kendra.in.bloom

@kendrainbloom.bsky.social

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30-something weirdo with a fondness for critters, witchy shit, and books she/her

October Reading Wrap-Up from StoryGraph. 9 books read 2,206 pages read 4.03 avg rating
A cat-shaped goblin named Juniper relaxes on a bed next to a splayed paperback copy of Fledgling by Octavia E. Butler.
The Starving Saints by Caitlin Starling
A fat stack of books on a coffee table. The titles are, from top to bottom: Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury What Stalks the Deep by T. Kingfisher Lord of Light by Roger Zelazny Remember You Will Die by Eden Robins Uncle Silas by J. Sheridan le Fanu Lavinia by Ursula K. Le Guin The Last Interview by Ursula K. Le Guin Borne by Jeff VanderMeer The Scar by China Miéville
A hardcover copy The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson on a table surrounded by spooky accoutrements: a beaver tail skeleton, a muskrat skull, and two other books that you can't see the titles of.
Elphie: A Wicked Childhood by Gregory Maguire
A laptop screen showing the countdown to the first episode of Critical Role campaign 4
Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl
September reading wrap-up: Dragonflight by Anne McCaffrey The Deluxe Transitive Vampire by Karen Elizabeth Gordon Katabasis by R. F. Kuang This Immortal by Roger Zelazny Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach
The Conquest of Bread by Peter Kropotkin
The waters of the pond swirled with the subtle undercurrents of minnows and frogs on their cyclical journey, tickling her bulbous belly. The rain had been relentless of late, raising the water level to new and fascinating heights. This did not bother Molb; it only meant that she could absorb water faster, attract bugs nearer. Little water skimmers, graceful and plentiful in the pond, usually didn’t stray far enough into the boggy bank to be lured by her, but now that their territory had grown, they nearly swarmed. She was well-fed. She was content.
Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach
Molb froze. A flurry of far-away shuffling movements, tiny twitches in the earth, had just come into her circle of awareness and were growing louder as she focused. She shoved the toy car into her pocket, unwilling to trust that just because it hadn’t been touched didn’t mean it wouldn’t be. Her rock with the good grip was nowhere to be found nearby, so Molb did all she could do: stood, placed one hand on the wall of the shack to sense better, and waited. The small tremors–steps, Molb realized, feeling silly–ceased abruptly upon arriving at the doorway. The still morning stretched between them. And then the hum reached her again, the one Molb remembered from before, the frequency and tone climbing and sinking in a way that was unexpectedly soothing. She stepped forward, embodying an echo of the intense fever-induced curiosity and fearlessness that had overcome her before. If she had let fear dictate her actions, she would still be who she was before. What she was before. And she would not go back; so she must go forward
Women Living Deliciously by Florence Given
Many different flowers embroidered in the shape of a crescent moon.
This Immortal by Roger Zelazny on a coffee table surrounded by candles and Halloween decor
Taylor Tomlinson saying, "Am I better than everybody?"
It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. I meant to leave Amos McConnell to his life and return to my own solitary study of this glorious world. And I did, for a time. After the intricacies of human conversation and convention, I sought a break. From the moors of Scotland, I eased between the shadows of this reality and came up again on the other side of the world where the barest trickle of a stream made its way southward for many, many miles. The landscape was wild and wildly different; creatures as big as I wandered the plains that stretched out below my sailing shadow and humans as I had just known them did not yet exist. What better place to escape embarrassment? My blunder was millennia from being made. Here, I had the time and space to consider what had occurred. I settled down under a tree draped with leaves bigger than my head to ponder the effects that Amos McConnell had had on my soul. The little stream that would one day become the mighty Nile River grew incrementally over a few hundred years of quiet thought.
A selection of books on a shelf. From left to right: The Manningtree Witches by A.K. Blakemore Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke Perdido Street Station by China Miéville The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V. E. Schwab
“Arabella!” The Duke shouted, slamming a hand into the arm of his chair. The nearby knife rattled and clattered to the floor. Startled, Arabella’s gaze snapped to the Duke’s. Finding her tongue did not come easily. “Yes,” she stammered. “Yes, your Grace?” “You are aware I’ve just returned from Cauron?” Realizing that, for some reason, Albin was now expecting her to speak and engage, Arabella did her best to oblige, despite being thoroughly out of practice. “For the oath renewal to King Robinet,” she said. “We have never discussed this, but I must ask you, Bell,” Albin seemed to steel himself for what he was about to say. “How does it make you feel that I have bent the knee–metaphorically speaking–” he gestured to his footless leg with a grim smile, “to the Cauron throne? Your father spent his life fighting them, and you alongside him for many years.” Your father. The words rang between Arabella’s ears, a gong struck that had been silent for years.
Psithurism: the rustling or whispering sound of leaves in the wind
