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Learning to draw :)

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I guess I'm learning to draw now

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Writing Practice Shirley Jackson Edition

Nestled in the confluence of three hills, Goldhart was scarcely large enough to support a Dollar General. Its grid of painted brick buildings hanging American flags dissipated Into the pines and pokes of the Appalachians. The city hall and county seat, the same building, had decorated their clock tower with an inflatable spider and set pumpkins and haybales at the base of their statue. The bronze figure of a coal miner was indifferent as ever, silent and sleepy as the rest of the town.

Visitors to Raspberry Fields often chose to stay in the bed and breakfasts of Goldhart, to really experience the culture of the region. Staring from their windows, they found that the streets that had been straight as an arrow as they descended into the valley now appeared to curve to the left. Not a cause for concern; after all, neighboring Breathitt county had just condemned their high school that had sunk into its shale foundation.

As dusk settled in, the sun was cut off early by the crest of the western hill, plunging the town into liminal twilight with the exception of the gleaming cross topping Goldhart Baptist's spire. The reflection of the setting sun blazed off it and could be seen throughout the city, even in places one could not quite recall if the cross had been visible before. The clock tower never quite managed such an intense glow regardless of the season.

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Writing Practice 3

The rotting planks of the boardwalk creaked and groaned underfoot. Eaten by worms and the tide, each grey slat threatened to give at any moment. Clara noted a few cracks to avoid and headed in. The turnstile screeched, deafening her and leaving a dusty, flaky coating of rust on her hands. To her right was a merry-go-round with yellowed horses glowing an even deeper orange in the red rays of the dying sun. One horse had come loose at the top and rested at an angle, an unstable rock that had stayed on its perch only through noninterference. 

Rust hung and dripped off all the stalls, benchs, and rides like dried blood. Where once there had been laughter and cotton candy and funnel cakes, now all she found was the taste of corrosive sea spray and the smell of mold and stale urine. She ran her finger on a balloon stall countertop as she walked by. The dust stained her finger a light brown and made her hands sticky in a way that made her wish for running water. Dwarfing all of this, only winking out of sight when bloated purple clouds covered the sun, was a ferris wheel. Spans had fallen out like missing teeth, and she could spot the bright colors of a few carriages that had fallen off. 

She found it just off the midway, the fun house, the source of the problem. She ran her finger on the bars of the queue line, only for them to come up clean from the shiny, metallic surface. The sea spray mingled with something else, buttery, and she realized she smelled—and—tasted buttered popcorn, fresh buttered popcorn. As if to punctuate the thought, a blue-purple light flickered to life on the second floor and the tinkling of a music box came from the funhouse. It was time to get to the bottom of this.

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Rather than cope with the unbearable loneliness of their condition men will continue to seek their shattered God, and for His sake they will love the very serpents that dwell among His ruins. -Nietzsche

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Writing Practice 2

The first sensation in my consciousness is sweat, cold and sticky, gripping the collar of my nightgown as if to choke me. My alarm? Am I late for work? No, a starless black sky cloaks the room in darkness. The ringtone is wrong. The number is too. It’s not possible. I rub my eyes until they hurt but the digits are not blurry and their colors don’t shift and scintillate like a dream. I wipe my palm on my soaked nightgown and press the little green icon.

“Hello?”

“Whatever you do, don’t go downstairs.” My stomach knots and I gnash my teeth. It’s a voice I’ve only ever heard on recordings but how I despised it, loathed, wishing to silence it like a dog ripping apart a rabbit. It was my own voice. “You need to lock the door. Now.” Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. As if to add an ellipsis to the warning came the crash of metal on wood up the stairs. My own thunk adds to the cacophony as I get caught in my own sheet and slam to the floor trying to get out of bed. Moments after the deadbolt turned comes a splintering crash against the door

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My Cat is Stupid So I Put Her on a Leash

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My personal website

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Some art therapy I did on the topic of being trans

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Writing Practice 1

The grounds stank of sulfur and decay as if every plant living nourished itself on the corpse of its compatriots. It was a stale scent that permeated everything like a pool of stagnant water soaking into black earth. The scent of poison gases that burned blue and led travelers to drown in the mire under the new moon. 

As I made my way through the living willows and dead oaks, my inheritance came into view. Clack. Clack. Clack. One of the shutters signaled the impending maelstrom, its twin only hanging on by one hinge. The grimy glass was intact and offered a sanctum, but why? The rest of the home was as rotten as the landscaping; the windows should be replaced with plywood or jagged maws letting in the elements. 

A thunderclap and the first patters of precipitation force me forward. Outside is certain danger. Inside is . . . clean? The dark oak wood glistens in the light of my cellphone flashlight, the curved reflections in its carvings a thousand tiny grins. A greeting. Though its outer core sloughs off, the arsenic green wallpaper is straight and flat, hugging the walls like the day it was applied. I take a few steps forward. 

"Hello?" The words leave my mouth before my mind catches up. The hair on my body prickles. Why? The door was locked. The lights were out. Why did I feel I needed to say that?