cougars, a story that hasn’t been made much of. Many of the birds endangered by DDT four or five decades ago have likewise returned, peregrines, eagles, osprey, and more. But in this county, more happened. In the third quarter of the nineteenth century, tule elk were hunted into extinction altogether on this coast, and throughout their California habitat only a few survived. These survivors were discovered in 1874 in a tule marsh in the San Joaquin, the valley the Death Valley Forty-Niners had pronounced as Sand Walking. Their discoverers were in the process of draining the marsh for agriculture. A serious endeavor to save the species began in the twentieth century, and ten animals were reintroduced to this coast the year I left home and the county. Since then they had multiplied into the hundreds, and they are, in the present order of things, safe as a species.

I knew about the elk, but as Rich talked I began to see a picture I had not before, of all the animals who had  hovered in the doorway of disappearance and then returned to this place. Elephant seals had vanished for a hundred and fifty years from this stretch of coast and by 1890 vanished from all their breeding grounds but one place in Baja, their numbers dwindled down to about a thousand. Four years after the elk returned, the first breeding pair was sighted here. Now, twenty years later, a couple thousand of them heave themselves up onto this county’s remotest beach in winter to quarrel and bask and give birth, and there are altogether about a hundred and fifty thousand of them in the world. Brown pelicans and crested egrets had come back from the brink, as had other waterbirds, and almost half the birds of North America are in this place at least some of the time, up to two hundred species at a time. The place also has a number of unique subspecies, evolved in isolation over tens of thousands of years, and more than a score of endangered and threatened species altogether, including coho salmon spawning in its streams. I had seen them too, golden female and ruby male thrashing their way up shallow water in the early dusk of drizzly midwinter.

After that day, I found a book at the house I was staying at, about how the land on which these creatures flourished was protected from development, and found my father’s name in the index. We moved back to California when he was hired to write the master plan for the county, and he spent the next five years working on a document that protects from development most of its western portion that wasn’t already under state, federal, or land-trust protection. The drive for protection came  from citizens first, and it was their support that made it possible for the professionals to push their plan through, but it was the planners who wrote the rules of this protection and took much of the heat. The book spoke of “a revolutionary Marin Countywide Plan, which used ‘designing with nature’ as its method for preserving Marin’s extraordinary landscapes and preventing its cities from sprawling together.” I own a copy of the environmental plan whose title was drawn from a poem by Lew Welch quoted on the flyleaf, “This is the last place. / There is no where else to go,” and so it was called Can the Last Place Last? So far it has, though Welch didn’t. He walked into the Sierra Nevada wilds in 1971, and no trace of him was ever found.

The plan “went through fifty-seven public hearings and was adopted in 1973. . . . The plan was the inspiration of talented county planners Paul Zucker and Al Solnit. Zucker later lost his job after he lost a supervisorial race, and Solnit was the victim of vicious attacks by developers and hostile editorials. But the Plan was embraced by the public and has prevailed through minor revisions for over twenty-five years.” One summer evening when I was about nine, my father came home late and found a forgotten glass of chocolate milk gone sour on the kitchen counter. Waste enraged him, and since I was the principal drinker of chocolate milk, he rushed into my room, flicked the light on, and dashed it in my face as I slept, so that I woke up dripping with a giant roaring over me. (That the milk was a brother’s is only a detail; it was a very random universe in there.)  Reading that account, I realized that what he had come home from was one of those rancorous meetings at which the fate of this place was being decided.

The house was a small place inside a larger one, or a small story inside a larger one; picture the stories nesting like Russian dolls, so that terrible things were happening in that house, but they were tied to the redemption happening on the larger scale of the county, which was in part reaction to the violent erasures going on across the country and the world. I had left the house for good a quarter of a century before and just gotten out of it in my dreams over the past year, but the county was something I chose to return to again and again, and on this return I’d seen the nesting of those stories, as well as some of the animals that had come back. I revisited the elk a few days before the day of the angel hawks. Most of them live out on the remotest peninsula of this remote place, a spit of land like a north-pointing finger, segregated from the rest of the world by a ten-foot-tall ring of cyclone fencing across its knuckle, a peninsula at whose tip I had realized that the end of the world could be a place as well as a time. They’d been lounging among the grasses and the domelike lupine shrubs, herds of cow elk with a few bulls among them and herds of young bulls who scrambled to their feet at the sound of my approach so that their antlers looked like a forest rising up. The end of the world was wind-scoured but peaceful, black cormorants and red starfish on wave-washed dark rocks below a sandy bluff, and beyond them all the sea spreading far and then farther.

