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astra-ravana · 10 months ago

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Essential Correspondences

🎨Creativity

Day: Wednesday, Sunday

Moon phase: Full Moon

Colors: Orange, yellow, red, purple

Herbs: Calamus, wood betony, lemon balm, rosemary, mugwort, cannabis (hemp), damiana, coltsfoot, peppermint, sage, passion flower, ashwagandha, basil, turmeric, mayflower, catnip, St. John's wort, licorice root, valerian, parsley, oregano, coffee, cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, mint, eucalyptus

Incense: Sage, citronella, frankincense, peppermint

Essential oils: Orange, rosemary, peppermint

Crystals: Citrine, herkimer diamond, fire quartz, labradorite, orange adventurine, super seven, opal, pyrite, tangerine quartz, amethyst, lapis lazuli, peach moonstone, bumblebee jasper, rutile quartz, orange calcite, malachite, mookaite, auralite, topaz, pietersite, tiger's eye, blue lace agate, purple calcite

Metals: Gold, copper

Runes: Uruz, Kenaz

Tarot cards: The Magician, Temperance, The Empress, Ace of Wands, Queen of Wands, Page of Wands, 4 of Wands, Page of Cups, 6 of Cups, 7 of Cups, 8 of Pentacles

🔮Divination

Day: Monday

Moon Phase: Full Moon

Colors: Purple, lavender, yellow, silver, gold

Herbs: Blue lotus, camphor, eyebright, rowan, dandelion, bindweed, lavender, rose, coffee, red clover, nightshade, trillium, yarrow, holy basil, mugwort, damiana, bergamot, honeysuckle, pansy, bay leaf, calendula, vervain, frankincense, myrrh, star anise, benzoin, willow, orris root, rue, broom, dittany of Crete, flaxseed, buckeye, ivy, jasmine, goldenrod, penny royal wormwood, meadowsweet, acacia, agrimony, mullien, five-finger grass,

Incense: Myrrh, lavender, spirit

Essential oils: Lavender, rose, camphor, clove

Crystals: Lapis lazuli, indigo gabbro, moldavite, danburite, iolite, amethyst, azurite, sodalite, labradorite, blue apatite, charoite, tanzanite, clear quartz, obsidian, blue goldstone, larvakite, yooperlite, serpentine, blue kyanite, celestite, ametrine, moonstone, blue calcite, dumortierite, sapphire, nuummite, aqua aura quartz, chrysocolla, eudialite, sugilite

Metals: Silver, pewter, meteorite

Runes: Laguz, Eiwaz, Perth, Dagaz

Tarot cards: The Wheel of Fortune, The High Priestess, The Star, The Hermit, Ace of Cups

💵Wealth

Day: Thursday

Moon phase: Waxing Moon

Colors: Green, gold

Herbs: Patchouli, nettle, alfalfa, bay leaf, ginger, cinnamon, jasmine, five-finger grass, bergamot, allspice, thyme, basil, mint, fennel, fenugreek, chamomile, Irish moss, squill root, vanilla, tonka bean, lucky hand root, nutmeg, devil's shoestring, high john, rosemary, clove, dill, marigold, marjoram, black cohosh, bat's head root, pine, orange peel, almond, sugar, amber

Incense: Patchouli, amber, cinnamon, jasmine

Essential oils: Basil, orange, bergamot, patchouli

Crystals: Jade, citrine, pyrite, tiger's eye, green adventurine, peridot, rose quartz, emerald, moldavite, sunstone, serpentine, amber, tourmaline, moss agate, kumbaba jasper, rutile quartz, copper jadeite, green calcite, green quartz, bloodstone, chrysoprase, morganite, fire opal, lodestone, red coral, garden quartz, yellow sapphire, topaz

Metals: Gold, copper

Runes: Fehu

Tarot cards: Wheel of Fortune, The Magician, The Empress, Ace of Pentacles, 4 of Pentacles, 6 of Pentacles, 9 of Pentacles, 10 of Pentacles, Queen of Pentacles, King of Pentacles, 9 of Cups

🧿Protection

Day: Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday

Moon phase: Waning Moon, Black Moon

Colors: Black, red, white, blue, purple

Herbs: Jupiter, clove, althea, sage, rosemary, angelica, cayenne, cedar, rue, comfrey, hawthorne, artemesia, rowan, vervain, yarrow, wolfsbane, black locust, St. John's wort, garlic, elder, aloe, lavender, nettle, thyme, Solomon's seal, holly, onion, chive, holy basil, plantain, neem, eucalyptus, chamomile, mint, cinnamon, datura, mistletoe, oak, black pepper, agrimony, ash, lily, cactus, willow, red clover, boneset, blue berry, anise, bay leaf

Incense: Dragon's blood, sage, palo santo, sandalwood

Essential oils: Clove, cedarwood, rosemary

Crystals: Black tourmaline, clear quartz, amethyst, smokey quartz, hematite, obsidian, shungite, selenite, labradorite, pyrite, tiger's eye, bronzite, black agate, opal, onyx, fluorite, garnet, red jasper, black kyanite, malachite, jet, corundum, amber, fire agate, lapis lazuli, spirit quartz, lodestone, turquoise, black jade, smithsonite

Metals: Bronze, iron, silver, lead, steel, titanium

Runes: Algiz, Thurisaz, Sowilo, Ansuz

Tarot cards: The Star, the High Priestess, the Emporer, Strength, 9 of Pentacles, 10 of Pentacles, 6 of Swords

