#mottled cup moth

[its-nice-its-different]

Found this little fella (around 2 cm long) on my fence post. I think the head is on the right hand side as this part was moving around.

I did some research and am pretty certain this is the larvae of a Mottled Cup Moth. I thought it was pretty boldly sitting out in the open until I read that it's coloured hairs STING!

The adult is brown and non distinctive, in stark contrast to its larvae.

@onenicebugperday you might like this.

[sitting-on-me-bum]

Meet the venomous mottled cup moth caterpillar

With the ability to inject liquid venom into would-be predators – venom that happens to be surprisingly similar to that of wasps, spiders and scorpions – the mottled cup moth caterpillar is an intimidating critter.

Image credit: Denis Crawford / Alamy Stock Photo

[manwalksintobar]

Insomnia // Fran Lock

And contemplate this: the heat-treated hairdos of next-door neighbors, the roseate nosebleeds of fuckboys in hoodies; your own face, rinsed in the mirror, the sweet green sweat you’re riddled with in mornings, a rock pool reflection under algaecidal light. You are going nowhere. This poem yokes you, to the pain you are chronic and adipose with; to the desk, to the chair, to ergonomic purgatory. And to the body, its spasms and its rhapsodies, three-part harmonies, one-chord wonders. You will never be whole. The voices. His voice, broadcast on your remedial frequency, making its way through a rubbishy dusk, the streetlamps beaming fizzy glow like Lucozade. You will never be whole. Vomit o’clock and the brain is Kraken, white and shaking. Open the window, pry the chipboard from the window; fill your punctured eye with stars. And contemplate this: Saturday night and the dirt purrs with it; cars, litter bins, pit bull dogs. A girl with high Yorick cheekbones drags a false nail down the scratchy surface of a bri-nylon sleeplessness. A man rides ignorance like a white horse, kicking mirrors from parked cars. You have the itch under your skin. Insectile dysfunction. Lust, with its own murky gravities. You will fail. You have not made a friend of this city and you will fail. Cup your eyes like coins. Addiction holds such simplicity. Check your used-car contours in the broken glass. You are going nowhere. They cannot nail you to a pronoun, hot mess of cravings and behaviors, tainted frailty, old meat’s rancid rainbow. Ugly. Contemplate. Consider: your lilies, toiling like deaf ears, tearing the tired night a new one, stirring a sulfate dust in your veins. Your eyes are blue with pseudo-scientific toxicity, with chemical expectancy, a dread that dries a smile like paint. Your blood is on fire, full of bellicose adrenaline, nitrate and neon; brighter, even, than the hoary fluorescence of angels. It is so late. And you are pining the rhinestone shine of a lost narcotism. Now trauma’s your ergotamine. Trauma, your ergot, your argot of rye. Awful thought that treads the brain’s rank breadth. Silence. Pray silence. Pray the dark room away, the candles, the pious vibrations of flame; the dim bulb with its gospel of moths, one hundred pairs of gloved hands clasped to powder. Marooned in your gooseflesh, one hand does not know what the other is doing. It’s three a.m., the mind’s alive like frostbite, a cold burn that blackens things. Your graphite smile could shatter. Thoughts of him have poisoned you, rust in the blood. You have not eaten for days, you mottle, run your own hands over your oxidizing thighs, watch the bruises ripen to a landmass, a landmark, a brave new world, a here be dragons. You listen to yourself, creaking like rope; your body, its canned laughter repeating mean and low, throwing out thought according to the malnourished algorithm some devil has devised. You clutch and sway in a crêpe air and you want-want-want what you’ll never have again: sleep; his image breaking across your scrubbed flesh like surf. Contemplate this: this is forever. There is no movie montage where you’ll shop yourself to transformation. You will never be whole. And grief is not a line we walk to wellness; the tidy smirk of therapy, the therapized, the girls licking flakes of gold- leaf pastry from a Pret a Manger croissant, saying you should take up yoga. Grief is a longing in the body, your body, the machine-tooled aesthetics of starvation. It’s so uncool, a super-terrestrial emptiness; the acetone-eroded teeth of your disorder. He will not come again. Sleep will not come and make an amnesty of bandages, the white ribbons rendering you prematurely maypole. It will not wrap you. It will not keep you. It will not launder or succor you. It will break into your ballerina box, will chew the jewels from their semiprecious sockets, set them pulsing in your frontal lobe. Your heart has a headache. Drink raw egg. Or Dettol. It’s up to you. The sky is pasteurized by thunder ... 

[psikonauti]

Caterpillar of the mottled cup moth

[bpod-bpod]

Toxin Treasure Trove

Like many slug moths, named after the curious shape of their caterpillars, the Australian mottled cup moth (Doratifera vulnerans) knows how to protect itself. Its caterpillar (pictured, in its grey form) can inflict painful stings with its venomous spines, and advertises this danger with startling colours, a strategy known as aposematism. Delving into the precise composition of D. vulnerans’ venom reveals a surprisingly complex cocktail, involving multiple families of peptides, short chains of amino acids, fulfilling several roles: acting against microbes, nematodes and insects, as well as causing pain to vertebrates. Despite evolving independently, many of the toxin components resemble substances found in other venomous arthropods, like spiders and wasps, but with their own unique variations. Venomous animals have yielded a host of important compounds for medicine, used to treat conditions from hypertension to diabetes, and the diversity of slug moth toxins could provide the next source of biomedical inspiration.

Written by Emmanuelle Briolat

Photograph by David Paul, sourced from Museums Victoria, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia

Research by Andrew A. Walker and colleagues, Institute for Molecular Bioscience, The University of Queensland, St Lucia, QLD, Australia

Image originally published with a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International (CC BY 4.0)

Research published in Proceedings of the National Academy of Science (PNAS), May 2021

You can also follow BPoD on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook

[squishymoth]

Moth’s and Lorelei’s Veggie or Vegan Sandwich Tips:

To preface this I’m kind of a picky eater, especially about textures. Most delis in my area's offerings for vegetarians are made up of various roasted veggies, avocado and cucumber, resulting in a very GOOPY unappetizing sandwich. 

I also don’t subscribe to the idea that vegetarians should only eat vegetables,  and that fake meats are all flavorless and pointless. Most of the tastiest vegetarian sandwiches I’ve had include fake meats.

Nothing I’ve written here is crazy insightful or revolutionary but if anything here helps someone make a tasty vegetarian or vegan sammy I will be happy.

Additions specifically written by my lovely girlfriend Lorelei are marked (L) for Luigi.

Sandwich thoughts below the cut!

Fake Meat:

I will start with the cheaper, easier to find fake meats. Good vege sandwiches should be accessible IMO. I believe these brands will be more widely available and you won’t have to go to a specialty health food store to find em.

Morning Star Farms Bacon:

The MSF bacon is salty and savory and can be as crispy or chewy as you like. Just cook it a couple minutes on either side in a dry non-stick pan. I’m not sure that it tastes exactly like bacon, but it’s strong point is that it has a good flavor all on its own which is what I think defines any good vege meat.

Morning Star Chik Patties:

A great chik’n patty if you are looking for a crispy chicken sandwich, easy to cook in the skillet or the microwave (both ways come out tasty and crispy). Overall Morning Star has good stuff and is widely available.

 Tofurkey: 

really succeeds at a lunch meat texture and has a subtle savory flavor that allows it to support other sandwich ingredients. 

 Fancier Fake Meats:

Green Slice Meatless Deli Slices:

(WARNING not all of them are vegan some use egg white) I’ve often wondered why there was no vege ham alternative, on a recent grocery run I discovered there was one! Green Slice’s applewood smoked slice (I have only tried this flavor, but I’m sure the others are also good) these have a lovely very meat-like texture and flavor. My only quibble is that they are very small and there aren’t that many.