1-100 pls 🌹💕

BABE. oh my god. okay here we go, it’s gonna be long!!

1: when you have cereal, do you have more milk than cereal or more cereal than milk? more cereal than milk I think?

2: do you like the feeling of cold air on your cheeks on a wintery day? I love winter and everything about it, I’d rather be cold than hot 

3: what random objects do you use to bookmark your books? post it notes, receipts, I’ve used flowers a few times, really anything that’s in reach

4: how do you take your coffee/tea? tea with a little bit of milk and honey, coffee depends on the day? typically with a lil bit of vanilla creamer. when I make my ‘fancy’ coffee at home with frothy milk on top I always top them off with a dusting of cinnamon 

5: are you self-conscious of your smile? always

6: do you keep plants? ye! I have a succulent/cacti terrarium, some sunflowers, jasmine, african violets, tomato plants, hanging planters, and a few more I forget the names of!

7: do you name your plants? not the ones I have currently

8: what artistic medium do you use to express your feelings? I love ink. I haven't been able to paint with ink in a while, but the movement of that and watercolor are just.. freeing? I dunno how to explain it.  that and drawing using ink, every mark you make is permanent and I just kinda zone out when doing it

9: do you like singing/humming to yourself? aight listen. my future s/o is gonna have to deal with this a lot. shower? singing. car ride? singing. cooking? singing. y'all aint getting a break even if I sound like a dying cat

10: do you sleep on your back, side, or stomach? primarily side and stomach!

11: what’s an inner joke you have with your friends? I cant think of many at the moment but uhhhh. hmm. a few guys and I play a game together and I run the group (in rdr2), and we don't let people join it if their horse’s tail isn't braided so we’ll hunt them down and kill them instead

12: what’s your favorite planet? neptune looks beautiful

13: what’s something that made you smile today? the fact that you wanted to know more about me

14: if you were to live with your best friend in an old flat in a big city, what would it look like? lots and lots of plants, kinda modern, a few fish tanks, smells like lavender and coffee

15: go google a weird space fact and tell us what it is! mars has the biggest known volcano!

16: what’s your favorite pasta dish? stupidly basic, but chicken parmesan 

17: what color do you really want to dye your hair? I’ve always wanted to impulsively dye it some shade of blue just for a few weeks

18: tell us about something dumb/funny you did that has since gone down in history between you and your friends and is always brought up. I got ridiculously drunk off tequila at a house party and was given my first mojito, thought he picked leaves off the tree out back and threw them in so I dug them out and threw them around the yard in disgust. I have a very vague memory of this but they always give me crap for it

19: do you keep a journal? what do you write/draw/ in it? I have a couple! one is my bujo where I keep lists of things like self care ideas, favorite movies and books, quotes, friend stuff, etc. another I use to draw in and like to recreate van gogh sketches, others are private 

20: what’s your favorite eye color? y'all ever really see brown eyes? oof

21: talk about your favorite bag, the one that’s been to hell and back with you and that you love to pieces. I don't have this?

22: are you a morning person? I could be if I woke up next to the right person

23: what’s your favorite thing to do on lazy days where you have 0 obligations? netflix binging, reading, aquarium shopping, walks with my dog in the woods, making stupid pancakes, and league with a babe

24: is there someone out there you would trust with every single one of your secrets? it takes time for me to trust people, so probably all my life at some point with a girl. as for family? no

25: what’s the weirdest place you’ve ever broken into? I’ve locked myself outta my place a few times and had to go through the window

26: what are the shoes you’ve had for forever and wear with every single outfit? several pairs of sandals and slides!

