#apple rust disease

[blackknotbegone]

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Visit: https://www.blackknotbegone.com/products/black-knot-disease-treatment-all-organic-plant-ingredients

[speltfields]

fruit check

[mycoblogg]

FOTD #068 : cedar-apple rust! (gymnosporangium juniperi-virginianae)

gymnosporangium juniperi-virginianae is a plant pathogen that causes cedar-apple rust. this disease can grow in virtually any location where apple trees & eastern red cedar coexist !!

the big question : can i bite it?? no :-P please don't eat fungal diseases. /lh

[image : source]

[anotherdayforchaosfay]

I'm relearning how to cook!

Now, before anyone gives me shit about it, here's the short version of why:

Until December 2023, my seizures were more severe and more frequent. This makes cooking very dangerous! I still have them daily, but they aren't nearly so extreme, and the seizure count is lower.

What changed? I began treating my ADHD with medication! WOOOOOOT!!! More than 60% of epileptics have ADHD, but the exact percentage is hard to place because girls have been thought immune to ADHD. It presents differently because we're taught "sit still, be quiet, look pretty;" we internalize the symptoms. Doctors don't know why or how epilepsy is in such high numbers for us epileptics, but treating ADHD with meds has a huge impact on the seizures.

The medicine had an immediate impact. Throughout the day, I get random urges for sweets, which also happens to be accompanied by dizzy spells, weakness, and a headache. During my last EEG (almost 10 years ago), it showed I was having a MASSIVE seizure, but externally I was showing no symptoms. In fact, I was conversational! When the seizure stopped, the doctor tested my blood sugar because I was suddenly craving sweets and having a hard time staying awake. My husband was ready with a bottle of apple juice, and my blood sugar was low enough that my being conscious was likely due to me being stubborn. I was diagnosed with hypoglycemia in my 20s and figured it was just my body being weird. Nope, it's seizures.

Now imagine me having this kind of seizure while cooking. Doesn't sound safe, now does it?

My blood sugar has gone up since starting my ADHD medication because my brain isn't burning through it with the frequent daily seizures. I've made some huge adjustments to my diet to help accommodate this, and have been feeling a very good difference.

Husband is working from lunch through dinner now, which means he's not home to do any cooking for me. He's a professional cook, which is AWESOME, and he's teaching me how to cook. I used to know how, but having not done much cooking in years, my skills are made of rust. He's enjoying the lessons though!

So, hey, good things! I'm relearning how to make one of my favorite meals, but as soon as the fish is all gone, that's the last time I will ever have animal protein. I'm going vegan plus honey, and for entirely medical reasons. I did research for four years, and could've saved myself a lot of time with just watching What The Health instead. A single documentary that had nearly all the stuff I had read, plus more, and compiled it in a way that made it very easy to understand...and make me very angry with a lot of what was discovered. You can watch it Netflix, but I'm sure there are other places to watch it. Just be prepared for anger because you may very well experience that as well.

I need to get cookbooks. Namely vegetarian. I have celiac disease, which means no gluten (wheat, rye, and barley), dairy makes my eczema flare all to fuck, and I'm removing all animal protein (except honey seeing as it's very healthy and has helped me with my allergies). Before you suggest ebooks or websites, I need books. I can write notes in them and mark pages. Not quite so effective on a tablet.

[rustbeltjessie]

Reasons I Am Not Working On My Novella Today

I sat down at my desk, wrote a few lines; a passage about The Alley and the coffin full of vintage pins. How you were supposed to pay for them—a quarter in the early days, fifty cents by the last time I visited—but I don’t think anyone ever did. And then I had to find the pins I stole all those years ago, as research (I said to myself). All those one-inch badges for punk and new wave bands. Blondie, Buzzcocks. The Clash, The Cramps, Tom Robinson Band. Those pins are mostly older than I am, and I’ve had them since the end of the last century; the metal backs are tarnished, the images stained, peeling. All the old songs stuck in my head, a scratched record playing a single groove, as I sifted through my bag of badges. I pulled them out one by one, found myself lost in other places, other moments, a sea of words and pictures once cultural signifiers, now significant only to my memory project. I stuck my finger on one which was not fastened, pricked myself on that rusted spindle of the past, and I got timesick.

A memory came; sudden, unbidden. Of a drive from Chicago to Michigan, late November, maybe December. Passing through a slivered crescent of Indiana, cupping the lakeshore, the smokestacks of Gary cinereous, up past the dunes, crossing the stateline, the New Buffalo Welcome Center with its tiny ersatz lighthouse, say yes. Yes, heading further into Michigan, the northeast curve of I-94, the surge of the hills heavy with snow, the woody, gnarled fingers of winter-dormant grapevines. All those vineyards in West Michigan, near St. Joe, Benton Harbor, Coloma. And the sun setting off to the west, over that inland sea, disparate streaks of orange and peach commingling into gold-limned coral, the last light before the long night reflecting, lurid, a starshot wound, upon the hills and snow.

Break off from I-94 at Marshall, continue north/east on I-69, and eventually you’ll reach Flint. My childhood; the earliest place I remember enough to call home. The children of Flint, the people of Flint, still are drinking leaded water. My childhood no idyll, but I had clean water. My childhood, not idyllic, but now I remember Flint in flashes, three-dimensional images in full-color Kodachrome turning through the ViewMaster of my mind. Click: the bruisy, rose-vanilla dusk inside the lilac bushes in our backyard; the stale-penny smell left on palms and fingers after playing for hours on jungle gyms, monkey bars. Click click. Sticky swirls of strawberry & cream cheese oozing from oven-warm croissants at John K.’s bakery. The thagomizic glass spines of Autoworld, a Godzilla-sized misstep, a fossilized monument to Flint’s failing industry.

How hard it is to raise children in this ever-failing world. How the water is full of lead, schools leaded with bullets & disease.

Today is my oldest son’s birthday. My son, a vessel of noise; the bleepbop of the video games he plays, the stories he hums as he runs back and forth and back across the house. Today I found a Valentine’s Day project from back when he was in school, where each classmate wrote down what they liked about each other. The ones for my son read: I like you because you make cool noises. I like you because you play video games. I like you because your favorite color is light blue. Oh my little boy blue, my humming baby blue-boy. How many years I spent worried no one would like him, his sounds, obsessions, only to find those were the very things they liked most.

Today is my oldest son's birthday, and he requested a big breakfast. I spent the late half of morning baking biscuits, toasting hashbrown patties, frying up bacon and chicken-apple sausage, making omelets thick and gooey with tomatoes off the vine, green onions, spinach, colbyjack cheese. I fell into a breakfast reverie, a diner daydream. Fat scent of butter and eggs, coffee strong and black and steaming in the pot, sizzlepop of meat in the skillet; I could makebelieve I was in a place all griddle and chrome, walls grease-stained and hung with old records by Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper, Frankie Lymon & The Teenagers.

As I diced and fried, I listened to a jazz playlist. “Peace Piece” piano swelled up around me, a lonesome meditation, and then another memory. Of a boy I once loved, who knew how I loved that piece, and one Christmas tracked down the sheet music for me. He gave me a painting, too. His heart splattered on a canvas, a heart so blue, floating in a pastoral sea of violet-gray. I thanked him for the ornamented melody line, I shunned his painted heart.

He often said things to me, unintentionally cruel things, so I cut right back. Cruel, on purpose. A month point five post-Christmas, I broke (up with) him on Valentine’s Day. He cried for two hours, while I watched, aghast, said nothing. Harsh or sweet. I hadn’t meant to hurt him, that time. I only knew I needed out.

And oh the cruelties we visit upon each other’s hearts; accidental, with purpose. Oh, the undulations of our affections.

There I was, “Kind of Blue,” and Miles Davis on the playlist, too. I remembered: nights at the Jazz Showcase, place of legends; gin martinis and the infamous table Miles once set fire to. Thought of angels jazzing over the Loop, legendary bop angels, hark the dark heralds with their trumpets, setting fire to the night, its sea of stars.

More jazz and I got ready to make art. Donned my tomato-red beret and felt self-consciously arty, had to take some self-portraits to commemorate it, daddy-o. Baby, oh, I remembered my art and writing room from that flat in Bayview, and the vintage kimono I owned. A silky thing, butter-yellow, a dragon and flowers embroidered abloom upon the back. How I’d wear it while snapping photos of myself; myself writing poems or jazzing on my ukulele or draped across the futon, smoking expensive cigarettes from a chintzy plastic holder. How it caressed me like a lover, how I felt beautiful whenever I had it on. What I wouldn’t give to have that feeling back.

A different playlist; this one of piano and accordion en français, and I cried, my tears viscous, Gallic, remembering another room, this one in Brooklyn. Remembered the boy I loved there, who would squeezebox-serenade me with valses. Un deux trois mornings we fucked in the gray gloom, three nights starshot with white powder and we sat by the open window holding cigarettes (Galouise, or hand-rolled) between our yellow-stained fingers, watching the drip of snowmelt on fire escape and past that the wind blowing the trashcans across the brickwalled alleys.

In the midst of tears of memory, I drew a crow. Spent an hour or more getting the shading just-so; layering bluish-gray over dark gray over black, over ultramarine, over cobalt. And oh the crows outside my window, and the weather so bitten-cold. November. The sky gray, clouds alluvial, loops and scallops etched into the silt.

Gray, cold, and I wanted a hot toddy. Mixed ginger tea, bourbon, clover honey, squeeze of lemon, drank it while feeling the weight of time, the press of the squeezed and undulating years. Then time to make dinner. Stirred pots of cranberry and rosemary, orange smiles of butternut squash salted with maple syrup and coriander seed-beads. As it cooked I checked Facebook and saw another new book by a poet oh, so much younger and wondered, as I always do, why not me? Wondered if they’ve had more opportunities, or worked harder, or if they’re just better, oh. This envious jealousy I choke on is a sour apple, a shriveled grape from a dormant vine that makes the bitterest wine.

It doesn't improve my poetry, or write my lines, or bring any opportunities. And all the success in the world won’t stave off death. I remembered that when Low came on the radio, Mimi’s clarion angelvoice singing. I don't need a laser beam. Rest your drunken mind. I remember the last time I visited Duluth/Superior, that time I went north to chase the autumn and run from love. How I scaled that rusted out-of-use railroad trestle with my squeezebox in hand and sang a lullaby to the captains of industry and the inland sea.

And now I lay me down to sleep on the banks of another, sick with remembering. Goodnight starshot voices, goodnight angels. Old songs, old rust, accordion waltzes. Fingers of smoke and pennies, bourbon and the sky, goodnight. Goodnight all the cruel rooms, the boys, and all. Of the time.

—Jessie Lynn McMains, 11/13/22

[vasmatesulphur44]

Sustainable Farming with Vasmate Sulphur Industries' Sulphur WDG 80% Benefits

Sulphur WDG 80%, known for its remarkable benefits in agriculture, is a standout product from Vasmate Sulphur Industries. This wettable Sulphur is not just a fungicide and insecticide but is also renowned for its low toxicity, making it a suitable choice for organic gardens.