Sweet Earth Facon:

This bacon smells amazing and tastes very bacony. It is cooked in oil, make sure to use paper towel to blot off extra oil.

Light Life Smoky Tempeh Bacon:

Tempeh itself gets a bad rap (you have to cook it in a very specific way), but honestly for sandwiches tempeh is not worth using unless its smokey tempeh bacon. It has a lovely flavor, but it is a very different experience to the other two facons in this list. Imagine it as the contrast between your typical everyday bacon and a thick cut, pepper corn encrusted, artisanal bacon. It is thicker and chewier, but has a delicious smoky sweet flavor.

Tofu:

Pan Seared Tofu:

Ok if you’re really not into fake meats or you just like tasty tofu here is a home made, very tasty, and pretty all purpose recipe for a tofu sandwich filling. This recipe is from The Pho Cookbook by Andrea Nguyen. Best part about it, no need to press! Cooking it in the pan before adding oil drives off water super well, and gives a really unique tenderness. We eat this on it’s own, it’s that good!

Ingredients: firm tofu, 1 TBSP neutral oil, 1 TBSP soy sauce (optional in this case if it doesn’t fit the VIBE of your sandwich, if you leave out the soy sauce make sure to compensate with other umami ingredients in the sandwich) 

Instruction: cut your tofu into desired shape (triangle or domino or whatever) put them in a DRY non stick pan, and drizzle with soy sauce on both sides (if desired, salt and pepper could also be used). 

Cook on medium without disturbing the pieces for ~5 mins. 

Drizzle with oil and then flip them, allow the second side to cook for ~5 mins.

To check if the second side is ready try shaking the pan a little, if the tofu moves you can flip. If they are not to your desired brownness flip again and allow to continue cooking until you are satisfied. You are looking for a mottled brown color.

Crispy Tofu:

If you are looking for a crispier tofu here is a homegrown method that I’ve learned through trial and error, also a great addition to spring rolls.

Ingredients: firm tofu, neutral oil, salt and pepper (any other seasoning you like). OPTIONAL: a sauce as in orange sauce, teriyaki, or even BBQ (never tried BBQ but it could work.)

Instructions:

Most important thing for crispy tofu is to drain and PRESS IT. I would press it for between 15-20 minutes. Either cut up your pieces to desired shape and size before pressing or press the whole block if you want to prepare a big portion.

After they are pressed and the moisture is removed, season your tofu. I’ve experimented with rolling tofu in cornstarch to add an extra crispiness but it should crisp up on its own. You may just sprinkle your desired seasoning on both sides as you like. 

In a non stick pan fry tofu on both sides in oil (enough to coat your pan) on medium high heat until golden brown and crispy. When cooking tofu I’ve heard it’s good to leave it undisturbed before flipping to prevent bits sticking to the bottom and preserve inner softness. Try shaking the pan, if the tofu moves a bit it is not going to stick to the pan and lose it’s crispy outer layer. When they are finished cooking set the tofu on a paper towel to remove any excess oil.

OPTIONAL: in the last minutes of cooking add a sauce of your choosing, flip the tofu to coat.

Fats:

Avocado:

Avocado is a great addition to almost any sandwich, especially if you are vegan or lactose intolerant. It can easily take the place of cheese or mayo in 99% of sandwiches.

Vegan Cheese:

My girlfriend has tried MANY vegan cheeses and has found all of them to be disappointing. So we have no recommendations for vegan cheese. 

Garlic Butter:

A tasty spread to up your sandwiches flavor. we don’t have a recipe with EXACT measurements, this is all to taste. This can be applied to any sandwich for extra flavor and fat.

Ingredients:

A couple spoonfuls of Butter/Vegan butter

1 small garlic clove (or garlic powder)

Black pepper

Italian herb blend (or pretty much any green herb, fresh or dried [dried preferred] will be tasty)

Honey (if vegan just leave out the honey)

Instructions: In a small bowl grate your garlic clove into the butter, add all other seasonings and the optional honey, and mix. Make sure and taste, if you find it under flavored add more of the flavor stuff, if it is overpowering add more butter (this can keep in the fridge if you end up with too much). Then just spread the desired amount on your toasted bread.

(L) Mayonnaise:

Ok listen, it's stinky. But so is almost every cheese. It adds more of a feeling than a flavor, the fattiness can really uplift a lot of sandwiches, especially with tomato. But, if you are opposed to mayo for whatever reason, avocado, cheese, even olive oil, will fill this role. (not sure about vegan mayos but it can't be that hard to nail right? (Moth does not endorse this pro mayo stance)

(L) Vegan/Dairy freeRanch:

I don’t like ranch, but this homemade stuff really justifies it. I used normal mayo but it should work with vegan mayo. This is a very loose recipe, so tweak it to what works for you

½ cup mayonnaise (egg or plant based)

½ a lemons worth of juice

¼ cup oat milk (soy and almond milk don't play nice with savory flavor)

1 tsp garlic powder

Salt and pepper to taste

1 tbsp fine chopped fresh dill (or dried, or any green herb0

Whisk the mayo, milk, and lemon together. Add your herbs, and let it sit in the fridge overnight

This is the most important step, this time allows the garlic powder to rehydrate and the herbs to steep that give the ranch its signature flavor. Ranch is basically garlic powder sauce.

I have not tested this ratio much (ok fine at all), so trust your gut! 

Also fun fact,  juice of 1 lemon + 1 cup of oat milk + time = 1 cup of vegan buttermilk!

MISC:

Deli dressing:

You can buy this bottled in store or make your own at home easily. It will add that deli je ne sais quoi to a sandwich. Works best on a simple sandwich that might otherwise be lacking in flavor.

Ingredients:

Olive oil 

Red wine vinegar (any vinegar should do TBH)

Italian seasoning (again some dried oregano or other similar dried herbs should be fine)

Salt and pepper

OPTIONAL: put some vinegar hot sauce (tapatio, cholula, taco bell packet, etc) in that bad boy.

Instructions: mix it UP. This is another recipe that I usually just measure out by eye and taste

Falafel: I am not very experienced in making falafel so I don’t have a recipe on hand, but they are yummy.

Sprouts: a welcome addition to almost any sandwich, earthy, light and crunchy. They are also really easy to grow in a jar at home.

Pickles: love these funny dudes, they don't play well with sweeter sandwiches though. Use your judgement.

Chips: put em in there, 12 year olds know what they're doing.  

Dutch Crunch: objectively the best sandwich bread. 

Coleslaw: if you dislike coleslaw maybe you’ve only had a mayo based one. The only good coleslaw is vinegar based. Thin sliced cabbage, olive oil, vinegar of choice, honey (or vegan alternative) a spoonful of grainy mustard and salt and pepper. Great on a chik’n based sandwich.

Vegetarian Sandwich Ideas:

I don’t really have anything ground breaking here but here are some of the tastiest sandwiches I’ve made. If for some reason you want to try making one of these you can add or leave off anything you like. Salt and pepper all your sandwiches. And add cheese to any if you eat cheese!

BLAT or BLA:

To start this off, I don’t like tomatoes in sandwiches, I know I’m not correct, but you can add tomatoes if you want.

Ingredients: 

Garlic butter

iceberg lettuce (or any lettuce)

avocado

facon (my fav is morning star farms, a fancier facon such as smoky tempeh bacon is also good but has a completely different flavor and texture)

tomatoes (optional because I do not like them)

(L) TOMATO TIP: salt and pepper your tomatoes and let them sit a moment, also if its not tomato season cherry tomatoes are ur best bet for a decent tomato from the store.

Orange Tofu Sandwich:

A note: feel free to substitute a different sauce or to omit sauce entirely. The pan seared tofu makes a good sandwich filling without any extra sauce.