❤️‍🔥Love

Day: Friday

Moon phase: Waxing Moon

Colors: Red, pink, white

Herbs: Rose, jasmine, hibiscus, catnip, damiana, vanilla, thyme, ginger, black cohosh, lily, orchid, saffron, chickweed, magnolia, lovage, marjoram, walnut, rosemary, verbena, lemon balm, rhubarb, clover, lavender, basil, sesame, meadowsweet, licorice root, lady's mantle, strawberry, sunflower, coriander, apple, cinnamon, juniper, dill, daisy, cumin, fennel, carnation, patchouli, sorrel, elder, marshmallow, cilantro, ylang-ylang, sugar, tulip, oak, cocoa, carraway, orris root, spiderwort, bleeding heart, tamarind, beet, ash, elm

Incense: Rose, patchouli, jasmine, ylang-ylang

Essential oils: Rose, orange, dragon's blood

Crystals: Rose quartz, kunzite, rhodonite, garnet, pink tourmaline, ruby, jade, rhodochrosite, malachite, danburite, morganite, pink opal, carnelian, chrysocolla, ruby-zoisite, strawberry quartz, peach moonstone, red agate, pink calcite, diamond, watermelon tourmaline, howlite, emerald, phosphosiderite, sunstone, amber, turquoise, prehnite, amazonite, rainbow obsidian, ocean jasper, mangano calcite, argonite, topaz

Metals: Copper, rose gold

Runes: Gebo, Ingwaz

Tarot cards: The Lovers, the Hierophant, the Emporer, the Empress, Ace of Cups, 2 of Cups, 10 of Cups, Knight of Cups, 4 of Wands, 10 of Pentacles

☮️Peace

Day: Monday, Sunday

Moon phase: Waxing moon

Colors: Light blue, lavender, pink, white

Herbs: Lavender, chamomile, violet, gardenia, olive, myrtle, skull cap, blue bell, lily of the valley, lilac, lemongrass, sage, ashwagandha, holy basil, lemon balm, passion flower, valerian, rose, cannabis (hemp), penny royal, dulce, loosestrife, motherwort, morning glory, clary sage, marjoram, hops, rhodiola, blue lotus, dandelion, poppy, vervain, mugwort, nettle, rosemary, hawthorne, ginseng, kava, cumin, white rose, carnation, cherry, spearmint, angelica root, peace lily, daffodil, trillium

Incense: Sandalwood, palo santo, lavender

Essential oils: Lavender, almond, olive

Crystals: Larimar, blue lace agate, Apache tear, kunzite, desert rose, lithium quartz, celestite, selenite, lepidolite, sodalite, stilbite, cerusite, angelite, aquamarine, amazonite, fluorite, turquoise, blue-green tourmaline, amethyst, ammonite, shungite, cacoxenite, blue tiger's eye, blue calcite, azestuite, jade, kyanite, moonstone, tree agate, phantom quartz, flower agate, rose quartz, unakite

Metals: Silver

Runes: Teiwaz, Algiz, Wunjo, Inguz

Tarot cards: Temperance, the Sun, 4 of Swords

🔒Banishing

Day: Sunday, Tuesday

Moon phase: Black Moon, New Moon, Waning Moon

Colors: Black, grey

Herbs: Black willow, agrimony, juniper, wormwood, citronella, devil's bit, fumitory, bay leaf, black locust, cayenne, garlic, fleabane, hellebore, vervain, blessed thistle, mandrake, wolfsbane, broom, lilac, pine, rue, blood root, black pepper, coffee, anise, turnip, clover, paprika, sage, feverfew, oregano, fir, cassia, hyssop, peppermint, lemon, cowslip, stinging nettle, coriander, chrysanthemum, vertiver

Incense: Copal, dragon's blood, frankincense, myyrh, citronella, sage

Essential oils: Peppermint, lemon, cedarwood, clove

Crystals: Black jasper, rutile quartz, obsidian, jet, nuummite, black kyanite, labradorite, lepidolite, selenite, black quartz, black moonstone, clear quartz, optical calcite, fire quartz, fluorite, angel aura quartz, auralite, aegerine, brimstone (sulpher), septarian, black opal, red tiger's eye, marcosite

Metals: Iron

Runes: Algiz, Isa

Tarot cards: Death, the Hermit, the Emporer, 8 of Cups, 6 of Swords

👍Success

Day: Thursday, Sunday

Moon phase: Waxing Moon, Full Moon, Blue Moon

Colors: Yellow, gold

Herbs: Saffron, cinnamon, mayflower, bergamot, honeysuckle, high john, ginger, Irish moss, poppy seeds, basil, patchouli, clover, lucky hand root, sassafras, wood aloe, winter's bark, apple, bamboo, cabbage, violet, mint, heather, comfrey, allspice, dittany of Crete, calamus root, mustard seed, fern, goldenseal, hawthorne, pecan,

Incense: Frankincense, cinnamon, amber

Essential oils: Bergamot, ginger, clove, orange

Crystals: Alexandrite, apatite, Libyan desert glass, pietersite, labradorite, garnet, petrified wood, corundom, citrine, rutile quartz, green kyanite, green tourmaline, lemon aura quartz, leaopard skin jasper, peacock ore, black jade, peridot, aquamarine, K-2 jasper, chrysolite, chiastolite, tiger's eye, yooperlite, herkimer diamond, emerald, green adventurine, rhodonite, hematite, green calcite, yellow jade

Metals: Gold, platinum, iron, titanium

Runes: Jera, Sowilo, Teiwaz

Tarot cards: the World, the Emporer, the Chariot, 4 of Wands, 6 of Wands, 9 of Pentacles, 10 of Pentacles, 10 of Cups, the kings

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maxwellatoms · 1 year ago

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I bought a Gartenmeister Fuchsia plant for my birthday back in January. It was a centerpiece all winter long, but recently it started looking a bit sickly. I'm not a "green" gerdener anymore (haha), but I am also by no means a master. I think it was infected with powdery mildew, but I also convinced myself it was spider mites. I try to keep things all -natural out there, so I dried it out and sprayed it with some neem oil after pruning it back a bit. I really should've pruned off all of the infected bits, but I didn't want to lose the flowers.

