row crops

3

a few drawings from @archangelblood​‘s practical magic au! 

Boy with a Coin

A piece of paper falls out of the bundle, and Louis snatches it and starts reading before Zayn can prise it off him.

“He’ll have eyes as green as frogs.” Louis arches an eyebrow at his brother. “Very romantic, Zayn. He’ll wear sparkly boots and he’ll be marvellously kind. He can juggle, and he—four nipples?” Louis barks out a laugh. “Zayn, such person doesn’t exist!”

“Exactly!”

The Musketeers United pt.1

 A piece of a work in progress - Suburban wife turned Vault survivor turned Wasteland farmer is visited by the surprise of her life while waiting for the Minutemen to arrive at her little settlement just northeast of Boston. Special and wholehearted thanks to @welseykels for lending me her Charlie while I putzed around with this idea.
SFW. 1145 words.

     There weren’t always good days. The Commonwealth frequently forbid it. But today was better than most. Finding out the Minutemen were active again was a blessing, and finding a caravan willing to help them make contact was pure luck. Today it was sunny and the kids were actually able to play. Some of the other settlers were trimming dead branches from the muttfruit trees while others planted new rows of other crops. The caravan that delivered news of the Minutemen’s imminent arrival when they stopped to trade for food had already moved on, leaving Lucy and the other adults with full bullet boxes and a few pieces of new (to them) clothing to pass out.
     They could actually enjoy their day, today. The sun was hot but not overwhelming - it was humid but not so horrible that anyone was complaining. One of the other settlers was just disappearing into the meeting house (the largest, most complete house of their half dozen or so structures) to start a large pot of soup for everyone’s dinner when the outlines appeared on the horizon.
     “Incoming,” Lucy announced to whoever was nearest her. “Get the kids inside.” She nodded to where a group of children were playing tag in back of the meeting house.
     “It’s two people, Fields.” The man beside her protested.
     “And if it’s Gunners, I want the kids safe.” The bite in her voice was enough to make the man retreat, and she saw two others dispatch along with him to gather everyone inside.
     Lucy herself strode up the small staircase of one of the watchtowers on the edge of the settlement. She was a stout little woman of no more than five feet and three inches, she wore sundresses and tennis shoes, and she didn’t look terribly strong, but she wore her pistol strapped to her thigh at all times and she protected her neighbors fiercely. She never gave an answer as to why she was so aggressively protective, but some of the teenagers and younger adults had started to call her “Mom”, and she didn’t fight them on it.
     As the pair crested the hill that outlined her little home Lucy raised her pistol with care, keeping them in her sights.
     One of them drew her own gun in a flash, aiming straight and true for the watchtower where Lucy was crouching. Out of pride and a little arrogance, she simply stood and kept her pistol aimed.
     “We’re with the Minutemen!” The one approaching - a woman, from her voice, though you couldn’t tell from how the sun backlit her clothes and armour - called out loud enough to be heard across the clearing between them.
     “And who told you how to find us?” Glad as she had been to hear that help might be on the way, Lucy Fields was no fool. She shook off the little shiver of familiarity that rang through her when the woman spoke and squared her shoulders.
     “Remember a fella named Sturges?” The second of the pair, a man, asked as he moved past his companion and further down the hill.
     Lucy could feel her throat run dry as they got closer. She would recognize those voices well after she was lain in her grave. The voices that belonged to the only two people she trusted with her life. The voices that rang in her nightmares when she missed them so sorely she couldn’t even form a coherent memory.
     “Who are you?!” She hollered, gun poised and ready even though the rest of her was shaking.
     “We’re with the Minutemen,” she repeated, nevertheless holding her gun at the ready. Only fair, since Lucy was holding a 10mm in her face.
     “Hey now,” the man came into view, sidling over until he was in between the two women. A synth. Clearly, completely, and entirely a synth. Barely half his false skin and yellow eyes that looked through and past you. “We come in peace. Let’s all just put the guns away?” A funny thing to say, when all three of them were drawn and ready.
     Lucy was doing the best that she could to keep herself in line. If he was a synth, surely she was too. That would account for their traveling together and for the similarities. The voices were too clean. Too perfect of an imitation. The woman even looked human, for Christ’s sake. Why were they made? Why these two synths, of all of the people in the world the Institute could have revived, why them? Was this the Institute trying to mess with her? And what did they even care about a Wasteland farmer a year after she’d crawled half-dead out of a vault?
     “Who made you?” She insisted, shifting the barrel of her pistol between them before pointing back at the woman. “What generation are you?” Slowly and cautiously Lucy came down from the little tower and rounded on the pair. They were maybe three feet away now and Lucy felt like she had walked into the most fucked up delusion of her entire life. Stranger than being frozen alive, or thawed out 200 years later. Stranger than crawling out of the Vault half-dead and being found by a passing trader. Stranger than how she had settled into this odd little community in the middle of what used to be Medford.
     The obvious synth took a tiny step forward and made a great show of holstering his gun. He held both hands at his shoulders and never, never looked away from her eyes. “Lucy…” his voice was meant to be calm, but apparently even robots betrayed emotions, because his words were shaky. “Please, put down your gun.”
     “How do you know my name?” Lucy stumbled back a step, feeling her heart leap up into her throat at the way he formed her name. It was too perfected. Too familiar. It was like falling down a rabbit hole with no end in sight. “Who sent you?” She insisted, fighting for more questions that might fend them off. If the woman ever opened her mouth again, Lucy thought she might break down altogether. Who at the Institute thought it was necessary to track down a Vault dweller turned farmer and send her synth versions of her long dead best friends? More than 200 years dead. Gone when the bombs dropped and lost forever - just like everyone else she knew.
     “Lulu?” When the woman finally spoke again, she nudged forward and dropped her gun to her side - her face painted with nothing short of pure shock. She looked to be on the verge of tears from the way her face was starting to scrunch. It was obvious even from a few yards away that she was hiccuping for air, her free hand clenching and unclenching in and out of a fist. “It’s…I mean…please tell me that’s you?”