 Ingredients: pan seared tofu, crispy tofu, or gardein orange chikn nuggets (these come with a packet of orange sauce)

Orange sauce

Iceberg lettuce (other lettuces or even finely chopped cabbage will be good as well)

Avocado

Thin sliced sweet or bell pepper 

(L) Fancy “Ham” on Rye:

Ingredients:

Rye bread The rye bread adds a lovely funky herby note to the entire experience. Its what makes it fancy.

Green Slice applewood smoked(or any You could use tofurkey, but honestly if you find it/afford it green slice has an amazing texture and deep flavor that tofurkey doesn't. This is a simple fancy sandwich, splurging is gonna go a long way here.

Garlic Honey butter

Iceberg Lettuce (again or any other lettuce, or a mix with arugula and spinach)

Optional mayo: (L) i adore mayonnaise on this kind of sandwich, it really lets the other flavors shine. I havent tried it with avocado, my gut says it wouldnt work as good but I’m not a cop put some on there avocado is yummy. 

Optional cheese a sharp cheddar or fancy gruyere. 

Crispy Chik’n Sandwich:

Ingredients:

Morning Star Chik Patty (spicy one if ur spicy)

Facon (strong recommendation for morning star on this one) 

Vinegary vegan coleslaw (or any lettuce iceberg is recommended and easier on the fly)

Dill pickles (pickles+crispy chicken very yummy, we specify it on this one because its almost necessary for a spicy sandwich.)

Condiments of choice (ketchup, BBQ, honey, hot sauce etc)

Deli Style Sandwich:

A really basic sandwich, add whatever other sandwich fixings you like.

Ingredients:

Tofurkey

Sprouts

Iceberg lettuce

Sandwich dressing

Avocado 

Pickle or Cucumber

[ghoste-catte]

18, 8, 4 (for the writing meta!)

18.  Do any of your stories have alternative versions? (plotlines that you abandoned, AUs of your own work, different characterisations?) Tell us about them.

Nothing in my world is ever truly “abandoned”, just set aside to be used somewhere else. So I do have remixes or reduxes or endings I didn’t quite get to for some of my stuff, but the plan is to write it all eventually. A couple of things that are possibly on the horizon for an eventual future: A remix of if nobody moves, nobody will get hurt from Gaara’s POV, an after-the-happily-ever-after epilogue for The Stolen Child, a spinoff of Try Again where Gaara gets Lee to teach him to do other things than just kissing (like dancing!! I mean dancing...), and a side story from (un)controllable about Lee and Gaara’s adventure in Orochimaru’s bunker that was too long to fit the original fic.

8. Is what you like to write the same as what you like to read?

Mostly, yes? I would say I write a lot more goofy humor stuff than I actually enjoy reading, because it’s easy to me to come up with absurd scenarios and dialogue ... but a crackfic isn’t usually my first choice if I’m looking for something to read. I like really plot-heavy stories, but I don’t have the technical chops to write them myself. I sometimes like a slow burn (if I don’t run out of patience before the end), but I definitely don’t have the attention span to write something longer than about 50k. 

4. Share a sentence or paragraph from your writing that you’re really proud of (explain why, if you like)

Ugh, this question is always really hard for me!! I never write something down and go, “Yeah, this fucks, and I’m gonna remember that I wrote it!” Like, once the words are on the page they’re out of my head. But, here’s a little snippet from the first chapter of a distraction that escalates that I was pretty satisfied with. I felt like the imagery worked and the pacing hit the beats I wanted it to hit:

“Lee?” His voice is choked. Lee’s vision is blacking at the edges, phosphenes dancing white as snow across the center of his sight, which is filled with only Gaara. His red hair frizzing around his head like a halo, dried by the gate’s heat. His wide, worried eyes.

The question seems to take forever to crawl its way from Lee’s lungs to his lips. Nearly long enough for him to have second thoughts.

If the answer is no, Lee won’t be around long to feel the sting of that rejection. And if the answer is yes … It would be the best possible final memory. The best possible final dream.

Lee can’t be sure he isn’t dreaming right this second.

“... will you kiss me?”

The response doesn’t come in words. A fracture works its way across Gaara’s face. Then two, then three. The sand armor crackles and shuffs as it falls to the ground.

Lee tries so, so hard to focus, even as his field of vision narrows. He’s seeing Gaara’s bare skin for the first time. The marks around his eyes are more than jinchuuriki scarring, more than matte black rings; they’re bruise-dark, mottled grey and blue and purple, and freckled with burst blood vessels. He leans closer, and his eyes aren’t clear green either, but rather patterned, scaled like a Luna moth’s wings and just as captivating. His lips are just the faintest shade darker than the rest of his pale skin, the color of eroded sandstone. He’s so close that Lee can see the pores of his skin, the faint blondish hairs of his sparse eyebrows, the raised edges of the scarlet mark on his forehead.

Oh, even if he says ‘no’ right now, this will be the perfect last memory.

Lee’s heart aches like he might as well have opened the eighth gate after all.

The very last thing Lee remembers is a soft, soft palm cupping his cheek, the press of cool lips to his.

A hiss of pain.

Then darkness.

Fun Meta Asks for Writers!

[terrvrs]

so march can bloom

DATE:  16.02.2020 MUSE:  MARCH HARE WITH:  AKIO ‘NIBS’  IZUMI ( @omuse​​  )

                                  (  tw:  kidnapping  ,  blood  ,  injury  ,  torture   )

the clock ticks, the clock tocks-- the pocket watch in his slacks tapping away the passage of time, rhythmic and dependable. 'he'll be back,' march thinks. he sits on the bench until the ice of the lemonade melts, sunflower yellow diluting to primrose, condensation pooling around the paper cup. he waits until the sun sets and the lamps are lit, flickering fires and shadows, one side of his face illuminated.

wrong, wrong, wrong.

something is wrong.

perhaps he'd overstepped with the kiss. he's aware that nibs hasn't been touched in the way march's appetite leans-- wet mouths and skin, slick fingers and teeth. perhaps he'd moved too quickly. the drink is now lukewarm, and march stands and abandons it.

he knows where to look.

---

"isn't nibs with you?" it's an accusation. rufio blocks the door to his bedroom, shoulder to the wooden frame as he waits for an answer. march is taller. rufio's forced to look up. but the way this lost boy watches and weighs him makes march feel insignificant-- a moth pinned to a spreading board, wings open for scrutiny.

"he was."

"was?"

he's not certain if rufio is angry. nibs' friend always has a pinched look to him, knotted in his brows and the corners of his mouth. it's better suited for men twice rufio's age, but march listens to nibs when he speaks so he's aware of rufio's burdens. that to protect his family this boy shoulders them, heavy and hoarded, refusing to share. so march nods, understanding him. he too has a brother and burdens. "was. if he's not here i'll check at his father's." he turns to leave but rufio catches the sleeve of his jacket. march has cut fingers off for less.

"will you--" the boy stops. so march finishes for him. "when i find him i'll let you know."

when. not if.

when, when, when.

--

nibs is not at julian's. march doesn't enter. simply watches from windows and peers through doors. the royal family bustles unconcerned through dinner-- roast pig and rose water, the stain of wine on lips and 4 pieces by ludovico einaudi on the piano. march stops to drink water, before his feet take him to his old room. the doorknob sticks and the air is stale when he steps inside. he’s at his apartment more often now, where the sun is warmer and nibs’ art is on the walls.

march stops.

there, on his bed, are pages of a calendar. january ripped to four pieces, february to two, and march stainless and whole. he doesn't breath, gaze flickering to dark corners but his guest is gone.

january was bled dry. february was poisoned. all so march can bloom.

he picks up the page of the calendar with his namesake. underneath is a set of pictures, and march clicks on the lamp to better see, flooding the room in yellow light.

nibs--

blood in the grit of teeth, bruises mottled over a swollen eye. there are cruel hands in the boy's hair and the arch of nibs' neck is strained, sinew tense and throat bared. there is a ring on the hand holding his love that march recognizes. he has one to match on his right ring finger. silver, a ruby heart in the grip of emerald thorns. there are only twelve made-- january through december. but only march is left, and the new april is still training and has yet to earn it.

march's hands shake as he pockets the pictures.

he knows where to go.