The Agricultural Advantages

Sulphur WDG 80% controls fungal diseases like powdery mildew, rust, and brown rot. Its ability to manage mites is also noteworthy. Beyond disease control, it contributes significantly to maintaining soil pH, enhancing nutrient uptake, and supporting essential processes like photosynthesis and protein synthesis.

Properties and Applications

Characterized by its dust-free, micronized granules, Sulphur WDG 80% is easy to handle and measure. Its quick dispersion in water and high suspensibility make it a farmer-friendly option. Its triple action as a fungicide, micronutrient, and miticide amplifies its value in sustainable farming practices. From grape vineyards to apple orchards, its versatility across different crops and plantations is evident.

Crop Benefits and Packaging

Sulphur WDG 80% has shown effectiveness in various crops, including grapes, apples, pears, and peaches, as well as in fields of ornamentals, vegetables, and forestry. Its packaging options, accommodating different scales of agricultural needs, come in 25 kg and 50 kg variants.

Global Outreach and Operations

Vasmate Sulphur Industries stands out not just for its product quality but also for its extensive operations. Annually, the company manufactures 5,000 MT of Sulphur Rolls and supplies 20,000 MT of Crude Sulphur. The company maintains a holding capacity of 50,000 MT Sulphur at its industrial facility. The company's reach extends beyond India, working closely with partners in the Middle East to procure various forms of Sulphur and trading across Southeast Asia. Their focus on creating a larger market for Indian-made Sulphur products like fertilizers, fungicides, and pesticides is noteworthy.

Diverse Product Portfolio

Beyond Sulphur WDG 80%, Vasmate Sulphur Industries offers various sulphur-based products, highlighting its versatility and dedication to meeting various industrial needs. Among these products are Sulphur Granules, widely used by Sulphuric Acid units, and Sulphur Powder, a natural fungicide and pesticide used in agriculture with a purity of 99.5%. The company also produces Sulphur Bentonite, known for its quick dissipation of Sulphur nutrients to plants, and Sulphur Pastilles, finding applications in the fertilizer industry.

Innovation in Rubber Industry

A notable segment of Vasmate Sulphur Industries' product range is the Rubber Grade Sulphur, which plays a crucial role in the tire, rubber, and latex industry. The company’s specialized sulphur formulations are a game-changer in rubber manufacturing, offering enhanced durability, improved traction, and superior performance. Their sulphur compounds, acting as cross-linking agents in Vulcanization, strengthen rubber, enhancing its resistance to wear and tear. This expertise in rubber manufacturing reflects not only their technical prowess but also their commitment to sustainable and environmentally responsible production practices.

Conclusion

Vasmate Sulphur Industries' journey from a humble beginning to a global player is a story of dedication, innovation, and commitment to quality. The company's diverse product range, extensive operations, and contribution to various industries, especially agriculture and rubber manufacturing, mark it as a leader in sustainable industrial practices. For more information about their products and operations, visit vasmatesulphur.com.

For More Info:-

sulphur pastilles supplier

High-Quality Sulphur Powder Supplier

[civiconcepts]

Early Signs of Bed Bugs: How to Identify Infestations

Bed bugs can be seen all over the world, including both North and South America, Asia, Africa, as well as Europe. Bed bugs are commonly discovered at five-star resorts and hotels, and maintaining the cleanliness of the surrounding environment has no impact on whether they are present or not. Infestations of bed bugs commonly take place in or close to sleeping places. These places include rooms in dorms, hotels, cruise ships, homes, shelters, and public transportation vehicles. In this article, we will explore the common early signs of bed bugs activity. By understanding these telltale signs, you can take prompt action to address the issue and protect yourself and your home from these unwanted pests. Read More: How To Remove Mold From Wood | How To Clean Mold Off Wood | How To Kill Mold On Wood 

What Do Bedbugs Look Like?

Bed bugs are very small, flat, without wings insects, which are reddish-brown in color and around one-quarter inches in length. Before eating, they are roughly the size and shape of a little apple seed. The small insects known as bed bugs bite humans and other wildlife to get blood for their meal. As parasites, they are dependent on their human hosts in order to provide them with food. The majority of bites occur when you are asleep. They are unable to fly or jump, yet they can move quickly.

Bed bugs have an oval form and are capable of growing to be 4-5 mm long when completely matured. The bodies of adult bed bugs are flattened, as well as their skin is usually rust brown or a darker red brown in color. They like to stick together, and huge populations produce a sweet but unpleasant odor. Bed bugs are doing bite as well as take blood, even though they do not have the ability for spreading disease. The average lifespan of bed bug is 4 to 6 months; however, some can survive up to a year. The female bed bug may produce 200 eggs during her lifespan. As bed bugs establish themselves in your house, it can become a challenging issue to manage, as well as infestations can take a long time to be eliminated.

Early Signs of Bed Bugs

It is crucial to identify the early signs of Bed Bugs these harmful creatures so you can take precautions before an unwanted issue develops. It can commonly take a few months or weeks for the signs of danger to appear. However, there are certain early warning signals to look out for. - Bed Bug Bites on Skin - Bed Bug Eggs - A Musty Smell Around Your Bed - Live Bed Bugs - Fecal Marks - Shell Casings - Bloodstains on Sheet Bed Bug Bites on Skin Skin bites are among the most typical early signs of bed bugs. People can suffer bed bug bites on their faces, necks, arms, or legs. These bites often appear as small, red, itchy welts on the skin. If you wake up with unexplained bites or notice them developing over time, it could be an indication of bed bug activity. It is important not to ignore these signs, as they may indicate an infestation that requires immediate attention. If you observe any indicators of bed bugs during your inspection, such as bites or the presence of live or dead bugs, it is crucial to get in touch with a professional promptly for advice on how to handle the matter appropriately and efficiently. The way that various people react to bed bug bites varies as well. The welts cannot be noticeable to some people, but others can find them irritating. Hives or a simple allergic reaction are two extreme responses to bed bug bites. Bed Bug Eggs One of the early indications of bed bugs is the presence of eggs. Each egg produced by bed bugs is roughly comparable to that of a dust particle and can be discovered in tiny groups. The most probable places to locate them are on the bed frame or in the joints of your mattress. In order to avoid the eggs from growing, it's crucial to vacuum them up as well as throw away the container as soon as you find any. Even while eggs are obvious to the human eye, they might be hard to spot if you understand what to look for. The oval-shaped, pearly white, and around one-millimeter-long bed bug eggs have certain physical characteristics. Read More: How to Get Rid of Termites | How to Kill Termites | Signs of Termites | DIY Termite Treatment A Musty Smell Around Your Bed You might be suffering from a bed bug issue when you start to detect an odd, musty smell coming from anywhere around your mattress. The bed bugs start to release their pheromones as they become established. People have experienced varying experiences with this fragrance, and it is occasionally described as smelling pleasant. As the bug population spreads, pheromones combine with the scent of broken bugs as well as their excrement to produce an unpleasant odor. Carefully inspect your sleeping area for any early signs of bed bugs before concluding that a particular scent is the result of a bed bug infestation. While odors are not the most reliable method of identification, if you notice a distinct, musty smell that seems to be concentrated on the mattress or box spring, it warrants further examination Live Bed Bugs Observing actual bed bug activity in reality is might be the most difficult warning indication. They often don't get up and do anything during the daytime. In addition to emerging at nighttime, they also do so under specific conditions. The carbon dioxide that people exhale as they sleep, together with other biochemical cues that people generate while they sleep, attracts bed bugs to sleeping humans. The bed bugs use these chemical cues as a clear signal for coming out and feed easily the blood from sleeping individuals. Fecal Marks Bed bugs also produce liquid waste, and they often leave a trail of it everywhere they go. Blood stains are different from bed bug fecal markings. Fecal marks left by bed bugs are significantly smaller and darker. Fecal from bed bugs can be found on a variety of surfaces including pillows, walls, curtains, mattresses, headboards, and clothes. The fecal marks of bed bugs can be very challenging to remove from cloth. Shell Casings The bed bug shell casings, also known as lost husks or husks, are an early sign of bed bugs and serve as a warning indication of an expanding infestation. These shell casings, which are the transparent, hollow husks of young bed bugs, are sometimes simpler to identify than the actual live bugs themselves. Look for them in places where bed bugs develop and come out, such as mattress edges, upholstered furniture, as well as wooden furniture's cracks, fissures, and holes. As most individuals are unfamiliar with the sizes and forms of bed bug insects, recognizing shell casings can be difficult at times. Bloodstains On Sheet You may find bloodstains on your bedding and nightclothes. Bed bugs are represented by marks and the way you roll over them at nighttime. Blood marks on blankets or other fabrics are another indication that you have bed bugs. Bed bugs bite people and leave behind tiny amounts of blood as they feed on human blood. The number of bloodstains on the bed linens and mattress will increase with respect to the size of their population. If you see blood spots, you should take off your bed preferably placing them in a sealed plastic bag and begin searching for further stains on your mattress. Read More: Anti Termite Treatment for Construction | Anti Termite Treatment Chemical

What Are Causes of Bedbugs?

The bed bugs are neither caused by particles of sand and grime, nor they are result of a terrible disease from decades ago. They are only here for the reason of us, and it is a fact about bed bugs that blood is their primary meal. Human blood is required for both growth and survival by the common home bed bug. The most common reason for bed bug growth is travel, both domestically and internationally. The bed bugs are most often caught in locations with a lot of turnover, including motels, hotels, and Airbnb. Bed bugs can get into your baggage if you leave it on the bed or other pieces of furniture, as well as to being carried home by sleeping on the mattresses in such accommodations. Purchasing secondhand furniture or receiving it as a gift from a friend or family member is another way to obtain bed bugs. It is possible that you mistakenly buy furniture which already contains bed bugs or bed bug eggs that are able to bite at your skin. It is necessary to check the edges, joints, as well as any possible gaps in the furniture by using a flashlight for bed bugs before finalizing a purchase of used items. Bed bugs also take advantage of childcare facilities, universities, and schools as a way of spreading. The children may accidentally take such bugs at home from the classroom or when they return from school on breaks because they spread easily via clothes and other objects made of fabric.

How To Get Rid of Bedbugs?

If the infestation isn't severe, getting rid of bedbugs shouldn't be too challenging.  If you have ever seen bedbugs inside, there are a few things you can do to prevent them from breeding and taking over your house.

Regularly vacuum. Pay special attention to cracks surrounding your carpet or flooring, as well as the tiny spaces surrounding your mattress, and bed frame, in which they might hide or reside. To prevent everything inside of your vacuum from escaping again, dump out the stuff after you are done with vacuum. Repair or seal gaps in your paint or wallpaper. As a result, bedbugs will have fewer places to hide. You need to wash all of your clothes on a high temperature for 30 minutes in order to clean your home. Use detergents with bleach or various harsh agents when washing any clothing and linens. As a result, any eggs that remain after removal are killed. By taking help of an exterminator who sprays pesticide on bed bugs and their eggs to kill them. If you rent a place to live, you should ask the owner for details. Use a hard brush to scrub the edges of mattresses or furniture. By doing this, you may remove any bugs or eggs that may be hidden in the cracks and corners of your furniture. The use of a steam cleaner at temperatures exceeding 130°F (55°C) for cleaning carpets, mattresses, as well as furniture.