selenaestella  asked:

rune factory fic idea (can be any game): people reacting to the monsters that follow the protag around. people reacting to the protag riding them. people wondering why anybody would name hammer troll 'fluffy'. (and if rf4, certain characters puzzling over how... familiar some of these monsters seem)

Rune Factory Ficlet

Lest: No Relationship

SFW

Keep reading

Apropos of the anon I just received I’d like to make a couple of quick illustrations of the “Rothko problem” on the internet.

Above, this popular collage of Rothko paintings appears when you google his work, I am not sure who made it or if it’s just generated.

The first and fourth paintings are cropped a bit but they are the same painting as the 2nd image in the bottom row, which is upside down. The third painting in the second row is on its side but that particular scan is always upside down when you see it on tumblr and for long time there was no museum scan to correct it (I posted it the wrong way myself at first). It’s also much more orange than red but that’s not always photoshop, just sometimes the nature of photography and printing. The fifth painting in the second row and the fifth painting in the third row are both copies and not real Rothkos.The 7th painting in the second row is cropped on the bottom (this happens, sometimes a cropped scan is all we have seen and we take what we can get).

That’s not a great track record and it’s not really anyone’s fault. Pinterest is the worst offender because when people pin they tend not to check the veracity of the information. This is how you get a lot of misattributions as things there get shared endlessly.

Because of all this, you will note from time to time I will share fakes, copies or misattributed Rothkos, trying, in a sense, not to make the problem worse. As with the submissions, I will not let these over take the blog and they will be tagged for those who wish to avoid them.

Welcome!

I made this blog because over the years, I’ve noticed a disconnect between agriculture and consumers. I’d love to help shorten this gap and provide knowledge about the agriculture.

Some background on me:

I am an agriculturist located in California. I have a background in row crops, orchard crops, meat goats, and dairy goats. I have knowledge across the industry in the sheep, beef, and dairy cattle industries as well as the working dog side of the animal agriculture industry.

The goat in the picture is my dairy herd starter, Maewen. I’ll post pictures of my goats, the sheep I work with, and the dogs I train. Any questions about the industry will be answered truthfully to what I know is true from a producer stand point, either through personal experience or research if its a subject I don’t know about. I will try to keep as unbiased of an opinion as possible, though if asks or submissions become hostile, I will stay polite but give my opinion on the matter. Agriculture is my passion and I will defend any lies told against it.

So feel free to ask questions! I love spreading my knowledge and educating people on my passion and love. Maewen welcomes you!