#Perpetual begonia

[joeohuchi]

あの人は今日も 天井を眺めているんだろう　I wonder if that person is staring at the ceiling today too.

君は愚か者だよって言った時 私は何様だと思うし 同時に自分が愚か者であることを知っている　When I say you're a fool, I wonder who I am, but at the same time I know how foolish I am.

たとえそれを愛しているなら1万円のギターだって十分なんです　Even a 10,000 yen guitar is good enough if you love it.

ギターは値段じゃないですカッチョ良さが全てです　The guitar is not about the price, it's about how good it looks

私がいつもピンチの時に心で叫ぶ言葉=何でもおきるがよい時はどんな崩れた日でも過ぎ去っていく　The words I always shout in my heart when I'm in a pinch: Let anything happen, but time will pass, no matter how bad the days.

私は32年前の4000円の中古の偽物のストラトキャスターを今でも使っています　I still use a fake Stratocaster that I bought 32 years ago for 4,000 yen. 👍 It's Blacky 14

Blacky 14は (フェルナンデス) だったと思います　I think Blacky 14 was Fernandes.

好きなギタリストのシグネチャーモデルもいいと思いますよ　I also think a signature model of your favorite guitarist would be a good idea.

私が14歳ぐらいの時 X JAPAN の hide のシグネチャーモデルを使っていました フェルナンデスの真っ黒なモッキンバードです When I was about 14 years old, I used to play Hide's signature model guitar from X Japan, a Fernandes all-black Mockingbird.

今 フェルナンデスちょっと高いですね 会社自体がなくなったんで　Fernandes is a little expensive now. The company itself no longer exists.

メガネのかけ方がやたら下になってて普通に目が見えてるかけ方ってありますよね あれ なんで？おかしくない？　There are times when people wear their glasses so low that you can still see normally. Why is that? Isn't it weird?

球根ベゴニア　世界で一番美しい花

ネットで拾ってきた 美味しそうなカレー　A delicious curry I found on the internet

[teaboot]

One time, I had an English professor tell me I should stop using my inhaler because it was bad for the environment.

Yeah an if you dropped dead it would significantly reduce your carbon footprint too, huh. What if we ALL just stopped breathing. Can’t be throwing fistfuls of plastic fuckin straws directly into the South Pacific when you got a BPM of zilch, can you? What a fuckin innovator. Was he head of your nation’s EPA *directly* before he retired to become world’s youngest baseline edgelord 4chan ass 14 year old boy with tenure, or did he wait for his 3rd consecutive Nobel peace prize before giving someone else a chance? Ask him if his back hurts from carrying the weight of all the world’s most pressing concerns to and from Chuck E Cheese each night or if his tiny spiny propellor hat lightens the load a bit. Did his big red clown nose come standard with his tweed set or he spring for the premium model with the biodegradeable sustainable foam and the super-boosted honk-honk action? Are his size 23 clown bitch oxfords custom? Does he take one off to use as a canoe on his annual vacations to his summer home in the balmy and tropical shit fuck dumbass islands or does he just levitate everywhere he goes by the power of his unparalleled Xmen level intellect. Can you ask him if Magneto is gonna spare the human race to run laps in his hamster wheel electrical generator complex or if he’s just gonna wipe us all the fuck out for the carbon tax credit. Ask him if the weight of his gigantic balls dragging in the ground behind him everywhere he goes adds to the mileage on his Tesla. When he wipes his ass does he use single ply to save the trees or just a fistful of baby ducklings that he can then gently bathe by hand with water collected by the rain barrel in the endangered orchid garden by the solarium on the west side of his sprawling villa, the one he bought when he sold the patent for the perpetual motion motion machine he built out of toothpicks and marshmallows in third grade before the obvious intellectual gap between himself and the rest of us bumbling simpletons weighed him down and killed his passion to create. What other wisdom has he yet to share with the world? What other knowledge that only he and my reiki-healing essential-oil-drinking violet-aura neighbour know that may benefit us all? Holy shit, have I been drinking WATER my whole life? That shit that whales live in? Guess I’ll just go lay in a hole out back and wait for the compost heap to take me. Should I confess my sins to Captain Planet first, so he may redeem my wicked soul in the true Eco Catholic way, or was that recyclable soda can I threw in the trash downtown at last year’s garlic bread festival because there were no recycling bins provided the final straw that made me unworthy of glorious green salvation? BRB, gotta go strip naked and flagellate myself before the begonias so that they may know the depth of my remorse. Don’t worry, I only buy locally-sourced hemp lashes produced by small home businesses at the farmer’s market, they have a three-for-two sale on Sundays if you bring your own reusable bag. Christ on a fucking cupcake

[acourtofthought]

I have to wonder if certain comments I've seen in the fandom are hyperbole or if the person truly believes what they're saying, one being that there are absolutely no hints for Elain leaving the Night Court to end up in another. Apparently Gwyn's eyes glowing like a sunlit sea is evidence she'll end up in the Summer Court (despite becoming a Valkyrie) but none of this could hint at Elain leaving the Night Court? 🤔

So here we go:

frowning at the violets and roses I'd painted around the knobs of Elain's drawer (also, for anyone claiming they have flowers and gardens in the NC, that would be like someone claiming the stars on Feyre's drawer meant nothing as they have stars in other courts too).

She would have marveled - likely wept - at the gardens I'd become so accustomed to, at the flowers in perpetual bloom at the Spring Court"

"Outside of these (NC) borders, the rest of the world celebrates tomorrow as Nynsar — the Day of Seeds and Flowers."

"I painted flowers for Elain on her drawer," I said, sawing and sawing. "Little roses and begonias and irises."

"I think she and Amren would be fast friends. I think she would like Velaris, despite herself. And I think Elain — Elain would like it, too." (That might not look like foreshadowing but that em dash shows interruption to Feyre's train of though. Whereas she spoke with certainty about Nesta liking Velaris despite herself, Elain's part reads as if Feyre had to pause to think on what Elain would like there).

The suite was filled with sunlight. Every curtain shoved back as far as it could go, to let in as much sun as possible.

As if any bit of darkness was abhorrent. As if to chase it away.

Seated in a small chair before the sunniest of windows, her back to us, was Elain.

She had always been so full of light. Perhabs that was why she now kept all the curtains open. To fill the void that existed where all of that light had once been.

I found Elain in the family library. Still staring at the window.

Elain only turned toward the sunny windows again.

Elain slowly turned from her vigil at the window

Her eyes were the brown of a fawn's coat (It's funny how some on IG were up in arms over SJMs Bambi sweater, educating readers on the difference between a stag, fawn and deer while completely ignoring how the majority of fawn's are born in late May to June, aka Spring)

"What can I get you, Elain?" "Sunshine."

She was a rose bloom in a mud field. Filled with galloping horses (symbolism anyone? Elain is out of place in with the Illyrians?!? Doomed to be trampled?!)

If Elain was a blooming flower in this army camp, then Nesta...she was a freshly forged sword, waiting to draw blood.

I should have asked Amren to train her too.

The gates to her mind...Solid iron covered in vines of flowers — or it would have been. The blossoms were all sealed, sleeping buds tucked into tangles of leaves and thorns.