Conclusion:

In conclusion, recognizing the early signs of bed bugs is crucial in addressing infestations promptly and effectively. By being aware of these indicators, such as skin bites, musty odors, and the presence of shed skin casings, you can take swift action to prevent the bed bug population from growing and spreading further. Early detection allows for more targeted treatment and mitigation efforts, minimizing the inconvenience and potential health risks associated with these persistent pests. If you suspect a bed bug infestation based on the early signs, it is advisable to seek professional help or consult with a pest control expert. They can provide guidance on proper identification, treatment options, and preventive measures to eradicate the infestation thoroughly. Remember, addressing bed bugs early not only protects your home and belongings but also helps maintain a safe and comfortable living environment. Stay vigilant and proactive in identifying the early signs of bed bugs, and take the necessary steps to eliminate these unwelcome intruders swiftly.

FAQs:

What are bed bugs?Bed bugs are small, parasitic insects that feed on the blood of humans and other warm-blooded animals. They are reddish-brown in color and are about the size and shape of an apple seed. Can you see bed bugs with the naked eye?Yes, bed bugs are visible to the naked eye, although they are quite small. Adult bed bugs are about the size of an apple seed, while younger bed bugs (nymphs) are smaller and lighter in color.How do bed bugs spread?Bed bugs can be spread through the transportation of infested furniture or clothing, as well as through travel. They can also spread within buildings, as they are able to move through walls and electrical outlets.How can I prevent a bed bug infestation?To prevent a bed bug infestation, it is important to inspect any used furniture or clothing before bringing it into your home. When traveling, inspect your hotel room for signs of bed bugs, and store your luggage on a luggage rack or in the bathroom. Vacuum your home regularly, and seal any cracks or crevices in your walls or baseboards. You May Also Like: - How To Remove Mold From Wood | How To Clean Mold Off Wood | How To Kill Mold On Wood  - How to Get Rid of Termites | How to Kill Termites | Signs of Termites | DIY Termite Treatment - Anti Termite Treatment for Construction | Anti Termite Treatment Chemical - How To Make Sure Your House Is In Top Shape And Ready For Any Weather - Seasoning of Timber | Seasoning of Wood | Timber Seasoning | Natural Seasoning of Timber Read the full article

[chris-mga2022mi5019]

🟢Green hat | Research | Creative | where ideas are abundant and criticism spares

Use of fungicides for healthy plant growth. Fungicides are pesticides that kill or prevent the growth of fungi and their spores. They can be used to control fungi that damage plants, including rusts, mildews and blights. They might also be used to control mold and mildew in other settings.

Triazoles

Modern systemic fungicides are typified by the triazoles. This group of fungicides is still the basis of cereal disease management strategies worldwide, particularly in Europe, North America, Australia, and New Zealand, where they are primarily mixed with strobilurins and with the new-generation pyrazole carboxamide SDHIs (succinate dehydrogenase inhibitors), introduced in 2010.

Lumisena™ fungicide fights and beats phytophthora, so your soybeans can shine.

Phytophthora is the number one disease in soybeans and can significantly reduce yields.

New Lumisena fungicide seed treatment provides the most advanced seed-applied technology to protect against phytophthora. Lumisena also enhances emergence and vigour to maximize yield potential and improve soybean plant stands.

The preventive fungicide must come into direct contact with the fungus, and they have to be re-applied to new plant tissues (as leaves or needles expand in the spring) or if the product washes off. Curative fungicides affect the fungus after infection.

"Triazoles are single site, it stops the production of the fungi spores within the leaf (inside)"

"Chlorothalonil is an non systemic multi site foliar fungicide, it targets varies enzymes and metabolic developments of fungus. It destroys the fungal membranes, the part of the fungi that is on the top of the leaf."

Chlorothalonil is an organic compound mainly used as a broad spectrum, nonsystemic fungicide, with other uses as a wood protectant, pesticide, acaricide, and to control mold, mildew, bacteria, algae. Chlorothalonil-containing products are sold under the names Bravo, Echo, and Daconil.

Folpet is a protective leaf-fungicide. Its mode of action inhibits normal cell division of a broad spectrum of microorganisms. It is used to control cherry leaf spot, rose mildew, rose black spot, and apple scab. (multi site protectant) it is like a mix of Triazoles and Chlorothalonil.

[headingalaxys]

Here is my official submission I did for NYC Midnight.

Title: Dottie

Synopsis Farmhand Danny has to reign in his rambunctious cow Dottie that has been wreaking physical damage all through the town. Slowly he becomes aware that this is not an ordinary cow that he’s trying to subdue. 

It was 2:42pm, twoish hours before sundown, and the cloven-hoofed creature approached its first house in the neighborhood. One that had been surrounded by a great Yew tree that had hundreds of years to take root within the healthy soil and form itself around the small quiet house. With only one inhabitant that barely liked to leave, it would be easy for a predator to set up a trap to get the lonely tenant to leave. 

Smells of apples, caramel, and black tea filled the senses of the cow's snout. It wandered closer and closer to not let any living thing be aware of its major presence within the vicinity. With caked-in dirt that filled in the cow's loud bell, it would be impossible for anyone to hear it approach. 

It snuck around to the backyard, which had a small garden and an opening to an underground cellar that must be connected to the more significant part of the house. It had to be. It searched for a way to break the lock, and to its surprise, it found a key still jammed within it. It got to work putting the safety under pressure and finally making it turn even though it had a ton of rust. Access has been granted. Now time to wreak chaos. 

The tenant heard the cow make its way up the stairs. They were too frightened to react. They simply sat at the table with their last meal in hand. She gracefully tapped her fingers against the delicate glass. There was nothing she could do. The cow had already spread its deadly disease. The town was finished; the town was as good as dead. Dottie came in and filled the room with dread. Nostrils flare wide like angry bulls. Smoke arising in the room like hell had just opened its overflowing gates. It needed to let some lava out. 

************

2:43pm, another tick against time. A few red dots began to blow in the wind. It wasn't blood, or at least some of it. He began to latch onto the back of his trusted distressed overalls. 

'Only a few more homes to assess on damage, and then I can head home. But I'm damn tired of that damned cow making my life a mess around this time. I could be at home making love to my wife or tending to the livestock, anything other than this before the snowfall rampages through the town bull.' Agaited that yet again that even his high fences couldn't keep the crazy cow at bay. He runs a hand through his wavy hair.

He bangs his hands down loudly on the door like thunder bringing on a storm. Unaware that he disturbed some of the dust and dots from the cows' earlier visit. 

"Hello? Anyone there? It's me, Danny, the trusted farmhand. I came on behalf of my crazy cow. I need to do a quick damage assessment." He waited for a few moments until a middle-aged woman answered the door. She looked tired and as if a cold was just beginning to catch onto her soul. But there wasn't too much to tell. You have to have a microscope to see where the beginning damage was beginning from within the deepest parts of the skin.

"Hey, there. How are you, Danny?" She asks. 

"I'm fine. I just need to take a statement from you and gather some answers, and I'll be on my way." 

"Sure." 

"Did you come in direct contact with the cow?" He runs a hand through his hair spreading the microscopic parasites through his thick brown locks. 

"Luckily, this time, no. It only came inches away from my face, and scoffed. It wandered away after a few moments. I'm glad I wasn't headbutted by a beast like that." 

"I know. Can you at least tell me which way she went? She decided to bother the ones north or the pear grooves." She pointed over to the west. If you hurry, you can catch her before she terrorizes another home. She coughs a little and wheezes as if she's just inhaled a large puff of smoke. 

"You're allowed to poke around so that you can give me an accurate insurance claim." She starts coughing a little more challengingly with more phlegm. "Pardon me." She excuses herself. And as she left, he had to question all of the numerous spots that appeared on her arms and legs. They looked harmless, like normal chicken pox. But in her 30's? 

"Thanks. Laura-Lee. It should be mailed to you by the end of the week. Take care of yourself and your um. Rashes." 

"Oh yeah, these, nothing that a little benzoyl peroxide couldn't fix." And with that, she hurriedly shut the door so she could tend to the intensifying itch that was beginning to consume her entire being. It was time for the Dottie disease to up the ante. 

Danny scratched his head but didn't want to think about the accumulating dots on Laura-Lee. He left her to her devices and went on his way to continue to look for his rampaging cow Dottie. 

Danny begins to wander up again on the lonely dirt road. There were speckles of red that made little lines in the dampened dirt. He raised an eyebrow. Concentrating on the ground isn't the best thing for now. 

He thought about his sweet wife and all of the fantastic sweets she made during this time of year. Apple Pie with black tea sweetened with honey and cream. As the nights stretched longer, it was essential to be at home where the cold couldn't nip into your soul. He loved the feel of her warm hands. Simply spending time together was more than enough to fill his soul. He always felt more alive and light through the long Winter night. 

3:13pm Danny finally arrives at the next house. It was bigger than the last. It was an old couple's home. They had been there for decades. The two men had built their homes from stone and concrete together in their youth. When he saw that a few of the rocks were displaced by the beast, his eyebrow raised. 

The spots were slightly larger and somewhat visible to the naked eye. They were beginning to slowly inch their way toward his neck. 

'This thing certainly has a lot of underlying strength.' He bit his lip, still trying not to overthink it. He closes the door and knocks. Hoping that both the tenants, Ryann and Clay, have yet to come within close contact with the cow. 

"Ryan? Clay? Are you alright? Are you okay? I saw some of the stones from your house roll away." His rapturous banging continued until one of them finally came to the door. 

It was Ryan, the shorter man of the two. He had a stout nose adorned with spectacles. He was wearing his favorite blue flannel and acid wash jeans that had been torn from the recent struggle. 

"Oh, Danny, hello. I assume you're here to try to get back on the trail of that rambunctious cow? We've already met them, as you can see." He lets out a slight lighthearted chuckle. 

"Yeah, exactly. But are you okay? Your leg is bleeding just a bit." There were beginning to be small patches of blood staining the disheveled denim. 

"Yes, it hurts, and I have to disinfect it. But I'll be alright. If not, I have my car, and the general hospital isn't too far away." He could see the old man's excessive preparation as if he was right above Mauna Loa. And spots. 

"What about Clay? Is he okay?" Worried now that these spots looked just the same as the ones he saw on Laura-Lee. 

"He's fine; he's just asleep; sonny, he's okay." Trying to steady his shaking voice, the dots had begun to override his immune system. And just like Clay, he would not be able to keep the torrent of deadly pinpricks at bay. Danny would be in the same boat soon enough since the dot had begun to spread far and wide on the tattered denim and moved toward his socks and upper leg. 

Eyes wide and curious, Danny does not immediately leave. He needs to get some questions answered to ease his mind for the trek up to the next house. 

He inspected Ryan's form more to see if there were any other things he may be missing. There were mass aggregations of dots that were coming through the side of his neck. 

"What did Dottie do to you and your home? Was the damage extensive?" He asks while subtly trying to look for more of the dots. 

