milk shed

a guide to exploring abandoned farms
  • essential supplies include: plenty of food and water, a change of socks, a hat, rope, bandaids, a knife, gloves, an acorn in your pocket, and an offering
  • there are always odd noises on the farm. half of them come from the animals
  • try to forget what the lake looks like between the hours of three and four AM
  • never ever find yourself alone in the milking shed in the south end of the farm. time passes differently there
  • if you happen to hurt yourself in your exploration, make sure you do not bleed onto the dirt
  • bring plenty of water, you do not want to drink from there
  • the cows will watch you, this is normal
  • close every gate you open, even if the fields are empty. don’t ever leave one open behind you, just trust me
  • beware unstable rocks, the cracks tend to be filled with insect nests
  • bring a weapon with you, but no guns
  • if you see someone else while exploring, never tell them your name. you can never be sure if they are real or not, and further out you go, the less real they will seem. the patupaiarehe have evolved in cruel and unusual ways
  • do not go inside the empty share-milkers cottages, whatever you do, do not go inside. something else lives there now
  • a tree with the undersides of its leaves showing mean that a storm is coming. a tree with no leaves means the storm has already come
  • sometimes the hills look like they’re moving. be aware of this, because some things don’t like to be disturbed
  • do not sleep under the full moon, in fact, just don’t sleep on the farm
  • finding skulls is normal, only become worried when you start finding ribs
  • if you find yourself lost in a forest, continue walking in a straight line until you are free again. the trees may make it look as though you are going in circles, but i promise you’re not. ignore the soft music you can hear
  • your phone won’t work out here
  • the ghosts from the land wars won’t harm you, but be sure to show them respect
  • don’t take anything from the farm with you when you leave. just be grateful you have made it out alive

anonymous asked:

Hi! Saw your last book post and could you maybe post Brianna telling Jamie that she is pregnant or Brianna giving birth? Still have to buy the books but I just love spoilers so :D

Yes, of course.  Um… let’s go with Brianna telling Jamie she’s pregnant. At this point Claire knows and Bree is very nervous to tell Jamie.

Ciamar a tha tu, mo chridhe?” he said suddenly. It was his customary greeting to her, the beginning of their evening Gaelic lesson, but his voice was different tonight; soft, and very gentle. How are you, darling? His hand turned and covered hers, cradling her long fingers. 

Tha mi gle mhath, athair,” she replied, looking a bit surprised. I am well, Father. Normally he began the lesson after dinner. 

Slowly he reached out with his other hand and rested it gently on her stomach. 

An e ’n fhirinn a th’agad?” he asked. Do you tell me true? I closed my eyes and let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. No need to break all the news, after all. And now I knew the reason for his taut-strung strangeness; he knew, and whatever the knowledge cost him to hold, hold it he would, and treat her gently. 

She didn’t know enough Gaelic yet to tell what he’d asked, but she knew well enough what he meant. She stared at him for a moment, frozen, then lifted his sound hand to her cheek and bent her head over it, the loose hair hiding her face. 

“Oh, Da,” she said, very quietly. “I’m sorry.” 

She sat quite still, holding to his hand as though it were a lifeline. 

“Ah, now, m’ annsachd,” he said softly, “it will be all right.” 

“No, it won’t,” she said, her voice small but clear. “It can’t ever be right. You know that.” 

He glanced at me out of habit, but only briefly. I couldn’t tell him what to do, now. He drew a deep breath, took her by the shoulder and gave her a gentle shake. 

“All I know,” he said softly, “is that I’m here by ye, and your mother, too. We willna see ye shamed or hurt. Not ever. D’ye hear me?” 

She didn’t answer or look up, but kept her eyes on her lap, her face hidden by the rich fall of her hair. A maiden’s hair, thick and unbound. His hand traced the shining curve of her head, then his fingers trailed along her jaw and lifted her chin so her eyes looked into his. 

“Lizzie’s right?” he asked gently. “It was rape?” 

She pulled her chin away and looked down at her knotted hands, the gesture as much an admission as her nod. 

“I didn’t think she knew. I didn’t tell her.” 