Elain ... She'd taken one look at us in the swaying grasses outside that wagon, the legs and assets on display and turned crimson. Viviane stepped in, offering a Winter Court fashion that was far less scandalous. / In the heat, it'd be miserable, but Elain was thankful enough that she didn't complain.

The lovely fawn, blooming spring vibrant behind her. Standing before Death, shadows and terrors lurking over his shoulder. / The only bridge of connection...that knife. (I wonder if this was SJM hinting at what lay ahead for Elain in the war. Upon accepting Truth-Teller from "Death" himself, creating that bridge between them, shadows and terrors awaited her in the form of her stabbing the king. Cruelty bothers Elain yet she then ended up having to stab someone. Accepting the knife from Az is what opened her up to something she never wanted even though I don't think she regrets saving her sister).

But Elain had given it back — had pressed it into Azriel's hands after the battle, just as he had pressed it into hers before. And then walked away without looking back. (Elain choosing to walk away from what lurks over "Deaths" shoulders).

Elain politely refused, taking up a spot in one of the wooden chairs set in the bay of windows. Also typical.

Elain was like a dog, loyal to whatever master kept her fed and in comfort.

And while I might never run to Elain first with problems or for advice, we had a peaceful, amicable understanding. I found her to be a pleasant companion. I wonder if she'd resent that judgement, I certainly would.

Elain stood at the wall of windows.

"I would like to build a garden, " she declared. After all of this...I think the world needs more gardens."

It was Spring, and yet it wasn't. / Distant — because on the estate, nothing bloomed at all. The pink roses that had once climbed the pale stone walls of the sweeping manor house were nothing but tangled webs of thorns. The fountains had gone dry, the hedges untrimmed and shapeless.

"You've been trying to bring Tamlin back for awhile. But he isn't getting better, is he?"

Her sister's delicate scent of jasmine (the first scent Feyre noted in Spring once her glamour was removed) and honey lingered in the red-stoned wall like a promise of spring.

Elain would love this place. So many flowers, all in bloom, so much green — the light, vibrant green of new grass — so many birds singing and such warm, buttery sunshine.

But Elain ... The Spring Court had been made for someone like her. Too bad her sister refused to see her. Nesta would have told Elain to visit this place. And too bad the lord who ruled these lands was a piece of shit.

Elain in black was ridiculous

But wearing black, no matter how much she claimed to be part of this court...it sucked the life from her

He knew the cruelty of the Hewn City troubled her

[flamekilled]

begonia and hibiscus!

begonia :   how cautious is your muse ? are they prone to noticing red flags ,   or paranoid to the point of untrusting most everyone ? why or why not ?

i'd say césar is overly cautious when it comes to his relationships. he is suspicious of everyone who approaches him. he has got a guilty until proven otherwise mentality which has kept him safe since leaving prison. being impulsive is what ultimately ruined his life and ended a bunch of others. it takes a lot for him to let his guard down and actually relax around people making him seem like a really tightly wound guy. but that's not to say he's not impulsive. the urge to go in swinging first and worry about exit strategies later is still there.

i'd say this is more obvious whenever he manages to get into more intimate setting with another person (which is also super rare since he has such a hard time letting his guard down especially when it comes to romance/sex) or whenever he's invited/permitted to do some heavy drinking. césar's biggest weakness since he was younger was denying himself pleasure. now he's older and wiser but the desire is still there, just outside his peripherals. he's keeping an eye on it.

hibiscus :   how does your muse view the gentler ,   daintier things in life ?as things worth preserving   &   caring for ,   or things only bound to wither   &   disappear ?

he does not think they are meant for him but césar strongly believes in protecting all things gentle. despite his pessimistic attitude and downright hostile vibes, he looks back on his past as a more innocent and therefore, precious time of his life. it's not that the world has nothing good or worth fighting for in it, there's just a lot of shit to put up with as well. césar actively (though unknowingly) participated in perpetuating this evil.

his child, for example, is evidence of something worth protecting and caring for. but because césar committed such heinous crimes, he does not get to go through the joy of being a father, he is part of the evil which ruins the world. he is, however, extremely protective of kids and is ready to enact great gestures of violence towards those who are cruel to them. so, in short, he 100% believes gentle and dainty things should be protected and cared for...with the help of brass knuckles.

[andromeda2am]

My father treats his plants the way he treats me (vent post/prose poem)

He gives them no time to acclimate, no time to adjust, and if a plant survives, there's no praise, no celebration, no relief, because that's what it was supposed to do anyway. If it dies, it simply wasn't strong enough, or we picked a bad one from the nursery. He cares for them, but just enough that they produce fruit. It doesn't matter how well they're doing beyond that. He only fertilizes when generations of plants in that area have withered away. The rest, the picking, and watering, the regular fertilizing and maintenance, fall to me, his eldest daughter. The daughter in college for a degree in plant sciences, whose advice he doesn't take.

He bought a hydroponic setup this year for the tomatoes. They sit against the north wall of the garage, plugged into pumps and aerators and grow lights. He fertilizes them occasionally, and checks on them every so often. This is the first time in a while his tomatoes have been satisfactory. He mows the lawn often, cutting it as close to the ground as he can manage. My mom says he does this because it thinks it will keep it shorter for longer, but in reality it just kills the grass he's spent years trying to cultivate. I make sure to place tomato cages around any bushes I plant there, until they're old enough to distinguish themselves and not get mown down as well. He weeds relentlessly. He used to use roundup and other chemical alternatives, until my mom, scared by the cancer risk, convinced him to stop. Now his method is much simpler: a propane torch, with a specially lengthened neck so the flames can reach the weeds without him straining his back even a little. I can always tell he's been burning the plants because the smell lingers for hours afterward.

If I were one of his plants, I might be be the barberry by the porch: thorny, off-colored, and beautiful, but kept mainly because they can't get rid of it. It's too deeply rooted. It's hardy, too, having survived being partially sprayed with bleach solution earlier this summer. Maybe I'd be the Freeman maple they planted for my birth: the one whose lower branches had been cut off to improve the view from the front porch, while a higher one was laden with a perpetually empty birdhouse for so long that the bark grew to engulf its chain. Perhaps I'm one of my mother's houseplants, the fiddle-leafed fig she kept inside for the winter but puts out for the summertime, because there's no space for plants in the sunny areas of the house, or possibly an orchid: something capricious that somehow still seems to survive, though without proper care, not due to negligence or malice, but simply to lack of knowledge. There's no time to research care for just one plant among dozens, especially with everything else they need to do.

I just wish that they'd appreciate the flowers as much as I do: noticing the subtle sparkle on the wax begonia's petals and leaves, getting excited that the spider plant has put out new shoots, excitedly taking pictures of the first bloom the Christmas cactus has produced since it took its place on the bathroom windowsill.

[noxtms]

DATE : 8th of may, 2023. WITH THANKS : to mozzie @ofmccnlight​, who contributed the final third ( & to who i owe my life ) ! 