"Well, the back wall is completely gone, and my partner Clay does have a broken leg. So we will have to keep this conversation short." 

Danny retook a quick look at the man's leg once more where the laceration was, and holy moly, there it was: more of those dots with now a green ooze or film spilling out onto his somewhat translucent skin. 

Danny's wide ocean blues connected to the older men's weathered chestnut eyes. Danny had to swipe some of the strange dust that was trying to stay in orbit only near his eyes. 

"It's already too late, son. And that's okay. We've had a good life. But protect the rest of them and especially your wife. Your loved ones are precious because you only have one. She went up that way to that family of four. Hurry, son, hurry. Find the cow, find the cure, kill it before sundown." Ryan shoos Danny off to pursue the cow before it can reach its last house in the line: His own home. The last one that hadn't been ransacked. 

He raced back down the path. To his horror, specks of red painted the ground. Death had begun filling the air. Horrors abound. 

4:01 pm Only mere minutes of sunlight left. 

Danny chanted out the word 'No.' as if it were a magical chant that could buy him some time, spare his poor wife who doesn't know a lot of things about tending to a farm and especially not how to ward off an angered cow that seemed to spread an illness that over time had claimed the entire town. He thought about how each year, three families would disappear and no one ever heard from them ever again. 

His feet pounded against the dirt path. His long sprint was beginning to take a significant toll on his boy. EVELYN! EVELYN! MY LOVELY EVELYN! He runs faster and faster, but his lungs start to collapse. There just isn't, anyway. His lungs collapse a little, and he begins to wheeze. His eyes now face downwards, and he sees the damn things everywhere. All are painted in red. 

No. NO! His eyes roamed the landscape. He was close to the farm, but all he could see was that the lights were on. He also noticed that damned cow banging on the back cellar door. 

BANG! BANG! BANG! It sounded as if gunshots were being fired off to start the race. 

"HEY, DOTTIE, BACK OFF!" Danny was sweating profusely now, and not just from the run. The dots had begun to fill in his vision and make him feel dizzy. He collapsed to his knees, and his legs felt like lead. He finally felt the colony of dots that had accumulated. They were everywhere in this gooey mass. The smell of rotting flesh burnt the hairs within his nose. 

The sound of wood giving way reaches Danny's ears. 

No! 

He dragged himself even though he was beginning to lose some of his vision. There was only about a minute of sunlight left. His body felt heavy and the dots crawling all over his skin felt like an army of fire ants. He moved his decaying muscles forward, and he needed to see her. He needed to save her. Evelyn. 

4:07 pm Dusk was here, and the sun was gone. Danny barely managed to drag himself up the stairs. The front door had been beaten down by the beastly cow. He sees Evelyn's decomposed body full of spotted spores and green goo. If it weren't for her long onyx hair, he wouldn't have been able to tell it was her at all. A shattered saucer and cup surrounded her remains. 

All Danny could feel was pure anguish. He wanted to cry to the heavens of her name and of her injustice. He no longer had a voice, and red spots began to fill in the airway of his throat. He was succumbing to Dottie's disease. 

Before his eyes closed one final time in the corner of the room, he could see the outline of the deranged cow that brought disease and death. Smoke poured off from its nostrils. It let out a loud hellish 'moo,' and with that, Danny, too, died and became a part of the blobby mass right next to his wife. 

[pettypestcntrlsvs]

The Best Way to Get Rid of Bed Bugs in Your Kitchener Home

Seek the assistance of a professional pest control company to help you identify the extent of bed bug infestation and implement a plan for your Kitchener home.

If you're reading this, it's likely that you're dealing with a bed bug infestation in your Kitchener home. Don't panic - while bed bugs can be a nuisance, they can be eliminated with the right steps.

In this blog post, we'll cover everything you need to know about removing bed bugs from your home, including how to identify an infestation, the most effective treatment methods, and how to prevent future infestations. With a little patience and persistence, you can rid your home of these pesky critters and get back to enjoying a comfortable, bed bug-free environment.

Kitchener Bed Bugs: What Are They and Why Do They Have a Problem?

Bed bugs are small, wingless insects that feed on the blood of humans and animals. They are oval-shaped and reddish-brown in color, and are about the size of an apple seed when fully grown.

Despite their name, bed bugs can be found in a variety of locations, not just beds. They can hide in crevices and cracks in walls, furniture, and other household items, and are often found in hotels, apartments, and other places where people come and go.

Bed bugs are a problem because they can cause discomfort and distress for those who are bitten. While bed bug bites are not known to transmit diseases, they can cause itching, redness, and swelling.

In severe cases, bites can become infected if scratched excessively. In addition to the physical symptoms, bed bugs can also cause anxiety and sleep disruption, as the thought of being bitten while you sleep can be unsettling.

If you suspect that you have a bed bug infestation in your Kitchener home, it's important to take action quickly to eliminate the problem. In the next section, we'll cover the steps you can take to identify and eliminate bed bugs from your home.

How Can You Prevent Bed Bugs From Entering Your Home?

Preventing bed bugs from entering your home is the best way to avoid an infestation. While it's not always possible to completely prevent bed bugs from entering your home, there are several steps you can take to reduce the risk:

Inspect your home regularly: Inspect your home, including your bedding, furniture, and carpets, for signs of bed bugs. Look for small, reddish-brown bugs or their shed skins, as well as small, rust-colored stains on bedding or upholstery.

Be cautious when traveling: Bed bugs are often found in hotels and other places where people come and go. Before you travel, research the hotel or accommodation to ensure that it has a good reputation for pest control. When you return home, inspect your luggage and wash all of your clothes on the hot cycle to kill any potential bed bugs.

Use a mattress protector: Invest in a high-quality mattress protector to create a barrier between you and any potential bed bugs.

Keep clutter to a minimum: Bed bugs thrive in cluttered environments, so keep your home clutter-free to make it more difficult for them to hide.

Avoid purchasing used furniture: Bed bugs can hide in secondhand furniture, so it's best to avoid purchasing used items if possible. If you do decide to purchase used furniture, inspect it carefully before bringing it into your home.

By following these prevention tips, you can significantly reduce the risk of a bed bug infestation in your home. However, if you do notice any signs of bed bugs, it's important to take action quickly to eliminate the problem before it becomes worse.

When to Call for Professional Help

If you suspect that you have a bed bug infestation in your home, it can be tempting to try to handle the problem on your own. While there are many DIY methods available for treating bed bugs, it's important to consider the extent of the infestation and your own level of comfort and experience when deciding whether to call a professional. Here are a few signs that it may be time to call a professional:

The infestation is widespread: If bed bugs are found in multiple rooms or areas of your home, it's likely that the infestation is more severe and may require professional treatment.

You have tried DIY methods and they have not been successful: If you have tried over-the-counter or DIY methods and have not seen improvement, it may be time to call a professional. A professional will have access to more advanced treatments and techniques that may be more effective.

You are feeling overwhelmed: Dealing with a bed bug infestation can be stressful and time-consuming. If you are feeling overwhelmed or unsure of how to proceed, it may be helpful to call a professional for assistance.

You are concerned about the safety of DIY treatments: Some DIY bed bug treatments involve the use of chemicals or other potentially hazardous materials. If you are concerned about the safety of these methods, it may be best to call a professional who can use safer, more effective treatments.

In summary, if you have a widespread infestation, have tried DIY methods without success, are feeling overwhelmed, or are concerned about the safety of DIY treatments, it may be time to call a professional.

A professional pest control company will have the knowledge and experience to effectively treat your bed bug problem and help you get back to a comfortable, bed-bug-free Kitchener home.

[blackknotbegone]

The fungus Venturia pirina, which infects leaves, fruits, and young twigs, is the primary factor for pear scabs or apple scabs. This makes spots on the leaves and fruits which turns olive green to dark brown to black, velvety circular spots. Get quality pear scab fungus treatment with Black Knot Be Gone’s unique & specialized products. For order inquiries please call on 607-343-7781.

Visit: https://www.blackknotbegone.com/

[miraltru]

Clc genomics workbench 8

Soybean mosaic virus (SMV) is a worldwide and hardly controlled virus disease in soybean. Overall, these findings lay the foundation for investigating the genetic basis of apple scab resistance and defense pathways that might have a plausible role in governing scab resistance in apple against V. Real-time expression of a set of selected twelve DEGs further validated the results obtained from RNA-seq. The differentially expressed genes (DEGs) were related to various pathways, i.e., metabolic, protein processing, biosynthesis of secondary metabolites, plant hormone signal transduction, autophagy, ubiquitin-mediated proteolysis, plant-pathogen interaction, lipid metabolism, and protein modification pathways. Furthermore, a total of 361 genes were significantly upregulated in scab-susceptible variety, while 461 were found downregulated (P value 1). DESeq2 analysis too revealed 20 DEGs that were upregulated in scab-resistant cultivars. The genes that were downregulated in susceptible and upregulated in resistant cultivars were those coding for non-specific lipid transfer protein GPI-anchored 1, rust resistance kinase Lr10-like, disease resistance protein RPS6-like, and many uncharacterized proteins. The most upregulated genes uniformly expressed in resistant varieties compared to susceptible ones were those coding for 17.3 kDa class II heat shock protein-like, chaperone protein ClpB1, glutathione S-transferase 元-like protein, B3 domain-containing protein At3g18960-like, transcription factor bHLH7, zinc finger MYM-type protein 1-like, and nine uncharacterized proteins, besides three lncRNAs. The study led to the identification of 822 differentially expressed genes in the tested scab-resistant and scab-susceptible apple genotypes. inaequalis, a comparative transcriptome analysis using Illumina (HiSeq) platform of three scab-resistant (Florina, Prima, and White Dotted Red) and three susceptible (Ambri, Vista Bella, and Red Delicious) apple genotypes was carried out to mine new scab resistance genes. Owing to the evolving susceptibility of resistant apple genotypes harboring R-genes to new variants of V. The disease results in 30–40% fruit loss annually and even complete loss in some places. alternata infection and provide candidate genes for breeding resistant cultivars using genetic engineering.Īpple scab is caused by an ascomycete fungus, Venturia inaequalis (Cke.) Wint., which is one of the most severe disease of apple (Malus × Domestica Borkh.) worldwide. These results provide new insight into the molecular mechanisms of poplar resistance to A. alternata, whereas silencing this gene enhanced susceptibility to A. Overexpression of PdbLOX2 enhanced the resistance of P. Therefore, the lipoxygenase gene PdbLOX2, which is involved in JA biosynthesis, was selected for functional characterization. Among these DEGs, those related to JA biosynthesis and JA signal transduction were consistently activated. Numerous transcription factors, such as the bHLH, WRKY and MYB families, were also induced by A. In addition, DEGs that encode defense-related proteins and are related to ROS metabolism were also identified. Functional analysis revealed that the DEGs were mainly enriched for the “plant hormone signal transduction” pathway, followed by the “phenylpropanoid biosynthesis” pathway. Twelve cDNA libraries were generated from RNA isolated from three biological replicates at four time points (0, 2, 3, and 4 d post inoculation), and a total of 5,930 differentially expressed genes (DEGs) were detected (| log 2 fold change |≥ 1 and FDR values infection was determined via RNA-Seq. In this study, the transcriptomic response of P. Leaf blight caused by Alternaria alternata has become a common poplar disease that causes serious economic impacts, but the molecular mechanisms of resistance to A. bollena is a species of poplar from northeastern China that is characterized by cold resistance and fast growth but now suffers from pathogen infections.

