#they bloom in the winter emerging from the darkness to signal the arrival of the spring

[tournesoleil13]

Despite everything it’s still you, the one with unwavering humanity

#it’s plum blossom bc ume blossoms are often associated with resilience and perseverance #they bloom in the winter emerging from the darkness to signal the arrival of the spring #I miss them so much please come back my childs #ps: I’ll try to finish this somehow 😬 #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanart #itafushi #fushiita #megumi fushiguro #yuji itadori #itadori x fushiguro #mine

[crackednailsandsplitends]

5 Ways Springtime Can Bring Relief and Renewal for Those with Chronic Illness

Intro

As the chilly winter fades away, the colourful blossoming of spring appears as a season of renewal, providing a feeling of rejuvenation to those struggling with chronic illnesses. This time of change can certainly serve as a source of hope and revitalization for many, including myself.

How Weather Can Affect Chronic Illnesses

As someone who lives with chronic illnesses, I have realized that the weather can significantly impact my health. Changes in temperature, air pressure, and the cold can exacerbate my symptoms, such as chronic joint pain, muscle pain, and fatigue. Meanwhile, excessive heat can lead to dehydration, brain fog and debilitating fatigue. By paying attention to the weather, I can better manage my health.

I keep track of the weather forecast so that I can make necessary adjustments to my daily routine. For example, this helps me manage the effects of cold weather on my chronic illness. For example, I wear warm clothing such as fluffy socks and a blanket to prevent joint pain.

Additionally, in managing the effects of warm weather, I prioritize staying well-hydrated by drinking plenty of water and avoiding sugary. Wearing lightweight, breathable clothing and staying indoors during the hottest parts of the day also helps me stay comfortable. Additionally, using fans or air conditioning to keep my living space cool is essential.

It's important to listen to my body and take breaks/pace when needed, and I find that planning activities for cooler parts of the day can make a significant difference. By being proactive and mindful of these strategies, I can better cope with the impact of weather on my chronic illness.

Spring is here

Below I have explored five ways that the renewal of springtime can uplift spirits and provide solace amidst ongoing chronic illnesses and health challenges.

The Healing Power of Spring Air

As the first signs of spring emerge, it signals a time for renewal, especially for those with chronic illnesses. The shift to warmer weather encourages gentle outdoor activities, which can improve health through mild exercise and movement. Furthermore, it can enhance mental well-being by interrupting the indoor routine and providing a refreshing change of scenery.

Nature’s Colours

Springtime is a showcase of nature's healing power, with its vibrant colours that can help alleviate symptoms of anxiety and depression related to chronic illness. The contrast of blooming flowers and lush green landscapes against the dull winter greys can have a profoundly calming effect.

Fresh Food from Nature’s Kitchen

With the arrival of spring, fresh produce becomes available, which is brimming with essential nutrients that are crucial for managing chronic health conditions. The delights of strawberries and the nutritional wealth of spinach from farmer's markets not only provide a palatable taste but also support overall health and wellness.

Gentle Physical Activity Bathed in Sunshine

Spending time outdoors is not just about sitting on a park bench in the sunshine. It could also mean engaging in light activities such as gardening, which can provide a boost of Vitamin D that is beneficial for people with chronic illnesses. Vitamin D is known to have positive properties that can help alleviate the symptoms of such chronic illnesses.

Spring - A Season of Hope

It is an opportunity for us with chronic illnesses to acknowledge the symbolic significance of spring as a season of renewal and hope. The transition from the cold of winter to the warmth of spring serves as a powerful reminder that change is on the horizon, signalling that better days are within reach.

Spring reminds us that change is not only possible but inevitable and that we should embrace this change with open arms. The blooming of flowers, the chirping of birds, and the longer daylight hours all contribute to the feeling of renewal that spring brings. It is a time to shed the darkness of winter and embrace the light and promise of a new season.

Final thoughts

I am eagerly looking forward to the many advantages that this season brings, as every attempt to care for my health is a step towards a brighter future, even when you are a chronic illness sufferer. Spring is an enchanting season that symbolizes the revival of life after a long and harsh winter.

This time of the year provides a perfect opportunity to pause, reflect and recharge, and is particularly for those of us struggling with chronic illnesses. The comforting presence of these beautiful creatures and the vibrant colours around us can bring a sense of hope and joy, and instill in us a deep sense of appreciation for the simple pleasures of life. Every effort in our health during this season is a step forward towards a brighter and happier future. soothing for the make to manage

About me

I am a married mother of four children, in my mid 40's. I run a small business and enjoy writing, which is why I blog. My blog focuses on my experiences of living with chronic illnesses and disabilities such as ME/CFS, spinal stenosis, chronic pain, and fibromyalgia.

#Chronic Illness

[jiacast]

Spring is starting

As a flower who awakens from its long winter slumber, I'll most likely experience a mix of confusion and excitement. Emerging from the darkness, I'll feel the warmth of the sun on my petals, signaling the arrival of spring. My roots stir with anticipation, drawing in nutrients from the soil to replenish my energy after months of dormancy. I'll stretch my petals, feeling a sense of liberation as I unfurl to greet the world once again.

The vibrant colors around me fill it with wonder and joy as it marvels at the beauty of the other flowers awakening alongside it. I may feel a little sleepy, adjusting to the new season and the flurry of activity that comes with it. Overall, I feel forever grateful for the opportunity to bloom once more, ready to embrace the sunshine and soak in the experiences that springtime brings. It's a time of renewal and growth, and I'm eager to embrace it fully.

#writing #Spring is starting #spring begins

[gentwenty]

30 Beautiful Positive Bible Quotes For Spring's Renewal

The spring season is a beautiful one. As winter fades, barren landscapes transform into vibrant tapestries of life. Spring rains means buds appear on trees, flowers bloom, and animals awaken from hibernation, signaling a new beginning. This natural cycle mirrors the human experience of hope—emerging from dark times into brighter days. Spring’s arrival, with its longer days and warmer weather,…

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[writethehousedown]

Here Comes the Sun 1/7 (Branjie) -- athena2

A/N: Hi, I was really excited to write this little fic! It’s literally all fluff because I’ve been self-isolating for weeks and I just wanted fluff. Thank you so much to Writ for beta-ing and supporting this whole idea. I hope you enjoy! Title from Here Comes the Sun by the Beatles.