I.   HERMIONE GETS OFF THE BUS AROUND THE CORNER from her parents house. it's late enough that she probably could've risked apparating, but the last time she'd thought that she'd been distracted by something at work and tripped on the landing ; her neighbour had been out watering his begonias in preparation for the 'sunny spell' in their forecast and she nearly jumped out of her skin when he straightened up behind their shared fence and called out to say good evening. it was a narrow miss, almost ruinous, and though she was resolved to never have a repeat, she wasn't confident in her ability to be altogether present following memorial weekend. too many feelings were dredged up over those hellish few days, and even the bus ride was a solemn, distracted affair - forehead pressed against cool glass and eyes pressed tightly shut, hermione let the muted hustle and bustle of the late night crowd wash over her and very nearly missed her stop.

she's disappointed but not surprised to find that the council still haven't fixed the streetlight that sits directly in front of her semi detached. she takes a moment beneath it to adjust the strap of her overnight bag one final time and stare up at the flickering bulb - briefly entertaining, not for the first time, the idea of simply using magic to do their work for them - and then shakes herself from looming reverie and sets off down the drive. magic, as mrs weasley has often chastised in her presence, is not a fix all ; a LOT of her life in the past few years has been spent accepting these things she just cannot or should not change, and the council will send someone round soon.

probably.

no sign of her neighbour, so she probably didn't have to go through the pains of catching a muggle bus from the leaky cauldron - she sighs at the thought and crouches to retrieve the spare key her parents had kept in one of those silly faux rocks, her own still with the other neighbour trusted to care for crookshanks the past few evenings. she was a nice girl, similar in age but lacking the same sort of life experience that had caused the perpetual bags beneath hermione's eyes. when she'd dropped the key over the road to her, she'd offered to get her a good deal on a sleep mask from the avon like company that she'd signed up to recently, telling her that it would 'clear them right up' ; she'd bit her tongue and told her 'thanks again', managing to rush out the door before saying anything too critical. she'd probably have to do the same when she called round the next morning, but that was definitely a problem for tomorrow and for now, hermione was happy to trust in a good nights sleep in her own bed. 

she straightened up, plastic rock in hand, and set about sliding the little compartment open as she turned to face her door and, suddenly, froze. no need for the key ; she drops the rock back to the ground, hoists her bag further up on her shoulder and pulls out her wand from her back pocket, no longer caring who sees her doing it. with just the streetlight to illuminate the front of her house, it hadn't been immediately noticeable to hermione that the door was hanging just slightly ajar and naturally, her first thought isn't that the newly minted avon girl simply forgot to pull it closed the way she'd told her. she doesn't have that luxury. 

her heartbeat pounding in her ears, hermione forces herself to take one step at a time and approach the door. it's her worst nightmare come true, the very reason that her parents still think they're living their dream in southern australia ; the idea that her muggle existence, here, her childhood home, that it's all been found out and…- she pushes it open with her foot, wand raised and ready, and then there is a FRIGHTFUL yowl and she jumps, violently, only just managing to hold out her arms to catch him as her ginger cat launches himself at her, full force. 

"oh, crookshanks-" she surveys the initial damage, the shattered glass of a hallway mirror and the contents of a drawer that have been spilled across the carpet, clutching him to her but keeping her wand high, "oh, silly boy. what happened?" 

II.   she almost misses him. wakes too late in the morning & gets stuck in the entrance hall saying her goodbyes to the wix she won't see again until the next memorial ; she never really unpacked and she's been ready to go since the remembrance ceremony wrapped up the night before, but GINNY knows how it would look if she was one of the first to go. visceral discomfort is boxed, residual anger is bottled, everlasting grief is locked away - memorial weekends are perpetually marked by the sacrifices that she has to make for the sake of her friends and family, but it never gets any easier. she's usually ready to blow, about now, but she manages to extract herself before disaster strikes and sets off down the trail before anyone tries to call her back again. so one minded is her focus on escaping the castle grounds that ginny doesn't realize that he's making the same trek alone until he's almost at the hog flanked gates. it's a split second decision - she glances behind her, quickly, establishes that there's no one to witness it, and then she breaks into a bit of a mad dash. she doesn't call out to grab draco's attention, but she does manage to reach him before he apparates or sticks out his wand arm for the knight bus with only minimal breathlessness, which she considers a win. 

quizzical, he turns at the sound of heavy footfall & ginny comes to a halt that she tries to make look natural. 

"hey," she says, lamely, "i didn't know you were here this weekend-... i didn't see you." 

he lifts a single shoulder in a lazy sort of shrug. "our circles don't overlap," he's distant, but that's to be expected. she doesn't think it's aimed at her, specifically. memorial weekend brings out a different side to all of them, really, and ginny isn't fool enough to think that he's always as open as she once found him ( nor as distrusting as she would need to be to consider it a falsehood ) but since then, it's been a lot harder for her to ignore the dark circles pressed beneath his eyes.

she's no longer sure where the initial instinct came from, and a little too willing to see it through to the end : "do you want to come back to mine?" she asks, and when she sees his next thought forming, adds, "just to… hang out. that's all. you can leave if it starts getting claustrophobic." 

his lips quirk at that, a tiny tease of the smile she's come to look for, and when she reaches out a hand - ginny knows he'll take it. 

they apparate onto her 'doorstep', though it can't really be called that. she's tried to dress it up a bit in the few years that she's been living there but there's only so much that she can do. a fresh lick of paint, a funny doormat that luna found funny but neville had gone beet red when he'd seen ( i see london, i see france… ), one potted plant that was slowly giving up on life - seven wix lived on the same floor as her and had put about the same amount of effort in, but ginny was suddenly quite conscious of how it looked to an outsiders eyes. a bit sad, probably. cheap, she thinks, and then she banishes the thought ; he knows who she is, by now, where she's come from & where she got to. she's not ashamed of either, and for all that almost fretting, all her worries about this sudden marrying between two worlds - the one where they are ill defined and this one, where he's… well, let in - he doesn't say anything except a dry, "your plants gone brown."

"yeah, well, i've been a bit busy to remember to water it-"

"for its entire lifetime, i presume…?"

"shut up," she tells him, sternly, rooting around in her bag for a moment until she finds her wand and tugs it free. she taps it against her door handle ( she can never find her key when she needs it ) and the lock gives a loud click as it moves out of place.

ginny turns her focus to him as she pushes through, keeping her wand in hand - just in case he feels the need to make any undue comments - and explains, "you might be unfamiliar with the concept, but this is a flat. they're a bit small, but they're very cosy. mine's probably a little messy, but i-" he breaks their gaze and looks over the top of her head, and it is the tiny widening of his eyes that forces ginny to turn and notice, for the first time, the elephant in the room.

this isn't her mess. the burrow, that had looked like this every once in a while, usually at the start of summer when everyone was back under the same roof and in the same state of disorganized unpacking - but she never would've been so careless. everything she owned that had once had a place had now found a new one on the floor. her mattress was shoved up against the wall ; drawers turned upside down ; the cushions on her sofa had been torn into, their down strewn across the chaos. she didn't have to peek around the corner to know that her kitchen was in much the same awful state - she could see that something had spilled on the tile, because it had crept dangerously close to the carpet in the doorway. 

she was speechless.

malfoy was not.

"merlin… do you actually live like this?" 