[westmoor]

the ocean still roars

↞ ↞  | main post |  ao3

(2.5k // tw: blood and violence)

When Jaskier left him on that mountain, something had shifted.

Geralt had found excuses for it at first. Told himself it was the sound or lack thereof; songs unsung, no lute strings plucked, no stories told or tangents pursued with details growing grander with each telling. That it was just the lingering smell fading over time, the perfumed oils and musk underneath, the trailing scent of herbs or flowers stooped for and picked on their way. Of dandelions in spring and apples in autumn, of wild berries and clovers at the height of summer.

But Jaskier had left before, too. Taken his voice and his scent and his lute with him, and it was not the same. 

Something in the air had changed, its taste or its weight in his lungs. Colours looked strange to his eyes, like someone had changed their hue and no one else could tell. It was as though the world had tilted slightly on its axis, without proof or reason as to why.

Geralt found meaningful excuses for what he could and pinned his heart as the cause of the rest.

He still does.

But too much has happened since, too many solemn notes making his medallion tremble with the beat of the other’s heart to only blame his own. 

There is a memory of lights in the forest and a woman in green, the taste of blood in his mouth and gentle hands turning his face to the sky, slipping from the grasp of his mind like fevered dreams.

At the bottom of his saddlebag, wrapped in cloth, is a broken silver bell.

He had hoped that the flicker of emotion that crossed the other man's face had been a sign that perhaps it could be fixed - that he’d be allowed near enough to start to chip away the wedge he had driven between them. That maybe, just maybe, his friend would walk back into his life and he’d be afforded a chance to make things right.

Most of that hope had gone down the storm drains by the time he made it back to Hagge.

Ever since waking up in his half-made camp beyond the forest's edge, head fuzzy and the taste of foreign magic on his tongue, news of his former travelling companion had dwindled. Jaskier hadn’t been there. He hadn’t been anywhere. No note or song, not even a rumour, not for weeks.

It seems that now, for the first time since the day a fresh-faced youth approached him in a tavern in a valley of flowers, the position in his life occupied by Jaskier the bard is truly vacant. 

And still, he can’t give up. 

He doesn’t know what Jaskier is, exactly, nor where, but he knows now there are places to look. In caverns and hollows where they first crawled into legend, glades and groves where their roots have grown deep with power and patience. Nooks and crannies where, with luck and circumstance, one can slip from this world into the one below. 

He also knows that for whatever purpose, if they wish to find him, they will.

There are questions.

He doesn’t give a damn about the answers.

--

When it comes, it comes in the form of a guardsman with a debt to pay.

Odd things afoot, the man claims. A diseased harvest, unseasonably sour weather. Livestock acting strange and wildlife even stranger. And an overheard conversation in the next town over - word of a band of lawless men having captured the White Wolf’s companion.

If true, Geralt doubts they know what they have captured. In fairness, neither does he, but he knows this: They have his bard.

Geralt takes the bait.

No veiled pretense. No loosened horseshoes or impish little children, no stolen potions or fox tracks in the dirt. 

He rides north toward the town in question, a hamlet nestled at the mouth of a river valley, along a road flanked by firs. The trees near the road are willowy and young, felled in rotation to keep the villages with firewood and kindling. But above, further up the slope of the mountain, they tower tall and dark against the afternoon sky.

His medallion stirs before they even leave the road. 

He brings Roach as far as he deems safe, until the forest grows too dense to pass through with ease. Too far in and she’ll be more a hindrance than a help. He leaves her at the edge of a deertrodden glade, where the canopy opens enough to retain the light for a few more hours. 

It’s a bit of a hike - needles of spruce and dead branches crunching underfoot, nothing to hear but the rustle of wind and birdsong, present but frantic in a way that sets his teeth on edge, as though they too can feel the thrum of foreboding reining him in - but eventually the trunks space out and give way to what seems to once have been a wide trail.

Years must’ve gone by since the last wagon passed this way, overtaken as it is by bushes and undergrowth. Life claws its way out of the grasp of barren darkness, to stretch its shrubs and saplings towards the sun.

There are no tracks but the ones behind him. He didn’t expect there to be.

--

It had been an outpost once, perched at a height to overlook wide open fields to the east and narrow passes to the north, sheltered from the west by the steep rise of the mountain proper.

Now it’s a derelict ruin, crumbling timber roof cast in shadow by the jagged rock face above. What had been a tidied yard for corralled horses and the loading of carts shrivels by the season as the forest eats its way closer, devouring fertile ground and reaching with many-fingered hands to a weathered tower hunched against the rock from which it once was built.

Standing in front of it, Geralt weighs his options. 

It’s too quiet, too still, as though he stands at the shrine of a god he can’t name. Despite the open air and sinking sun, it feels enclosed. Walled in by trees as tall as city gates - their spiny crowns like battlements - the acrid scent of junipers is even thicker than it ought to be; the sound of the woods too uniform and dull.

On one hand, he has no hint, no proof, no true sign at all that the ramshackle structure hides what he seeks. On the other - 

The hinges have rusted nearly solid, the frame warped by age and moisture, and he has to put the full force of his weight on it to shoulder it open.

His body blocks the light and when his eyes adjust, he is faced with a rough wall and a narrow walkway, moss creeping along the cracks between hewn stone. The air inside is as cold and damp as an earth cellar, except for the sour coniferous tinge prickling like needles at the back of his throat and burning his sinuses. 

He rounds a corner and faces another door - this one slightly agape, tilting at a steep angle from its fastenings. Prying it open and sidling through, he scans another, longer hall, this one winding inwards to the mountain. It slams shut behind him and the world plunges into darkness. 

And then it's blinding.

And then the scream.

Guttural and wild like a dying beast. Geralt is knocked back by the force of it, bile rising in his throat.

People never scream like that. In terror or pain, he never heard a human make a sound like that. 

His heart knows the sound when his mind doesn’t.

There is a boy in a tavern and a man on a mountain and a creature in a clearing, and Jaskier was never human. 

It rises and ricochets too loud in too small a space. Notes bend until they break, echoing and doubling back until he fears his skull might split.

Flashes of light and dark beating at his vision like frenzied wings, too quick to catch and too fast to adjust to. His eyes are burning with it and he screws them shut. Ears still ringing and he can’t see, can’t hear. He needs to get out, but he needs to find Jaskier.

Something scrapes against his shoulder like talons or teeth and he spins around, a lunge for his ankle nearly has him off his feet. When the walls prove too close for swords he pulls his hunting knife instead. 

Fighting deaf and blind and hampered by the pounding in his head, there is still a weapon in his hand. He digs his heels in. Roots himself.

He finds his rhythm soon enough. The practiced ease of combat gives respite from his battered senses as he learns the pattern of his adversary. 

There are noises around him, differing like voices, but melding together to a single mass of sound.

A shift in the order and a change of pace, his space is empty and he thinks his opponent has retreated - then a cry like a call of a name, and he adapts without thought. Rushing air and the warmt of a body provides direction; near-hits become deflections. 

With a twist and a turn his blade hits home, sinking into solid flesh and grating against bone.

If life could give me one blessing - 

Blood wells hot between his fingers and the feel of it, smell of it, is so close and so familiar -

Horror turns his gut.

- it would be to take you off my hands. 

He can hardly hear himself shouting. Jaskier slumps against him.

--

Panic consumes the moment and the next, and he is staggering out into the fading light of day. 

Jaskier's knees fold in the grass and Geralt follows him down, grappling at his shoulders, his clothes, anything to keep him righted and assess the damage he has done.

It’s a decent hit. Certain. Deep enough to stay embedded between his ribs. Had it been a contract - 

He knows he’s talking, feels his mouth curl around Jaskier’s name, swearing, curses, promises he can’t keep - and all he can see is red, and tawny brown, and blue.

Jaskier is staring, silenced for once by shock and the fear rolling off him in waves. But when he is stopped from grabbing at the hilt of the knife to pull at it, he grasps for Geralt like a plea. Like he can save him, in spite of it all.

It can’t be real. He should wake in his camp, clouded and drained and relieved.

Pale silk drenches red, slow and steady, like ripples in a pond.

That fire in his eyes, lighting them like moonlight reflecting in a clear tarn, is burning white-hot, burning out. There’s no grounding but the shaking hands fisted in his shirt. He prays for that grip to stay firm.

He doesn’t know how this works, or if it works at all, but there is no choice but to try.

Geralt gathers him up, one arm below his shoulders and the other under his knees, and he runs.

It seems impossibly far. His own tracks through the grass make an even trail to follow. The forest passes in a blur.

At the sight of Roach, he grinds to a halt and lowers Jaskier to the ground as slowly as he can afford, ignoring the whimper in protest when he goes out of reach.

He ignores, too, the uncertain shift of his horse as he rifles through saddlebags without care for their contents, digging blindly under blankets and supplies for what has weighed on his mind for a month. And there, beyond a scrap of cloth wrapped around a warped piece of silver, his fingers find a bundle of twigs.

Rushing back and cradling his bard in his arms with as much gentleness as he can bear, he nearly hesitates, then. Jaskier is already too pale, life ebbing steadily out of him and this - this is a waste of time.

But the hilt of his own blade moves with each laboured breath and he’s not- he can’t- it can’t end like this. He curls his and around the knife, and braces for the strangled scream and struggle that comes.

Presses the handful of now-dried heather against the wound in Jaskier’s chest as he begs for whatever power, whatever luck or chance has followed them this far to take hold. 

The prickly stems soak quickly, white flowers dyed red, then black, in seconds. 

Willing his voice to some semblance of steadiness he taps a pale cheek, trying not to cringe at the cold creeping in.

“Jaskier.” He shakes the arm beneath his back to keep him waking, and is rewarded with a flicker of attention. “I need you to sing for me, lark. Can you do that?”

A grimace, or possibly a smile, sluggish and wan but he tries - the notes sound roughened in his throat, words garbled, more a mumble than a song but he tries.

The silver pendant between them quivers in response to each rising sound and for a moment, he hopes, maybe - but the heart beneath the press of his touch staggers on, rabbit-quick and panicked. Geralt can’t see his own hands for all that red.

There are lessons to this, ones imprinted in him since childhood, the cost of loving what is mortal. Reasons for tempering your heart, for why Witchers do not feel. None of them matter now. 

In their place is a barrage of moments, fleeting glances, the hand at his elbow by instinct when he comes back weary and injured, half-formed melodies by dying fires hummed to no one in particular. The scent of camomile and lavender and ink, ringing laughter, the rustle of silk. The lightness of a pack with provisions just for one, the deafening silence of a thousand lonely mornings, the chill of a bed too narrow for two.