Summary: Brooke and Vanessa are two kindergarten teachers crushing on each other when a shared umbrella might help love bloom.

Day 1: Storm

It’s the rainiest spring on record, and Brooke Lynn Hytes has had it.

There’s been all kinds of rain as March blurred into April: cold rain that plunked on her neck and drizzled down her back and left her teeth chattering all day; light sunshowers that distracted her kindergarteners and left them confused over the mix of sun and rain; a misting rain too light to justify an umbrella but enough to annoy her and ruin her hair. And today’s rain: a howling, window-rattling thunderstorm where rain hurled down from the sky and soaked you to the bone with or without an umbrella.

And Brooke just happened to be without hers, so busy stopping the cats from jumping across the living room like they were completing an obstacle course that she forgot to grab it.

Brooke flinches as thunder rumbles outside. She’s disliked thunderstorms since she was a kid. Sometimes they would knock out the power lines, and the darkness scared her even more. She’d hide under her covers with an army of stuffed animals to protect her from the storm she was sure would explode through the windows and pull her in.

But she’s a grown woman now, and she can’t very well hide in bed and call in sick over a thunderstorm.

With a deep breath, she emerges from the dry warmth of her car and runs for the back entrance of the school, holding her rain jacket closed as wind tugs at it, whipping her hair around and soaking her legs with chilly rain. The door feels farther with each step, each raindrop that pelts her face.

“Hey, Brooke!” a gruff voice calls, loud enough to be heard over the howling rain.

Oh no.

Of all the teachers who could see Brooke looking like a drowned rat, why did it have to be Vanessa? Vanessa, the most popular teacher in school, always happy and energetic and exciting—she once wore bunny ears and launched jelly beans into the teacher’s lounge before spring break—with a class of respectful and kind kids who showered her in holiday gifts each year, even after they graduated kindergarten. Vanessa, with her bright crafts lighting up the hallways and the kind smiles she gives Brooke every day at lunch and her rosy cheeks and warm brown eyes.

“Um, hi, Vanessa.” Brooke always feels special using Vanessa’s first name, like she has some secret power over everyone so used to calling her Ms. Mateo. She wonders if Vanessa likes when Brooke uses it, if it feels as special to her as it does when Vanessa calls her Brooke.

“I got an umbrella, if you wanna share,” Vanessa offers. “You’re soaked.”

“Oh, um, thank you.” Brooke’s not the best at asking for or accepting help, so used to her independence. But she’s already drenched, and Vanessa’s umbrella is just inches away, and Brooke nods.

“You’ll have to hold it, though,” Vanessa says with an adorable laugh that makes Brooke’s heart flutter. “I’m too short to make it cover both of us.” Vanessa is short, tiny enough for Brooke to scoop up and carry, something she’s thought about more than she cares to admit.

Brooke smiles, accepting the handle of the bright flowered umbrella and lifting it over them both, grateful for a respite from the rain pounding on her head.

They’re almost to the door when thunder booms through the sky, clapping in Brooke’s ears. She jumps at the noise, jostling the umbrella and bumping shoulders with Vanessa. “S-sorry,” Brooke grits out. “I’m just–”

“Not a fan of thunderstorms?” Vanessa guesses kindly.

“Not really,” Brooke admits. At least Vanessa can’t see her blushing in the rain, but Vanessa doesn’t seem to mind that Brooke is afraid of thunderstorms. It’s not surprising, really. Vanessa is always quick to discourage bullying of any kind, helping her class be empathetic to others. She’s too nice to ever think less of Brooke for that. They finally reach the door, plastered with posters for the school’s annual carnation sale next week, and she ushers Vanessa inside.

“Wanna warm up in my classroom? I got the best heat in the school,” Vanessa says.

The heat in Vanessa’s room is legendary. For whatever reason, her room has three heating vents instead of two, and teachers and students alike clambered inside to soak up some warmth during the frigid, finger-numbing winters. Aside from the heat, Vanessa always has crafts in all the colors of the rainbow hanging on her walls, plus a class guinea pig named Bertha who loved having people pet her.

Besides, Brooke has time before her class arrives, and her knees are shaking from the cold. A little warmth can’t hurt, not to mention some time with Vanessa. The idea alone makes her stomach flutter like a pack of butterflies let loose. Brooke just hopes she can think of something interesting to say, because even though she’s been working with Vanessa for two years and has wanted to say more, Brooke never had the nerve or the words for more than small talk.

Vanessa’s room is done up in an ‘April showers bring May flowers’ theme–Brooke hopes something good might at least come from all this rain–with dark blue raindrops covering half the wall and construction-paper flowers in bright reds, oranges, yellows, and pinks on the other half.

The heating vent in the corner is huge, and Brooke lets the warmth blast at her damp black skirt and cold legs while Vanessa dumps her bag at her desk.

Brooke can’t resist peeking at Vanessa’s desk. It’s much messier than Brooke’s, but it seems to be an organized chaos, markers and pens and papers strewn about almost intentionally. A tiny bi pride flag peeks out from Vanessa’s Pikachu mug, making Brooke wish for the courage to put a little lesbian flag on her own desk.

“How’s Bertha doing?” Brooke asks.

“She’s good. She’ll be having her babies any day now. I’ve been taking her home just in case she has them at night.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot she was pregnant.”

Vanessa nods. “I brought her to a shelter while I was away for winter break. She found herself a man that knocked her up and then went back to his family. Typical, if you ask me.”

Brooke snorts. Vanessa slides up next to her, red sweater brushing Brooke’s white button down. “You want to hold her?”

“You don’t mind?”

“Nah. I don’t have to worry about you holding her like I do with my kids. One of them tried to reenact The Lion King with her.” Vanessa leads her to the cage, where Bertha squeaks happily. Vanessa eases the ball of brown and white fluff into Brooke’s hands, their fingers brushing against each other, sending a jolt of heat through Brooke’s arm.

She pets Bertha’s head, Vanessa slipping in close to pet her back, so close Brooke can hardly breathe. She can see the gleam in Vanessa’s eyes and the precise edge of the eyeliner Vanessa expertly applied, can smell the coconut shampoo she uses permeating her hair, frizzy from rain water on the top.

The warning bell sounds, signaling that the teachers have 15 minutes before collecting their students from where they congregate in the gym.

