tree stem


Written for #HannibaLibre ♥ A little exploration of domestic murder husbands in Cuba.

[Also on AO3]

The house was a lovely thing, all yellow stucco and red roof tiles, set just outside of Havana. Hannibal had bought it on a whim many years ago; deciding that Cuba’s lack of extradition treaties and the beauty of the landscaping alone made for a worthy investment. When he’d purchased the house it had been winter, and Hannibal been able to see between the leafy trees and barren flower stems to catch a glimpse of the beach that was mere meters away. Now, in height of summer, with all of the flowers in full bloom, it gave the effect of being in a private world created for just the two of them.

Will had taken a liking to reclining on a lounge chair in the backyard in the afternoons, idling in the warm weather while Hannibal cleaned up after lunch or began preparations for dinner. Hannibal stood in the back doorway and watched as Will stretched, all golden brown glistening skin in the sunshine. Will had changed so much- both of them had since arriving in Cuba- but the freedom of their life had allowed Will to blossom like one of the many morning glories that grew up the side of the house.

He’d been hesitant at first, of course. Hannibal had given him access to a bank account and told him to do exactly as he pleased, curious as to what Will would do with the money.

Slowly but surely, the house had begun to fill up with little things that Will brought back from town and added to what Hannibal already owned. Will’s ill-fitted flannels gave way to linen shirts; repairing boat motors to tinkering with broken down classic cars they found around the island. Even Hannibal’s opera music had been edged out in favor of CDs Will picked up from street performers when they went out in the evenings.

It was a collection Hannibal hoped to never stop adding to. A culmination of a full and fully shared life.

Happiness, Hannibal thought, was a very good look on them both.

“Enjoying yourself?” Hannibal asked as he wandered across the yard. The lounge chair creaked as he sat down next to Will and ran a hand over his thigh; unable to help but touch him whenever possible.

“Immensely.” Will smiled, eyes squinted against the sunlight. “And you?”

“Right now, or in general?”

“Either. Both.”

Hannibal gently nudged Will so that he would edge over and make room for the both of them on the lounge chair. Draping an arm across Will’s stomach, he curled up next to him; heedless of the way Will’s sweat-damp skin stuck to his clothes.

“I don’t believe I have ever been so fully entertained in my life,” Hannibal said. “You come into your own more and more every day. I doubt I could ever tire of waking up and wondering what new changes I might encounter in you.”

Will closed his eyes, idly running his fingers over Hannibal’s forearm. “I haven’t changed that much,” he protested.

“You have. You make choices with an ease and confidence you didn’t have before.”

“Do I?”

“Mhmm.” Hannibal pressed a kiss to Will’s shoulder. His hand drifted down, fingers following the trail of hair from below Will’s navel to the top of a pair of dangerously tiny, low slung shorts Will had brought home after his morning grocery trip.

“For example, the Will Graham I met so many years ago would never have felt so at ease with himself as to make a display of lying about in such scandalous attire,” Hannibal said as he toyed with the bow at Will’s waistband.

“Is that what I’m doing?” Will asked with a grin. “Making a display of myself?”

“Yes. And do you know what happens to boys who make such displays of themselves?”

Will pretended to consider the question. “Well, I’m not entirely sure considering I’m pushing forty and thus long past boyhood…”

Hannibal pinched the soft skin of his side in playful reproach. “I see your desire to be contrary still has yet to change.”

“No. And you love me for it.”
“Yes,” Hannibal said. He lifted his hand to Will’s face, thumb brushing over the thin, white scar on his cheek before pulling him in for a kiss. “I very much do.”

Will grasped at the collar of Hannibal’s shirt, using it to pull him in closer until Hannibal was nearly lying on top of him. He sucked at Hannibal’s lower lip with just enough teeth to make Hannibal’s stomach swoop and his toes curl, and then pulled away. “I could have you right here on his lounge chair and no one in the world would ever know,” Will murmured against his mouth.

“Perhaps I’d want them to know.”

“Of course you would.” Will rolled his eyes affectionately and indulged Hannibal in a series of slow, lingering kisses before speaking again. “I was thinking we could go out to dinner tonight. There’s a car I was wanting to look at, could make a good project for me.”

