✨Uses for yucca in witchcraft✨
🌵 as fiber rolled into thread for knot magic, witches ladders, and binding
🌵 a single spear/leaf as athame, wand or ritual knife
🌵 spines or sawtoothed spears in witch jars, protection magic, and curses
🌵 soap yuccas in cleansing magic. Yucca soap as spell ingredient akin to Rosemary or salt.
🌵 flowers in spells involving protection, luck, dreams and the astral
🌵 Joshua tree yuccas in strength/survival magic. Also for spells fueling change
🌵 yucca gathered from graveyards (common urban use, for some reason) in death magic or spirit work


Title: Ride With Me - part eight
Serie’s prompt: Alternate Universe (AU) in which the reader is a horse rider who goes to a ranch in Arizona to gain work experience. During her time on the ranch she develops a strong connection with a wrangler and horse trainer named Dean. A story about a cowboy who falls for the girl, a story about the importance of family.
Prompt part 8: The day starts wonderful with a cattle break out, keeping the crew busy in the early hours. It’s turns out to be an omen of what to come, because as the day progresses, the day only gets worse. Then Ash gets the news and doesn’t take losing his job too well.
Words: 5115 words
Characters: Dean, Jo, Ash, Bobby, Ellen, Benny, Garth, Rufus Turner, Reader
Pairings: Dean x reader (not in this part yet, but I’m getting there!)
Warnings: language, heavy argument, angst(ish), drama
Author’s note: I just cannot be able to keep these chapters short, but who cares. This chapter is different from the other ones, heavier and a little more drama. I hope you enjoy! 
Tags: Below the story. Want to get tagged? Send me a message!
Previous parts: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7

7.30 AM, Monday morning. Several hundred hooves tremble the ground. Earthily colored dust has turned into dark mud overnight as the heavens unleashed a rainstorm that still hasn’t stopped coming down. The cattle moohs restless, anxiously trying to stick together as the herd. A dog barks over the sound of it all, his enthusiastic calls trumped by the shouts and whistles of the wranglers.
  “Yah!”, Dean shouts, cutting off young stock that threatens to fan out.
Droplets as big as marbles come down, the water that pools in the brim of his hat pours down whenever he tips it forward. It’s still cold this morning, now that there is no sunshine to burn the night away. The long leather coat he’s wearing protects him from that, but the rain started coming through the seems on his shoulders and elbows two hours ago and a steady drip down his neck has drenched his shirt already. Dean has been in the saddle since four O'clock, ever since the thunder woke him up and an eerie gut feeling began to unsettle him. Something was wrong, he felt it in his bones. As he stepped out onto the porch, shrugging on his coat and putting on his ivory colored Sheplers hat, he immediately noticed the distressed young stock on the other side of the fence than where they were supposed to be. Apparently the cattle panicked in the thunderstorm, took down a gate and escaped the pen, splitting the herd in two. They were absolutely all over the place. With a buyer coming in at 9 AM, he had to gather the two hundred cows and bulls fast if he wanted to turn off a financial disaster. So here they are; wet through, tired and miserable, trying to maneuver their horses on the slick surface. A perfect start for this dreadful Monday.

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History puts the world in order: this happened, then this. Pins the past down with dates and figures until its bloodied jaws loosen. It says: the Divide was ruined, and that is past. The I-40 was strewn with crosses, and that is past.

But the Divide is always happening.

It happens when his lungs catch on the desert dust, and the coughing makes him bend double. His own body’s lesson to him: he is not whole. He is something resurrected by the Old World, and this desert – the saguaro, the yucca trees, the sun-baked earth – no longer belongs to him. He doesn’t belong to it.

It happens when he finds shelter from a rad-storm in a vault, and he spends the night staring up at the ceiling, waiting for it to fall. Waiting to see his ribs gleaming in the dark. (His broken chest strains to rise and fall and rise and fall and–)

It happens when he pauses at the outskirts of Flagstaff, a hand on his knife, ready to shear his braids. No tribal markings, says Caesar. Your only tribe is the Bull. Any memory of past divisions is a rot that must be cut out, strung up as an example. On the day Ulysses left Flagstaff, there was a man tied to a cross in the heart of the city. He’d redone the coyote tattoo that Graham scalded off of him. Didn’t hide it well enough. The man’s eyes had followed Ulysses, and he’d heaved a sound that could have been a plea or could have been a scream crushed by the weight of his own body.

Ulysses had kept walking.

He keeps walking, now. Leaves his blade sheathed, the stories woven in his braids untouched. The Divide happens and happens; Dry Wells has been happening longer. No stop to either of them. If Caesar strikes him down–

Then that’s two histories made right.