“Guess I better get going,” Brooke says.

“Guess so.” It might be Brooke’s imagination, but Vanessa sounds equally sad to say goodbye to her.

Vanessa nestles Bertha back in her cage and Brooke starts to leave.

“Hey, Brooke?”

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you take my umbrella.” Vanessa extends it to her. “It’s supposed to rain all day. You’ll need it later.”

“Are you sure?”

Vanessa nods. “No big deal. I got an extra, and I’ll see you tomorrow anyway.”

“Thank you, Vanessa. Really.” Brooke’s whole body is warm at Vanessa offering her the umbrella, and though she wants to protest, tell Vanessa to keep it, Brooke accepts. Because that way, she has a reason to talk to Vanessa tomorrow.  

#rpdr fanfiction #branjie #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #athena2 #here comes the sun #lesbian au #fluff #concrit welcome #spring fling 2020 #day 1: storm #submission

[emilysraincoat]

Spring (Emelita)

Summary: When Spring arrives, so does Luisa

WC: ~1.1k

On a crisp spring morning, Emily rests along the riverbed with her face propped up on her hands. The bright green leaves are just beginning to unfurl on the branches, signaling the end of the harsh Winter. While she loves the Winter and its clean slate beauty, she’s lonely in the ice. Her sole friend, Luisa, spends the cold months hiding away and sleeping through the bitter frost, but it must be the end of it if Spring is arriving. These woods are Luisa’s, and the rebirth means she has emerged from her long slumber.

Emily flicks her hand aimlessly, so a spiral of water follows it in a beautiful twist for a moment before splashing back into the babbling brook she’s been in since the day she first opened her eyes and stared up at the cold sky. Born of ice and cold and frost, she’s been alone her whole life. Only a few years ago, the old woman who used to hold these acres in her care, and never liked Emily much, finally passed away. She left the space to young Luisa, fresh-faced like a dewdrop and with a sweet voice Emily can almost taste on the air.

The beginning of Spring when Luisa comes back is her favorite. Before her very eyes, the world seems to come into color, spreading from the place Luisa must be re-emerging from. Emily wants to greet her as she comes back, but she remains bound to her stream as she waits to be loved and cared for the way she’s been craving. Her hands are much warmer cupping Luisa’s face, her heart beats much stronger with Luisa’s in tandem, her life is much better when Luisa shares it with her.

Birds come first, chirping as they circle above Emily’s head. They’re a calling card to warn of the beauty about to come face to face with Emily like a deity emerging from the sun itself. When she was little, she remembers the stories the rain would tell of other nymphs like her, or sprites, or any number of other creatures, emerging from the water or the earth or the sun to bathe the globe in their natural beauty and talent. The last time they spoke to her, she must’ve been only eight years old. Maybe nine. It seems much shorter in human time, but she was still too young to be charged with a place of her own and expected to take care of herself for the rest of her long life.

A shiver runs through her body with the sharp breeze ambushing her wet hair. It looks pretty, luckily, when it’s sopping and clinging to her, but she wishes she could survive drying out. Emily would give the world to be able to greet Luisa upon her return, but she can’t survive out of the water for very long. She dries and cracks like the hard-packed banks during long droughts that threaten her fragile life in long summers.

After the birds come the rabbits, and the squirrels, and the grass, and the deer. They spread outward to breathe life from Emily’s stream. By now, they know her, and do not flinch away when she gently pets the face of a shy doe. Beautiful creatures.

The crack of a dead branch breaking draws Emily’s gaze up into the forest to see Luisa, emerging from the trees, her dark tresses in their usual braid of flowers and leaves. Perfect pink lips are parted, drawing in air to help her flushed cheeks as she lives for the first time in the spirit of new beginnings. Emily adores the knowledge that she will have company for the next long while.

“You’re back,” she says, a smile unable to resist blooming across her face.

“I always am.”

Luisa comes closer to the bank and kneels in the dirt, covering her knees in the replenished loose soil so she can cup Emily’s cheeks and kiss her. She’s always so warm. Life, true life, flourishes within her, so much more vibrant than what grows from Emily’s ice crystals when the temperature matches her blood. Soft calluses brush against Emily’s lips when the kiss ends, a loving touch, a remembrance, a promise. She was left behind, but she has not been forgotten.

Then Luisa slips down into the stream, soaking her soft garment in the angry waters, and joins Emily with the rocks digging into their bare feet. Up close, little freckles dust Luisa’s nose and cheekbones almost too minute to see if she isn’t explicitly searching for them. Little flecks of gold dance in her eyes too, melted, drops of sunshine and the way light dapples through the leaves overhead in the height of summer. Perfection comes from her kind voice when she reminds Emily how much she loves her, how much she’s missed her.

“I wish I could stay all winter, but I simply get too cold. My bones turn brittle. My lungs become glass.”

Emily thinks of the extra day Luisa spent at the turn of the solstice, how she had almost collapsed on her way to hide until warmth returns. “I know. I stay in the water, you stay in the woods. It’s what we’re made for.”

“But it wouldn’t be the same without you.”

When they kiss again, Luisa tastes like sultry Spring breezes and freshly picked citrus fruit, as though she herself is the season and not a keeper of the woods’ heartbeat. Even the slightest hint has the water levels rising around them, lapping at the grass and frightening the animals from its inconsistent edge. Emily can’t help it. She’s in love, she’s infatuated, she’s trapped within the confines of what she was built to become.

“I want to show you something the next time it rains.”

In the hard rain is Emily’s only chance to leave her home without fear of becoming a paper husk dehydrated in a matter of minutes. Those days are her favorite, when she leans against the rough bark of a tall tree, fingers digging into the dirt while Luisa kisses her hard and slides hands beneath her clothes to feel, to touch, to know. Emily does the same in the water, as though she can taste Luisa’s goosebumps by merely running the tips of her fingers over them. Alas, she can do no more than try to keep her warm despite having lips forged of snow in the coldest, darkest, bleakest night in late December before the New Year even thinks of showing its face to warn of Luisa’s impending return.