27: what’s your favorite bubblegum flavor? just regular mint?

28: sunrise or sunset? watching the sunset on a blanket in the grass with a girl I care about 

29: what’s something really cute that one of your friends does and is totally endearing? her voice gets a lil louder and she talks fast when she's excited about something and its flipping adorable

30: think of it: have you ever been truly scared? yes. 

31: what is your opinion of socks? do you like wearing weird socks? do you sleep with socks? do you confine yourself to white sock hell? really, just talk about socks. I love fluffy socks and patterned socks and ones with dinosaurs and stuff and I love socks so much, don't sleep in them though

32: tell us a story of something that happened to you after 3AM when you were with friends. we played a drinking game based off how we did in a split screen game, one drink for every kill, got v drunk that night 

33: what’s your fave pastry? I love baclava but I’m horribly allergic to walnuts

34: tell us about the stuffed animal you kept as a kid. what is it called? what does it look like? do you still keep it? I still have it! my dad went down to south carolina a lot and I was, and still am, very much in love with alligators. I think I was six or something but he came home with this giant garbage bag and was moving it like there was an animal inside and when I opened it, it was a giant stuffed alligator. he's currently sitting on my bed, but seems a lot smaller now

35: do you like stationary and pretty pens and so on? do you use them often? I really wanna get into using thicker paper for letters with pressed wax seals and pressed flowers 

36: which band’s sound would fit your mood right now? I don’t really focus on individual bands too much tbh, I bounce around a lot within genres. anything happy and country atm

37: do you like keeping your room messy or clean? I’m tryna keep it cleaner, better habit to make myself get into 

38: tell us about your pet peeves! people smoking around me (I don't care that you smoke whatever, I just ask you don't do it around me bc it makes me feel sick), a group of people that takes up the whole sidewalk going incredibly slow, people that cut me off in traffic without turn signals, people who f around in the tsa line and don't get ready then stand there for ten minutes taking everything off for the scanner and hold us up, “there” and “their” and “they’re��� misuses, etc. jeez, didn't realize I had so many and that's not even all of them

39: what color do you wear the most? blue?

40: think of a piece of jewelry you own: what’s it’s story? does it have any meaning to you? I love my claddagh ring, my mom and sister both have the same one and we all match. currently not wearing it bc it was like 100 degrees F then other day and it burned my finger?????

41: what’s the last book you remember really, really loving? asoiaf!!!!

42: do you have a favorite coffee shop? describe it! I like this lil coffee shop about half an hour away, every drink has an individual and funny name and the workers are nice 

43: who was the last person you gazed at the stars with? I honestly can’t remember, but I could really go for this right now

44: when was the last time you remember feeling completely serene and at peace with everything? uhhhh it’s been a bit? lotta stressors recently 

45: do you trust your instincts a lot? I try to, should've listened to them regarding some stuff and I didn’t 

46: tell us the worst pun you can think of. what do you call a blind dinosaur? a do-you-think-he-saurus.

47: what food do you think should be banned from the universe? broccoli

48: what was your biggest fear as a kid? is it the same today? santa and the dark, no on both accounts now 

49: do you like buying CDs and records? what was the last one you bought? no, I just use apple music 

50: what’s an odd thing you collect? I dunno about odd, but I keep seashells and shark teeth I find on beaches 

51: think of a person. what song do you associate with them? somebody to love

52: what are your favorite memes of the year so far? uhhhh I’m bad at keeping up with when these come out but probably the “wait was anyone going to tell me ___ or was I supposed to find out in this ___”

53: have you ever watched the rocky horror picture show? heathers? beetlejuice? pulp fiction? what do you think of them? I haven't seen these sorry!