Hannibal nodded. “Of course. And what would you like to do until then?”

“Well, there’s a few things I could think of,” Will said, eyes bright with mischief, and flipped Hannibal onto his back so he could straddle his lap.

There was much to be done before going out. Hannibal needed to iron his shirt, and there was laundry waiting to be put into the dryer. But for now he let himself be kissed senseless. Nestled amongst the morning glories and the sound of the crashing waves, they whiled away the afternoon tangled in each other’s arms. In a world for just the two of them.

An English Wood - Robert Graves

This valley wood is pledged
To the set shape of things,
And reasonably hedged:
Here are no harpies fledged,
No rocs may clap their wings,
Nor gryphons wave their stings.
Here, poised in quietude,
Calm elementals brood
On the set shape of things:
They fend away alarms
From this green wood.
Here nothing is that harms -
No bulls with lungs of brass,
No toothed or spiny grass,
No tree whose clutching arms
Drink blood when travellers pass,
No mount of glass;
No bardic tongues unfold
Satires or charms.
Only, the lawns are soft,
The tree-stems, grave and old;
Slow branches sway aloft,
The evening air comes cold,
The sunset scatters gold.
Small grasses toss and bend,
Small pathways idly tend
Towards no fearful end.

To love a Sociopath

Get lost in my forests where the trees stem from pain.
And the tears of past lovers fall like warm, salty rain.
Look to my sky, so clouded with lies.
That you struggle to find the sun which once lit up my eyes.

And as you sift through the fields of broken promises and dead daisy’s…
You’ll hopelessly search for ‘what if’s and ‘maybe’s.
And occasionally you’ll find flowers where beauty still lingers.
But unfortunately they thrive off the blood of pricked fingers.
So you’ll pick and you’ll pick, and you’ll pull and you’ll pull.
Until the blood of your love lines the holes in my soul.

So be weary new-comer, for your love may be strong.
But sometimes…
the beauty and the beast don’t belong.

Elder Flower Water

Elder Flower water can be made simply and used as a magical potion for strengthening intuition

Materials Needed:

  • -Elder Blossoms
  • -1 half gallon jar
  • -Boiled water
  • -1 ½ ounces of liquor, either brandy or vodka

1. Elder blossoms are best gathered on Midsummer’s Eve or a full moon, preferably in June. Fill your jar completely with the elder blossoms and pour the boiled water over them.

2. Add the liquor and allow the mixture to steep for several hours

3. After the blossoms have steeped, strain them through cheesecloth and keep the water stored in a pretty bottle. Your potion is now ready for use. As you learn to create your own flower waters, you may experiment with different kinds of flowers, Keep records in your grimoire as you create your own original recipes.

Elder (Sambucus Nigra) Has long been regarded as a magical and holy tree. Its stems were worn as protective amulets to bring about health and good luck. Elder trees were often planted close to houses due to the belief that elder would never be struck by lightening. Elder blossoms, berried, and leaves were hung over doorways to drive away unwelcome spirits and to discourage thieves. 

Source: A witches Grimoire

The Omiya Bonsai Art Museum #1 by akihiro nagashima

Bonsai, meaning “to plant in a tray,” is a tradition that originated in China about 2,000 years ago and later traveled to Japan. To cultivate a bonsai, a horticulture artist starts with a cutting, seedling or small specimen of a woody-stemmed tree or shrub and then trains the plant to grow in a certain way, by pruning leaves and wiring branches into a desired shape. The goal is to create a miniature tree that looks natural, despite the artist’s constant manipulations.

“To some people these miniature trees, which have been twisted, trained and dwarfed for their entire lives, may seem grotesque,” but, to others, they are beautiful, living sculptures.

FACT #114:

Where is the biggest tree in the world?

Originally posted by the-flying-elephant

The General Sherman is a giant sequoia (Sequoiadendron giganteum) tree located in the Giant Forest of Sequoia National Park in Tulare County, in the U.S. state of California. By volume, it is the largest known living single stem tree on earth.


Cryptarch Records // Scripts HG-LMdA17

TYPE: Written Record

AUTHOR: [unknown]

A Lady brought him out of the wastes. A Lady from the tower, in the shining armor of a Titan. 