“She guessed. But it’s no your fault, and dinna ever think so,” he said firmly. “Come here to me, a leannan.” He reached for her, and gathered her awkwardly onto his knee. 

The oakwood creaked alarmingly under their combined weight, but Jamie had built it after his usual sturdy fashion; it could have held six of him. Tall as Brianna was, she looked almost small cradled in his arms, her head tucked into the curve of his shoulder. He stroked her hair gently, and murmured small things to her, half in Gaelic. 

“I’ll see ye safe marrit, and your bairn wi’ a good father,” he murmured to her. “I swear it to ye, a nighean.” 

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here is the spot where my sister said she saw god
where our limbs took root by the trees
and we committed our souls to the land. 

my sister had a crow she locked in her room
no one spoke of it; we all knew it existed
the crow died on a sunday and my sister called it god’s will
i don’t tell her the ghosts bother me at night

there is a place at the back of the farm
that god forgot. my sister points to it and tells me
when she dies, this is where she will stay
and i tell her she will find me waiting

there was a fire in the milking sheds and three boys died
the back of the farm is cold, and crows
don’t fly here anymore. the trees are bare.

my sister comes to me that night
she says, sorry about the body in the lake
i say, it’s okay, i dumped mine there too

RUN-ON SENTENCE: in which two independent clauses are joined without an appropriate conjunction || j.m

fox in the henhouse

written because foxes are adorable. and the world needs more fox!Stiles. 

Originally posted by setyourpridetotheside

All things considered, there are probably nicer ways to wake in the morning than to the screams and wails of between twenty and thirty traumatized eight-year-olds.


What now?

Peter rolls out of bed, hauls his jeans on, and stumbles out the front door of the house just in time to see the herd of weeping children being ushered back toward the yellow bus that’s waiting for them out on the road. Their teacher is bringing up the rear, glaring at Derek as he stumbles along beside her looking apologetic and saying something that clearly she’s not prepared to listen to.

Peter groans and leans in the doorway of the small house.

“Derek?” he asks when the bus takes off and his nephew drags his sorry ass back to the little house. “What the fuck was that?”


Three years ago, Peter was a lawyer. He supposes that technically he still is a lawyer, but fuck that. He’s done with that bullshit. When he found himself sitting in his office one day, gazing out over the glittering cityscape and contemplating slitting his own wrists with his fancy letter opener, he’d figured it was time to get out.

Besides, it’d take more than a silver letter opener to kill himself, what with his werewolf healing.

That very same day he’d received an email from his nephew Derek, who had just graduated college and decided to return home to Beacon Hills to make his own cheese. And he wanted Peter to invest, since everyone else in the family thought he was fucking crazy. So did Peter, actually, but it just so happened that he needed some fucking crazy in his life, so not only had he invested in Derek’s business, he’d headed home to help run it.

From lawyer to farmer, in one easy step.

Because of course Derek’s cheese has to come from his own cows and goats and even sheep. It’s taken a few years to get everything up and running, but they’re turning a profit at last. They employ thirty people, run factory tours and, as a little bonus for the tourists and the local elementary school children, have a sort of a petting zoo out the front where they keep some lambs, a few poddy calves, some goatlets—kids, dammit. Why can Peter never remember that? Oh, because he is a terrible famer, as Derek likes to remind him—and some ducks and chickens.


“Again?” he asks as he follows Derek toward the little petting zoo. “Seriously?”

Derek sighs and nods.

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose. “Next time, can someone check it’s not the Texas Chainsaw Massacre in there before the kids arrive?”

Peter might be a terrible famer, but he’s damn good at publicity and advertising and schmoozing at trade shows and generally making sure that Hale Organic Cheeses has the best fucking reputation in the area. And that good reputation is going to be really difficult to hold onto if they continue to traumatize innocent children.

Derek nods worriedly.

“Go, Peter says, and waves him away. “Go and do the things you do.”

“What are you going to do?” Derek asks him.

Peter narrows his gaze. “I’m going to kill him.”