54: who’s the last person you saw with a true look of sadness on their face? my dad

55: what’s the most dramatic thing you’ve ever done to prove a point? I honestly cannot think of this right now

56: what are some things you find endearing in people? when they get excited about something, when their eyes sparkle a bit in sunlight, when they’re touchy (only certain ones), compassion, weird hobbies and interests, etc

57: go listen to bohemian rhapsody. how did it make you feel? did you dramatically reenact the lyrics? it’s an experience. listen with headphones on high or don't listen to it at all

58: who’s the wine mom and who’s the vodka aunt in your group of friends? why? I guess I’d be the wine mom bc I don't drink heavily too often with my friends cause I’m usually the dd, vodka aunt would go to my friend S cause hell she puts that shit away fast

59: what’s your favorite myth? I love greek mythology

60: do you like poetry? what are some of your faves? sappho

61: what’s the stupidest gift you’ve ever given? the stupidest one you’ve ever received? a lil cat bank that grabs a coin with its paw and drags it into the box and a potato, respectively 

62: do you drink juice in the morning? which kind? not usually

63: are you fussy about your books and music? do you keep them meticulously organized or kinda leave them be? I kept all of my books on a shelf before the move but idk what imma do with them now bc I have no room for a bookcase so they're kinda messy rn

64: what color is the sky where you are right now? pale blue and cloudy

65: is there anyone you haven’t seen in a long time who you’d love to hang out with? a friend who moved away a few years ago, I miss her 

66: what would your ideal flower crown look like? oooooh. hmm. lots of blues and pinks and purples with lil twisty brown vines?

67: how do gloomy days where the sky is dark and the world is misty make you feel? I love them, 10/10, perfect. 

68: what’s winter like where you live? we either get 3 feet of snow overnight or a dusting, there’s no in between

69: what are your favorite board games? I cant remember the last time I played a board game??? I liked the game of life and monopoly when I was a kid 

70: have you ever used a ouija board? nope

71: what’s your favorite kind of tea? whatever happens to be in the cabinet!

72: are you a person who needs to note everything down or else you’ll forget it? I have the memory of a goldfish

73: what are some of your worst habits? letting people get away with things they've done to me, being too lenient with people that make me uncomfortable, etc

74: describe a good friend of yours without using their name or gendered pronouns. they’re such a good friend and we have enough years built into our friendship that we can go a few weeks without talking and be right where we left off. they’re kind and caring and ready to help people when they need it 

75: tell us about your pets! my cat is an 8 year old lil grump, but he gets so freaking affectionate and lovey too. he knows when I’m anxious and will come up and sit on my chest and purr. my dog’s a ball of jumping energy, she's always excited and happy, she’s only 2 so hopefully she’ll mellow out. then my clownfish are flipping adorable even though they try to bite my fingers when I’m working on the aquarium 

76: is there anything you should be doing right now but aren’t? unpacking and socializing with family

77: pink or yellow lemonade? pink lemonade 

78: are you in the minion hateclub or fanclub? I don't care about them really, but the facebook minion memes passed around by moms gotta stop

79: what’s one of the cutest things someone has ever done for you? one of my exes surprise got me flowers sometimes, while the relationship just didn't work that was a cute action 

80: what color are your bedroom walls? did you choose that color? if so, why? they’re kinda beige-ish? I just moved here and I don’t wanna repaint them

81: describe one of your friend’s eyes using the most abstract imagery you can think of. hmm. one of my friends’ eyes are like the leaves on the forest floor, an assortment of greens and browns blended together with the occasional fleck of gold when light filters through the trees

82: are/were you good in school? I’m okay? In high school I was in honor classes and stuff and I've made the deans list a few times in college so far, but honestly I think I’m just average. I have a lot of issues with math and it’s why I couldn't go into one of the fields I was considering. I get overwhelmed quickly

83: what’s some of your favorite album art? tbh I don't look at this kinda stuff but I know kesha’s rainbow was good?