Jaskier’s voice dwindles and fades and he doesn’t know what to do, he does the only thing he can think of. He pulls him so close he fears his bones might break, and he kisses him.

It’s desperate and too forceful and wet with his own tears and Jaskier gasps for air against his lips, and it’s nothing like the stories. 

And nothing happens.

“Please, Jaskier, I can’t -” he chokes out, and it’s all he can muster against the waves that clog and tear at his chest. “I can’t lose you. Not like this. Fuck, I wish I hadn’t let you go.”

There is a deep, ragged breath shaking the body in his arms. His medallion stills on its chain.

And then another breath. 

And when Geralt forces his eyes open the ones that meet his gaze are wet and dull with pain, but awake and alive, blinking up at him with confusion and something like disbelief.

“Geralt?” 

Something breaks in him, then. A wall or a barricade, something old and rigid, shatters like glass and he crumbles with it. 

“I’m here,” he murmurs into Jaskier’s brow, and for now his world is only that: Hair tickling his nose. The smell of blood, still, but less bitter; tempered by earthy musk and summer flowers. Grass under his knees. Jaskier in his arms.

Breath against his neck, calmer, pained but not panicked. Stutters a few times, stops and starts before the words form softly to his collarbones. “Don’t let me go.”

“Never.” It’s barely a whisper, but he doubles down, makes it a promise. “Never.”

 And the world tilts slightly on its axis.

--------

Tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @elliestormfound @love-more-today-than-yesterday @fontegagrilledcheese @geraskier-trashh

[el-michoacano]

I Saw the Dead, Small and Great

It’s finally posting day for the @tltbb and I couldn’t possibly be more excited! What a great time this has been! Shout out to the event hosts, and also to @queensabriel and @melli4uhbees, who have been the best artists a girl could ask for! 

Summary: Once upon a time, many, many years ago, Harrowhark's great-great-grandmother, who had herself lived an unnaturally long life, told her that their family was descended from that one wicked snake that haunted the Garden of Eden, that the family Nonigesimus were more serpent than man. At the time, Harrow had thought she was joking, just a senile old woman weaving mindless tales. She knows better now.

Trigger warnings: Suicidal thoughts, lots of talk of death.

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1 Is your soul prepared?

Harrow isn't sure how the sign got onto her property. It's been there for years and years, the nails rusting, the white paint chipping, the wood rotting beneath it. The sign is as tall as she is, and double as wide as she can stretch her arms. It's sinking into the mud, though, like everything else in this damned place, standing crooked enough that it might just topple over in a strong breeze.

Is your soul prepared?

The words were wrought in bright, angry red once, but they're an ugly brown now, the color of old blood. It's oddly fitting.

Hooligans, Harrow thinks, but she can't be sure. The sign is large, and its post is set deep into the soft earth. Would just any rowdy local boys be able to do such a thing? Would they have any inclination to pass on such a message? She'd been the target of their little pranks before, but such an effort from boys who hadn't the cleverness to not wet the front of their trousers when they took a piss? It seems unlikely. They’ve always been more the type to leave dead animals hanging on the gates. The sign is too civil.

It was the church that planted the sign, she's sure. The Ascension Parish Southern Baptist Church had been after her for years, all the way up until it had caught fire and burned to the ground in 1912. Fingers had pointed at her for that, too, and even now, she occasionally wakes to find God is watching or Repent now! or Open your heart to God! painted across the front gates.

Removing the paint gives her something to do, she supposes. Is it really so bad?

Is your soul prepared?

Harrow has considered removing the sign more times than she can count, but it's not as though any other living soul sees it. Why bother? It's not as if her family's sinking home is the only site of such signs. There are others like it scattered all over the bayou, ones of this seemingly standard size, smaller ones tacked to chain link fences, even huge billboards. God sees all, they proclaim. Jesus saves. Hell is real.

Of course Hell is real, Harrow thinks with a roll of her eyes. She lives there, after all.

Hell's End is the name of this area, a name given by her great-great-grandmother when the family had first arrived in the States all the way from New Zealand. It was to be the end of their long and dangerous journey west, the start of their Heaven on Earth. How wrong she had been. How wrong they had all been.

Harrow is one of the very few who dare to come near this part of the swamp now. The brackish waters part around her feet, and the heels of her elegant boots leave no prints in the mud. The gators go scurrying away at her approach, and high in the moss-draped trees, the cicadas fall silent.

The snakes, though, make no move to flee. They watch her with their bright, slitted eyes, and they bow as best as they can. She is one of them. She offered an apple to Gideon, and another to Alecto, apples of forbidden, carnal knowledge. She is the snake in the Garden of Eden given human form, and she is the mistress of this particular bayou.

Once upon a time, her great-great-grandmother, who had herself lived an unnaturally long life, had told Harrow that their family was descended from that one wicked snake, that they were more serpent than man. At the time, Harrow had thought she was joking, just a senile old woman weaving mindless tales.

She knows better now.

This wickedness is in her blood. Her parents had tried to fight it, but Harrow has long since given in. There's no use in trying to deny who she is.

The wickedness is as much a part of who she is as the swamp is.

The Nonagesimus family have always been the masters of this bayou, back since the 1750s when the house and its great iron gate had sprung seemingly overnight from the mud. That was centuries ago. Harrow isn't sure of the year anymore, but she is certain that it's high summer now. The children should be catching fireflies and the old biddies should be sipping sweet tea on the porch while their husbands talk about the weather, but Harrow is the only Nonagesiumus left in all the world, and the sinking mansion sits quietly in its watery grave, waiting to claim her as it has all the others.

Her family is long gone.

Harrow, with her twisted magic and her unnatural tastes, is all that remains of her once-great, once-powerful family.

The irony of it is enough to choke her, to send her hundreds of dead relations a-spinning in their graves. Or spinning in their coffins, at least. There are no graves here.

2

Though the closest towns are lively and New Orleans isn't terribly far away, there is no music in Hell's End.

There was, once upon a time, a lovely harpsichord in the parlor, but Harrow used it as firewood ages ago. Her mother had been an accomplished player, and she had taught Harrow to play, too, but Harrow couldn't bear the sound. Even in dreams, it breaks her heart.

There was an old gramophone once, too, but it met a similar fate. One too many times, it had come alive in the night, likely by Pelleamena's hand, and Harrow had thrown it from the top gallery. She still steps on its splinters from time to time.

The closest thing Harrow can bear to a song now is Ortus's low humming, though she's not sure it's a hum at all. It's a purr, almost, like that of a cat, a soft, comforting sound. It's the sound of his aura, she thinks, gentler than ever in death.

On occasion, she joins in on the hum, letting it rattle its way up her throat and down through her chest. It's a tender, deep sound, and she worries sometimes that it will shake her apart if she lets it.

Sometimes she thinks she wouldn't mind shaking apart. She could sift her way down through the warped floorboards, down into the manor's sunken foundation and even lower, drifting down, down, down.

Maybe she'll sink all the way into Hell. Maybe Alecto will be waiting for her there, her dark, dark eyes full of longing and anger. Gideon won't be there, though, Harrow knows. Hell is the last place Gideon belongs.

Harrow, though, belongs there. A witch, a homosexual, a murderer. Where else would she belong?

3

The wicker chairs set out behind the house are sinking and rotten, but the ghosts don't favor the back, and so Harrow often finds herself sitting there in the low evening light. Her legs are crossed at the ankle, her wide-brimmed hat pulled low, a book resting open in her lap, though it's too dark to read it now.

The mosquitos are a choking cloud this time of year, buzzing thick in the air, carrying diseases on the wind. They have taken too many of Harrow's kind already. She swats at them with her lace-gloved hands, but they're never deterred. Stubborn things, she thinks. They're the only swamp creatures that don't seem to fear her.

It has to do with her blood, she's sure. There was wicked magic in her veins from the day she was born, and they can smell it, even now, long after she's been bled dry. Though they hover around her like a plague, there's nothing left in her for them to drink. She used it all up trying to bring back her parents, her family name, her old life, her dead lovers.

But they're all gone now, and her magic can't bring them back. Not in any way that matters.

Her parents are gone, interred in the grand white marble mausoleum out behind the house. It's sinking into the swamp, like everything else is, a few centimeters every year. The doors can barely be opened now. When Harrow dies, there will be no way for her to join them in the tomb. Maybe that's for the best. Maybe she doesn't deserve to be with them. They certainly wouldn't welcome her, not after all her disastrous attempts to bring them back.

She doesn't deserve to be with Gideon in death, either, though no one to this day seems to know exactly what became of her. For all Harrow knows, Gideon is in some gator's belly. Had been, anyway. No one has seen her in decades. No one is even looking anymore. Not even Aiglamene is looking anymore. Gideon was murdered, Harrow is certain, likely by the church itself. The worst things always happen to the best people.

And then there was Alecto. A predator, yes, but Harrow's predator. There isn't a day Harrow doesn't regret drowning her, but there was nothing else to be done about her. She was mad. She was inhuman. She was everything Gideon wasn't, and Harrow had taken comfort in that for a while. But Alecto had ripped poor, sweet Ortus limb from limb in a fit of rage, and her drowning was a far easier death than she had deserved.

Alecto sits on the fence at the edge of the property most days, her dark, empty eyes staring off into the distance.

On particularly gloomy days, Ortus joins her. Even dead, he can't bear to be alone. He's more a great mass of shadow than a true figure, weak even in death, but Harrow would know him anywhere. Her heart aches when she sees him. The sad, tremulous smile he gives her makes her want to die.

But after all she's been through, is there anything that doesn't make her want to die?

Is there anything in the great, wide world that makes her want to live?

If there is, she hasn't found it.

At this point, she doubts it exists at all.

She doesn't live now, anyway. She just survives.

4

Slowly but surely, the Nonagesimus house is sinking into the mud.

It's been sinking for years, of course. It started the day Harrow's parents died.

Died.

It's too gentle a term. They didn't pass away in their beds, old as the hills, their souls well-prepared, as parents should. They didn't go peacefully. They didn't just die.

Pelleamena and Priamhark hung themselves from the high branches of the cypress tree that had been growing just inside the gates since before the gates had even been erected. Harrow had been the one to find the bodies, the one to cut them down, the one to lay them to rest in the family mausoleum.

Her being the one to read their note was by far the worst of it.

You bring shame on us, it had said. It had been scrawled in her mother's elegant handwriting, and her father hadn't even bothered to sign it. Harrow often finds herself wondering if he even read it, or if he had found Pelleamena's body before Harrow had and followed his wife to the grave of his own volition.

It was Harrow's fault either way, and to this day, after all these decades, she carries the weight of it on her back. It weighs so much that she can barely stand upright, hunched like an old woman in her wanderings. She would be an old woman, were it not for her magic. This eternal life is her punishment, and she deserves every single second alone.

Her parents were ashamed of her, and probably had been for most of her life. Even as a child, there was something wrong about her. They had tried and tried for more children, but alas, she was the only one to make it to birth. Their only daughter, they whispered, the blood witch. Their only daughter, the necrophiliac. Their only daughter, the homosexual. Their shame had driven them into the arms of Death, and their precious child had played witness to it.