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anonymous asked:

dearest big daddy space ghost, It's cool if i call you that right? ive been calling you that lately and I never thought about how it would make you feel. how's big daddy space ghost? anyway, I offer the feeling of rescuing an incapacitated friend from a raging party, a loud crash from the next room over, and pants that you forgot to dry. why am I incapable of caring about anything? where did my passion go? did I leave it in that milk crate in the shed?



I find it really ridiculous when I see vegan posts about how milk is cruelty and liken it to humans having their babies ripped away.
My mum lives on a dairy farm and it’s like a cow holiday. They love the farmer, if they hear him they run to the fence and start mooing at him. He loves them and says that if you have unhappy cows the milk tastes awful. All his cows are fat and happy, they’re fed hay and silage and grass clippings alongside their grass. They love going to be milked and only have to be herded if they’re crossing the road, otherwise they pile right in to the milking shed.
All this shit about mother cows mourning for their babies is crap. I’ve seen a cow give birth then walk away from her calf. Cows don’t give a shit about their young, they’d easily trample them if the farmer didn’t come move them into a creche with other calves and feed them formula that’s even healthier than milk. Then the calves go on to milk farms just like this one since the sperm they artificially inseminated is sexed so they don’t have to send their calves to meat farms since they love them so much.
Large, factory farms are despicable so people should be trying to drink local milk from local farmers instead of foreign milk where the cattle aren’t treated well because it’s ‘economical’.

I’ve been thinking about War Boy ghost stories today.

  • The Unwitnessed. Ghosts of long-dead War Boys who died glorious deaths but weren’t Witnessed, so they can’t go on to Valhalla. Sometimes they come back in the vehicles, hanging from the back of the War Rig, and haunt the repair bays. Angry at having not been Witnessed, they’ll get into the engines or chassis of your car and make things go wrong so that your car explodes, or swerves into enemy fire, so that they can try to go to Valhalla again. Since you won’t know when it happens, you won’t be able to call for Witness, and you’ll become Unwitnessed yourself. Some say they’ll wander the halls of the Citadel, looking for the sickly, especially those with obvious tumors, which they can get in to possess you. If you decorate or hide your lumps it’s harder for them to identify your weak spots.
  • Ghost Wives/Ghost Mothers. The Immortan’s former wives who died as a result of childbirth or pregnancy-related sickness. You can hear them crying near the Milking Mothers’ sheds, and sometimes they’ll appear in the Kennels, leaning over Pups that might have been their sons. Attracted to Pups’ crying at night. After the fall of the Immortan, the stories mingle with stories brought from the Many Mothers, and the Ghost Wives and Ghost Mothers are sometimes guardians.
  • Milk Beasts. Ravenously hungry former Milkers, huge beasts with hundreds of teats. They live below the Citadel, deep in the dark, damp caverns. They have little hands on the end of long, fat arms. If they catch you they’ll eat you and turn you into milk.
  • The Wretched from Below. Broken, misshapen, and dirty, the Wretched are a living nightmare for War Boys. Wholly dependent on the Immortan’s mercy but without the saving grace of the strength to be useful. Those who died a mediocre or soft death come back as the Wretched. Some say the Wretched are the living Unwitnessed, those who died chrome but lived again to continue trying to enter Valhalla.

Since we’re both having bad/stressful days (offline, at least) I wrote @sansacinderellalily some of our AU where they’re modern-day historians trying to re-create a late medieval farm. Very soothing. Imagine birds chirping and the rising sun turning leaves green-gold.  Features this madrigal.

Jack never expected to love Samwell Farm. When he left grad school it felt like Samwell was a face-saving maneuver his parents pulled off—oh, he wasn’t really dropping out, he was just taking some time to do a living history research project. But at the same time, the position wasn’t really a good one; Samwell was overloaded with social historians, people who wanted to cook the food and sew the clothes, and therefore eager to pick up labourers who’d handle the livestock and do heavy carpentry.

And yet.

He wakes up before dawn, breath steaming in the air as he laces himself into doublet and hose, Shitty doing the same in the truckle next to him. He doesn’t need to talk as they go downstairs, past Bittle starting a fire in the hearth and squinting through the gloom like he still misses coffee. Shitty begins whistling as they cross the courtyard to the sheds, but Jack doesn’t mind.

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