#mayans mc #emily thomas #luisa espina #emelita #mine #ficmas #nymph au

[tumblrwrites]

Portraits of Silhouettes

<p>Low-angle sunlight arrived tap dancing along trails of reflected shimmer, describing the chaotic topography of a seasonal creek. My alarmingly orange vest smelled vaguely of urine: this I knew to be true. However this objective certainty (derived from having witnessed Mach the doggy piss all over it a day prior) produced only the peripheral discomfort a funeral goer may experience at the fleeting awareness that they stand, mourning, at approximately their own height above many anonymous corpses, each its own putrid rainbow of decay: I smelled nothing. Responsibility for a recent arbor-theft* was boastfully taken, and received with no more than entirely non-disingenuous (by at least two of our three, as it were) chuckles and grins: Adam would only grin deviously when asked <i>How?!</i> and then mirthfully when asked <i>Why?!</i>, so Paul and I had learned not to ask. Dark planes hovered beneath beneath fluffy anvils of cumulus, conspiring placidly before a deep eastern horizon. Crows cawed, somewhere. All seemed in order.<br></p><p>*(Paul’s general condition is based upon a particular sort of wildly unsubstantiated self-assuredness that’s equal-parts amusingly absurd and troublingly sincere, and he really just rides out human interaction from someplace very distant from the others involved, whereas Adam resides in a place murky and dim with congruously unsubstantiated self-doubt; yet, somewhat incongruously, he is the brother who steals trees.)<br></p>“You think <i>Native</i>’s caught on yet?” I said.<br>After a pause, “Not impossible…” began Adam, his spine arched convexly and elbows locked tense between shoulder and pocket: his posture’s profile impersonating either a sail operating on heavy tailwinds or a sideways grin; “…definitely plausible, considering.” We chuckled and grinned.                     <p>Paul pointed emphatically at a patch of moss on a rock who’s shape he’d found to resemble that of said rock and was enthused: “Dude we could totally write a song about that dude. Adam could play drums so I could play ‘keys. We can’t find Adam’s bass amp so we’ve just been jammin’ Stevie tunes on drums and ‘keys. We got mad good at it so far, you know if there’s an open mic tonight?” <br>“Nah I doubt it man. What happened to the amp though?”<br>Paul’s answer was unironic: “What amp?”                                                       But his face really sold it, so I too fell perplexed and said nothing. <br>“Caw,” announced a crow.                                             <br>“Nah yo, let’s at least run through the set with The Gends a couple times. At least you know… get like, the hits and shit… together. Work out the various like, particulars, before we play out.” I accepted Adam’s deflection regarding the unknown whereabouts of his borrowed equipment, as it aligned with my own position w/r/t an open mic.</p><p>I reminisce upon these times and feel many things, complex melancholy their sum. Impetus to reconcile and return emerges and recedes like an ominous toothache; a floater’s ghostly presence within the eye itself.</p><p>The bedrock was fairly close to ground level on Mount Signitt, so snowmelt endeavored downward toward both The Glen and <i>Native Garden Solutions</i> in puny radial trickles not long after a thaw began, and the thin smear of pebbly soil gave way to saturation. Paul grinning madly beside me, I’d cocked my head like a dog, looking lazy or intrigued, perhaps, being severely impaired-–dare I say <i>transfixed</i>–-at least in part by the chatter of several of these frantically dispersing creeks. The season prior, our own anecdotal observations of The Glen’s stream’s northwest bank had established that there’d been fewer tributary-trickles than there were radial-trickles, meaning the many seasonal creeks must have either converged at some collection of hillside points, or that some of the streams’ warbling flows had been inexplicably halted en route–-<i>or</i>–-as I’d later opine both aloud and to only myself in downward transit from the Signitts’ (“Mount Signitt”) on more than one occasion–that about their own paths of least resistance, the least fortunate of The Mount’s descendants had fallen stagnant, caught up by forces beyond–though not excluding–gravity and the their own momentum, in one of those shallow ruts that run alongside County Roads and unpaved driveways.</p><p>A small thing scuttled somewhere, surely oblivious to the scuttle’s ramifications.<br>“Yo <i>yo</i>, yo, Paul, keep that down a sec.”<br>“Dude we’re <i>good</i>, me and Adam blaze here all the time.”<br>“I definitely just heard footsteps just now. And did you hear that low like rumbling before? I think I heard a car, dude.”<br>“Dude, trust me aright, nobody but us would come down here, man. And yo, besides, if they do they totally must burn dude, or at least are chill, otherwise who else would even come here?”<br>“You hear it Adam?”<br>“Probly nothin’.”<br>“Yeah you’re probably right. We’d have heard something else by now, probably.”<br>Adam stared stonily at the ambient space to my left, nodded slightly in a silent gesture of agreement, then stood still and considered the ground before him with great intent. There are at least two things to consider in the event that one categorically finds the voice of reason to be the voice they hear the least, I thought.</p><p>A sudden fog.<br>“A spruce this time, was it?”<br>“Still is, last I checked.”</p><p>The doob (“cannon”) hissed and shimmered beneath the cheekbones of Paul, who’s entire upper-spinal region would periodically find itself canted forward, in the manner of a wilting houseplant, by the weight of I guess his head. Dark nights and crackling white cones accentuated his face’s bony contours with a dull orange glow; today’s immaculate Fall-turning-Winter sunlight does the face no such favors. Another sudden fog; an exhalation’s whisper from the north-northeast. Paul Signitt, as observed by Aaron D. Gendler, ~2:30 PM EST, 12/03/2012, appeared to resemble a street-fair caricature of himself in terms of both physique and conversational demeanor: you could’ve almost pictured his head line-drawn on taut canvas, its shape so exaggerated as to resemble that of a stretched eggshell and its bucktoothed smile ghoulishly distended, portraying a manner of enthusiasm equidistant from that of Newman’s Own’s Paul Newman, Kool-Aid’s (The) Kool-Aid Man, and your any-given spree-killer: an extravagant face drawn in eccentric curves of opaque ink, two-dimensional and inanimate.<br>“Yo Gends so I’ve been learning mad Petty songs lately and dude, he is a fuckin’ genius at lyrics man, like, his music just isn’t fake like all the stuff that’s out there now that’s just bullshit dude…” I briefly considered how a moment’s image of my own face’s fraudulent good-cheer could have resembled the climax of a viscerally compelling advertisement for High-Strength aspirin, whilst it nodded reflexively with the spastic vigor of a paddle-ball on a very short string like an aggressive parody of common politeness. Paul’s left hand met Adam’s right, then both hands receded, and I nodded. Paul continued, “…but yo, they’ll never be able to really know that again because he won’t even be there to tell them <i>how</i>, dude, like, <i>no</i>body will ever be as good as Tom Petty again, man, they <i>can’</i>t be.”<br>Seemed I’d missed something: “Yeah dude, I hear tha–”<br>Paul continued: “Like, yo, I mean we’ll never really <i>know</i> what happened with the<i> Egy</i>ptians,–”<br>“Extraterrestrial Assistance, perhaps,” Adam interjected, looming at a cedar’s attention behind his own dissipating cloud.<br>Paul said “Ex<i>act</i>ly dude its im<i>pos</i>sible! And I mean like Taylor Swift and Fergie and all them, they’ll never even <i>know</i> what real music is, cause we’ll never know who made the <i>Py</i>ramids.”</p><p>An interval occurred. Its onset was abrupt and unpleasant, and seemed to span it’s duration entirely. Not unlike that bounded by a fall and it’s landing, the interval between Paul’s speech’s halt and its echoes’ total evacuation from the given airspace. The exchange’s backdrop of vacuous silence bloomed blackly as a sudden sinkhole, and certain norms demanded it be plugged by somebody or other. Who this was, however, was always unclear: Paul, in conversation, offered none of the linguistic or even subconscious body-language-type cues one looks for to distinguish a true invitation to reply from a brief rhetorical pause, thus I was guided less by intuitive reasoning than a sort of Fight-or-Flight-or-Don’t instinct in determining if and how I should fashion my response toward (‘in the direction of’) him. A hair’s-width of time passed, and no crows cawed. Gears began to whir. Adam inhaled–-that’s Two: another factor to consider: In no more than fifteen seconds… the Doob, it’s milky veil–-crackling light damn it, for this dark ground urgently approaching… each all my own; and Twice, no less.<br>“Hhhhahhuhaahh…” breathed Adam, no more than nine seconds later, then: “Yo, Gends… ’s yours.”</p><p>Branches nodded and leaves quivered, sparse and autumnally brown; roots held their ground, as roots do; trunks’ curvatures varied complexly from tree to tree at the wind’s behest as my eager right hand began the southeastward ascent toward its rendezvous with Adam’s hovering left-. “-or-Don’t it is, I guess…” I shrugged internally, wearing the same clever smirk I would’ve had I said the words aloud. Nobody appears to smell the day-old piss, or at least no one comments. I produced an ‘O.K.’ signal with my right thumb and -forefinger, raised my head to a cannon’s angle, and kissed my fingertips; my eye’s own middle-distance angled toward the clouds’ wafted edge, but concerned only with the space between, and the distance vanishing upon its ends.