--

he travels to witzend, and turns north to reach the shore of the crimson sea. there, hunched on a cliff is an old lighthouse with white brick and red roses strangling the stone, thick vines wrapped around as high as the gallery. when march approaches the lantern pane is lit.

"you found me." sing song voice chiming from a distance, carried by the sea breeze from the cliff where a man stands, waiting. march approaches and stops, within reach of the figure and answers, "i did." he turns his head. february's profile is the same-- sharp nose curved at the tip, thin lips curled at the corners, but when the viper shifter angles his body to face him march notes that one of february's black eyes is coated milky white. blind.

march doesn't flinch when february steps in, and has to tip his chin up to hold february’s eye. he'd always been the shortest of the three boys his master raised on knives. the air by the ocean is chilled, and march's words ghost out with mist. "nobody else played those games with me."

"and you always had a knack of figuring them out. clever, clever march."

march knows not to ask where nibs is, just as he'd known to come alone. january, february and himself had no secrets. he thinks, perhaps, that's why january died. because his friend had known that if he'd abandoned the mission to survive? march would have killed him anyway. perhaps it's why february survived. because the wounded viper had known that their master’s wants came first, and march would leave him behind. never a secret between them. so march doesn't smile, and doesn't move when february kisses him with a hand around his throat.

march’s lips move as he speaks over the kiss. "you always did love your clues, rue."

"i do, i do. not as much as i love you."

february draws back and leads, march follows. they creep up the winding steps, heels echoing until they reach the watchroom door where march's nose twitches at the smell of blood.

nibs--

february opens the door. "we've both done terrible things. haven't we, march? i've been telling your boy all about it."

march doesn't dare breath, move, biting his lip to avoid making a sound. there is an axe dangling over nibs' head that he knows is dipped in poison, and the rabbit is broken, bleeding, broken and march's heart cracks even as his resolve grows forceful. he did this. foolish, march hare. thinking he could love a beautiful boy and indulge in that pleasant, plain happiness he’d always coveted.

he knows what february needs from him to allow nibs to live.

march takes a knee, then two and bares his throat looking up. "i'm sorry." he doesn't want nibs to see. "look away."

february partially shifts-- fangs curling past his lips and eyes slit. "we left january alone." he kneels next to march, and digs his fingers over the hare’s pulse point. if the viper bites there march will have minutes before the skin turns black, and less than that before it reaches his brain, his heart. "i think we should all die properly together this time, don't you think?"

the dream nibs had given him is ending. but march keeps his eyes open.

[perogipoj]

all this before coffee

Dedicated to my black sheep family, who will always be golden.

 Barbed wire, blank walls and an empty sky. Cocoa Beach.  Brevard County, FL. Jail.  Also known as SHARPS.  Tammy walked into the classroom with an air of bravado coupled with the eyes of a child. I never met a teacher before she said shyly, glancing at her handcuffs on the uncomfortable chair.  Even … I hesitated, even in school, I asked gently. I adjusted my own hips to adjust for the cold hard beneath me.  I mean, a teacher for real.  Her eyes looked down, and I implored with my eyes this time to the corrections officer to remove the handcuffs.  Her shoulder length hair was marred by black roots and mustard colored ends.  There were scars on her arm from cutting.  Her teeth were perfect when she decided to smile. Opening the GRE materials, I joked that I am useless at math but fairly good at grammar.  Tammy looked beautiful.

 Some of us take many things too far.  That has seemed to be my pattern.  Even healthy habits turned into obsessions.  Jogging turned into running which became marathons and a cruel treatment of my body.  Some can run into their seventies without injury as some people live to a hundred while smoking and drinking whiskey to the end.  Mindful eating became anorexia and bulimia.  Going organic made me broke with the kombucha and hemp that flowed through my veins.  Being tidy led me to compulsive house cleaning, often with bleach scouring my hands and my eyes colored in pink tears.  Personal grooming turned to hours and dollars of hair coloring, clothes I could not afford, Botox, and breast augmentation. Wanting affirmation led to dangerous and toxic sexual situations.  

 Jaylen, I was warned, was “special.”  I would normally groan inward, used to so many parents highlighting their children as such, usually to explain poor grades.   The volunteer walked all twelve years of Jaylen, his mannerisms large and chaotic, into the room in which all toys and colors were removed.  I hate reading, he said, standing with his arms crossed in front of him like a knight.  Why? It’s stupid.  Can you read, I asked, opening the second-grade reader I was given. I don’t need to read, I can dance.

 I met The Peruvian on a last minute, pathetic online date.  I was at a job expo to acquire my first teaching job after finishing my master’s degree at a world-famous university.  I almost flunked out.  I could not focus.  I cried over social histories in German, a language I lacked grammatical skill in, dreading the meetings with just my professor and another grad student. Black tea, discussions of Marx I got lost in, his approval nodding at the stout Russian girl I already had difficulty understanding in English, never mind in German.  In college, I was stellar.  On time to each class, writing papers late into the night with a gusto of my fingers and a smile on my face.  The world looked bright. On a sweltering day with an incompressible and unimportant commencement speaker, we burnt in the sun and passed around a flask of vodka under our graduation gowns.  Life is beginning.  I held the parchment color graduation schedule. My name had a star next to it.

 I saw that Tammy was no longer shackled when she entered the gray room.  Since the week I met with her, she had elevated herself to the trusted inmates who could clean, deliver meals, and hand out the dog-eared pages of books on a squeaky cart.  So, you scored extremely high on many levels, Tammy.  Let’s take a look at the reading comprehension packet I assigned on The Scarlet Letter.  She smiled more brightly.  I pressed her for intrigue. Ma’am, she said glowing, my commissary is so lit now I don’t have to eat the garbage they give us.  They try to pass off expired food when I deliver it.  I wanted to call them out on those pistachios.  I don’t have time to answer these packets you give me. But I read the book.  What did you read, according to you?  We clasped hands.  Of course, the minster got off and Hester had to wear the giant A over her pilgrim costume.  I dipped my head. Of course.  She could read Hawthorne.  

 I will be the gladdest thing

           Under the sun!

I will touch a hundred flowers

           And not pick one.

 I will look at cliffs and clouds

           With quiet eyes,

Watch the wind bow down the grass,

           And the grass rise.

 And when the lights begin to show

           Up from the town,

I will mark which much be mine,

           And then start down.

-          Edna St. Vincent Millay  

 Jaylen came running into the room from the play center and basketball court which I assumed was a courtesy to me.  He needed to get the wiggles out.

 Nassau Point in the summer at Aunt Tillie’s, driving the Long Island Expressway until it ended to countless grey and white mottled roads.  Passing vineyards that used to be potato fields, cramming my mouth with the last bit of contraband Doritos which were called a Special Treat to nullify us on the vast expanse from New Jersey to the tiny white house.  Decorated in “Early American” with a front glass porch smelling oddly pleasant of moth balls and sunlight.  The huge lawn rolling into the bay with a dock that appeared and disappeared with the tide.  Kids took showers in the dank basement, carved out of a space teeming of a hoarder. A crusted bottle of prell shampoo and a withered sliver of ivory soap.  I met Man-Boy With Very Hairy Legs for the first and last time.  Stroking my legs up and down, he asked if I had a boyfriend.  I was ten, and smug that I could run through poison ivy and never get a rash.  Do you want to fool around, like do stuff?  He whispered into my ear everything I did not know yet.  That’s what married people do!  With his laughter, I leapt my long legs and ran, up the hill, to the driveway where my father was shucking corn.  I got away. This time.