84: are you planning on getting tattoos? which ones? ye! I want a small humpback whale on my left inner wrist, they mean a lot to me and I finally got to see one in person just last year. then I have some scars on my thigh I’ve been tossing around the idea of getting a tattoo to cover up, but idk if I would or what I would get 

85: do you read comics? what are your faves? no sorry! I always wanted to when I was younger but I got psyched out by guys who would say they're not for girls who I never took advantage of the comic shop a family friend owns 

86: do you like concept albums? which ones? I dunno what this is and I’m too tired to google it but imma guess its about music? to which I say I’m v bad at keeping up with everyones stuff 

87: what are some movies you think everyone should watch at least once in their lives? the princess bride, star wars, lord of the rings, the sound of music, indiana jones (NOT crystal skull, it sucked), jurassic park, and a lottttt more. 

88: are there any artistic movements you particularly enjoy? impressionism, post impressionism, and expressionism 

89: are you close to your parents? ish. 

90: talk about your one of you favorite cities. I absolutely loved st. malo in france. I need to go back. it’s a giant walled city on the water and it’s just beautiful. I sat and watched an artist on the street for a while and bought two of his paintings afterward, gotta figure out where to hang them in my new bedroom. the air smelled amazing, it rained a lot when I was there but I still loved it and I wish I’d had more time to really explore than I did

91: where do you plan on traveling this year? I wanted to go to sri lanka to see my family but I don’t think it’s gonna happen, but I’ve got my fingers crossed for pennsylvania cause reasons 

92: are you a person who drowns their pasta in cheese or a person who barely sprinkles a pinch? cheese is life

93: what’s the hairstyle you wear the most? I braid it overnight and wear it down during the day!

94: who was the last person you know to have a birthday? my dad a few days ago 

95: what are your plans for this weekend? I think I’ve got another family party to go to? feel kinda done with my fam rn though

96: do you install your computer updates really quickly or do you procrastinate on them a lot? I literally just installed 2 years worth of updates this morning, so yeah, I procrastinate updates quite a bit 

97: myer briggs type, zodiac sign, and hogwarts house? idk what the first thing is but the others are scorpio and slytherin!

98: when’s the last time you went hiking? did you enjoy it? oh wow I can’t remember, but imma say yes? I wanna hike with my dog at some point 

99: list some songs that resonate to your soul whenever you hear them. somebody to love, la mer, and some others

100: if you were presented with two buttons, one that allows you to go 5 years into the past, the other 5 years into the future, which one would you press? why? 5 years into the future. I hope that future me is happy and comfy with someone she loves surrounded by their plants, aquariums, pets, and love. 

Our succulents have all been repotted and Nick and I also brought two new baby succulents home. Below I can tell you what they are(or think they are) Second pic: Kalanchoe hybrid "Behartii". It grows like a mini tree and is very hardy. It was overdue for a new home by over a year and was hard to get out but no root tearing. Fuzzy tall boi is what we call it. Third pic: "Crosby's prolific". Aloe hybrid nobliis x homiliis. Not 100% on the spelling there I was pulling it off the old photo I had. I call it Ali and they are big and many. There's actually the main aloe and like 6 pups here and I don't know how to separate them and at this point I don't want to. Overgrew their old pot by a lot and there was minor root damage but not much and I hope they continue to do well in the new pot. Forth pic: it's a echervia I swear. A Doris Taylor. We refer to them as leaning boi or long boi. I know echervia stretch when they aren't getting enough light but...like....it was always looking happy and look how big they got. And the cluster of pups at the base. We bought this bowl so they wouldn't lean on dragon anymore. Fifth pic: blue chalk sticks or senecio mandraliscae. It looked fun and different. I'm excited for it to grow Final pic: sedeveria hybrid asstd. That's all it says. This is Nick's baby plant. He had picked out the elephant Jade plant years ago and unfortunately it didn't make it so this time he picked a small succulent that wasn't a Jade plant. I'm excited for his little green boy too. That's my green babes. All in new homes with plenty of room and space to grow. https://www.instagram.com/p/BwdFPrkn1ak/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1divlb19sq10v

Lend Me a Hand (Genyatta)

Rated: T for violence Words: 1636 (Oneshot)

Although it wasn’t requested, I couldn’t resist writing it, even if it was just an idea!