I did that a few more times, unable to commit to a hard prune because I kept telling myself "I don't know what I'm doing, so maybe it's not sick. Maybe it'll fix itself. Sure would be nice to have those flowers back." I finally gave up and cut it to the bone yesterday, but yesterday was too late. I had to remove every single leaf because I dithered for too long. It's probably not going to make it.

I feel the same way about our culture. US culture. Western culture (though its really a global problem). The Entertainment Industry. The Media. It's sick. We probably need some rather serious surgery to fix the problem, but we just will not see a doctor. To see a doctor would be to admit there's a problem, and for some that is the greatest sin of the 21st Century. Maybe some of us are just hoping the system will recover on its own so we can have our pretty flowers back.

For me, it was around 2010 or so when I first started to smell something "off". The symptoms had certainly been around a while. This was just when I noticed. This was when I got my first, "Hey, let's not make fun of corporations" note. It's when The History Channel stopped airing stuff about history in favor of aliens because that's where the money was. And rather than rebranding, they just left it as "History", encouraging future generations to believe whatever they felt like. This was also about when traditional news outlets started skewing to clickbait in order to compete with sites that were clearly 100% not legitimate news sites. Again, as long as the money is right it's "just entertainment" and you' can're welcome to believe it if it means you'll watch more.

I'm all-in on Dead Internet Theory now. The disparity between what major news media outlets will report and what you see from actual people on Tumblr or Threads or Reddit is pretty shocking. And those sites are already compromised by bots and bad actors. The tools exist now to actively bamboozle millions of people, and I have no doubt we're already seeing some of this now. In six months or a year you'll find out it (whatever it was) never happened or was generated by an LLM. The time to stop listening to anyone online was a year ago.

Trust no one.

Not even me!

It's cultural rot. It's spreading faster and faster, and I'm not sure what happens when we get to the end of this ride. Actually, I AM sure what happens. If we don't prune back hard now, then the rot takes over. Best-case, you clip the infected branches off too late and it takes years to recover. Worst case? Nature soldiers on but the plant succumbs to infection and dies completely, replaced (eventually) by something that can actually hack it in that spot.

When humans produce art and information, and then comment on that art and information by producing more art and information, we call it "culture". We're moving toward a time when the vast majority of art and ideas we get out eyes on won't be created by humans. Or at the very least won't be created with the purpose of commenting on or enriching the organic human experience. When that happens, what will we call it? What will remain of our culture?

#maxwell atoms #entertainment industry #media #rot #grim reaper

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3d-wifey · 2 years ago

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And They'd Find Us In A Week - Chapter 1

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 5.3k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! A/N: Don't be scared to click the embedded links, you might get an auditory surprise (Ai voice cloning works wonders)

Past (i) - You

[15 & 16] - THE CAPITOL

Pine is a simple wood. It grows in abundance, representing purity and innocence. In Eleven, it’s saved for children. Children like Cane. Only thirteen years old, but at the end of his life. He died in the initial bloodbath from a knife in the heart, you saw it yourself as you were running away. You had made eye contact with him for a split second and had contemplated waiting for him behind one of the many buildings encased by overgrown greenery. But, within the next second, those eyes had clouded over and cannon fire rang in your ears.

He looks so small in his pine casket, you note. The pale shade of his little brown face is the only giveaway that he isn’t sleeping.

His parents come to stand before him, withdrawn in their grief for their youngest child. They each place a fruit in his hand: a pear in his left, and an apple in his right. One for himself and another to share with whoever comes to take his soul.

Neem, his brother, holds up his sister Venus, the youngest girl. She is distraught, wails bouncing through the clearing. Their oldest sibling, Vera, hadn’t been permitted to leave the fields to come to the burial.

Chrysanthemums represent death, mourning, life, and goodbyes. Roses represent life, grief, and sadness. You watch as the adults of the town move in to help his family cover him head to toe in the petals. A few of these flowers are shipped to the Capitol to be used aesthetically, you’re sure. Such an odd thought knowing the rest are used here only for funerals.

You can’t help but think about how close you came to being the one under all those flowers. You imagine your mom having to place the fruits in your hands by herself. The hand on your shoulder keeps you pinned in place as Venus’s knees buckle. Your mom squeezes you to her side and you look at her tightened face. You aren't the only one imagining it.

The grave has already been dug and above it sits his headstone, a rock bigger than both of your hands combined with his initials and his age carved into it.

C.B.

You stare at that rock long after they put him in the ground and cover him in dirt. At the end of the ceremony, all of the children in attendance get in line to hug the family. This one is no different. You’re only fifteen, but you’ve been to many funerals. Only one stands out: your dad’s.

You remember being ten and getting irritated at how sticky the pomegranate juice made your hands, but you preferred it to the painful lump in your throat. You had to be lifted so you could place the fruit in his cold hands and you don’t think your mom put you down after, holding you close to her chest as the town’s children hugged you.

You’re at the back of the line nervously picking at your nail beds. There’s a certain amount of guilt tied to being the one who survived, especially in the face of the grieving family. You haven’t spoken to them since you got back a month ago—it took a while for the Capitol to return his body—but you know they don’t blame you. That’s just not the way people think in Eleven. You don’t turn against your own.

You’re nervous because you have a bigger part to play other than offering condolences and you promised Cane you’d complete it.

Before you go in to hug his father, you speak.

“I, uh, have something for you.” You pull a small bear figurine out of your pocket, crudely carved from wood. “Cane, he gave it to me to give to his family the night before we went into the arena. Just in case I managed to come back.” Something neither of you had any real hope of happening, but you understood the gesture for what it was. He wanted you to bring him back to his family. So you protected it with your life, literally.

And now he’s home.

And that’s what cracks them, you think. His mom’s lips quiver and his dad makes a pained noise when you place it in his shaking grip. And Neem, who has tried to stay strong for his family, gasps around a sob. Venus pulls you into a hug, tears dripping onto your neck.