III.   a crack rings out through the stillness of ottery st. catchpole as LUNA LOVEGOOD stumbles into view out of nowhere . the speed in which she had thrown herself into the apparation prompts a forward momentum that continues even as the spell spits her out smack dab in the middle of her front garden , more than a few yards away from the front porch sheʻd been aiming for . no one is awake to witness the way she almost ends up ass over teakettle in the dirigible plums . the surrounding night is entirely silent barring the giggles that follow the blonde figure as it trips itʻs way through the garden plants , interrupting the quiet snores of the weeping flowers near the kitchen window. they shake their bell - shaped bulbs at her , tinkling softly and sleepily , in admonishment . she blows a raspberry at them . they pull back in reproach and donʻt bother trying to pass on anymore messages . it certainly wasnʻt they who raised her to have such manners . besides , they were sleepy . their night had been interrupted enough as is .

the idyllic garden life continues to sleep even as she noisily makes her way into the house , not even blinking as the front door gives way beneath her prodding hands . neither her nor xenophilius were ones to lock the door when an alohomora was a master key for anyone who really wanted it to be . besides , their home was an open one . all were welcome if they needed a place to sit and have tea with someone always willing to lend a listening ear .

she breezes through the entryway and into the kitchen , handbag landing on the floor with a thump after she aims for the coat rack and misses by a mile , nearly tripping on the various bits and bobs that are always scattered across the floor . she knocks into more than one end table or bookshelf , teeming with items that have a tendency to just spill over . the mess that she spies through her peripheral , blurry as it may be , seems par for the course .

through the doorway of the kitchen , she spies a light coming from beneath the door and goes about setting two mugs out on the counter . the teapot is an heirloom from her motherʻs grandmother and sits waiting , already full and already heated , for when she pours the two cups that have become more nightly ritual than it was originally intended . itʻs as practiced as the way she places the cover on the sugar container , more than used to the way that her father leaves things about in his forgetfulness . 

“ bit of a late night writing spree , then ? ” she calls to the light still on way later than it should be and is not surprised when she doesnʻt get an answer . this is how things go when heʻs deep into his writing binges . luna talks and talks and talks and her father resurfaces to hear her eventually . not immediately. but eventually , 

“ you know , you really arenʻt producing your best work when you��re straining yourself by staying up so late , ” she scolds across the house , nudging loose parchments out of the way with her socked foot as she makes her way to the door and gently opens it with her hip 

“ so you might consider heading to bed after this cup — ”

the mug shatters moments after luna hastily shoves them onto the desk , uncaring as to where it is set and not even flinching when it lands too close to the edge and slips right off . 

xenophilius lies crumbled on the ground . heʻs bleeding profusely from a wound on his head .

[nah-she-didnt]

The Orchid

My submission for the @maraudersaupril2021 fest! Enjoy!

--

James Potter was extremely late.

Now, James was no stranger to being late for work. Just last week he decided to take a quick afternoon nap before his shift, only to wake up three hours later in a complete panic. Today, he was on very thin ice indeed.

James pulled up to the B&Q at exactly ten past three and threw his bike to the ground next to the rack, not even bothering to lock up. He made the calculation on the ride over and decided that at this point in his life, his job meant more to him than his crappy bike. He sprinted through the store to the back, wiping sweat from his eyes and forehead as he ran.

“I’m here!” he cried as he burst into the employee lounge. He knew he must look a mess, but it didn’t matter. He had made it. Sort of.

Sirius looked up from his crossword. “About time. You know Sandy would have wrung your neck if you were late again.”

James hinged at the waist and put his hands on his knees and panted heavily, trying to regain some semblance of control over his lungs.

“Alright,” Sirius grinned and stood up from his spot at the table, stretching, “I’m off. My shift ended fifteen minutes ago, but I had to see if you’d get here in time. Don’t have a heart attack, now, because I wasn’t paying attention in that mandatory CPR class.”

“Give - me - your - vest,” James said between pants, holding out his open hand for Sirius’ orange vest, “I don’t have - time - to get mine.”

Sirius shrugged and handed over the vest. “Enjoy being me for the day. I think you’ll find it much preferable to your own life.”

“Thank you. Now fuck off.”

--

Despite being on bad terms with the boss for his perpetual tardiness, James managed to snag his favorite section assignment. He loved the warm, earthy smell of the Outdoor & Garden section. When the store was dead he wandered amongst the seedlings, small houseplants, and exotic ferns that lined the aisles of the greenhouse. A small water feature trickled away nearby, which created a calming atmosphere as he helped shoppers fill their gardens with begonias, liriope, and gerber daisies.

The store was blissfully dead today, so James was free to explore the new shipment of plants that had come in last night. There was a lovely display of orchids that lined the aisle before the checkout counter, enticing shoppers to include one last, beautiful purchase in their shopping carts.

James had loved plants ever since he was little. His mother used to force him to help her garden as a punishment for being rowdy. One time when he was eight, he and Sirius had accidentally smashed her favorite vase containing a bunch of pink roses. Instead of delivering one of her famous lectures, Euphemia instead opted to show James how he could make it up to her by cultivating his own rose bush. James tended to the plant, cut his own blooms, and arranged them into a brand new vase. To this day he kept that vase safely on his coffee table.

James smiled as he gently lifted the orchid’s face to his own. The tiny plant winked up at him, its purple petals open as if to welcome him. He had a special fondness for orchids. Orchids were beautiful and delicate, but tricky to care for. He found their duality fascinating.

“I’m sorry, can I ask a question?”

James jumped, shaken from his daydream about orchids. He turned around and nearly gasped to see the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She had nearly waist-length auburn hair, which stood out in stark contrast to the explosion of green plants surrounding her. Her skin was pale, and she had two sharp dimples at each corner of her lips, even when she wasn’t smiling.

But it was her eyes that had taken him so aback. He might never have truly seen the color green before now.

James shook his head, forcing himself back into the present moment. “Yes, sorry, how can I help you?”

Read The Rest On AO3

[tothelasthoursofmylife]

It took me far too long to realise that tumblr messed up the quality and size of the character sheets and made them barely readable... (and even more time until I got around to fixing this.)

So, here's a reupload and the overdue all-text versions for everyone who has trouble reading handwriting (+ bonus Oscar!).

Name: Cloudia Phantomhive

Birthday: April 5, 1830

Favourite Colour: blue

Favourite Flower: lily (particularly white ones)

Favourite Dessert: small cakes, biscuits

Random: Much to her chagrin, she can neither sing nor draw; she has, however, mastered playing a musical instrument and has exceptionally lovely handwriting

Nickname(s): Dia, Clou, Cloudie, Lulu, Claudette, Aunt Lou

What is in her bag? a book (usually Dickens), dagger + sheath, skeleton key, perfume bottle, notebook, pencil, hairpins, pistol, necklace

~~~~

Name: Cedric K. Rossdale

Birthday: March 25, 1???

Favourite Colour: cyan

Favourite Flower: bluebell

Favourite Dessert: all of them! (even fruitcake)

Random: He is rather clever with his hands and learned pottery and basketry; his favourite childhood game was cat’s cradle.

Nickname(s): Ced, Ceddie, Undertaker, Kris, Not-Kristopher, Uncle Rapunzel

What is in his bag? sack of sweets (biscuits!), biscuit cutters, destroyed earphones that shouldn’t be here, sometimes a banana (with disastrous results!), loose change, emergency 2nd bag of sweets, mourning hair lockets chain

~~~~

Name: Milton Salisbury

Birthday: June 27, 1823

Favourite Colour: loves them all

Favourite Flower: chrysanthemum

Favourite Dessert: apple cake

Random: Perpetually bored and severely insomniac, he learned various skills to pass his time, but he is too humble to say that he has mastered most of them.