The book Katabasis by R. F. Kuang on a coffee table surrounded by home decor.
I am endless, I am eternal, and I was basking in the glow of the morning sun and tasting the scent of sharp, salty sea air on my tongue and in my heart when I first met Amos McConnell. I had slipped between the threads of the fabric of time into a season of growing things and the sky was so blue it broke my heart. All around I could sense the plants, the animals, the insects aching toward the sun, yearning for it, their bodies brimming with the buzzing energy of mortal life. I stretched my wings and let them sprawl over the swaying grasses. The soft, dew-wet tendrils tickled me, a mother’s gentle caress. In all my eons of life I have never experienced such perfect serenity. Or at least I believe that must be so, otherwise how did I so let my guard down as to fail to hear the approach of two leather-booted feet crunching down the gravel road which I, in my largesse, had unintentionally sprawled across?
The book Katabasis by R. F. Kuang on a coffee table surrounded by candles, other books, and Halloween decorations.
With care, Molb moved the toy car to the curve of her stomach and let it roll gently along the hills and valleys of her body. It was one of her oldest possessions. She could not remember when it had come to her, how long ago, only that it used to have all four wheels. When the fourth wheel had rolled away into the grass, lost, despite searching over many days, it was a desperate time. Mostly, however, Molb felt little attachment to her things. She took what pleasantness she could from them, but once–and often–lost, she knew something else would come along. But the car’s wheel, which had always been, would now never be again. All around Molb the air was cooling, ushered in by the attentive breeze. Her stomach gurgled under the car’s spiralling wheels; it was nearly time. She stood, tucked the toy car into the pocket of her loose garment, and walked down a curving pathway toward the pond.
It never took long. Their vibrations hummed in the air, faintly, so faintly at first, but steadily drew nearer in search of the warm blood in her veins and the enticing smelling liquid she secreted. With one long finger, Molb traced the skin of her neck until it reached the delicately opening lips surrounding the deep gullet of her pitcher. She prodded one crystalline droplet, spread it with the tip of her finger around the entire rim. Swooping and dipping, the first victim approached unknowing. From the beat of the wings–long, supple, flittering–she knew it to be a dragonfly, and a large one at that. Molb shuddered inwardly but did not move. The dragonfly alighted on the succulent edge, gripping Molb’s peristome almost imperceptibly. It seemed to consider, then followed the alluring scent from the bait to the source, crawling down the inside wall of her pitcher and lodging itself forcefully, unwittingly, into the viscid pool of digestive fluid waiting at the bottom. Molb braced herself. She could not have passed up the opportunity for such a large catch, but the realities of it dismayed and unsettled her. The dragonfly, realizing too late its predicament, began to struggle. Molb felt its flailing against the walls of her pitcher, just behind the junction of her collarbone. She pressed a hand to her chest in an attempt to deaden the sensation. The death throes of such a large creature would last all too long. But the worst of it would pass. Before long, other insects–mainly mosquitos, flies, and beetles–followed the scent and joined the dragonfly’s fate. Their moribund cacophony melded and drowned the thrashing of any individual creature. Molb settled herself comfortably along the shoreline and allowed the stillness to return, one small end at a time.
Garet smiled thinly, but would not be drawn completely off his thread. “That’s right. He always regretted the loss of his foot, he said, but not half as much as he’d have regretted the loss of his life. Still, he was in a black temper the day we set off without him to join King Aimery’s forces in the south. “It was, at first, thrilling to be a part of something so much bigger than our little village. To fight for the land and the people that had raised me up to be somebody.” The sunset deepened, showering the pink field in vibrant orange and yellow light. Arabella sensed the pride in her father, the genuine admiration for his homeland, and saw the fiery light of the sunset reflected in his eyes. She wished she knew what that Oln had been like. But after a moment, Garet blinked and hung his head.
Word of the Day Wamble: walk or move unsteadily; stagger
a watercolor painting of a lil ghost dude, painted simply in grey and black
a watercolor painting of a rose mallow flower, a hardy hibiscus that is native to nebraska
a single rose mallow flower in a backyard garden. the rose mallow is very light pink with a deep red center.
a silver tabby and a brown and black tabby are asleep on a green blanket on top of someone's legs. There is a computer screen in the lower right-hand corner.
a watercolor painting of trees surrounding a reflective pond, with some ink lines drawn over the top.
A watercolor painting of a bumblebee on a yellow-orange flower with a green and yellow background.
A watercolor painting of a bunny harvestman spider (Metagryne bicolumnata) on a green leaf.
A close-up watercolor painting of Chrysochus auratus (dogbane beetle) on a leaf.
A watercolor painting of a cat rendered in prussian blue
A watercolor painting of a cat rendered in shades of green
A watercolor painting of a pink sunrise over two wooded hills
A watercolor painting of the dumbbell nebula