>

[readbookywooks]

11 What will break me? This is the question that consumes me over the next three days as we wait to be released from our prison of safety. What will break me into a million pieces so that I am beyond repair, beyond usefulness? I mention it to no one, but it devours my waking hours and weaves itself throughout my nightmares. Four more bunker missiles fall over this period, all massive, all very damaging, but there's no urgency to the attack. The bombs are spread out over the long hours so that just when you think the raid is over, another blast sends shock waves through your guts. It feels more designed to keep us in lockdown than to decimate 13. Cripple the district, yes. Give the people plenty to do to get the place running again. But destroy it? No. Coin was right on that point. You don't destroy what you want to acquire in the future. I assume what they really want, in the short term, is to stop the Airtime Assaults and keep me off the televisions of Panem. We receive next to no information about what is happening. Our screens never come on, and we get only brief audio updates from Coin about the nature of the bombs. Certainly, the war is still being waged, but as to its status, we're in the dark. Inside the bunker, cooperation is the order of the day. We adhere to a strict schedule for meals and bathing, exercise and sleep. Small periods of socialization are granted to alleviate the tedium. Our space becomes very popular because both children and adults have a fascination with Buttercup. He attains celebrity status with his evening game of Crazy Cat. I created this by accident a few years ago, during a winter blackout. You simply wiggle a flashlight beam around on the floor, and Buttercup tries to catch it. I'm petty enough to enjoy it because I think it makes him look stupid. Inexplicably, everyone here thinks he's clever and delightful. I'm even issued a special set of batteries - an enormous waste - to be used for this purpose. The citizens of 13 are truly starved for entertainment. It's on the third night, during our game, that I answer the question eating away at me. Crazy Cat becomes a metaphor for my situation. I am Buttercup. Peeta, the thing I want so badly to secure, is the light. As long as Buttercup feels he has the chance of catching the elusive light under his paws, he's bristling with aggression. (That's how I've been since I left the arena, with Peeta alive.) When the light goes out completely, Buttercup's temporarily distraught and confused, but he recovers and moves on to other things. (That's what would happen if Peeta died.) But the one thing that sends Buttercup into a tailspin is when I leave the light on but put it hopelessly out of his reach, high on the wall, beyond even his jumping skills. He paces below the wall, wails, and can't be comforted or distracted. He's useless until I shut the light off. (That's what Snow is trying to do to me now, only I don't know what form his game takes.) Maybe this realization on my part is all Snow needs. Thinking that Peeta was in his possession and being tortured for rebel information was bad. But thinking that he's being tortured specifically to incapacitate me is unendurable. And it's under the weight of this revelation that I truly begin to break. After Crazy Cat, we're directed to bed. The power's been coming and going; sometimes the lamps burn at full brightness, other times we squint at one another in the brownouts. At bedtime they turn the lamps to near darkness and activate safety lights in each space. Prim, who's decided the walls will hold up, snuggles with Buttercup on the lower bunk. My mother's on the upper. I offer to take a bunk, but they make me keep to the floor mattress since I flail around so much when I'm sleeping. I'm not flailing now, as my muscles are rigid with the tension of holding myself together. The pain over my heart returns, and from it I imagine tiny fissures spreading out into my body. Through my torso, down my arms and legs, over my face, leaving it crisscrossed with cracks. One good jolt of a bunker missile and I could shatter into strange, razor-sharp shards. When the restless, wiggling majority has settled into sleep, I carefully extricate myself from my blanket and tiptoe through the cavern until I find Finnick, feeling for some unspecified reason that he will understand. He sits under the safety light in his space, knotting his rope, not even pretending to rest. As I whisper my discovery of Snow's plan to break me, it dawns on me. This strategy is very old news to Finnick. It's what broke him. "This is what they're doing to you with Annie, isn't it?" I ask. "Well, they didn't arrest her because they thought she'd be a wealth of rebel information," he says. "They know I'd never have risked telling her anything like that. For her own protection." "Oh, Finnick. I'm so sorry," I say. "No, I'm sorry. That I didn't warn you somehow," he tells me. Suddenly, a memory surfaces. I'm strapped to my bed, mad with rage and grief after the rescue. Finnick is trying to console me about Peeta. "They'll figure out he doesn't know anything pretty fast. And they won't kill him if they think they can use him against you." "You did warn me, though. On the hovercraft. Only when you said they'd use Peeta against me, I thought you meant like bait. To lure me into the Capitol somehow," I say. "I shouldn't have said even that. It was too late for it to be of any help to you. Since I hadn't warned you before the Quarter Quell, I should've shut up about how Snow operates." Finnick yanks on the end of his rope, and an intricate knot becomes a straight line again. "It's just that I didn't understand when I met you. After your first Games, I thought the whole romance was an act on your part. We all expected you'd continue that strategy. But it wasn't until Peeta hit the force field and nearly died that I - " Finnick hesitates. I think back to the arena. How I sobbed when Finnick revived Peeta. The quizzical look on Finnick's face. The way he excused my behavior, blaming it on my pretend pregnancy. "That you what?" "That I knew I'd misjudged you. That you do love him. I'm not saying in what way. Maybe you don't know yourself. But anyone paying attention could see how much you care about him," he says gently. Anyone? On Snow's visit before the Victory Tour, he challenged me to erase any doubts of my love for Peeta. "Convince me," Snow said. It seems, under that hot pink sky with Peeta's life in limbo, I finally did. And in doing so, I gave him the weapon he needed to break me. Finnick and I sit for a long time in silence, watching the knots bloom and vanish, before I can ask, "How do you bear it?" Finnick looks at me in disbelief. "I don't, Katniss! Obviously, I don't. I drag myself out of nightmares each morning and find there's no relief in waking." Something in my expression stops him. "Better not to give in to it. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart." Well, he must know. I take a deep breath, forcing myself back into one piece. "The more you can distract yourself, the better," he says. "First thing tomorrow, we'll get you your own rope. Until then, take mine." I spend the rest of the night on my mattress obsessively making knots, holding them up for Buttercup's inspection. If one looks suspicious, he swipes it out of the air and bites it a few times to make sure it's dead. By morning, my fingers are sore, but I'm still holding on. With twenty-four hours of quiet behind us, Coin finally announces we can leave the bunker. Our old quarters have been destroyed by the bombings. Everyone must follow exact directions to their new compartments. We clean our spaces, as directed, and file obediently toward the door. Before I'm halfway there, Boggs appears and pulls me from the line. He signals for Gale and Finnick to join us. People move aside to let us by. Some even smile at me since the Crazy Cat game seems to have made me more lovable. Out the door, up the stairs, down the hall to one of those multidirectional elevators, and finally we arrive at Special Defense. Nothing along our route has been damaged, but we are still very deep. Boggs ushers us into a room virtually identical to Command. Coin, Plutarch, Haymitch, Cressida, and everybody else around the table looks exhausted. Someone has finally broken out the coffee - although I'm sure it's viewed only as an emergency stimulant - and Plutarch has both hands wrapped tightly around his cup as if at any moment it might be taken away. There's no small talk. "We need all four of you suited up and aboveground," says the president. "You have two hours to get footage showing the damage from the bombing, establish that Thirteen's military unit remains not only functional but dominant, and, most important, that the Mockingjay is still alive. Any questions?" "Can we have a coffee?" asks Finnick. Steaming cups are handed out. I stare distastefully at the shiny black liquid, never having been much of a fan of the stuff, but thinking it might help me stay on my feet. Finnick sloshes some cream in my cup and reaches into the sugar bowl. "Want a sugar cube?" he asks in his old seductive voice. That's how we met, with Finnick offering me sugar. Surrounded by horses and chariots, costumed and painted for the crowds, before we were allies. Before I had any idea what made him tick. The memory actually coaxes a smile out of me. "Here, it improves the taste," he says in his real voice, plunking three cubes in my cup. As I turn to go suit up as the Mockingjay, I catch Gale watching me and Finnick unhappily. What now? Does he actually think something's going on between us? Maybe he saw me go to Finnick's last night. I would've passed the Hawthornes' space to get there. I guess that probably rubbed him the wrong way. Me seeking out Finnick's company instead of his. Well, fine. I've got rope burn on my fingers, I can barely hold my eyes open, and a camera crew's waiting for me to do something brilliant. And Snow's got Peeta. Gale can think whatever he wants. In my new Remake Room in Special Defense, my prep team slaps me into my Mockingjay suit, arranges my hair, and applies minimal makeup before my coffee's even cooled. In ten minutes, the cast and crew of the next propos are making the circuitous trek to the outside. I slurp my coffee as we travel, finding that the cream and sugar greatly enhance its flavor. As I knock back the dregs that have settled to the bottom of the cup, I feel a slight buzz start to run through my veins. After climbing a final ladder, Boggs hits a lever that opens a trapdoor. Fresh air rushes in. I take big gulps and for the first time allow myself to feel how much I hated the bunker. We emerge into the woods, and my hands run through the leaves overhead. Some are just starting to turn. "What day is it?" I ask no one in particular. Boggs tells me September begins next week. September. That means Snow has had Peeta in his clutches for five, maybe six weeks. I examine a leaf on my palm and see I'm shaking. I can't will myself to stop. I blame the coffee and try to focus on slowing my breathing, which is far too rapid for my pace. Debris begins to litter the forest floor. We come to our first crater, thirty yards wide and I can't tell how deep. Very. Boggs says anyone on the first ten levels would likely have been killed. We skirt the pit and continue on. "Can you rebuild it?" Gale asks. "Not anytime soon. That one didn't get much. A few backup generators and a poultry farm," says Boggs. "We'll just seal it off." The trees disappear as we enter the area inside the fence. The craters are ringed with a mixture of old and new rubble. Before the bombing, very little of the current 13 was aboveground. A few guard stations. The training area. About a foot of the top floor of our building - where Buttercup's window jutted out - with several feet of steel on top of it. Even that was never meant to withstand more than a superficial attack. "How much of an edge did the boy's warning give you?" asks Haymitch. "About ten minutes before our own systems would've detected the missiles," says Boggs. "But it did help, right?" I ask. I can't bear it if he says no. "Absolutely," Boggs replies. "Civilian evacuation was completed. Seconds count when you're under attack. Ten minutes meant lives saved." Prim, I think. And Gale. They were in the bunker only a couple of minutes before the first missile hit. Peeta might have saved them. Add their names to the list of things I can never stop owing him for. Cressida has the idea to film me in front of the ruins of the old Justice Building, which is something of a joke since the Capitol's been using it as a backdrop for fake news broadcasts for years, to show that the district no longer existed. Now, with the recent attack, the Justice Building sits about ten yards away from the edge of a new crater. As we approach what used to be the grand entrance, Gale points out something and the whole party slows down. I don't know what the problem is at first and then I see the ground strewn with fresh pink