 I was so excited to see Tammy.  But she was not in attendance.  I left the CO the beat-up copy of Antigone for her. I never saw Tammy again.  “All men make mistakes, but a good man yields when his course is wrong and repairs the evil.  The only evil is pride.” This quote was for my betterment, not for Tammy’s.

 A time of reckoning, and a time of complete growth.  A time of a schedule not placed by us.  A journey into us through the connection of others, who became best friends.  Vitamin fusions, lining up for medication in ribbed short paper cups, and Group.  Totally released from responsibility, my linens and clothes were washed, returned the same afternoon in compact squares surrounded by plastic wrap.  Jokes of communal constipation. So, this is my brain mapped.  Here is what displays depression, here anxiety, this is insomnia, that part shows a lack of memory and concentration.  What is that big blue of the Pacific Ocean?  She looked at me, clicked her keyboard.  PTSD.  

 I want to draw a Parrot! P-A-R-R-O-T and speak like one! Wordless, I handed him the blue and black expo markers for the old white board.  With precision, he drew the bird.  I need more colors, he explained in one breath can I talk like a parrot.  I smiled at him at led him to his desk. Let’s try to pay attention today, and I will get you more colors and you can show me how a parrot talks. I began my lesson, and his eyes drifted into imagination.  I needed to get him more colors.  

 I told The Peruvian I was pregnant.  Now I can never afford to divorce you he muttered, enraged.  Married two months earlier, I realized our honeymoon baby was not welcome.   The protesters were angry, and I felt sick. Him on his laptop, me crying to a social worker.  Do not sedate me, I plead, I need to feel this sin.  Sliding my shoes off in the car, my trunk grinding with mountain rolls of cramps and uncontrollable sobbing coming from a divine place, I declined lunch in West Palm.  I never want to do anything fun.  Changing my pad alone in a car beneath the ceiling of the parking garage in City Place, I then tilted my head and fell asleep again.  My birthday came and went.  You didn’t remember my birthday.  With that evil glint in his eyes, he turned his head and told me that was because he did not love me.

 I purchased a ream of paper and a new box of 42 colors Crayola, legit, sharpener in the box, for Jaylen.  He immediately sat down and drew and drew.  Can we put some words to these if we use the colors you want?  He looked up at me shyly and wrote down five words from the fifth-grade reader.  How did you know that?  Easy, my Grammy teaches me.

 I did not smoke to fit in. I smoked because it felt good out in the parking lot, vying for shade, with the Tech supplying communal cigarettes and a light.  The wave went through me and my lips burned with the dirt and smoky taste.  You look like Strawberry Shortcake trying to smoke a cigarette!  My mother was a sophisticated Virginia Slims smoker, sitting on the brick steps in her tennis skirt, so beautiful, watching my brother play in the backyard waiting for my father to return from work.  I sat next to her in awe, breathing in the sprinkler water and counting its pattern, hum hum-hum-hum, hum hum-hum-hum.  

 I took a cigarette break on my Uber ride home.  I knew I would not smoke much when I got home.   However, I did not consume much except cigarettes and black coffee.  I felt Parisian.  The house got messy, and my thighs grew softer. Investing only in ponds cold cream and drugstore mascara, I laughed deeper and threw myself into work more than ever, with determined concentration, forgetting my posture, hunched over in zeal working sixty hours a week.   Anxiety attacks did not make my head and hands shake while driving. I binged watched Law and Order.  Being unhealthy never felt so healthy.  

 I called the jail to let them know I am available for other inmates if they needed me.  I went the next day to help a young man learn English as a second language. All went well until he stood up screaming asking for a guard then switching to Spanish.  

 Here is your key, you can find your mailbox in the teacher lounge.  Here is the form to join the union, Mr. Pescatelli will most certainly find you about that.  Do you know what a block schedule is?  In the morning you will be teaching Advanced Placement European History to our magnet students.  After lunch, you have sophomore World History in the fourth wing. The afternoon will have different challenges.  If you ever need assistance, security is just down the hall.  Welcome to Ft. Lauderdale High School.  Welcome to my first year of teaching.  

 …

 I met the Sophisticated Scandinavian Man in Boston in the Spring.  A PhD candidate from a social democracy intrigued me.  I was twenty-two and he was twenty-eight.  I felt like a puppy taken in from the cold.  There is a long story for this, maybe later.  The times in which he devoured me, lavished upon me, he loved a short story I wrote, “All this before coffee.”

 Sonya met me in the prison classroom.  In anticipation of a new student, I posted Jaylen’s parrots, travel posters, pictures of presidents listing their failures before they took office.  Hello, she said, reaching her cuffed wrists out to me.  I am Jaylen’s mother.

 All this before coffee.  All this after a DUI.

[sciencealert]

This poisonous beauty is a very fancy moth baby. 😍 As an adult it looks like a typical fuzzy brown moth, but the colours in Mottled Cup caterpillars (Doratifera vulnerans) serve as a warning about its venomous spines. These spines are retractable and will break off into the skin of any who dare touch it, delivering a dose of itchy and painful histamines that can last for days. 📸 : David Paul/Museum Victoria via @parksvic http://bit.ly/2SbtuiB

[rosieillustrates]

A Beautiful View and Great Plumbing    The sun hid behind the clouds and the breeze was non-existent. Their boat bobbed up and down and the relator sat at the head of their little boat, navigating as she rowed. ‘This is the last out of the way property I have I’m afraid, seeing as you didn’t much like the cabin on the third asteroid and the mansion in Chernobyl. Though, I do think this is a real winner,’ she said sounding a little non-committal and mustered up a grin. The newly married Mr. and Mrs. Turner had been her hardest clients so far. They wanted to be far out of the way of anything and anyone, how they intended to do their grocery shopping the relator hadn’t the foggiest. Still, she was dead set on finding a place for the couple, if she managed this she may well make partner.     Mr. Turner rowed well, while Mrs. Turner had given up rowing long ago and was now reading a book. Mrs. Turner had a very specific look in mind, a look that may well not exist. Mr. Turner had pleaded with her to see reason, he thought the asteroid cabin had been splendid, though he did agree the health risks in Chernobyl were a bit much.     The relator blabbered on about a beautiful view and a great plumbing system. After what seemed like forever to poor Mr. Turners arms, and several chapters of Mrs. Turner's book, the tower came into view. It perched on rocks, looking haggard from the beatings the sea gave it. Seagulls had made several nests in its crevices, and the side of the tower had seaweed growing up it.     Mrs. Turner dropper her book into the water, her mouth agape looking at the old battered building. She quickly came to her senses, fished her book from the water, and stood making the boat rock horrendously and splashing water into their little wooden boat. They soon arrived, and the relator lead them up uneven steps to the peeling and rotten wooden door. It creaked open after a hard push from Mr. Turner. The bottom floor was the kitchen, grubby black and white tiles made up the floor, and the counters were made of rough stone covered in dust. A circular bent metal table sat to one side, holding a large candle the relator had lit.     They followed the relator up the spiraling stairs to the second floor, her torch leading the way. The second floor was all crumbling wooden floors, a moth-eaten sofa, a grand fireplace, and a dingy little bathroom that smelt of fish. Up and up they went, Mrs. Turner, trying her best but failing to stop herself grinning. Finally, she thought, this is what I’ve been looking for. They reached the attic, which once had been a study, now homed long-abandoned seagull nests and part of the roof had let in the rain, leading to water damage. Mrs. Turner reached for her husband's hand as she looked out of the broken window, watching as the sun came out from behind the clouds and filling the room with a dusty light.      ‘I love it!’ She grinned at her husband, squeezing his hand.     He rested his head against hers and they looked down at the quiet sea, ‘It’s perfect,’ he whispered back.      Mrs. Turner turned to the relator, who was leaning against the mottled desk, crossing her fingers at her side. ‘We’ll take it!’    Weeks passed, and Mr. and Mrs. Turner came and went from the old tower, bringing furniture and paint and truly making it their own. It was finally done, all that was left was to paint the outside. They had decided blue for the brick, and purple for the roof. They stood in the paint shop near the harbour trying to decide which shade to choose until it came about that they couldn’t decide on the shade of purple for the roof. It was an awful affair, they rowed, they fought, it even came to blows, though neither was injured. Mr. Turner was so sick of it that eventually, they split, and he began building his own house on the adjacent rocks. He slept in the spare room and avoided Mrs. Turner at all costs. For years neither of them said a word to each other. Whenever friends visited they would have to visit the pair separately and do it sneakily so as not to upset the other.     One evening Mr. Turner was on his way back home after a night out with old friends when the weather changed for the worse. He was in sight of the old place but he couldn’t control the boat. The waves jostled him and the rain started pouring down hard. He shoveled water out of the boat but it seemed as he did the same amount came back in if not more. He was hopeless, so hopeless that he began to cry out for help. Tears ran down his whiskery cheeks, and his shouts interrupted Mrs. Turners dreams. She woke and stumbled to the window, wondering what the idiot could have done with himself now. She mostly tried to pretend he didn’t exist.      She looked out at the crashing waves, and spotted a little boat not too far off, and realised that it was her ex-husband, though they had never actually divorced for that would mean speaking to one another. She wondered what to do, after all, they hadn’t spoken in years, should she continue ignoring him? But how could she? His screams were far too loud to fall back to sleep with, and if he died she would never forgive herself. She ran out to the rocks, her boat tied up at the edge. She called his name as she untied it and retied it with the longest rope they had.     She paddled out shouting for him, and soon he spotted her. For a fleeting moment, he thought to ignore her, but then looked her in the eye. She threw the shorter rope to him and he desperately paddled towards it, grasping it, the pair reeling him in. He spluttered as he jumped aboard, gasping for air as the water invaded his lungs. She paddled them back to the shore, trying to go back to ignoring him and failing. She could smell the aftershave on his skin under the stench of the sea, something that had once been quite a comfort to her.     He made to go back to his house propped up by stilts that were a danger to climb. She reached out and grabbed him, looking at her feet. ‘You may stay in the spare room, just for tonight, to ensure you are well.’ With that, she stole away, running to her room, and jumping under her covers, her heart beating fast and her bedsheets absorbing the seawater that drenched her clothes, skin, and hair.     After that night they began to acknowledge one another in passing, which turned into the odd word here and there. Their relationship slowly built up again, and eventually, Mrs. Turner woke up one morning to find a bridge leading to his house. She made two cups of tea and went to knock on the door, and that morning they shared breakfast. Weeks went on, and years, and though they each had their own home, they often shared a bed. Mrs. Turner grew and found she was pregnant, and the two homes became one. 