A breeze comes through, shaking the leaves in the tree and cooling you from the humid heat. You like to think that it’s Cane’s way of thanking you for not forgetting him.

“Your accent is just darling. Say something else, say something else!” The woman in front of you exclaims. You can’t remember her name, but you’re pretty sure she never introduced herself to you anyway. In fact, you don’t think anyone has introduced themselves to you.

"Like what?"

"Like what?" They mock your voice, clapping like you’re a dog that did a trick. You smile around the embarrassment. Maybe for your next act, you’ll play dead. "Oh, that is just a treat."

You've officially been the winner of the sixty-seventh Hunger Games for six months and thirteen days. It's the end of your Victory Tour and all you have to do is tolerate the Capitols poking and prodding at you until the night is over. Though, that's easier said than done.

You remind yourself to make a conscious effort to bury the accent, sound a little more like them. The old you wouldn’t give a damn about how a Capitol perceives you, but the old you didn’t get pawed at nearly as much as you have tonight.

Your dress cinches at your waist uncomfortably. The heels you were forced into press painfully into the calluses on your feet, and you've eaten so many pastries that your jaw aches. Foreign hands pat at your hair, stroking and pulling at the curls as you recount for the fifth time how you escaped the tributes from District Five.

"I climbed to the top of a building and jumped between rooftops while they looked for me on the ground—"

“Skip to the part where you get your scythe!” Someone yells from the crowd, cutting you off. You purse your lips and bite your tongue so hard that you taste metal.

"Alright. Two days in, I was… gifted a scythe from a sponsor—"

"And you used it beautifully!" Another person calls from your left.

"Yes, that move you pulled off against that poor boy from Nine was simply marvelous!" A voice shouts from behind you. You remember him. How could you forget? The "move" you pulled off wasn't intentional. As a warning, you swung your scythe in wide arches, but he ran at you and the blade slit his stomach open. You think he did it on purpose, knowing how it would end for him. You put him out of his misery with his own knife.

He was the first person you killed in the arena. The first thing you had ever killed.

You bite into a muffin, and it tastes like ash on your tongue.

You try to ignore the multiple hands on your shoulders, arms, and neck; all moving to touch any bare skin they can reach. But it's hard to ignore soft hands that have never known a day of work. Much different from your own calloused palms, made rough from your days of harvesting crops and climbing high in trees to pick fruit.

You keep quiet as they talk at you, never actually trying to engage you in the conversation. You grimace as a hand touches your face.

"God, you are stunning—isn't she stunning?" A taller man smiles down at you with golden teeth, moving your face this way and that with his sharp nails.

"Oh, just gorgeous! Who knew they were hiding such a diamond in the Agriculture district, of all places?" The group breaks out in howling laughter, as if the very notion of something worthwhile coming out of District Eleven is outlandish. Somehow, both a joke at your expense and one they expect you to join in on.

You're willing to bet all of your earnings that none of these people have the slightest idea about life in Eleven, what it's like to be truly hungry. Children are being hung for stealing food and here they are, gorging themselves just to throw it all up. You're shaken by the thought that you are completely alone here. Forced to endure the abrasive attention of the Capitol residents until they grow bored with you. You contemplate how easy it would be to escape. You aren't sure how much longer you can go with people petting you like a domesticated animal. Maybe, if you make yourself sick from drinking those vomit-inducing drinks, you could make a strategic retreat with minimal fuss. "Excuse me, ladies, gentlemen," a smooth voice breaks through the crowd before a lithe body follows. The man—or boy, rather—is tall, all tan skin and sun-bleached-hair. Every eye falls on him as soon as he steps up, and you can understand why. Finnick Odair. He's objectively attractive; beautiful, even. You can tell from the brazen way he holds himself that he already knows that. Pink lips are settled in a smug smirk, but they don't take away from his eyes. If you were a writer, you could have authored a thousand and one poems about those eyes alone. "You wouldn't mind me stealing tonight's guest of honor for a dance, would you?" It's quiet, and the crowd looks at each other. They clearly don't want to give you up—their brand-new toy. But who can say no to Finnick Odair? Exclaims of oh, certainly and of course are called out before he comes to stand in front of you. Someone pulls the saucer of miniature cakes and cookies from your death grip and you feel bare before him. You had seen him two years ago during his games. Then, six months after that he came to Eleven for his Victory Tour, apologizing to the families of people he didn't know nor care about. He was just another pretty Career laughing and being gushed over on Caesar Flickerman's couch, pretty low on your list of priorities. But now—well, it was one thing to see him on screen, it was another to be in front of him. It's a lot like standing in front of the ocean, you imagine. You had seen it secondhand, through train windows and simulated in arenas, but nothing could prepare you to see it in person. He doesn't push you to take his hand, just holds it out in front of him like he has all the time in the world. Like he knows you'll take it, eventually. The temptation to reject him is strong. You’d pay money to see the look on his and everyone else's faces if you said no and walked away.

You reach forward and a callused palm meets your own. You trust him as much as you do everyone else vying for your attention here, but he's the lesser of two evils. You tense up as you follow him, mentally preparing yourself to be surrounded. But he doesn't lead you to the center of the dancing mass like you thought he would. Instead, you both linger on the edge, barely close enough to be a part of the crowd. He faces you and asks, "May I have this dance?" Overly formal in a way that nobody else here has been with you.

"We're already here, aren't we?" You say as if you weren’t just contemplating leaving him behind. You step closer to him as the band starts a new song, your right hand holding his left and the other on his shoulder. His free hand lays on your waist, a fraction above the slit on the side of your dress.

“Have you been having fun?” He picks, certainly nonexistent, lint off the shoulder of your dress. Is your eye twitching? It has to be. You want to place a hand on it to tamp down the spasms, but, instead, your nails dig into his shoulder through his suit jacket.