and red roses. "Don't touch them!" I yell. "They're for me!" The sickeningly sweet smell hits my nose, and my heart begins to hammer against my chest. So I didn't imagine it. The rose on my dresser. Before me lies Snow's second delivery. Long-stemmed pink and red beauties, the very flowers that decorated the set where Peeta and I performed our post-victory interview. Flowers not meant for one, but for a pair of lovers. I explain to the others as best I can. Upon inspection, they appear to be harmless, if genetically enhanced, flowers. Two dozen roses. Slightly wilted. Most likely dropped after the last bombing. A crew in special suits collects them and carts them away. I feel certain they will find nothing extraordinary in them, though. Snow knows exactly what he's doing to me. It's like having Cinna beaten to a pulp while I watch from my tribute tube. Designed to unhinge me. Like then, I try to rally and fight back. But as Cressida gets Castor and Pollux in place, I feel my anxiety building. I'm so tired, so wired, and so unable to keep my mind on anything but Peeta since I've seen the roses. The coffee was a huge mistake. What I didn't need was a stimulant. My body visibly shakes and I can't seem to catch my breath. After days in the bunker, I'm squinting no matter what direction I turn, and the light hurts. Even in the cool breeze, sweat trickles down my face. "So, what exactly do you need from me again?" I ask. "Just a few quick lines that show you're alive and still fighting," says Cressida. "Okay." I take my position and then I'm staring into the red light. Staring. Staring. "I'm sorry, I've got nothing." Cressida walks up to me. "You feeling okay?" I nod. She pulls a small cloth from her pocket and blots my face. "How about we do the old Q-and-A thing?" "Yeah. That would help, I think." I cross my arms to hide the shaking. Glance at Finnick, who gives me a thumbs-up. But he's looking pretty shaky himself. Cressida's back in position now. "So, Katniss. You've survived the Capitol bombing of Thirteen. How did it compare with what you experienced on the ground in Eight?" "We were so far underground this time, there was no real danger. Thirteen's alive and well and so am - " My voice cuts off in a dry, squeaking sound. "Try the line again," says Cressida. "'Thirteen's alive and well and so am I.'" I take a breath, trying to force air down into my diaphragm. "Thirteen's alive and so - " No, that's wrong. I swear I can still smell those roses. "Katniss, just this one line and you're done today. I promise," says Cressida. "'Thirteen's alive and well and so am I.'" I swing my arms to loosen myself up. Place my fists on my hips. Then drop them to my sides. Saliva's filling my mouth at a ridiculous rate and I feel vomit at the back of my throat. I swallow hard and open my lips so I can get the stupid line out and go hide in the woods and - that's when I start crying. It's impossible to be the Mockingjay. Impossible to complete even this one sentence. Because now I know that everything I say will be directly taken out on Peeta. Result in his torture. But not his death, no, nothing so merciful as that. Snow will ensure that his life is much worse than death. "Cut," I hear Cressida say quietly. "What's wrong with her?" Plutarch says under his breath. "She's figured out how Snow's using Peeta," says Finnick. There's something like a collective sigh of regret from the semicircle of people spread out before me. Because I know this now. Because there will never be a way for me to not know this again. Because, beyond the military disadvantage losing a Mockingjay entails, I am broken. Several sets of arms would embrace me. But in the end, the only person I truly want to comfort me is Haymitch, because he loves Peeta, too. I reach out for him and say something like his name and he's there, holding me and patting my back. "It's okay. It'll be okay, sweetheart." He sits me on a length of broken marble pillar and keeps an arm around me while I sob. "I can't do this anymore," I say. "I know," he says. "All I can think of is - what he's going to do to Peeta - because I'm the Mockingjay!" I get out. "I know." Haymitch's arm tightens around me. "Did you see? How weird he acted? What are they - doing to him?" I'm gasping for air between sobs, but I manage one last phrase. "It's my fault!" And then I cross some line into hysteria and there's a needle in my arm and the world slips away. It must be strong, whatever they shot into me, because it's a full day before I come to. My sleep wasn't peaceful, though. I have the sense of emerging from a world of dark, haunted places where I traveled alone. Haymitch sits in the chair by my bed, his skin waxen, his eyes bloodshot. I remember about Peeta and start to tremble again. Haymitch reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. "It's all right. We're going to try to get Peeta out." "What?" That makes no sense. "Plutarch's sending in a rescue team. He has people on the inside. He thinks we can get Peeta back alive," he says. "Why didn't we before?" I say. "Because it's costly. But everyone agrees this is the thing to do. It's the same choice we made in the arena. To do whatever it takes to keep you going. We can't lose the Mockingjay now. And you can't perform unless you know Snow can't take it out on Peeta." Haymitch offers me a cup. "Here, drink something." I slowly sit up and take a sip of water. "What do you mean, costly?" He shrugs. "Covers will be blown. People may die. But keep in mind that they're dying every day. And it's not just Peeta; we're getting Annie out for Finnick, too." "Where is he?" I ask. "Behind that screen, sleeping his sedative off. He lost it right after we knocked you out," says Haymitch. I smile a little, feel a bit less weak. "Yeah, it was a really excellent shoot. You two cracked up and Boggs left to arrange the mission to get Peeta. We're officially in reruns." "Well, if Boggs is leading it, that's a plus," I say. "Oh, he's on top of it. It was volunteer only, but he pretended not to notice me waving my hand in the air," says Haymitch. "See? He's already demonstrated good judgment." Something's wrong. Haymitch's trying a little too hard to cheer me up. It's not really his style. "So who else volunteered?" "I think there were seven altogether," he says evasively. I get a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. "Who else, Haymitch?" I insist. Haymitch finally drops the good-natured act. "You know who else, Katniss. You know who stepped up first." Of course I do. Gale.