He had grown up in the ruins of his ancestors, taken to the wastes as a child by his mother, who was herself tired of the Tower, of the Speaker, and of the death woven there in the name of glory.

He met the lady in the aftermath of a hunt, saw her through a copse of trees and could not stem his curiosity despite his mother’s warnings.

“Are you an angel?” he asked.

The Lady laughed, and to him, her voice rang with bells.

“No, child. I am nothing so grand.”

“Why does your skin shine with starlight, then?”

She saw that he carried a spear shorn from a jump-ship; inferred that it was this crude weapon he used to hunt his prey. And she saw his innocence, surrounded though he was by the corpses of the Fallen. It was a long while before she answered, and when she did it was with great hesitation, for she was wise, and knew what it would mean to speak.

“To the West, there is a place where heroes live. If you find your way there, to our world’s last beacon, you will find light such as you see in me - enough, perhaps, to fill you with hope.” And she left without saying more. Let him live in innocence, she thought. Let him live in peace.

The boy prowled the dead zone, through crumbled castles of his forebears, and he scavenged the ruins for the scraps of starlight he had seen there. Not knowing what they were, he strapped them to himself in base imitation of the Lady.

His mother wept when he left, and begged him not to go. But his head had been filled with visions of light, and he would not be swayed. West, he traveled, past the warrens and pits of nameless things that howled in the darkness.

After untold weeks he saw it, glittering in the sky above him. They laughed at him when he arrived, covered in the detritus that he had scavenged and carrying his bent spear. The laughter ceased when they learned that he had taken it - every piece of it, bone and metal - from the creatures he had slain with his bare hands.

It was the Titans who saw him as one of their own; saw him and claimed him, though to hear their stories it was he who claimed them. But now I must break the spell and ask a question of my own: had the Hunters named him, or the Order, what would have become of him then? Had he seen the dusty cloak of a gunslinger that day among the ruins, would he have followed his feet to our glittering castle? Was it choice that placed him in the Titans’ shining ranks, that set him ablaze? Or was it destiny? 

You say the distinction means nothing. I say it means everything.

The story ends there, unfinished. The child - and a child he was, ignorant of the world he had walked into and clad only in the meager armor he had taken from the Darkness - saw in front of him the rows of heroes, and with them the lights that were their companions. Like stars, he thought. Like the lady.

“Where can I find a light such as yours?” he asked them. “For I would be like you in all ways, watched over by a star at my shoulder.”

I do not know who responded. Some say it was the same Lady who had, through the machinations of causality, brought him there. The Titans are content to leave the question to others, but he was answered thusly:

“Someday, perhaps, you will find a little light of your own. But I hope that it is not soon.”

Since some of people wanted me to continue drawing what I think our starters could evolve into.. Here is my take on Rowlet’s final evolution, Gryforeowl/Gurimori! Gryforeowl comes from Gryphon + Forest + Owl, Gurimori comes from Gryphon(Japanese romanization) + Mori (forest). Due to Alola being a more tropical region I took inspirations from tropical flora for the Grass Type part of it. It’s talons are made from banana tree stems, and the wings stems are also banana tree stems with the wings themselves banana tree leaves. I tried bringing a lot of Rowlet and Treadowl’s designs back full circle by making Gryforeowl’s tail one big leaf much like Rowlet’s tail, and Gryforeowl’s head the same leaf on it’s forehead like Treadowl and the same ears.
Hope you guys like it! I’ll be posting Litten’s first evolution next :)

Vine and branch we’re connected in this world
of sound and echo, figure and shadow, the leaves
contingent, roots pushing against earth. An apple
belongs to itself, to stem and tree, to air
that claims it, then ground. Connections
balance, each motion changes another. Precarious,
hanging together, we don’t know what our lives
support, and we touch in the least shift of breathing.
Each holy thing is borrowed. Everything depends.
—  Jeanne Lohmann, Shaking the Tree

Watch a dragon eat crickets. Nick shows us some more animals that can make good pets. We look at a bearded dragon (pogona), a leopard gecko, and a whites tree frog.