“What? Are you not enjoying your time in our great nation's capitol?” He deadpans. Your mouth tries to twitch into a smirk and you smother it down.

You narrow your eyes. “What’re your thoughts on lying?”

He inhales slowly, head tilting side to side contemplatively. “Depends. Am I the one lying?” You shake your head. He shrugs. “Then, I hate it.”

“Then, I won’t answer,” you shrug back. He lets out a puff of air from his nose, a laugh?

"I'm surprised Seeder isn't here with you. She talked you up a big game, you know. Very confident that you'd win." His eyes sweep over the crowd of dancing couples before settling on you. “Guess, I should have bet on you too, huh?”

You don’t know how you feel about that. Why would Seeder be that confident in a semi-malnourished fifteen-year-old with no combat skills?

You definitely wouldn’t have bet on yourself. If you were in his shoes, you would’ve put money into one of the Careers. Maybe that one girl from Two—perhaps the most muscular person you’ve ever seen. She was benching at least twice her body weight in the Training Center, but you think it was just an intimidation tactic. Though, a pointless one, since she didn’t even make it out of the Cornucopia. You suppose no amount of muscle can combat an axe to the back of the spine. “I wouldn’t have if I were you. But now that you've actually seen me, do I meet all the expectations she set?” You partially joke. Partially because as much as you hate to admit it, you are curious. Why you’re curious about what he thinks of you will remain a mystery. “Now that I've actually seen you? No,” you look up at him in shock before he grins like a shark, teeth on display. "You exceed them. Don't get me wrong. You were beautiful on screen, but the TV doesn't do you justice." He does little to hide the once-over he gives you. It was meant to be caught. You don't know what to say. You've been excessively complimented and fawned over since you were reaped, but somehow, it felt different coming from him. His gaze felt different. Like he actually saw you. You throw that thought away. Finnick is a known flirt—a playboy. He means nothing by it and neither does the look in his eyes. "She's pregnant. Seeder," you clarify, abruptly changing the topic. “About seven months along. She's resting at the hotel.” Traveling for so long had taken its toll. Not to mention the stress of just being in the Capitol. Snow, the bastard, wouldn't let her stay behind, even though Chaff was willing to take her place as your mentor on the tour. "Ah, congratulations are in order then."

"Please,” you scoff. “I'm sure you didn't come up to me just to talk about Seeder." Your gaze bounces around his face as you do everything in your power to avoid eye contact with him.

“Why not? I can’t ask about a good friend?”

“If you’re such “good friends” shouldn’t you have already known she was pregnant?”

“Touché.” He concedes with a nod, his smile still in place. Or at least you think he does. You aren’t entirely sure what touché means. “I came up to you because you looked like you were one more scone away from using it as a weapon." The laugh you let out is a surprise to you both and you have to bite your cheek to stifle it. You haven’t been doing a whole lot of laughing over the past six months.

"Was I that obvious?" He's quiet for a moment as he stares at you and you don't dwell on it. Instead, you focus on the freckles dotting the bridge of his nose.

You're only a year younger than him and, yet, there's something about him that feels far older than any other sixteen-year-old you've met. The way he carries himself—something sharp-edged hidden under indifference, an alertness in his eyes that you're sure mirrors your own. "To anyone who cared to look," his voice deepens as he hums. It really is smooth. "Definitely." "Am I supposed to believe that the Capitol's darling cares about little ol' me?" "So, you do know who I am." His lips shift into a shit-eating grin, preening as if he caught you in a lie. He’s probably used to people fawning over him, and that’s something you’d never do. Be that as it may, you can acknowledge that there might be something worth fawning over. “Who doesn't?” It’s been two years and people are still talking about his games. And for good reason, you have to admit.

"Touché...again.” He tilts his head with contemplatively narrowed eyes. You narrow your eyes right back simply based on the fact that he did it first. “You know, that’s the second time you’ve—” "Seriously, what're you hoping to achieve here? You've gotta have a motive. Everyone does.” You push, cutting to the chase and sounding more accusatory than you meant to. But, he’s a victor too, right? Maybe you can toe the line here without repercussions waiting on the other side.

"Hmm, blunt. Even you?" He questions, continuing when you nod. "What's your motive for dancing with me, then?"

You could have said no to this dance, but that would’ve meant staying surrounded by them. This, being with Finnick, is a breath of fresh air in comparison. He may not be Eleven or from any other district that’s similar to yours, but he is District. That’s gotta be worth something—some kind of kinship.

"I'd do just about anything to escape those vultures," you pause. Then, feeling emboldened, add, "And I guess you're not terrible to look at." If you were going to be forced to stay here, you might as well find your fun where you can. And talking to Finnick is fun. Undoubtedly, the only fun you've had all night.

"Oh, thank you," he laughs, mirth coloring his cheeks a pretty shade of pink. "You know, I was worried about that."

"Is that so?" You smile, trying, and failing, to not step on his feet.

"Definitely," he pauses for a second, seemingly deciding on something before answering your question, "It’s just that—you remind me of someone. They got wrapped up in the Capitol; thought they could handle the…” he makes a wide sweeping gesture to the gluttonous pageantry around you and you get it: the extravagance, the theatrics, the Capitol of it all. “But the Capitol asked for more than they were willing to give. And, well...I couldn't save them." His eyes look glazed as he trails off. His face is grim, his smile gone so fast it's almost like it was never there to begin with. You find that you want it back. "And you want to save me?" You guess, heart in your throat.

"Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. The people here? Every single one of them wants us. They want to talk to us, touch us, sleep with us," you swallow at the look in his eye. "But they don't see us as people." He leans towards you and you freeze. For a split second, you think he's going to kiss you. That doesn’t scare you. Instead, he hovers by your ear. What would you have done if he had kissed you? You don't think you would've moved away. That scares you. "Me and you," he hums, lips against your ear, "Well, we might as well be a completely different species to them. We're lesser than. Beloved pets at most, tamed beasts at least."