Nickname(s): Mil, Milt, Millie, Sonshine, Sonny, Mor

What is in his bag? tinderbox, shawl, armband, gloves, flask with water, key, pencil, notebook, letter opener

~~~~

Name: Kamden Sainteclare

Birthday: April 5, 1830

Favourite Colour: yellow

Favourite Flower: passionflower, begonia

Favourite Dessert: Charlotte russe

Random: Cloudia’s opposite in almost every way, he can sing and draw, though he seldom draws and only ever hums to himself while working; on the other hand, his handwriting is awful.

Nickname(s): Kam, Kammie, Bookstore Boy

What is in his bag? book (usually a handbook), handkerchief, pocket knife, all the scary medical tools (why though), a sack of bonbons, first-aid kit (how does it even fit???)

~~~~

Name: Alfred Newman

Birthday: 1818

Favourite Colour: green

Favourite Flower: camellia

Favourite Dessert: blancmange (especially with berries!)

Random: Aficionado of romance novels; used to live in an abandoned part of a mysterious all-girls school after fleeing from a workhouse.

Nickname(s): Al, Alfie

What is in his bag? bag with bird food, hair ribbon, dagger + sheath, pocket watch, muff pistol, light read for breaks (Gamiani; his fondness for such literature stems from sentimentality)

~~~~

Name: Lisa Greene

Birthday: January 13, 1829

Favourite Colour: grey

Favourite Flower: anemone

Favourite Dessert: bread and butter pudding

Random: Besides squeezing Thomas’ money out of his pockets at their weekly game nights, she loves to sew by a window on a lazy rainy day.

Nickname(s): Li (only one person is allowed to call her that though)

What is in her bag? sack of herbs (sewn by Newman!), toy soldier, poison-laced hairpins (of course, usually wrapped in a cloth!), roll-up sewing kit, deck of playing cards

~~~~

Name: Cecelia Williams

Birthday: August 24, 1817

Favourite Colour: violet

Favourite Flower: heliotrope, centaury

Favourite Dessert: soda bread pudding

Random: Generally, she dislikes every form of physical exertion, but, when she was younger, she enjoyed walking through fields for hours whenever her father wanted something from her.

Nickname(s): prefers to be called by her full first name

What is in her bag? fan, handkerchief, a few letters and notes, sleeping draught, purse, smelling salt, little booklet with a pressed flower

~~~~

Name: Barrington Weaselton

Birthday: March 31, 1804

Favourite Colour: blue

Favourite Flower: edelweiss

Favourite Dessert: tarts (particularly lemon)

Random: His middle name is quite embarrassingly “Arnfried” as his mother is German (he does not speak German though).

Nickname(s): Barry

What is in his bag? sword, ring on a string, metal box with candy, kaleidoscope, paintbrush, comb

~~~~

Name: Oscar Livingstone

Birthday: December 24, 1798

Favourite Colour: gold, blue

Favourite Flower: rose

Favourite Dessert: cranachan, honey cake

Random: He does not mind if someone keeps him company when he is reading; he only wishes for silence.

Nickname(s): don’t even think about it

What is in his bag? pistol, dagger, knife, piece of wood, flask with water, a book (usually Paradise Lost)

[begonia000-blog]

Begonia exchange

Begonia cryptocurrency perpetual contract exchange is headquartered in Singapore. In addition, there are three operation centers in South Korea, Italy and Hong Kong, with a wide range of services and a global market. Begonia blockchain digital currency trading platform has a professional, efficient and experienced blockchain technology and operation team, with decades of Internet development and service experience. A group of Internet experts with unique insights and foresight are committed to providing a safe, convenient, stable and low transaction cost platform for global cryptocurrency contract transaction users. Begonia is a safe and reliable global cashless trading platform at home and abroad. The OTC mechanism platform in the form of Non internal index is used, and many mainstream cryptocurrency international indexes such as BTC, ETH, BSV, BCH, LTC, Zec, etc and EOS are used as contracts to provide 24-hour continuous trading in the form of extremely low margin requirements, so as to facilitate two-way trading contracts, and truly create a fair, fair and open trading market for data.

[nomoreweepinganymore]

Grow House Plants As Decorative Assets

Lately, indoor plants have gotten exceptionally basic as a component of your home or office improving resources. This is especially evident in city homes with lack of adequate external greenery. It is astonishing the variety of foliage that currently blossoms in homes or workplaces. It is presently exceptionally well known to discover flowering plants, evergreens, bushes, little trees, even palms and uncommon species from the Orient and deserts, in home indoor nurseries. The majority of the house plants can blossom all year, so one would now be able to make a sentiment of spring in any event, when snow is falling outside.

The brightening conceivable outcomes of house plants are perpetual. Just a solitary house plant can feature a chimney shelf, an end table or a piano and with an enormous aggregation of indoor plants foliage and flowering plants one can embellish a sound window in an emotional manner.

You additionally can sparkle up your kitchen with the extra of an inside spice cultivate or make that feeling of spring in your passage hall with the option of the flowering bulbs plant and their captivating scent. Do you have a tea truck? At that point rejuvenate it by annexing a pruned plant. Presently I can feel your ornamental juices streaming since you currently acknowledge there are several spots in your home where indoor plants will serve an enhancing capacity, yet additionally help you in establishing a solid living home climate.

It is simply so natural to make your own indoor nursery. It can likewise be fun, especially after you make the correct assurance to buy the first. You currently comprehend you can make your own seasons indoors by buying or growing another indoor plant, for that special area in your home. It would be ideal if you stick to living plants, as the plastic fake plants are almost pointless and can't fill in as embellishing resources. The main ability you need is your creative mind and the longing to uplift your living space in solid manner. You simply need to utilize a similar fundamental savvy instinct you would utilize in arranging and utilizing any of the materials, decorations or embellishments that praise the magnificence of your residence.

Indoor plants can be arranged into two fundamental sorts.

The first is the blooming plant that may either create flower all at one time or keep flowering throughout a few timeframes. Some of best notable indoor flower plants are begonias, hydrangeas, geraniums, azaleas, lilies, roses, gardenias, tulips, poinsettias, daffodils, hyacinths and African violets. The second essential kind of plant is the foliage or green plants; they are to a great extent tropical and expertly prepared to grow in practically any atmosphere. The most mainstream ones are greeneries, philodendrons, jade plants, Chinese evergreens, dracaena, caladiums, bromeliads, prickly plant, coleus and other known superb plants.

While some nurserymen may certify to the upsides of utilizing dirt pot, I for one, have had great encounters from utilizing admirably depleting normal compartments. First and foremost, if reserves are low, simply stick to standard compartments and your indoor plants ought to flourish with some affection and care. While red dirt pots make great brightening pieces, you can likewise discover numerous different shades of pots in various shapes and sizes that will loan to and raise your home ornamental worth.