Meditation was a forty five minute affair, for Genji and Zenyatta, which they had to themselves for peaceful thinking, daily. The two had a room on the base for this practice, as Zenyatta had kindly asked Winston for when he had agreed to help out with his gifts within the new Overwatch. The group had cleared the two out an old small social room, and Zenyatta had decorated it with plants and a small bubbling fountain in one corner. Often, various insects and birds would fly into the room if they left the window open, and a few members of the team had walked in numerous times to Zenyatta obliviously meditating, butterflies stuck to his face or birds perched along his arms and shoulders. The sensors on his surface were shut off and power redirected during meditation, and he often flickered back to life to Genji trying to round up and collect animals and insects.

This day was no different. Genji and Zenyatta were out in the grounds training. Genji vaulting the cliffs above Zenyatta with his brother in a quest of strength, the two eager to compete with one another once again. Hanzo still refused to pick up a  blade, and so the two endurance trained, scrambling up rock faces and fighting hand to hand with bots also firing as a distraction. Genji's pistons hissed and released gas as he struggled to block a palm directed at his chin. The palm connected with a gruff growl from Hanzo, who immediately took control of his advantaged, and pressed forwards, knocking the cyborg back with another power packed palm smashing into the fibrous wires between his arm and chest plate. Genji was sent flying backwards a few steps and Hanzo leapt into the air in kick, his bare foot aimed at Genji's gut. The ninja reacted quickly and stumbled back another few steps before regaining his footing and refocusing his core, spreading his feet and arms for balance. Hanzo huffed a chuckle and held his fist close to his side, his other arm outstretched, two fingers beckoning Genji forwards.

“You have grown too reliant on your speed, brother. What if you were to be caught without weapons, surely, it seems, you would be bested easily?” Hanzo grinned, his teeth glinting in challenge as sweat dripped down his temples and chest, unburdened by his kyudo-gi which he had shed and the yugake gloves which were placed on top. Genji was glad that as a cyborg, he no longer had to worry about the smell from sweating, or sweating at all.

“Rather, it seems, brother, that you have been busy. Was normal life too mediocre for you? I'm guessing you spent plenty of time picking fights. Its hard to let it go completely, Hanzo.” Genji's eyebrows quirked cheekily, and he too, gritted his teeth before dashing forwards and landing a punch on Hanzo's chest. The elder Shimada grunted but quickly used Genji's momentum to push the second punch past his side.

Zenyatta had long since finished the motions of his own practice, and sat peacefully, watching the two lethal heirs have at one another. Genji was far weaker in hand to hand, and had always lagged behind Hanzo in their specific training for it when they were younger, and still it seemed, that his stamina was lacking in comparison. A ninja usually had little need for hand to hand, and that was reflected in Genji's typical fighting technique, run rings around them, weaken them, and then strike and get the finishing blow, or go straight for the throat and the quick and easy kill. Hanzo was far more used to patience and endurance, waiting for his kill, before aiming and releasing the arrow for the long awaited end. Zenyatta's orbs whirled around his neck as he thought, and he began comparing the two, sensors and memory units committing details of their fighting to memory in case he should need it one day.

The monk was joined on the grass by the, as he insisted, 'cowboy', Jesse McCree. He tipped his hat in greeting and flopped down on the grass next to Zenyatta, gloved hands picking around the strands for a satisfactory piece which he then inserted between his lips and ground the stalk between his back teeth, the top covered with seeds.

“Greetings McCree. Have you come to watch them spar?” Zenyatta tipped his head curiously, an orb raised a little above the rest to reflect this. Jesse shrugged at his questioning and turned his eyes towards the two brothers who were now huffing with effort.

“I came to watch the fireworks, sure. Been a while since I've seen something juicy like this. The only ones that used to be worth watching were Morrison and Reyes-” McCree caught sight of the bare sweaty chest of the eldest Shimada brother, and whistled, “Well if that ain't a pretty sight, then I don't know what is.”