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” You live in Eleven, after all. There’s a reason no one goes looking for the kids that go missing from the fields. According to the people in charge, there’ll always be another to take their place. You sigh through your nose and turn away, but immediately turn back to Finnick when you make eye contact with the smiling man with gold teeth.

He shakes his head, lips curled into a frown of disgust, "Look at them, the way they linger at the edge of the crowd." The hand on your waist moves to the small of your back as he spins you. "You see how desperate they are to get in your good graces?" You peek over his shoulder at the people watching you, teeming with anticipation.

"Is that not what you're doing?" You ask, your cheek pressed to his. "Trust me, sweetheart. If I was trying to gain your favor, it'd be somewhere a little more private with a lot less talking." He doesn't give you enough time to reply, not that you know how, before continuing. "I'm doing the same thing I've done since I was reaped," he lowers his voice, almost like he's imparting some kind of secret. To the right person, maybe he is. "Surviving. I'd suggest finding your allies now if you wanna do the same. " And then he turns to place a chaste kiss against your cheek. To anyone watching the two of you, it would look like he's just flirting with you. You shiver as he pulls away from you, taking all the warmth with him. He looks down at you for a moment longer, locking you in his gaze. You had never really seen the ocean, you remind yourself, but, through him, you're staring at it now. Vast and limitless. All-consuming. He brings your knuckles to his smooth lips, and he smirks. The urge to shiver again is alarmingly strong as his mouth moves delicately against the skin of your knuckles as he begins to speak. "Until next time." You catch the shimmer in his sea-green eyes. It has to mean something, something worth pursuing. You've never known the ocean, but as you watch Finnick walk away into the crowd of adoring Capitols, you think you could grow to like it. There's a drive in him that's rare to see outside of Eleven, let alone in the Capitol, and it further proves your assumption right. There’s a kinship between the districts that only the victors are privy to—you and Finnick might be cut from the same cloth, and that’s made even more apparent by the way the masses move in to surround you both. You jump as trumpets sound around you and a spotlight shines on the balcony. You missed your chance to escape. It's time for Snow's speech.

Present (I) - You

[23 & 24 ] - DISTRICT ELEVEN

It’s winter in Eleven. There’s little worse than winter in Eleven. You must have forgotten to close your window when you left in a rush because the air in your room is practically crystallized, and you mull over the idea of igniting your fireplace but decide against it.

Normally, you would go to the Capitol after being invited to a party, your prep team would scrub and shave you from top to bottom, and Snow would introduce you to your client for the night. Then, you would stay in your hotel room and have time to recoup before you left. But, this time, there was no party. Only a very important partner of Snow’s who is not a patient man. So you left in the early morning and made the trip back the next day as the sun was rising. Seven hours there, seven hours back. You’re dead on your feet and your bed has never looked more tempting. You stand before your vanity and grab a makeup wipe, dragging it over your face and revealing the bags under your eyes. You're tired, bone tired. You kick your heels off. You unzip the back of your dress and let it fall to the ground. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you press on one of the bruises littering your neck. You follow the trail to the top of your chest, breast, stomach, and hips. You frown at yourself. What a pitiful painting you make. "It's starting!" Your mom calls from down the hall and you sigh, looking at your bed mournfully. You'd usually avoid Snow's announcements like the plague, you don't want to look at him more than you already have to, but it's different this time. It's the Quarter Quell. The last Quarter Quell had double the amount of tributes, and Haymitch told you how he only won by the skin of his teeth. So, despite yourself, you're curious to see what kind of nightmare Snow comes up with. There's also something else driving you. A man you met in passing at the party. Plutarch Heavensbee. He was strange, but a different kind than you were used to from the Capitols. He's taking the place of Head Gamemaker after Seneca Crane's untimely death. He spoke in riddles, always hinting at things of importance without saying anything at all. And there's a nagging feeling in the back of your mind surrounding something he said. "I understand that there’s a certain kind of…job that President Snow has employed you for. If I told you there was a chance to put an end to it, what would you say?" "I'd say you should cut back on the Morphling." "I assure you, I'm sober," he laughed, "I can't go into detail right now. I just need to know, when the time comes, that I can trust you to fight." Fight. It’s an interesting term, but you wonder if it has the same definition for him as it does for you. You doubt it. Very rarely is there ever any overlap between the way of thinking for Eleven and the Capitol. The people of Eleven fight every day and you’ve heard the other districts have finally picked up on the habit. Riots upon riots upon riots and it’s all thanks to the kids from Twelve. You still can't decipher what he was telling you and you’d usually chalk it up to the regular Capitol jargon. But there was something, something different that you couldn’t put your finger on.

You throw pajamas on, something soft that won't irritate you, and walk to the living room. "Here: sugar, berries, and licorice root, just the way you like it." Your mom hands you the cup and pretends she doesn't see the marks on your body. You're thankful. She looks tired too, older. "Thank you, Ma." You say, for more than just the tea. "Of, course. Now, sit, sit. He's walking out." You settle gingerly on the couch beside her, sorer than you thought, and pull your legs under you as Snow stands behind a podium. He lets the audience quiet down before beginning. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the seventy-fifth year of The Hunger Games. And it was written in the charter of The Games that every twenty-five years, there would be a Quarter Quell to keep fresh for each new generation the memory of those who died in the uprising against The Capitol." You drink carefully from your cup as he continues, steaming liquid burning the roof of your mouth. "Each Quarter Quell is distinguished by Games of a special significance. And now on this, the seventy-fifth anniversary of our defeat of the rebellion, we celebrate the third Quarter Quell," you place your cup on the table and fidget with your bracelet as Snow pulls a letter from an envelope, "as a reminder that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of The Capitol. On this, the third Quarter Quell Games the male and female Tributes are to be reaped—" The hairs on your arms stand on end. You brace for the blow. "—from the existing pool of victors in each district." "No. No, no, no, that's not, that's not right." You shake your head. It doesn't take long for your mom to start sobbing beside you and you…you can't breathe.