[jazzraft]

Prompt time! NyxNoct - small sips of a hot drink

I am going to make it through my inbox. From the bottom up. If it kills me. And it just might. But! I’m cool with it, I’ll die feeling accomplished. Starting with this one! I know this was supposed to be kinda October, seasonal fluff, but it ended up more on the side of feelsy, canony fluff!

“Is this awful? Or have I just forgotten how bad coffeetastes?”

“Oh, no, you’re right. It’s awful. I can try and findsomething else…”

“No! It’s fine… I kind of like it.”

To prove it, Noctis lifted the big, chipped cup to his lips,sipping the bitter drink as if he were savoring a fine, Accordon wine. Nyxsmiled, a sensation just about as forgotten to him as Noct’s taste for coffee –awful or otherwise. The Prince… the Kingnow – though Nyx didn’t believe for a second that he’d ever remember to think ofNoctis with such a lofty title – sunk beneath the tattered, yellow sheets.Moth-bitten and mottled with stains the color of scrubbed-out, old blood – cometo think of it, it might have been just that – it wasn’t a bed fit for a king.

But then, neither was his kingdom fit for his return.

Nyx had wanted to fix it for him. For the past ten years, hethought that he could. Every daemon slain, every mission returned to Lestallum withouta hunter’s life lost, every generator repaired to bring new light to Lucis; hethought he could give Noctis back the home he remembered. The world he’d so ardently,desperately loved.

But that wasn’t Nyx’s destiny. As the scars on his armserved to remind him. As the sole cup of awful, unsweetened coffee, come to alukewarm boil over a gaslight grill he could never get hot enough, remindedhim. His destiny was to wait in the darkness he’d denied the Lucii by survivingtheir judgment. His destiny was to suffer the torment of failing to save Noctisfrom his.

“Nyx? Are you ever coming back?”

He’d asked Noct’s shade, in the mire of his darker dreams,that very same question. As the long dark drew ever on, he’d begged, on hisknees, hands cut open on shattered shards of the Crystal, for his phantom tocome home. Are you ever coming back? Am Igoing to die without ever seeing you again? Are you?

Even in the afterglow of absolving all that time forcedbetween them; even after the patient fierceness of their love-making, theravening madness of coming together after so long untouched; even afterpressing into the strangeness of new muscle and tasting the old, native skinthat still warmed beneath his fingertips like a guttering lantern seekingsanctuary from a storm…

Nyx was so afraid that none of it was real; that theintensity of his anguish had prescribed him such an authentic hallucination forsatiating his loneliness, he could lose his mind in this lie of his own making.

But there were all these little evidences to the vision inhis bed which attested to Noct’s place in reality. All of the differences tohis body which didn’t fit the frayed memory in Nyx’s mind, clutched so closelyto his chest, held so tightly in his hands that his fingerprints crinkled thelines, the heat of his anxious heartbeat blurring the colors together wheneverhe thought of him.

He would only ever be able to see Noctis as he always had:younger than his age, anxiously fumbling on the razor’s edge between hischildhood and his ascension; terrified of himself and desperate for the wholeworld, with all its promises of freedom and discovery and everything the Crowncouldn’t offer him. He wouldn’t have been able to imagine Noctis like this:older than his own soul, resolute, steady as he stepped over that edge and keptstriding forward; unafraid of a secret Nyx knew he was keeping – one he had thefeeling should be feared.

He was powerful and he was tired of it, long before he everhad to put that power to use. He was different. The stillness in his eyes was astranger to Nyx. The things he didn’t say were, too. But in just as many ways,he was still the same man. Still tentative about his own allure, still eyeingNyx from behind the veil of his hair as if he were unsure, afraid that he’ddone something to repel Nyx from coming back to bed.

“You don’t have to drink it,” Nyx said, lightly, knowing heonly kept the coffee as a shield for his immortal anxieties. And that was sovery Noctis.

“Might help get it down if you shared it with me.”

Noctis shyly extended the cup towards Nyx, beckoning himcloser with his familiar caution, his need to know that he’d pleased him, thathe was good enough for Nyx to want to stay.

The old bunk wheezed as Nyx sat back down, magnetized toNoctis’s side, just as enthralled and attached to him as the first day he knewhe was in love with him. This nearness was just as terrifying as that distance;the strangeness of it, the newness of needing another person so urgently thatthe separateness was almost nauseating. He was afraid, and he was so very muchin love with it, in love with Noctis. So in love that he’d happily choke downthe awful coffee in his name.

“Wouldn’t want to chase you back to your crystal with myterrible coffee,” he teased, taking pity on him by taking the cup to his ownlips. Yeah, it was still pretty bad.

Noctis smiled, slow and soft as a feather falling through awindless sky. Nyx ached for him as if he were a million miles and ten years toofar away from him again. As if he were at the other end of that hall in theCitadel, when he could have been standing next to him instead. As if he were onthe other side of the bridge, lost in the wild plains of Lucis, when Nyx shouldhave been at his side.

They were barely inches apart now. And still, Nyx ached.

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t give you more.”

