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IMG_6065.jpg by Nikolaus S.

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i want to be soft again but i have so much anger in me 

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gothic americana

❝ hell is REAL. ❞

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sinnersacrifice:

PRAYER BEADS CLUTCHED ; †  in elongated hands, oak of the necklace crimson against the dim light of the nightstand’s lamp. Shade over bulb casts floral silhouettes over off white walls. A prayer slips from lips at a pace thus unknown to another child, for Atticus must commit to his God, and he must confess all sins and ask forgiveness before curly head hits pillow. Words flow, amen, amen, amen, and continues until he hears it. Footsteps - so soft, so small - on a front porch pooling in its bulb’s dim light.

Eyes are bright again suddenly, suddenly. Prayer beds are pressed against rose lips before they are slid in a robe’s pocket. He’s on small feet at 11 pm, soles falling steadily against hardwood as he pads silently down the stairs and to the door. Wind blows heavily against the side of a glowing home, and Atticus can see their blonde hair fluttering against their identical heads through the peep hole, stuck deep in the door with the peeling paint. Perhaps they are to retreat, but they are to do it too late, as boy turns knob and is greets them with a thin lipped grin.

Girls, running. And their scent - Atticus, well, he can smell it. There’s something, something about them. He would discover soon enough.        ❛     well , what d’we got here ?     ❜     voice muffled within in the South’s chilly winds, eyes seemed to glow for a moment as he stares at them.        ❛     would y’all like t’come in ? get outta th’cold for awhile ?     ❜     

Two sets of blue eyes land on a pale face; one gaze guarded, the other simply curious. Ava’s looking at her sister, but Meg’s looking at the boy. Wary, immediately on edge. She opens her mouth to decline, but it’s Ava who tugs on her sleeve, the tiniest cue. Identical gazes meet; there seems to be a silent war between them, waged for merely seconds before Meg lets out a huff. Visible breath spills into the air before she looks back at their oh-so-generous host.

“Briefly,” Meg decides, voice flat, disconnected. Ava’s eyes turn to the boy now, almost like she’s been granted permission to finally look at him. A touch of a smile at the corner of her mouth thanks him silently, though she doesn’t speak. They’ll be safe here, Ava knows; she can feel it, like a warm tug in her veins. They can rest, and be sheltered from the storm. Meg believes her; at least enough to accept the invitation, something she’s only done at her sister’s urging. 

“Don’t you know it’s dangerous to let strangers in?” Meg asks, and there’s the tiniest hint of a threat in her gaze, though her voice remains level. He’s already invited; he won’t take it back now. At least Meg can make it clear that they’re not going to welcome trouble of any sort.

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Was there ever a world without troubles? Your being as a person depends on violence to others. Your very body is a battlefield, full of the dead and dying. Existence implies violence. There is little of non-violence in nature. Do you realize that, as long as you have a self to defend, you must be violent?

Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj (via south-gothic)

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@sinnersacrifice

Younger sister looked over her shoulder, searching for her partner in crime. Meg was somewhere behind, though Ava knew not where. All she knew was that they needed somewhere to stay, somewhere safe; the house on the corner with the warm, welcoming porch lights looked like a good place to start. The least they could do was ask for directions.

Timid hand raised to knock on the door, sleeves pulled up over her hands, the cool fall chill beginning to set in in the South. Ava heard her sister coming up behind her, finally; Meg’s footsteps crunched through leaves on the ground to catch up.

“Ava.” Voice sharp, a rebuke; what did she think she was doing? You couldn’t just walk up to stranger’s doors to ask for directions, no matter how comfortable or welcoming the town seemed. Not when they were running, running from what they’d done-

Meg caught up to Ava; older sister reached for younger’s arm, ready to pull her back and away. But before she could do so, the door to the house was opening. Too late. Frustration at her sister and fear at the prospect of strangers made her step close to Ava, just in front, hoping she could talk her way out of this one.

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I. You think this town loves you? This town never loved you. This town loves slouching old houses and soupy bayou summers. Cigarette butts glowing in the backwater. Watchful eyes burning in the trees. II. Look out for old men in broken rockers. Look out for alligators by the riverbank. Look out for the cicadas, shrilling warnings in the mangroves. You’re not as alone as you think.  III. Maybe this is why we draw our curtains closed at night. Maybe this is why we cross ourselves and wear silver chains around our necks. IV. You think this town is holy? This town was never holy. This was the devil’s land long before it was ours. Nothing holy has lived here in years.

This town will devour you (southern gothic) |e.c.| (via boysfear)

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THERE’S GOT TO BE SOMETHING WRONG WITH US.      TO DO WHAT WE DID.

twin southern gothic ocs penned by alex.

highly selective.

promo by ash.

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savannah, georgia, december 14th, 2016