She should have seen it coming from a country mile away, but she hadn't. She had been too busy trying to resurrect Gideon and kill Alecto to notice their downcast eyes and trembling mouths. She hadn't noticed how they had wasted away until she was cutting them down from their twin nooses.

Harrow supposes it doesn't matter. Even dead, her parents are with her now.

They stand silent most days, pacing the sinking house's top gallery, staring out over the swamp with their dark, sunken eyes and their sewn-shut mouths. Dead men, after all, tell no tales. She's made certain of that.

Though they can't reply, not in words, she does talk to them sometimes.

Today, though, she's more focused on the foxfire darting through the trees. This is no swamp gas, she's sure. She's intimately familiar with that particular sight. Instead of the usual blue, this light is violet, and it moves slowly, ambling through the trees without a care in the world.

There's someone down there, Harrow realizes.

The question is, is this person living or dead?

5

It isn't alive.

Harrow isn't sure if it's human, but certainly is not alive.

She meets it outside the iron gate, her hand resting against the metal, as if its narrow bars can somehow protect her from this strange half-dead girl.

"Hello," it says. Its smile is sharp and fanged, its voice a rasping whine, like dead tree branches scraping a window during a storm. It takes Harrow's hand in its golden right one, presses its soft, bluing mouth to her knuckles, and Harrow can feel the coolness of it through the lace of her gloves. It's prettier than it has any right to be, despite its wasted appearance and its pallid skin and the deep, dark shadows beneath its eyes. "Have you been waiting long?" it asks, catching her eyes with its own.

Waiting? Harrow doesn't wait. She takes. The only thing she's waiting for is death. Perhaps, she thinks, this is Death. "Who are you?" she asks, slowly, stupidly. Her voice is rough from lack of use, the croak of a frog more than the voice of a witch. It's oddly fitting.

The other woman, tall and pale as a ghost, laughs at her, and the sound is the knell of church bells ringing on a foggy morning. They're funeral bells.

Hear the tolling of the bells -- Iron bells! Harrow thinks. She pulls her hand away, wraps her arms around herself. What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!

It asks, its voice low and seductive, "Who do you want me to be, Harrowhark?"

Harrow bristles. No one has called her by her name in years. She doubts anyone even knows her name anymore. Only old Aiglamene would remember, if she even remembers anything. This time, Harrow asks, "What are you?"

The eyes roll. They're a ludicrous shade of purple, striped with blue and brown, deep-set and heavy-lidded. They're inhuman. "I'm no one," it says, then approaches her, reaching a hand toward her face. Harrow doesn't flinch, even when the soft fingertips and sharp claws brush her cheek. "And yet everyone knows me." It moves closer, and Harrow can smell it: Musty, powdery, with something sweet underneath. Something terribly, deathly sweet. "Everyone faces me."

It's the smell of rot, Harrow realizes. "You really are Death."

It leans closer, brushes its mouth against hers. It agrees in a voice like shattering ice, "I really am."

6

"I've been waiting for you for years." Harrow feels strange saying it, but she can't take it back now. She feels stranger still letting this creature into her home, but she can't take that back, either. Why would she want to? Death is the first physical guest she's had for decades. It's been all ghosts and vermin for far too long. "Where have you been?"

"Around," Death says, its eyes roving as it steps into the manor, stepping gingerly through the puddles in the foyer, its feet bare. It's dressed all in white, its long skirt trailing on the floor, the hem damp and muddy. It wears only a camisole on top, the straps thin and hanging off its bony shoulders, short enough that it leaves a few inches of its midriff enticingly bare. Harrow startles at that: She hasn't been enticed in decades. She startles again when she realizes how utterly human it is to feel enticed. Perhaps she's still human after all. "I keep a very busy schedule."

Harrow has the distinct feeling that that isn't true, but she doesn't dare say so.

Death itself has come to her.

It's hard not to feel special in the wake of it, and she swallows down a wave of pride. Pride. She hasn't felt that in ages, either.

"You really live like this?" Death asks as it steps into the parlor, the damp rug squelching obscenely under its bare feet.

This room had once been grand, but now, it's little more than a shadow of its former self. A ghost of itself, like its mistress. The walls are lined in ceiling-high shelves full of moldering books and pretty little treasures, the Persian rug unwinding at its edges, the lovely chaise discolored and misshapen from years of sweat and sitting. All the furniture in the house is in such a state. Harrow can't find it in herself to be embarrassed by it anymore.

Death takes a seat on the chaise, kicking its bare feet up onto the far end, its delicate ankles crossed one over the other. Its skin is so pale that the worn navy velvet makes its veins all but glow.

It's otherworldly, and Harrow comes to sit in front of it on the warped wood of the floor. She arranges her skirts carefully, keeping her tattered slippers hidden under her equally tattered hem. Had she known Death was finally coming for her, she would have dressed better. "Why are you only here now?" she asks, an unfamiliar desperation in her voice. Of course she's desperate, she thinks. She's been waiting since before the turn of the century. She's been waiting longer than most people get to live.

"I told you," Death says, picking at a loose string on the arm of the chaise. A bit of the piping comes off with it. "I've been busy." It glances up with its ludicrous eyes, meets Harrow's gaze, holds it fast. Harrow feels caught in their depths, like a fly in a glass of sweet tea. Sweet it is, though. "And I thought you would have come to me on your own by now."

7

The following morning, Harrow wakes alone, still dressed and still exhausted.

She's disappointed, but she can't bring herself to be surprised. She's poison, after all. Even Death itself can't bear to be around her. She can't say she blames it.

She's still on the floor in the parlor, the chaise empty, but it still has that smell clinging to it: Musty and cloyingly sweet. Like violets, Harrow thinks again. Death has eyes like violets. Who would have guessed? Certainly not her.

She had always imagined Death as a skeleton wrapped in a black robe, a scythe at its side, its eyes empty black pits in its skeleton face. Death didn't look like a girl, but an ancient being, rotting away from the inside. She had had a nightmare, once, that Death had come to her in the guise of her long-dead aunt, Glaurica. In the dream, Harrow had very nearly taken its hand.

She had never feared Death. Even now, having met it in person, she doesn't fear it.

Death was the first real companionship she had felt in ages.

She thinks this even as her mother crosses the room. Pelleamena is dressed in the same long, trailing black dress she wore on the eve of her death, her long black hair pulled into a braid that hangs heavy down her back. It looks eerily like a rope. She's reaching for a book on the ceiling-high shelf, but her hand goes right through the spine, and she pulls back, staring through her transparent fingers as if it hasn't happened a thousand times over.

Harrow watches her, silent as a stone.

Even in death, they barely acknowledge each other.

Priamhark, as much as the ghostly thing that wanders the house is Priamhark, is less dead. When Harrow watches him, he watches her right back.

"Father," Harrow says to him as he paces the gallery.

He doesn't speak, Harrow has made certain of that with her postmortem sewing, but he looks at her, and his dark, dark eyes are gentle.

They stand together, his lighter-than-air hand over hers on the gallery's splintered railing, and this night, the swamp is dark.

8

When her parents killed themselves, Harrow called the police.

Hours passed.

No one came.

Pigs, Harrow had thought.

She's been alone ever since, save Death and the ghosts. Even Aiglamene has stopped visiting.

Harrow doesn't mind being alone most of the time. It's the peaceful nights that get her.

In the quiet, under the singing of crickets and the rumbling of the gators, she can hear Gideon's voice. Gideon, asking, You really gonna wear that? Gideon, calling her baby. Gideon, begging for her touch.

From time to time, it's Alecto's voice in her head, whispering songs and poetry and utter nonsense. Too much of her voice, and Harrow is certain she'll go mad. For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee, Alecto sings in her whispery, water-logged voice, and the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

Now, though, it's Gideon's voice nor Alecto's she hears.

The air is hot around her, humid, and Harrow loses herself in the fantasy, her black eyes slipping closed. Her chewed-down nails rake against her skin, and she imagines a golden hand in their place. She imagines bluing lips at her neck, too-sharp white teeth sinking into her neck. She imagines the cool, meager weight of Death above her. It's Death's voice she hears, and in its creaking hanging-tree voice, it whispers, Come.

Harrow does.

9

You bring shame on us.

Though her mother hasn't spoken in half a century, Harrow can still hear the words in her voice. She had a lovely voice, Harrow's mother. It was elegant and soft, almost musical. Her words always came slowly, carefully selected before they passed her lips. The note was probably exceptionally well selected. Short and sweet.

The note is tucked into the neckline of Harrow's gown, the paper tucked against her heart and tinged yellow from years of sweat and tears.

Harrow can't bear to be without it.

It's her cross to bear, and she must bear it alone.

10

It's a full week before Death shows itself again. Harrow finds it in her room, stretched out on the molding canopy bed. The canopy is less lace now than Spanish moss, the covers mildewed and practically falling apart. Death doesn't seem to mind. It looks perfectly at ease, its hands joined behind its head, its right leg bent, the other tossed over its knee. It was humming to itself, its pale foot bouncing along to the rhythm.

Harrow can hardly believe that it's back.

Death's voice is an undignified whine when it asks, "Did you forget about me, Harrowhark?"

How could I? Harrow doesn't say. She does say, "I tried to." It's not entirely true. "I thought you'd abandoned me again."

"Abandoned you?" Death looks almost offended, its golden hand coming to its chest, clutching invisible pearls, but its laughter is high and sweet, bouncing off the crumbling walls like birdsong. Harrow represses a pleasant shiver at the sound of it. "Harry, my love," Death says, smiling with blue lips and too-sharp animal teeth, "I have been beside you since the day you were born."

My love? Harrow's cheeks go warm, but she ignores it, asking, "Since I was born?" It seems impossible. It also seems impossible that Death exists as a person at all. She's been surrounded by impossibility for as long as she can remember. This shouldn't be so surprising. "How could you possibly have time for that?"

"There are half a million Deaths," says Death with a wave of its hand. It wears lacy, threadbare gloves, and its cuticles are bluish, its nails chewed short. "This is just the area I chose to cover," it's saying, though it doesn't sound at all interested. Harrow wonders if it's even capable of interest. "There are fewer people here, less work. I can just hover most of the time."

The dark cloud of Death follows us, Harrow's grandmother had once told her. It seems she was right. Harrow can't quite believe it, even now. It's a curse, her grandmother had told her, and we deserve it. "Why me?" she asks.

"Why not?" Death shoots back. It holds out its arms, and against her better judgment, Harrow climbs into bed beside it, letting it enfold her. The gold of its skeletal right arm is chilly through the worn lace of her dress. "You Nonagesimus types are my favorite. You always come to me so willingly."

Harrow props herself up on her elbow, meeting Death's eyes with her own. "You know my family?"

"All the dead ones," Death says with a shrug that sends the strap of its camisole slipping off its shoulder. The veins just beneath its icy-pale skin are especially visible there, and Harrow lifts a hand to trace them. They have a green tint to them, and she wonders if there's blood in them at all, or if this iteration of Death has algae and swamp moss in its veins. "I gave the kiss of death to your father, and to your mother, and to Glaurica, and to sweet Ortus." Death ticks off each name off on its spidery fingers. Then it looks down at Harrow, one colorless brow lifting. "And then there was Alecto." Harrow feels the blood drain from her face, the breath fleeing her lungs in a single second. "She wasn't one of you, was she?"