Guilt has been his favored companion through the darknessfor a great deal of those ten years past. Guilt that he had never done enough –not for Galahd, not for Insomnia, not for all of Eos, in the end. Guilt that hekept going, kept living through so many failures, while others did not.

Maybe a better hero could have saved Noctis from theCrystal. Maybe a better hero could have kept his king from being cut down. Maybea better hero could have protected his home when the monsters came roaringthrough the night.

But he wasn’t that hero. All he had to show for his servicewas a dingy, drafty caravan, creaking with the shifts of darkness and crawlingwith his nightmares. Stained sheets and warped counters and flat, stitchedpillows; a water-logged roof and cigarette burns, proof of old habits fallingoff the wagon and losing a wheel so he couldn’t get back on; cold, canned beansand crap coffee.

He sipped it again, swallowing the bitter bile. Noctis tookthe cup from his hands when he was done, and sipped it too.

“This is all I wanted,” he said, voice weighted withsincerity.

“You always did have strange tastes,” Nyx laughed, hoarsely.

Noctis looked around the cramped caravan, sippingthoughtfully at his coffee. “I don’t mind it. It reminds me of your place…Home.”

His crappy little apartment, with his crappy taste in home décor– meaning nonexistent. His threadbare blankets and peeling walls andsplit-at-the-seams armchair. His microwave meals and dusty jars of homemadesauce he sometimes remembered to make for himself on Sundays. He had bettercoffee, though. At home. Home that had never felt like home until Noctis madeit his.

Looking at him now, letting the edges of his narrow littleworld fade away, he could almost believe that they were back there. The ruinedlocks of Noct’s hair twisted in the ghosts of Nyx’s fists, the spectral pinkblooms fading across his skin like lilies closing to nighttime, the sleepy tugof a smile on his lips, unguarded in the safety of Nyx’s bed, loud with rustedsprings and papery sheets though it was. Coffee in his hands. Long, whitefingers threaded like a warm scarf around the neck of the mug, looped throughthe handle, pressed to the ceramic in search of heat when the flavor didn’totherwise satisfy him.

Noctis kept drinking the coffee, and Nyx bent down to kisshim as he was coming up from another pungent taste. It was different when itwas on Noct’s tongue. Different, and wholly the same as Nyx remembered.

Like a little taste of home.

[gatto19]

Mottled cup moth caterpillar venom could be used to make medicine, Queensland University finds | KidsNews

https://www.kidsnews.com.au/animals/caterpillar-venom-could-be-used-to-make-medicine/news-story/0104e20ce90737d3a3710fea0f89023b

[theredheadinquestion]

The Visitor

For dear @mottlemoth.  This popped in my head at the beginning of an 11-hour work day, and it had to sit there until I got home.  Now it’s yours.

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

Langdale Pines

As the sun made its appearance on the horizon, Mycroft nestled in Greg’s arms and frowned ever so slightly.

“What’s wrong?” Greg pulled his head back to look at Mycroft’s face.

“I find that I’m loathe to leave this bed.”  To illustrate his point, he burrowed even deeper and nuzzled against Greg’s neck.

“Then don’t.”

Mycroft sighed. “The spirit is willing, but the flesh…”

Greg caught on.  “Ah.”  

“Ah.” Mycroft agreed.

“Myc, go pee. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Mycroft lifted his head. “Promise?”

Greg chuckled. “You think I’m gonna go anywhere when you’re naked? Not bloody likely.”  He lifted the comforter. “Go. Take care of business. I’ll keep your spot warm.”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow in amusement as he pulled himself out of the bed and strolled into the en suite. Well, as much as one is capable of strolling while stark naked.

Greg rolled onto his back and folded his arms behind his head.  Last night was perfect, and it was shaping up to be a perfect….

“Oh hello.” Greg said to the insect on the wall. A butterfly. Or was it a moth? He thought back to his school days.  No, it was definitely a moth.

“What are you doing in here?”  Despite his promise to Mycroft, Greg climbed out of bed for a closer look. The moth was several inches long, with large mottled wings.

“Wow, you’re a beauty, aren’t you?”  

The moth didn’t answer and clung to the wall.

“Let’s get you back outside.”  Greg found a large cup and carefully scooped up the moth. He held the room service menu over the cup, and walked onto the balcony.  He lifted the menu and the moth fluttered out of the cup and into the dewy morning.

“Bye, little friend.” Greg said as he heard the toilet flush. He climbed back into bed and waited for Myc’s return to their little slice of paradise.

  That evening, after another hike in the forest, followed by a soak in the tub and a decadent meal, Mycroft and Greg had each other for dessert. Their shirts were too far out of reach, so after Mycroft’s spectacular finish, Greg jumped up to grab something for clean up. On his way to the loo, something caught his eye. It was a moth. The same one as before—Greg was sure of it. It was on the wall of their loft bedroom again, but this time higher on the wall, just out of reach.

“Well then, I guess you really wanted to be inside, didn’t you?”  Greg said with a chuckle.  “You might want to look away in a while…I have a feeling round two isn’t that far away. Unless, you know, you’re a pervy moth and enjoy that sort of thing.”  He laughed at his own joke and wet a clean flannel in the sink.  “Imagine that.  A pervy moth.”

   ------------------------

23rd Century London

Greg rolled over in Mycroft’s bed. Slowly, the sensation of empty space dragged him from sleep and into awareness. He felt around. No, Myc definitely wasn’t in the bed. They’d fucked each other into oblivion mere hours ago, and Mycroft had barely cleaned them up before he passed out from exhaustion.

“Anthea.” Greg said groggily. “Where’s Mycroft?”

“Doctor Holmes is in his study.” The steady, reassuring voice told him.

The study?  What the hell?  Surely those case notes could have waited until morning. Or, was he enjoying an early morning snack?  Mycroft was still a little shy about sharing his…er…drinking habits with Greg, so maybe he took it there.

“Berk.”  Greg climbed out of bed and threw on some pyjama bottoms. As he made his way towards the door, something caught his eye.  He stepped closer.  It was a moth. On the bedroom wall. A beautiful moth, several inches long, with beautiful mottled wings.

“Hello there.” Greg said. “Boy, you’re in the wrong place.” He was half-surprised Anthea hadn’t shot lasers at it.  He went into the loo and grabbed a water cup.  He scooped up the Moth, then went to the large window. He couldn’t figure out the locks and eventually had to ask Anthea for help.  He released the beautiful moth into the night sky and watched it flutter away.  

 The next morning, Greg woke with a gentle hand caressing his cock.

“G’morning.” He said drowsily.

“Hello there.” Mycroft whispered into his ear.  “Shall I stop?”

“Are you crazy?” Greg murmured. He angled his hips and pushed his cock through Mycroft’s hand.

 An hour later, Mycroft got up to start the shower.  Greg took a long, luxurious stretch and bounded out of bed.  On way to join Myc he spied something on the wall, this time far out of his reach.

“You’re back?” Greg said in disbelief. “But I set you free. Outside.”  He looked at the window, perfectly locked and sealed.  “How on earth did you manage that?”  

He shook his head. “Wow, our fucking must be quite the show if you made it all the way back.”  He chuckled and walked into the en suite.

“Did someone call?” Mycroft asked as they embraced under the hot spray. “I thought I heard your voice.”

“Ah, just talking to our new friend.”

Mycroft frowned. “Friend?”

“Looks like we’ve got a pet moth. I took her outside last night, but she’s back.  Don’t know how she did it. Must be magic or something.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said thoughtfully. “Something.”

The moment their shower was completed and they were dry, Mycroft excused himself to his study as Greg got dressed for work. He sat at his desk, opened the top right desk drawer, and emptied it. He  pushed a hidden button, and a little compartment popped open. He reached inside and removed a cheap burner phone.  He rang the only number programmed into it.

It was answered after the third ring.

“Doctor Holmes.”

“Doctor Holmes, it’s 23rd Century Holmes.”