The support for your indoor plants can be simple on the off chance that you observe this straightforward presence of mind rules. Give your plants ordinary water, yet don't over water them. I normally water my hefty foliage leaves plant each other day in the colder time of year and like clockwork in the late spring schedule months. The flowering plants I water sparingly relying upon the growth stage. At regular intervals is satisfactory for them as well. Do begin with plants that don't have yellowed, cooked, twisted or falling blooms or leaves and hanging stems, which are the most well-known signs that a plants root structure isn't sound. As Luck Would Have It, most plants accompany some consideration directions, do follow them carefully.

It is smarter to utilize well depleting pots since you will have the option to tell on the off chance that you are over watering your plants. Most indoor plants favor temperatures with scope of 60 to 80 degrees. Apply fluid natural manure once every month to help with fitting growth. Kindly don't matter compound composts, which in my impression is dangerous for people to smell and inhale the scent. Watch out for incidental coarse bug or plant creepy crawlies. Utilize just natural items, which you can discover in most greenery store to annihilate the parasites.

[spamzineglasgow]

(REVIEW) Tongues by Taylor Le Melle, Rehana Zaman and Those Institutions Should Belong to Us, by Christopher Kirubi

In this review, Rhian Williams takes a look at Tongues, a dazzling zine edited by Taylor Le Melle and Rehana Zaman (PSS, 2018), with* Christopher Kirubi’s pamphlet ‘Those Institutions Should Belong to Us’ (PSS). 

*I [Rhian] use ‘with’ here in homage to Fred Moten’s use of that preposition in all that beauty (2019) to ‘denote accompaniment[]’. This pamphlet was interleaved in the review copy of Tongues that I received from PSS.

> Onions, lemons, chilli peppers, fractals, hands, patterns, palms pressing, tears, avocados, pomegranate, mouths, finger clicking, deserts. Screenshots, flyers, placards, transcripts, textures, temporalities. Tongues is an urgent gathering in, a zine-type publication that works as a space where Black and Brown women (bringing both their intersections and the tension of distinction) enact memorial, exchange, jouissance, resistance, collaboration, support, listening. Edited by Taylor Le Melle and filmmaker Rehana Zaman, whose work generates many of the dialogic responses interleaved in this collection, this ‘assembly of voices’ was brought together in this particular format in the wake of Zaman’s exhibition, Speaking Nearby, shown at the CCA in Glasgow in 2018. But, as Ainslie Roddick explains, in ‘an attempt to reckon with the trans-collaborative nature of “practice” itself’, Tongues resists academic mechanisms that fall into reiterating the violence of individualism, moving around the figure of the single author/editor to seek to capture ‘a process of thinking with and through the people we work and resist with, acknowledging and sharing the work of different people as practice’ (p. 3). As such, ‘[Tongues’] structure, design and rhythm reflect the work of all the contributors to this anthology who think with one another through various practical, poetic and pedagogical means’ (ibid.). Designed and published by PSS, this is a tactile, sensory production: its aesthetics are post-internet, collage, digi-analogue, liquid-yet-textural, with shiny paper pages that you have to gently peel apart, gleaming around a central pamphlet of matte, heavier paper in mucous-membrane pink and mauve, which itself protects the centrefold glossy mouth-open lick of ‘I kiss your ass’ between the leaves of Ziba Karbassi’s poem, ‘Writing Cells’, here in both Farsi and English (translated with Stephen Watts). Throughout, Tongues reiterates the sensuous, labouring body as political, as partisan.

> Tongues’ multivalency is capacious, nurturing, dedicated to archiving that which is fugitive yet ineluctable; so, inevitably, its overarching principle is labour, is work. The entire collection of essays, response pieces, email exchanges, WhatsApp messages, poetry, transcripts, journaling, and imaginings are testimony to effort and skill, to the determination to keep spaces open for remembrance and for noticing within the ever-creeping demands of production. It is not surprising that this valuable collection is stalked by perilous attenuation, the damage of exhaustion. It is appallingly prescient of the first week of June 2020. Moving my laptop so that I can write whilst also keeping an eye on what I’m cooking for later, setting up my child to listen to an audiobook so that I can try to open up some headspace for listening and responding, nervous about how to spread my ‘being with’ across multiple platforms (my child, my writing, the news, other voices), I am taken by Chandra Frank’s meditative response piece to Zaman’s Tell me the story Of all these things (2017) and Theresa Hak Kyung Cha’s Dictee (1982), which vibrates with ‘the potency and liberatory potential of the kitchen’ (p. 9) and movingly seeks to track and honour ‘what it means to both feel and read through a non-linear understanding of subjectivities’ (p. 10). But I only have to turn the page to realise my white safety. I am at home in my kitchen; my space may feel like it has turned into a laboratory for the reproduction of everyday life under lockdown, but it is manifest, it is seen in signed contracts, my subjectivity is grounded on recognition and citizenship. For Sarah Reed, searingly remembered by Gail Lewis in ‘More Than… Questions of Presence’, subjectivity was experienced as brutalisation, manifested posthumously in hashtags, #sayhername. (Reed was found dead in her cell at Holloway Prison in London in February 2016. In 2012 she had been violently assaulted by Metropolitan Police officer James Kiddie; the assault was captured by CCTV footage.) For the women immigrants engaged in domestic work in British homes, as documented here in Marissa Begonia’s vital journaling piece and Zaman’s discussion with Laura Guy, subjectivity is precarity and threat, their dogged labour forced into shadows. Lewis’s piece pivots around a ‘capacity of concern’ generated by ‘the political, ethical, relationship challenge posed by the presence of “the black woman”’ (p. 18), urging that such concern be of the order of care by walking a line with psychoanalysts D. A. Winnicott and Wilfred Bion in recognising that ‘in naming something we begin a journey in the unknown’ (p. 19). If that ‘unknown’ includes understanding how the British state is inimical to the self-determination and safety of Black and Brown women born within its ‘Commonwealth’ borders (#CherryGroce; #JoyGardner; #CynthiaJarrett; #BellyMujinga), and further, how its ‘hostile environment’ policies – named and pursued as such by the British Home Office under Theresa May – are designed specifically to threaten those born elsewhere, by reiterating Britain’s historical enthusiasm for enslavement of non-white labour (see the 2012 visa legislation, discussed here, that, for domestic workers, effectively put a lock on the 2016 ‘Modern Slavery Act’ review before it had even begun), then consider Tongues a demand to get informed. This is a zine about workers and working. It is imperative that we come to terms with what working life in Britain looks like (see the Public Health England report into disparities in the risk and outcomes of COVID-19 – released June 2 2020, censored to remove sections that highlighted the effect of structural racism, but nevertheless evidencing the staggering inequality in death and suffering that is linked to occupation and to citizen status, and therefore tracks race and poverty lines). It is imperative that we scrutinise how ‘popular [and, I would add, Westminster] culture perpetuates a notion of working class identity as a fantasy’ (p. 52) that literally spirits away the bodies undertaking keywork in the UK. The title of Frank’s piece here, ‘Fragmented Realities’, is exquisitely apt.