You suck a breath in and it feels like it's being funneled through a filter. Not enough, not nearly enough. Your heart's beating fast, faster, the fastest it’s ever beat and you're getting lightheaded. You stand up on shaking legs and stumble to the door, glass shatters as you knock a vase over in your pursuit. You need more air, you need, you need—you step out onto the snow-covered porch, submerging your bare feet in the white powder. It’s odd, it rarely snows here.

You kneel down and grab fistfuls of snow, smearing the ice on your face and grounding yourself. You breathe and you rationalize. You can breathe. You're taking in frigid lungfuls of air and you are breathing. You stare down the long walkway leading to your home, covered in both ice and snow. Across from that walkway is a cow pasture and past that pasture are woods. Vast and open and if you will it, no one would be able to find you. You wouldn’t be able to leave, not with the giant electric fence surrounding the district, but they wouldn’t find you.

But Snow could find your mom.

You stay out there until your feet and hands go numb. And then you stay until it hurts to move your fingers and toes, the skin of your shins and knees prickling with the temperature drop. You stay until your mom drags you in herself. "Let's warm you up." She says, but she's mostly talking to herself. She wraps you in a blanket and sits you on the couch. She goes to the kitchen and comes back with a fresh cup of tea. Saliva gathers in your mouth at the thought of drinking anything, so you use it to warm your hands instead.

“Oh, look what you’ve done to yourself.” You look to where she’s hovering over the carpet. Red footprints lead from the door to where you are now. You must have stepped on the broken pieces of the vase. You wait for the sting of pain to come now that you’re aware of the wound, but there’s nothing.

“I’ll go get something to clean you up with—”

“Can you just…can you just sit with me?” You ask and look away when you catch her frenzied gaze.

“Yeah, of course, baby. Of course.” The couch dips with her weight as she sits beside you.

By now, Caesar Flickerman is recapping the announcement to the audience with his cheery co-star. You can never remember his name. You're as still as a statue as Caesar goes over a list of remaining victors. You don't move when your mom holds onto you. She holds you and she holds you and she cries for you. You don’t think you have any more tears left in you.

“Now, it always hurts to say goodbye, Claudius, but I can admit there are a few lovely victors I’m particularly attached to.” Oh, you think, that’s his name. Doubtful that you’ll remember it.

“Yes, Caesar, I completely agree. Here’s one of mine now. From District Four: Finnick Odair!” Your eye starts to twitch, lower lid spasming. They play clips of him. Finnick waving to the audience as he walks on stage, Finnick posing for the camera at a photo shoot, Finnick walking down the red carpet at a movie premiere.

You imagine footage of him being reaped for the Quell and saliva is gathering in your mouth again, stomach flexing as you gag. You double over, nausea washing over you as you try to keep what little is in your stomach down. Absently, you feel a hand rubbing your back in wide, soothing circles that aren’t doing a lot to soothe you.

You were wrong. You do have tears left in you.

A/N: 1.) your arena is inspired by Valle dei Mulin in Italy 2.) The people of 11 all have farm and gardening-related names. (Neem tree, venus flytrap, aloe vera, Mass Cane) 3.) Cane had a crush on the reader similar to Peeta's initial crush on Katniss 4.) Each district has a different accent depending on their geography

#the hunger games #hunger games fanfiction #catching fire #hunger games catching fire #finnick odair #finnick x reader #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair fanfic #and they'd find us in a week

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philodendronplants · 10 months ago

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Neem plant

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santhionlinebutplants · 10 days ago

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ghatshoney · 2 months ago

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khwabon-ka-seher · 10 days ago

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“🐚” A soft scenario you deserve to experience.

It’s late afternoon, the sun is low and golden, casting dappled light through the leaves like spilled honey. She’s in a quiet garden tucked behind a centuries-old house, hidden from the world like a secret. No city noise but Just the rustling of trees, the soft buzz of bees, and the occasional flutter of butterfly wings brushing past her skin like a blessing.

The garden is a wild sort of beautiful not perfectly trimmed or overdesigned. The marigolds grow beside the lavender, and tulsi sways beside the roses. There’s a bench under a neem tree, faded from the sun, and she’s curled up there barefoot, wearing a cotton dress the color of morning mist. Her feet are muddy from walking in the grass.

There’s a half-read book resting on her lap and a clay cup of elaichi chai growing cold beside her. She’s not reading anymore, though. She’s just sitting there, head tilted to the sky and watching the light shift through the leaves. She feels no urgency, no fear of time slipping. Just presence, just breath and just being.

A journal lies beside her, pages filled with inky thoughts, poetry in margins, and little pressed flowers from days she wanted to remember. She might write again soon. Or she might just close her eyes and hum. Maybe even nap with her head tilted back and the breeze in her hair.

There’s a little swing tied to a banyan tree. She’ll go there later. Push herself gently. Laugh quietly when she goes too high. Maybe hum an old Bollywood tune, something from Lata Mangeshkar or Kishore kumar, the kind her mother used to sing while drying chillies on the terrace.

And when the sky turns indigo and the first fireflies begin to flicker like forgotten wishes, she’ll walk back into the house slowly, barefoot, leaves tangled in her hair, heart light.

And for that whole day,

She wouldn’t have to explain herself to anyone.

She wouldn’t have to be useful or perfect or brave.

She would just be herself, the soft, whole, and enough.

#Sitaron-e-desiblr #Sitaron-e-Tumblr #season 2

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hum-suffer · 10 months ago

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I love your writing!!!! Could you write a long form piece on Nakul?