#Mockingjay

[viralleakszone-blog]

Perennials That Bloom All Spring and Summer

http://www.viralleakszone.com/perennials-that-bloom-all-spring-and-summer/

Perennials That Bloom All Spring and Summer

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Unlike annual flowers, which live only a single year, flowering perennials bring your garden color again and again. Some perennials bloom for only a few weeks, so savvy gardeners stagger them through flower borders for ever-changing floral displays. However, not all perennials limit their flowers to weeks or single seasons. Some keep producing month after month — and add more than just blooms. With versatile, long-blooming perennials as your garden’s foundation, you’ll be treated to beauty all season long. Enduring Edgers

Plant at least one long-blooming perennial right at your garden’s front, and blooms will greet your every glance. “Blue Wonder” catmint (Nepeta racemosa “Blue Wonder”) edges borders with dark blue blossoms from spring into fall. Best suited to U.S. Department of Agriculture plant hardiness zones 3 through 8, the silver-leaved, 12-inch mounds add texture and aroma, too.

The easygoing “Butterfly Blue” pincushion flower (Scabiosa columbaria “Butterfly Blue,” USDA zones 3 through 9) forms a gray-green rosette just 6 to 8 inches high, but then sends out 12- to 15-inch stems with flowers that dance on breezes from late spring into autumn. As the name implies, the pincushion-like blue blooms seldom lack visiting butterflies.

For early season leaf color and long-lasting blossoms, “Vera Jameson” stonecrop (Hylotelephium “Vera Jameson,” USDA zones 3 through 9), offers dusky, desert-rose flowers from early summer well into fall. Even with blooms absent, the 9- to 12-inch-tall plants delight with thick, succulent leaves in tints of teal, burgundy and purple. Knee-High Knockouts

Leaf texture and flower buds sometimes bring gardens as much beauty as flowers themselves. “Stella de Oro” daylily (Hemerocallis “Stella de Oro,” USDA zones 3 through 10) and its offspring “Happy Returns” daylily (Hemerocallis “Happy Returns,” USDA zones 3 through 9) provide repeat blooms from late spring to early autumn in golden-yellow and lemon-yellow respectively. Like all daylily flowers, each bloom lasts just one day, but abundant buds-in-waiting on both these daylilies open right on cue. The arching, blade-like leaves form fountainlike mounds 12 to 18 inches tall.

Threadleaf tickseeds “Moonbeam” (Coreopsis verticillata “Moonbeam,” USDA zones 4 through 8) and “Zagreb” (Coreopsis verticillata “Zagreb,” USDA zones 3 through 9) offer masses of daisylike yellow blossoms from late spring until frost. Creamy yellow flowers on “Moonbeam” and bright yellow blooms on the compact “Zagreb” blend effortlessly with other perennials. Standing 12 to 24 inches tall, the plants’ fine, threadlike leaves add delicate elegance. Mid-Border Beauties

Big, violet-blue blossoms are always welcome, especially when they run from spring to fall. “Rozanne” cranesbill (Geranium “Rozanne,” USDA zones 5 through 8) grows up to 2 feet high and 3 feet wide, as it fills whatever spot it’s given. Striking violet-blue blooms crown a mound of deep-green leaves with hints of chartreuse. Cool autumn temperatures turn leaves scarlet red.

“Goldsturm” black-eyed Susan (Rudbeckia fulgida var. sullivantii “Goldsturm,” USDA zones 3 through 9) evokes memories of wildflower meadows. Golden-yellow blooms extend from early to mid-summer into fall on plants 24 to 36 inches tall. Left standing into winter atop blackened stems, the black seed heads that were Susan’s eyes treat hungry birds to winter snacks.

Brilliant-orange blooms of butterfly weed (Asclepias tuberosa, USDA zones 3 through 9) don’t show up until late spring or early summer; the plant takes its time emerging. But after flowers arrive, the vibrant blossoms linger into fall. Monarch butterflies come with the territory for this long-blooming perennial, a food source for adult monarchs and their caterpillars. Stately Backdrops

At up to 4 feet tall and wide, the crimson cloud of “Firetail” mountain fleece (Persicaria amplexicaulis “Firetail,” USDA zones 4 through 7) anchors rear-border spots. The plant bears large, intriguing leaves and masses of 6-inch, bottlebrush-like, red blooms from early spring until frost.

Tall, sturdy “Magnus” purple coneflower (Echinacea purpurea “Magnus,” USDA zones 3 through 8) delivers flower heads of intense purple-pink with rusty-bronze cones. Reaching 3 to 4 feet tall, the plant’s long-lasting blooms continue from early summer until fall and seeds delight birds long after petals fall.

Back-of-the-border stalwart Russian sage (Perovskia atriplicifolia, USDA 3 through 8) forms a lavender-blue floral wall from early summer into autumn. At 4 feet tall or taller, the silvery stems carry fragrant, silver-green leaves, and flower spikes dry beautifully for bouquets. Leave Russian sage standing at season’s end for wintry, off-season beauty. Bloom-Extending Culture

Proper care helps long-blooming perennials deliver on their natural promise. Always choose plants suited to your USDA growing zones, and provide the conditions and care your perennials need.

Most blooming perennials flower best in well-draining soil and full-sun locations that receive at least six to eight hours of direct sun each day. Sunlight fuels flower blossoms, but in hot climates, filtered shade keeps colors from fading. Find the balance your plants and climate require. Left intact, wilted flowers signal perennials to stop blooming and set seeds instead. Remove spent flowers regularly to keep blooms coming.

Avoid high-nitrogen fertilizers, including lawn fertilizer, near your long-flowering perennials. High nitrogen encourages green, leafy growth at the expense of blooms. Some mature perennials become overcrowded after approximately three years, and flowers become smaller and fewer. Dividing and transplanting restores normal blooms.

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