> Bookended by Roddick’s and Zaman’s radical re-orientating of the apparatus of academia – the introduction that resists assimilating each of the forthcoming pieces under one stable rubric, instead simply listing anonymously a sentence from each contributor in a process of meditative opening up, and ‘A note, before the notes. The end notes’ that counter-academically reveals weaknesses and vulnerabilities, is open to qualification and reframing, is responsive ­– Tongues constitutes a politics and aesthetics of ‘shift’. Collated after a staged exhibition, anticipating new bodies of work to come, and ultimately punctuated by a pamphlet that segues from reporting on an inspiring event that took place at the Women’s Art Library, Goldsmith’s University of London to imagining a second one in paper (the ‘original’ having been thwarted by bad weather), the entire collection has a productively stuttering relationship with temporality and with presence. As Shama Khanna writes about working groups and reading groups, workshops and pleasure-seeking in gallery spaces, this is the moving ground of the undercommons. It is testament to its intellectual lodestars – Sara Ahmed, Fred Moten, Stefano Harney, and, especially, the eroto-power of Audre Lorde. Along with Christopher Kirubi’s pamphlet, ‘Those Institutions Should Belong to Us’, which comprises a series of seven short ‘prose poems’ documenting the anguish of writing a dissertation from a marginalised perspective, the entire project of Tongues with Those Institutions is to upend academic practice, to recognise the ideological thrust of academic method, to stage fugitive enquiry. Kirubi’s plain sans-serif black font on white pages rehearses the anxious dialectics of interpellation and liberation (‘there is a need to see ourselves reflected in position of agency power and self determination in a world which does not really wish to see us thrive at all’ (part 3)) afforded by their academic obligations, but inarticulacy is a higher form of eloquence:

Even though I know at some point I am going to have to yield to these demands I feel I have to say now that I want to take in this dissertation a position of defending the inarticulate, defending the subjective and defending the incoherent, without having to arrive at a point of defence through theoretically determined foundations, but to feel them.

> Since its structuring principles are those of women’s work, and of Black and Brown experience, nurturing and shielding within the exhaustingly cyclical nature of toiling for recognition, respect, and protection, Tongues dances in the poetics of circles, of loops and feedback, of reciprocity and exchange. Recognising, however, that circularity is also the shape of repetitive strain, Zaman leaves us with a spiralling gesture, in homage to the Haitian spiral, ‘born out of the work of the Spiralist poets’ (p. 61). This ‘dynamic and non-linear’ form insists on the mutuality of the past and contemporary circumstances, is ‘a movement of multiplied or fractured beings, back and forth in time and space demanding accumulation, tumult, and repetition, adamant irresolution and open endedness…’. We are in that spiral now. Such demands must be heard, power must be relinquished, established forms of control – enacted in the streets and on our pages – must be terminated. Writing in early June 2020, this feels precarious; no one is exempt from giving of their strength.

Please pursue further information here. If you are able, these organisations thrive (given the paucity of state support) on donation:

Voice of Domestic Workers: https://www.thevoiceofdomesticworkers.com/

Cherry Groce foundation: https://www.cherrygroce.org/

BBZBLACKBOOK (a digital archive of emerging & established black queer artists): https://bbzblkbk.com/

Reclaim Holloway: http://reclaimholloway.mystrikingly.com/

~

Text: Rhian Williams

Published: 16/6/20

[maddiemaynot]

Episode 2: The Book

For any non-Brits out there who don't know. Soho is our gay capital. Soho is where Aziraphale's shop is. That's all I'm saying.

Mrs Beeton's is technically food porn so you're not wrong there Sandalphon

"Something smells evil" *mild panic o shit what do I say* "that'll be the Jeffrey Archer books"

Josie Lawrence is my favourite comedienne and honestly I was so happy to see her in this 😭

"So they don't call you 'Adultery Pulsifer'?" "They do not." They bloody well do.

Agnes Nutter is low-key the reason I've taken up running

Agnes walking herself to the pyre is such a bad bitch move. An icon.

"Four shall ride and three shall ride the sky as two and one shall ride in flames" in case there are some people who didn't get it the first time - Four Horsemen, Three on a scooter as two people (Aziraphale/Madame Tracy and Shadwell), and Crowley in his flaming Bentley. Poor Bentley.

I sometimes wonder about Anathema's teenage years. Did she rebel? Did she not want to go on to try and save the world? Did she want to sod it all and become something completely different? Was she bullied for being (quite obviously a witch)? I feel for her

Newton + Computers = me.

"People who call their cats funny names". Reply with funny names you've given pet cats over the years please it's for science

Crowley and his plants is a) my favourite scene in the book and the show and b) exactly how I garden. It works. He is not wrong. I grew a begonia from a leaf by yelling at the little shit to grow god dammit just grow. It grew.

Madam Tracy is priceless and Miranda Richardson plays her so well and I honestly can't imagine anyone else playing her

I'm definitely going to try a cup of tea with condensed milk and 9 sugars. I'll let you all know how it goes. If I don't die of a heart attack

Crowley driving is exactly how my flatmate drives and I'm not okay with this

"Be-bop"

Pippin Galadriel Moonchild. I do not know ANYONE cruel enough to name their child that, and I have a friend who wants to call her first child "Yaris" after the damn car.

Not much of what Aziraphale says tells you how much of a sarcastic bitch he is, but LOOK AT HIS FACE in literally all of their interactions in Tadfield. He's a judgey cow and we love him for it.

Anathema's face when they say they're going to torture Wensleydale. Amazing.

"Art thou a witch, olé?"

"Are there any beasts about?" "Dog's a beast" actually me when talking about my poodle.

Crowley is so DRAMATIC when he's been shot like come on you drama queen it's paint.

CROWLEY CLEANING THE JACKET YOU ARE WHIPPED YOUD DO ANYTHING FOR YOUR ANGEL

Also when Aziraphale is like "I've looked at this gun, it's not a real gun", there is so much opportunity for Crowley to be making sarcastic comments but he doesn't and it's so SWEET that he doesn't. Swear this demon doesn't have a mean bone in his body when it comes to Aziraphale

The wall scene. THE WALL SCENE. ThE waLL SceNE. The wall scene. The wall scene.

Aziraphale loves playing detective and spy he's such a nerd.

"He had lovely little toesie woesies" Sister Mary Loquacious is ME

"Most books on witchcraft will tell you that witches work naked. This is because most books on witchcraft are written by men." God preaching feminism over here yes bitch

The music playing when Aziraphale is talking about the flashes of love (just before the crash with Anathema) warms my whole soul to the core.

"Let there be light!" You extra little shit Aziraphale.

Okay so someone on facebook pointed out a great thing on this scene. I mentioned how fantastically creepy and not-quite-right Aziraphale and Crowley come off, and it's probably very much how they come off to most humans because they're obviously not human. They seem very much larger than life and caricatured when next to Anathema. Like someone's IDEA of a bookshop owner and weird-gay-perpetually-drunk-rockstar (or whatever Crowley's personal branding is lmao). And this person pointed out that ON TOP OF THAT, remember that Anathema can see auras. So what the absolute FUCK is she seeing when she's looking at Crowley and Aziraphale? Like she must be seriously shaken tbh. Poor Anathema. (In the book, this bit is amazing to me too cos as Anathema leaves the car, Crowley says "get in, angel" and she thinks "Ah well that explained it, she had been perfectly safe after all." Which is great whichever way you interpret it. Either (and to me this is more unlikely) she takes Crowley at face value and understands that Aziraphale is an angel and that's why she was in no danger, which is great cos Anathema just accepting that is a sign of how awesome she is. Or, she hears Crowley call Aziraphale angel and goes "oh okay they're just a sweet couple and not creepily interested in me in any way" and I honestly love both interpretations so much)

"Oh Lord, heal this bike."