Zenyatta glanced over the elder brother and shrugged, his orbs moving up and down with his shoulders, “ I do not see the appeal I'm afraid my friend. Perhaps you have an attraction to tattoos? Or perhaps it is facial hair?” and turned his head back to McCree innocently, folding his hands in his lap over the top of his yellow robes.

McCree shrugged and moved the piece of grass to his other cheek, biting down on the stalk, “Look at dem-”

“I assume you were talking about us as we were fighting?” Hanzo's scowling face pinned a glare on McCree and wiped his neck on the towel he had strung over his shoulder. Genji's face was amused and he chuckled before offering a cybernetic hand for Zenyatta.

“As much as I would love to see the domestic that is about to occur, brother, me and my master have meditation to attend to.” Genji elbowed Hanzo in the side and tugged Zenyatta up off the ground. “Shall we, master?” Zenyatta's senors scanned over Genji and a sadness registered as he realised as Genji had replaced his face plate and visor back in their place.

“Of course my student. Let us go and rid you of these frustrations.” Zenyatta was not unaware of the strange way Genji had been acting. Perhaps meditating would help Genji think upon his problems. McCree waggled his eyebrows as they left.

The two settled into the room relatively easy, and Zenyatta first spent time tending to his plants, carefully pruning the bonsai trees he had cultivated from seeds. One mistake would mean hours upon hours of labours would be wasted. Genji watered the easier house plants before rotating a few succulents and seating himself on one of the cushions, his pistons releasing streams of hot air as he relaxed. Zenyatta soon followed him, putting aside his watering can and slowly sitting, crossing his legs over one another. With a hum he began focusing his systems and lowering the power to his peripherals, the hum that was whirring in his chest slowing. Genji shifted in his seat and plating thumped softly as he rested his arms on top of his thighs and sighed with a mechanical edge.

They were only sat for a few minutes, Zenyatta having almost fully focused, when he felt the stare of Genji's eyes on his body. The orbs around Zenyatta's neck span in place and clinked, sparkling gold as he powered his peripherals once more.

“My student, is there something bothering you? You know you can speak to me of your problems.” Genji jolted at the sound of Zenyatta's soft, sudden voice, but quickly regained his composure. He seemed almost contemplative for a moment or two, before he reached up to his face and clicked the visor and guard away, placing them on the pillow beside his thigh. The cyborg then gingerly scooted forwards and seated himself in front of Zenyatta, wringing his hands a little. Zenyatta tilted his head and waited for Genji to explain himself. Carefully, cybernetic hands reached forwards, and pushed Zenyatta's thumb and forefinger apart gently- it was Zenyatta's common hand position when he meditated. With gentle strokes and pushes, Genji flattened out the hands in his grip and pushed the fingers apart, linking them with his own as he pushed his and Zenyatta's hands together.

“I apologise for staring, Zenyatta, and for being so distant recently. I...” Genji closed his mouth and swallowed, “I have been thinking on something, something huge, and I felt it was necessary to have some distance to sort through my thoughts. Now, I have concluded what they mean.” The ninja nodded and squeezed the monk's hands, as though grounding himself. Zenyatta felt the gentle squeeze through his sensors, and instinctively gave Genji's hands a squeeze of comfort back. Genji smiled, “Master- ah Zenyatta. Would you do me the honour of having your hand?”.

Zenyatta gazed at Genji for a moment, before humming confusedly,

“Ah, of course you can my student, however I'm afraid the procedure is a lengthy one. My hands are not like other omnics, they do not remove with switches, and the operation would mean I have to severe my sensor wires...”

Genji stared at his face, his mouth open wide and he closed it several times before fumbling for words, “Ah! Zenyatta, I did not mean literally, I am sure it is-”

Zenyatta's regal laugh broke him off and the omnic chuckled in the air, his legs wiggling as he gripped his belly, “Oh of course I know what it means Genji. I was merely jesting with you.” Zenyatta pushed a finger through the dark hair covering Genji's dark hazelnut eyes, and hummed gently.

“Of course I'll give you my hand in marriage silly billy.”

Genji tackled him in a tear wet hug.