Awww thank you so much and also, I'm so so sorry for the late answer!! I hope you like this!

____________________________________________________

Nakul draws a lot.

It's a fact, really. Yudhisthir never lies, Bheem loves food, Arjun is a know-it-all, Sahadev is quiet and Nakul draws.

The first drawing he made was when he was a toddler, made it on the bark of a tree. An amateur drawing, carved in the Neem tree near their hut. It was of a lotus. Madri thought there was some irony in the flower being drawn on the tree which had bitter leaves. She smiled to herself when she saw the redness in his fingers and kissed his fingers. "Nothing good ever comes without hard work," she told him. "And hard work will always leave its mark."

She failed to notice that he had a small cut on the side of his ring finger on his left hand, which scabbed over but Nakul kept on scratching it once in a while, never allowing it to heal. He feared that he would forget his hard work if he didn't have any scars.

Even ages after that incident, the scar on the side of his finger is still red and still a bit raw. It grows warm whenever he runs a hand through his hair.

The drawings kept on piling up after that. First on trees, then on sand, then on leaves, then on flower petals and then, on papyrus. There was never a moment where Nakul did not have some sort of natural colour stain on himself.

His drawing was a source of joy.

____________________________________________________

And then, then came the day when he was forced to see the fire lick the bodies of his parents. He held Sahadev close, forced him to look away from the pyres, but couldn't look away himself. The wood he had used to alight the pyres had come from the Neem tree he had made his first drawing on.

There were no more drawings after that. Not for a long while.

Hastinapur almost forced out all creativity from him. He walked with his shoulders held higher than he would, his chin tilted up and his hair always adorned with some or the other jewellery.

(He doesn't remember all the details about his mother. Mata Kunti says he inherited her hair and Pitashri's eyes. Nakul never looks at Kunti in her eyes whenever talking to her.)

And the next time he draws, it's for his only sister. Dusshala, the poor dear, Nakul finds himself worrying about her sweet nature and soft heart. He worries about her unblemished skin, her blood of Kurus and her quiet submissions to keep peace. He worries for a future for her. He worries that it will be filled with bruises.

So, he draws her. Young, smiling. Surrounded by flowers and greens and a light in the sky that's neither the sun nor the moon. He draws a softer glow around her eyes and hopes she knows that she is the embodiment of kindness to him.

He gifts it to her on her birthday, and two days later finds out where exactly her father is planning to marry her off to.

He wishes he did not paint the painting's saree red.

(a year later, he sees a bruise on her arm that she says came from falling accidentally and bracing herself against a railing.

Several years later, he sees her ghost smile when she's wearing a white saree.)

____________________________________________________

When Nakul first bleeds accidentally in his room, he wipes the side of his palm on the nearest wall— almost in a hurry to run to his brothers and discuss the strategy for the attack on Panchal.

When he comes back to his room later, the stain is dry and coating a small part of the wall, not unlike paint.

He picks up the paintbrush and lets his thoughts guide him, painting with the rhythm of his heartbeat. The wall ends up having a portrait of a horse with red reins, and Nakul names him Kamal.

He tells the servants not to erase the painting while cleaning his room.

(when they visit to Hastinapur after the establishment of indraprastha for the first time, his wall is repainted again. There's a silhouette of black and white and brown paint under the beige. The shadow of his blood is still stark.

Nakul resists the urge to redraw the horse with the blood of his cousin. Barely. But he resists it.)

____________________________________________________

Nakul's half finished painting is burnt in the lakshagrah, and for the locals, it confirms that the Pandavas and their mother are dead.

For, who would leave a half painted canvas in the living room, if not Nakul? For, who would paint such stark painting, if not him? For, who would be painting Maharaj Pandu, if not his son?

(When Sahadev asks him about it later, Nakul shrugs.

"I only managed to paint the forehead and the eyes. The rest was a sketch still. I was painting myself. I would not leave our father in a burning hall."

And Sahadev understands, Nakul thinks. Because he always understands. No one understands Nakul better than Sahadev does. It's the reason why Sahadev holds his hand and puts pressure on his finger's scar and reminds him that they're alive (unfortunately) even if their parents aren't. Because Sahadev understands that Nakul saw their father burn once and he won't do it again, but he will definitely not hesitate to see himself burn.)

____________________________________________________

Life in the forest doesn't allow him to paint. So he doesn't.

Nakul doesn't paint again— until he's suddenly married.

And all at once, she is the muse he has been searching for, all his life. When he paints her, he wishes he was more talented so he could paint her better and show the world now and after them that she is the epitome of beauty.

The first portrait he makes of her, has her gasping and flushing. She tells him she is flattered but next time, she wants him to be in the painting too.

(The next time he paints her is when his hands are bruised and so is his self respect and his hands are shaking but he needs needs needs needs needs to apologise. When she caresses the cheeks of their versions on the canvas, their cheeks come off stained red.)

____________________________________________________

The last painting Nakul makes, is lost forever.

When he starts to move to heaven, he reveals all the paintings he made for all the people he held dear. His wives, his brothers, his mother, his dead parents. Sahadev receives more than any of them, because Nakul always made a painting of Sahadev whenever he wanted to distract the younger or apologise for something.

Karenumati hides the paintings he receives with a blush on her cheeks and tears in her eyes as she realises that her husband always wanted to see her smiling. Only that had ever been his agenda.

All of them ask him where his last painting is but he doesn't say a word, laughing it off and leaving it. He changes the subject, and the painting is soon forgotten.

But the painting stays in Parikshit's room. A painting of all the children of the Pandavas, all of them who died for the honour of Draupadi and for the need of justice. And in the hands of Abhimanyu, is lotus.

#suffer ye suhana nahi #desiblr #mahabharata #mahabharat #nakula #sahadeva #arjuna

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