Velocipede.

Aziraphale is such a foodie you know they stopped at the cafe just cos he was peckish and wanted cake.

Deirde going to check Dog isn't in Adams room is such a MUM thing to do and I love it

Also the way the music turns so sinister when Adam is actually awake, I am so here for this soundtrack

DUCKS

"[The book] must belong to the young lady you hit with your car" why you being a bitch Aziraphale honestly

CROWLEY DOES NOT TAKE ABANDONMENT WELL I CANT HANDLE THE FACE AFTER AZIRAPHALE LOSES INTEREST IN TALKING TO HIM COS OF THE BOOK

[al-ghuul-aftermatha]

From here.  For @ofpoweredmen : Don’t Get In My Way by Zack Hemsey

Harlem.

The last time he’d come to New York, back in the sixties, the northern part of Manhattan had been even worse than Gotham had ever been; plagued by some of the highest incidence of drug use in the United States, gambling rings, gang violence, and robberies to the point that it practically operated as an independent state.  No one wanted to go in, and certainly getting out was no easy task.  Corrupt, from the top down--politicians and police officers had been on the take from the beginning, obstacles set in place to perpetuate a system of crime and exploitation that was nauseating to those who saw it for what it was.  

Gentrification had started touching Harlem since then, evidently--the brownstone steps on the edge bordering Central Park that once would be covered in men half out of their minds on heroin were now covered in potted begonias, and little niches of cafes and boutiques were being carved out on the more desirable fringes of the neighborhood.  

But not all of Harlem had changed.  Beyond the fringes, it didn’t take a detective to see the decay, the lurking hold of crime and misery on the residents who had managed to hang on thus far, the lingering hints of corruption.  He was meant to be meeting someone on Fisk’s behalf in Morningside (in the early morning, because when else, inconsiderate bastard) when several men had made the unfortunate conclusion that his suit meant he was apt to be a good target for a robbery.  

It took only a single well-placed hit each to put the two men down for the count--not quite quick enough to raise their guns.  

Well.  Those two weren’t.  There was a click behind him that let him know that he wasn’t quite done yet, and he stilled, mentally trying to get a fix on the third man’s position behind him so he knew where to hit.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to.   

@ofpoweredmen

[chriscarterart]

This week’s perpetual plant sketchbook entry - wax begonia in New Hampshire and anise hyssop in New Jersey #artistsoninstagram #chriscarterart #explorewithchriscarter #begonia #begoniasemperflorens #hyssop #anisehyssop #botanicalillustration #watercolor #watercolour (at New Jersey) https://www.instagram.com/p/BzErZxkF5Oz/?igshid=wk22wxt296a3

[truelovez2]

Summer Flowers

Summer the time to enjoy the fragrance of flowers everywhere. Most famous summer daylilies are black-eyed Susan, daisy, phlox, and hibiscus. Summer gives you the chance to explore the beauty of flowers and colors of different variety. 

The gardens look most beautiful in summer with the landscape petunia, begonia, and marigold with amazing colors. Summer flowers do not need much care like winter and abundance of growth of flowers has no comparison in summer. Some of the summer flowers are affected by the winter injury and need extra care of spring flowers to add the valuable addition to the beauty of garden. 

Every beautiful thing in this world needs extra care and special treatment, the flowers of summer are so beautiful but need nothing much but special attention to grow and beautify the garden. Put a little extra care of summer flowers and then enjoy the beauty and fragrance of flowers in the patio pots, window boxes, hanging baskets and you can also put them in containers and placed them outside your home to enhance the beauty of entrance. 

Popular Summer Seasons Flowers 

Amaranthus- Amarnthus has other names also like Amaranth, Tampala, Tassel Flower, Flaming Fountain, Fountain Plant, Joseph’s Coat, Love-lies-bleeding, Molten Flower, Prince’s Feather and Summer Poinsettia. It is flower of summer which grows in tropical regions and high temperature. These flowers are large in size and bushy grows about 90to 130 cm in height. 

Iris– Iris has lot of variety and colors such as blue, purple, white, yellow, pink, orange, brown and even black that’s why in some regions it is also called as rainbow. It is so beautiful in different colors and bloom. IT is considered as a symbol of communication and messages. Ever you need a flower is to express your feelings use the eloquence of iris. The purity is symbol of flower Iris. 

Lisianthus- Lisianthus grows mostly in grasslands and areas of disturbed lands in southern United States, Mexico, Caribbean and northern South America. It has long stem and have bluish green slightly succulent leaves and large funnel shaped flowers. It has a unique oval shaped leaves and delicate petals which separate it from other flowers. 

Carnations- Carnation is the flowers by god as its other name depicts its meaning Dianthus which is combination of two god and flower. Carnation has got popularity because of its numerous colors and different meaning to every color. The three major carnations are annual, border, perpetual flowering carnation. 

Asters– Asters has different names like Starworts, Michaelmas Daisies, or Frost Flowers. The star like flowers in different colors white, red, pink, purple, lavender and blue mostly with yellow centers are unique in species of this kind.  The beauty of aster is very unique and attractive with a different color center and petals of same colors.

[shellcollector]

I love your garden :D what are you growing?

Ah, I’m glad you like it! The answer is TOO MANY THINGS, in part because Thompson and Morgan totally have my number with the subject lines of their marketing emails but mostly because this has become A Thing of mine and I. don’t tend to go halfhearted with the Things.

In the front garden I have a huuuge passionflower plant my mum gave me last year as a fairly small plant but which has just grown and grown, then a few roses (although I’m learning the hard way how hard it is to get those to be happy in containers), some bambooo (also a gift from my mum, it’s from her garden where there’s Too Much Bamboo currently), a virginia creeper, various lavenders and then a lot of bulbs I planted a while back and forgot which I’d planted where - they’re a jumbled mixture I mostly got from the poundshop or various other places they were on offer. There are some dahlias, though, and I’m really looking forward to when they flower, they’re such creepy triffid looking plants! Oh yeah, and there are also some begonias and geraniums, and a whole load of lobelias in a plastic tower thing which I’ll probably move out to the chest of drawers once I can get enough soil to fill it with.

In the back I’m growing a LOT of tomatoes (I didn’t expect so many of them to germinate well, and now I can’t bear to get rid of any of them), courgettes, strawberries which are v exciting frankly, peas of different kinds (although I have no idea how many of them will survive the slug+snail onslaught), cavolo nero, perpetual spinach, and some pumpkins which I am worried about getting my hopes up over. I’m also starting some lettuces off in the greenhouse because the ones I direct sowed all got eaten, and some annual spinach as well for the same reason. I’ve also got a LOT of different kinds of thyme, some rosemary, chamomile, bay, and nasturtiums. There’s valerian and garlic chives in the greenhouse too, waiting to get big for planting out; I tried to grow sweet violet but either I Failed or else the seeds had just Gone Dormant and might grow next year.