“Mycroft. What’s wrong?”

“She seems to have escaped her bonds again. Gregory found her on the wall last night…er…watching us.”

Dr. Holmes sighed heavily. “Yes, and I just finished reviewing her credit card statements.  It appears she’s bought herself a guide to writing psychological trauma.”

“Good God!” Mycroft said.

“Yes.” Doctor Holmes replied. “Looks like we’re all in for a bumpy ride.”

[afairymind]

Meet, Meadowsweet.

Meadowsweet is a perennial herb of the rose family that is native throughout most of Europe and Western Asia. It has been introduced and naturalised in North America. You can find it flowering from June to September in wet habitats, such as ditches, damp woodlands and meadows, along river banks, and beside ponds.

It has deeply veined leaflets held on arching stems that are topped with fluffy sprays of creamy-white, five-petaled flowers, each with over twenty protruding stamens. These flowers have a very strong, sweet scent. The flower sprays can be up to 25cm in width.

It plays an important role in ecosystems. The larvae of several moth species, including Emperor, Brown Spot Pinion, Grey pug, Hebrew Character, Lime-speck Pug, Mottled Beauty, Lesser Cream Wave, and Satellite, use it as a food plant. The flowers also attract a wide variety of other insects, including pollinators such as bee, butterfly and hoverfly, whilst the seeds provide food for birds. 

This delicate, sweetly scented flower has many names. Its Latin name is Filipendula ulmaria. The genus name, Filipendula, is an amalgamation of ‘filum’ meaning thread, and ‘pendulus’, meaning drooping – which is thought to refer to the root tubers which hang together by threads. It’s species name, ulmaria, comes from the Latin word ‘ulmus’, meaning elm. This is due to the shape of the plant’s leaves. 

Chaucer, in ‘The Knight’s Tale’, called it Meadwort, or Medwort, and named it as one of the fifty ingredients included in the drink, ‘save’. It has the name Bridewort because it was both strewn in churches for festivals and weddings, and was also used for bridal garlands. Names such as Queen of the Meadow, Pride of the Meadow, Lady of the Meadow and Meadow Queen were given to it because of the way in which it can dominate a damp low-lying meadow. It is also known as Meadow-wort, Bittersweet, Dollof, and Meadsweet. It’s Gaelic names include Ius Cuchulainn, and Rios Cuchulainn, as Irish legend tells of how the legendary warrior, Cuchulainn was treated with Meadowsweet baths in order to cure his uncontrollable rage and fevers.

There is other folklore connected with Meadowsweet, as well. In Welsh mythology, the magicians Math and Gwydion created a beautiful maiden out of the flowers of Meadowsweet, Broom, and Oak. She was made for one purpose only – to be a wife to the hero, Lleu Llaw Gyffes, who had been placed under a tynged by his mother, Arianrhod, that he would never have a human wife. She was named Blodeuwedd, meaning ‘flower-faced’. The story goes that Blodeuwedd took a lover, Gronw Pedr, and together they conspired, unsuccessfully, to murder her husband. As punishment, Blodeuwedd was transformed into an owl, to be forever shunned by the denizens of the daylight hours.

And Gwydion said to Math, when it was Spring: “Come now and let us make a wife for Llew.” And so they broke broad boughs yet moist with dew, And in a shadow made a magic ring: They took the violet and the meadow-sweet To form her pretty face, and for her feet They built a mound of daisies on a wing, And for her voice they made a linnet sing In the wide poppy blowing for her mouth. And over all they chanted twenty hours. And Llew came singing from the azure south And bore away his wife of birds and flowers. By Francis Ledwidge

Other folk beliefs include the plant’s use in love spells and potions. When strewn about the house it is said to bring peace, and the scent of Meadowsweet is said to cheer the heart. If you gather it on Midsummer’s Day, Meadowsweet can give information regarding thieves – just place the Meadowsweet on water. If it sinks, the thief is a man; if it floats, it is a woman. Garlands of Meadowsweet worn at Lammas are said to join the wearer with the essence of the Goddess.

In addition to this, Meadowsweet is also a bringer of courage. In Russian folklore, Kudryash, the bravest knight in his village, one day became terrified that death stalked him. He could no longer fight and when a band of thieves came to the village, Kudryash was too scared to help. He was so ashamed of his cowardice that he fled to the river, intending to drown himself, but out of the water emerged a beautiful maiden who gave him a garland made out of Meadowsweet flowers. She told him that he would be unharmed if he wore the garland into battle. He returned to the village, wore the garland and defeated the thieves. 

Other folklore claims that where Meadowsweet grows there are no snakes, which can also mean, therefore, that there is no evil present.

If you have a lot of it growing, Meadowsweet is a lovely plant to harvest for use. The green parts have a similar aromatic flavour to the scent of the flowers, and it can be included in jams and stewed fruit to add a pleasant almond taste. It has traditionally been used to flavour vinegar, wine, beer, and mead – which is the origin of many ‘mead’ related names. The 17th century English botanist, physician and herbalist, Nicholas Culpeper, recommended that a leaf of Meadowsweet should be added to a cup of claret wine, to give it a ‘fine relish’.

Today, Meadowsweet is one of the thirty herbs and spices that is added to the popular Norfolk punch cordial drink. This is made following an authentic medieval recipe that was originally made by the monks of Norfolk.

Historically, it was a popular strewing-plant, commonly scattered over floors in order to keep rooms sweet smelling.

The leaves and floures of Meadowsweet farre excelle all other strowing herbs for to decke up houses, to strawe in chambers, halls and banqueting-houses in the summer-time, for the smell thereof makes the heart merrie and joyful and delighteth the senses.

John Gerard, 16th Century botanist

It was a particular favourite of Queen Elizabeth I of England, who liked it to be used in her chambers. Having plants strewn over the floors isn’t really acceptable in a modern house, but Meadowsweet can be dried and included in pot pouri for a similar affect. 

In addition to this, the roots of Meadowsweet produce a black dye and the leaves a blue pigment, which makes it perfect for those who wish to use natural materials for their art or craft work. Meadowsweet is possibly most well known for its medicinal uses.This is mainly because it contains salycilic acid, a compound that is similar to Aspirin. As such it has pain-killing properties. Salicylic acid was first produced in 1838 by the Italian scientist, Rafaele Piria, from the flowerbuds of Meadowsweet and from the bark of the Willow tree (Salix alba). The name, ‘Aspirin’ that was given to acetylsalicylic acid after it was created by the company Bayer in 1899, actually comes from the old botanical name for Meadowsweet – Spiraea ulmaria.

It can be steeped in water to make a relieving tea, useful for managing aches and pains, particularly for those suffering from colds and flu. It can, though, be a little harsh on the digestive system. The plant’s digestive effects mean that it has traditionally been a go-to herb for those suffering from indigestion, flatulence, and diarrhoea. It protects and soothes the mucous membranes of the digestive tract, reducing excess acidity and alleviating nausea. It can also be used as a treatment for heartburn, hyperacidity, gastritis and peptic ulceration. Salicylic acid has anti-inflammatory properties, making it an effective treatment for rheumatic pain.

The tannins and mucilages found in Meadowsweet appear to limit some of the adverse effects common to the salicylates – such as those that can cause gastric bleeding (Aspirin can cause gastric ulceration). Care should still be taken with the use of Meadowsweet, however, as salicylic acid also acts as a blood thinner. This can cause internal bleeding, and prevents wounds from clotting. Use should be halted a week before admission to hospital for surgery.

If you’d like to find out more, these are the sites that I collected my information from:

Wildlife Trusts

Wikipedia

Woodland Trust

Eat Weeds

Wight Druids

This post is for 365 Days Wild, day 65.

Meet a Plant: Meadowsweet #365DaysWild Meet, Meadowsweet. Meadowsweet is a perennial herb of the rose family that is native throughout most of Europe and Western Asia.