"She could have been," Harrow says, softly, "eventually."

"You sent her to me gift-wrapped, didn't you?" Death doesn't sound at all bothered, and it slips its fingers beneath Harrow's chin, forcing her to look it in the eye. "It had been so long since I received a sacrifice like that. Your people don't offer tribute like they used to."

"Our magic isn't what it used to be," Harrow says.

"I wonder why," Death says. Its smile fades, though, when it asks, "You're how old? I'd say your magic is working just fine."

Harrow's lips threaten to smile, but it never comes. She says, "It's impolite to ask a lady's age."

Death itself laughs at her, songbird-sweet. "All you want is to die," it says, sounding bemused, one brow lifted in a match to the corner of its mouth, "and yet you'll live forever."

"For far too long, anyway," Harrow agrees, shivering when Death's golden hand slides into her hair, carding carefully through choppy black locks.

The silence that falls then isn't silence at all. Outside, the wind is in the trees and in the water. The cicadas are singing. Birds call to one another. Harrow's heart is beating a mile a minute, pounding in her ears. Death's heart isn't beating at all.

Softly, its voice almost a purr, Death says, "Did you know you've been dying your whole life?"

Harrow scoffed. "Isn't everyone?"

11

"Where did you go?" Harrow's voice is soft and plaintive, and she hates it. She's straddling Death's waist on her bed, its pointy hip bones pressing into the backs of her thighs. It feels like too much too soon, and it's far too intimate, but she has no intention of pulling away. She could stay like this forever.

Death presses its fingertips, both the flesh ones and the golden ones, into Harrow's hips. "Someone needed transporting," it said with a shrug of its narrow shoulders.

"You do that?" Harrow asks. Her hands are resting against the flat plane of Death's stomach, her fingertips tucked just beneath the hem of its camisole. "Transport people?"

"I transport souls," Death says. Its eyes are on Harrow's, searching for something in her black gaze. "This one was the last one in the area, save you."

Harrow's unkempt eyebrows draw together, her eyes flittering off to one side. As far as she knows, she's the only person still living in the area. She asks, "Who was it?"

Death, strangely, hesitates. "An old woman called Aiglamene," it says, and there's a strange weight in its voice, as if it knows how much Aiglamene meant to Harrow once upon a time. "Must have been a hundred and twenty years old." Its hands slide down to Harrow's thighs, its thumbs coming to rest in the creases of her knees. "Maybe even older than you."

"By a bit," Harrow agrees, doing her best to keep the sudden numbness out of her voice. "I didn't know she was still here."

"Keeping an eye on you," Death says, "from what I can gather."

And now she's gone, Harrow doesn't say, but the words fill her chest. It hurts.

"You should have seen her automobile," Death is saying, sounding almost mystified. Its hands are joined behind its head now, its eyes distant. "Such an incredible machine!"

More to herself than to Death, Harrow says, faintly, "I've never seen an automobile." Gideon had one that she was immensely fond of, but she hadn't trusted it on the marshy roads of the swamp. Alecto, old-fashioned thing that she was, chose to simply walk. It had made her disappearance so much easier.

"You're so behind the times, Harry," Death chides, though there's amusement clear in its voice. "You should come to town with me." It gives her a sly grin, looking very much like the fox that managed to break into the chicken coop. They're both foxes, Harrow realizes. "The things I could show you..."

"No." Harrow says it far too quickly, and her eyes dart off to the side, embarrassed. "No, I belong here. My magic ends here. I would age fifty years if I ever left the swamp."

"Shame, that." Death doesn't sound particularly bothered. Instead, its hands come to Harrow's thighs again, pushing the fabric of her skirt immodestly high, up past the tops of her stockings. It takes everything Harrow has to keep from pushing her hips into the touch. "But there are so many things I can show you right here."

12

The next time Harrow wakes, she isn't alone.

She's on the great bed in her room, Death's arms wound tight around her and holding her close. Her chest is pressed to Death's side, its skin bare and cool to the touch, devoid of breath or a heartbeat. It's eerily still. It's not Harrow's first time in such close contact with a corpse.

Outside, through the thin curtains over the balcony doors and the windows, the light is thin and greyish, either dusk or dawn, but certainly overcast. There's a storm coming. Harrow wonders if Death will simply sleep through it.

Death, unsurprisingly, sleeps like the dead. All through the night, it didn't move even once.

Was it only all night? It could have been years, for all Harrow knows.

As she lays quiet in Death's arms, she's surprised to find that she doesn't mind that idea. Let her dream her life away in the arms of Death. There are worse fates.

13

Just inside the door of the sinking manor is an antique dark wood table. On top of it is a crystal vase filled with flame-orange roses.

They were a gift of Aiglamene, given shortly after Gideon vanished in a rare gesture of comfort.

They are the single thing in the house that isn't rotting.

Harrow stands before them, staring, willing life through them.

Death stands beside her, watching quietly, its arms crossed over its chest, its head tipped curiously to the side. "I can feel their age," it says, its voice soft and thoughtful. "How long have you had these?"

"Decades," Harrow says. She plucks one from the crystal vase and tucks it behind Death's ear. Immediately, the life leaves the petals, and even when Harrow touches the petals, she can't revive it.

Death says, softly, "Are you afraid, Harrowhark?"

"No," Harrow says, and is surprised to realize that she means it.

"Good." Death steps behind her, wrapping its arms around Harrow's waist, resting its pointed chin on her shoulder. Its skin is soft and chilled. "With old Aiglamene gone, my attention is all yours."

The smell of violets mingles with the scent of roses, and Harrow realizes there's nothing she wants more.

14

"How do you do it?" There's something like awe in Death's voice, its head tipped to the side, a chipped tumbler half-full of decades-old scotch in its golden hand. "I'd lose my mind if I had to stay here all the time."

There's no derision in its tone, and Harrow says, "Maybe I have."

"Suppose you wouldn't know if you had," Death says, taking a long sip. "You could be dead right now, couldn't you? Would you even know the difference?"

She isn't dead. She may be dead inside, but she still feels. Harrow feels the chair she's sitting on, threadbare and creaky as it is, feels the warped wood beneath her bare feet, feels the coolness of Death sitting beside her. She would know, she tells herself.

She doesn't quite believe it.

15

Death goes out sometimes, wandering through the swamp and into the towns.

Harrow watches it leave from the iron gate, Ortus at her right, Alecto at her left. Her parents keep close, too, sewn-lipped and sullen.

Even with the ghosts, Harrow is alone, waiting.

Her life has become a waiting game, and she finds she doesn't mind, because she knows she'll never be alone for long.

Death always returns to her, sometimes with a man to sacrifice or a woman to seduce, sometimes with a butchered gator or a pot of jambalaya it found God-knows-where. It rarely comes to the manor empty-handed.

Death is courting her, Harrow realizes, and for the first time in decades, she smiles.

16

The courting is gentle. Death often is, isn't it?

It comes softly, like sleep, darkening the edges of the world and drawing it all in close.

Death steals the very breath from Harrow's lungs, pinning her flat against the wall. Its blue lips are pressed to her nape, its golden hand resting lightly around her throat, its spidery flesh hand at her hip.

Its voice is soft when it says, "You were made for this."

Made to be used by Death itself? Made to cater to Death itself? Made to be a lover to Death itself? The answer is obvious. "I was," Harrow agrees, her voice nearly lost in her heavy breathing. "I am."

17

Harrow spends her time in the arms of Death itself, now. But is that any different from how she lived before?

At the end of a long day, she waits beside the rusting gate, waiting for her deathly love to return to her.

The branches of the too-familiar cypress shake above her, Spanish moss swaying in the breeze. She presses a hand to its rough bark and wills it to live. Like the roses, it must live. It's a monument now. This tree is her old friend, known all her life.

As is Death, approaching through evening fog, violet eyes shining in the dark.

Being in the company of Death is better than being alone, Harrow supposes as Death's arms wind around her, pulling her close. Death's lips are blue and chilled against hers, but she melts into the feeling of it, as she always does.

As they walk back toward the sinking manor, they pass the old sign. Is your soul prepared?

Death trails its golden, skeletal fingertips along the top of the sign as they pass, and the wood is immediately overtaken by mold and mushrooms, the paint flaking off in great chunks.

"Is my soul prepared?" Harrow asks as they walk in the dark.

"Oh, Harry," Death laughs. Its glowing eyes turn to her, hypnotic and bright as lightning bugs. "Your soul has been ready for me since you were born."

[ardeawritten]

A post-apocalyptic apple tree.

Hear me out-

(a better example would be post-apocalyptic onion fields, to be honest.)

This picture is from a homestead. At some point, about a hundred years ago, someone built a house here. I found the well, a bedstead, a rusted-out and mangled iron stove, and an apple tree.

I don't know exactly who/what/where/when/why, but the general trend was a lot of folks moved into the area back in 1880-1910, found the countryside a verdant, lush grassland, claimed land recently made available (via forceful displacement & the Snake Indian War, hence the post-apocalyptic onion fields; this whole area was within civilization for 14,000 years before the apple tree and was ground zero for a genocidal campaign waged against the tribes by white militants) and built themselves a house. They probably didn't have any idea who'd lived there before them, and the sales pitch was that the land was naturally vacated (a myth still told today) due to climate change.

ha

Anyway, the homesteaders, mostly European immigrants lured by promise of land and opportunity who wanted to be something other than what their parents had been (the family next-door were Swiss; his motive for changing continents was not wanting to be a village chimney-sweep like his father before him) had no idea what a high desert climate was or how to work with it. A decade of slightly wetter patterns resulted in an illusion of naturally-irrigated temperate grasses and meadows. The early 1900's swing back to a more normal arid climate meant most of those homesteads failed.

The springs dried up. The plants died as they sprouted, or never germinated at all. The cattle grew thin and the watering-holes vanished. Imported animals overgrazed the slopes, and when the rains did come they flooded down narrow canyons. The winters were dry, clear and cold, or mounded with heavy snow, and the summer wildfires destroyed everything not built of stone.

And everyone left. They moved to established cities on the west coast or returned east, defeated, after years of personal, remote failures.

Or they died, killed in gun violence over water and land, killed by disease, killed by childbirth or the elements or naivety. The towns that are left are small and scattered and very, very poor, with even the largest landowners and 'cattle barons' living year to year and waiting to see if this year it rains. Because it might not. (At this time, there is no rain.)

The apple tree stands above someone's personal apocalypse. Someone, at some point, left this house for the last time. Either they buried their dream, or they were buried by it. It burned and burned again until nothing organic was left except the apple tree. Now, when it burns the apple tree will go too, because the juniper in its center will spread and hold the fire.

I'm going to come back in February next year if I can, if the snow will let me, if it doesn't burn this summer, and take cuttings. A neighbor wants to propagate from a tree that can survive a hundred years untended in the desert.

We don't always fail as badly as we think we have within our own lifetimes.