#but then it loops back around to looking intentional? since it marks the divide between the looser inside stitches?

[journeyman-tier-fibercraft]

Blocked doliy 9 and it. I really just can't tell if it was meant to be this way. Doily 8 has such a cool 3D effect that looks fully intentional but doily 9 has it's own separate 3D effect. The ease of blocking for 9 was incredible compared to 8, I pinned out the outside petals and it instantly became an even circle. Even the crochet bind off makes more sense this way (pattern called for 14 chains, I used 12 chains for doily 8 and 14 for doily 9).

I can only find ONE image of this pattern knit up and it looks like 8. But if I had to come down for one that feels more like it was intentionally designed this way, it's 9.

[timelessmulder]

31 Days of Horror Day 6: Unlocked

(features some ocd stuff. also this is part of a bigger story lol)

The deadbolt slid into place with a satisfying, heavy thunk. Casey stared at it, fingertips caught on the burnished bronze island in a sea of slate gray; he flicked it open, then closed again. His hand fell away and two fingers curled in an empty belt loop, pulling like he wanted to rip the seams. The sturdy threads were already beginning to fray; whether he'd ruin them or a rough wash cycle would get to them first was anyone's guess.

the door's fucking locked, give it a rest.

but--

Casey snorted. His hand ached and shook from the tension. He turned away and made his slow way to his bedroom, checking the locks on the windows as he went. Just a quick glance, a mild tug. And then he would move on, all careful rationalization tainted with shame. Embarrassment.

He hadn't been the same since The Incident. An event which seemed to warrant the kind of emphasis in speech that gave it capitals. Everyone in town seemed to know about it, from the way they whispered to each other whenever he passed, averting voyeuristic gazes when he managed to catch their eye; he usually just ignored them, curling shoulders in and ducking head to just be left alone. Someone had set the woods on fire while he had been in there, researching some legend of the town. The words "targeted" and "intentional" were thrown around, but the police trotted around the issue as they so often did, uninterested in whoever had done it. Even if the fire had snapped at Casey's leg, leaving a scar up his calf.

It was the risk of putting your nose where you shouldn't. Casey understood that, in both the Before and the After. He left the police and the people to their theories. A drug deal gone wrong? He was clear for drug use, but plenty of people used to woods around Pinefield for illicit dealings. An arsonist? Couldn't find any evidence for it, no sign of equipment, but they still poked at the area. Someone who hated Casey? Most likely, they all thought, because he had been marked as Odd.

They always made sure to say that in their stage whispers. Little ruminations about the strange the odd the crazy who lived away from the town center, where the woods began to thicken. Always just loud enough for him to hear, but quiet enough for plausible deniability; Casey was familiar with the dealings of school yard bullies. It was no different.

He cut through the small living room, cluttered with things that he hadn't been able to clean beyond moving things from the sofa to the coffee table. He passed the more open kitchen, where the door to the backyard and the forest beyond stared at him from the corner of his eye. Casey slowed, drew to a stop.

Perched over the small table used more for storing the mail than eating, was a window. On the sill were a few plants he needed to water. Beyond that was his yard, at the cusp of being overgrown because he couldn't manage to mow it. His mother had offered to come out and help clear it out, the concern so thick in her voice that it made shame well in Casey's belly every time they spoke and he would turn her down with a polite apology (he did not need her hovering and watching and not believing him).

But past the overgrowth of grass and budding of weeds was the forest line. The divide between was peaceful more often than not with the ebb and flow of animals that resided there. This evening, just as day tipped over into night, a deer wandered in the tall grass. It paused its exploration, ears flicking. If it had heard him, or simply been alerted by some movement in the depths of the trees, he couldn't say. It stood there, stock still, waiting and listening, just as he was.

Is this my deer? With its eyes set too far forward, its teeth far too canidae?

His eyes slid off the deer in his yard, that familiar paranoia catching him in its teeth, to the back door. Had he locked it earlier? He wasn't sure. It looked locked, from this distance, but he wasn't sure. How could he be sure, unmoving long enough for roots to begin crawling up his legs and holding him to the stained linoleum of his kitchen? His hands twitched and shook, freed now of their anchor points now that rational thought had started to blur.

something could get inside. someone.

Despite the mild limp from injury still healing, he crossed the kitchen and makeshift dining room before the deer had a chance to rear its head up and meet his eye. Trembling fingers found the burnished bronze island in a sea of slate gray.

The deadbolt slid into place with a satisfying, heavy thunk.