#writing small town rural

[s0larize]

[c0unterclockwise]

I wish I could eat dirt the way you do. Clamp it between my wisdom teeth, spit out the worms and turn the mulch into stone and gem and something. I wish I could make

[mother-lee]

almost heaven

[candlelitcorners]

At least 4 ghouls in the woods beneath my bedroom window are positively salivating at my low sanity, as of late.

[rotinmycore]

“𝘪’𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘎𝘰𝘥, 𝘪’𝘮 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨.”

[eboneeblak]

Moodboard for my southern gothic short story " A Tale Between Two Devils". An excerpt coming Saturday night 9 PM PST

time.

Logline: Set in 1954, 14 year old Edith Mae is believed to be possessed, left in a state of decay, Edith must conspire with her own demons in order to escape her captivity and looming death.

[saltriverroad]

His blade penetrated the flesh with a wet thwack, carving a shallow gash a few inches from the base. He aimed too high. Agitated, the boy stabbed again with more force. He wanted it dead, wanted them all dead. So again and again he plunged the dull blade into the slick skin, forcing it to finally kneel. Pitiful thing. He snapped it's thin body in half, threw it over the fence and found more to eradicate. 

“If yer don’t stab the bastards at the root, you’ll never kill em.” The tenant said. He was ten paces ahead of the boy. “Make sure the root is severed boy and stop your huffing and puffin. yer sound like a girl.” He spat a thick wad of phlegm in the dirt and kept on at an alarming speed.

Just above them, the sun peaked its pale face in a sullen greeting. The grazing field they toiled in, still damp with morning dew, yellowed under the sunrise and rolled and jutted angrily around them. An old black fence lay like a border surrounding the field and did a poor job of keeping the cows contained. A few smart ones slipped past the missing planks and bathed happily in the stream beyond the fence. The boy always had to corral them back into their cage. They wrinkled their narrow dirty faces and groaned in protest, as if to say, “Please, let us stay.” 

The beginning of my short story, Thistles. More to come.

[radishprincesss]

prom

[tenmilesfromyesterday]

the loose ends that tie into the knots in my chest.

[s0larize]

patron saint of -(change)?

[c0unterclockwise]

One of my favourite memories is fishing for catfish on the pier with my father. I don't think I caught more than a tree root, and when the mosquitos got too violent we went inside and watched the news.

[alaskan-wallflower]

i hate when people make all the teachers mean in south park high school fics. like some teachers wre probably nice and/or smart. they wouldn’t all be hicks.

[candlelitcorners]

The woods are groaning.

They're screeching.

[springtimebat]

Everyday Life Within the Steppe

What a lonely existence this is, gazing hopelessly at the miles of gnarled woodlands that entrap the town you lived and died in.

Except, it’s not woodland, not really. The ranger refers to them as woodlands, as grasslands, or farmland. But…this thing…this neverending nightmare…it breathes.

It’s well known that you just stay away from the “woodlands”, so whenever someone disappears their absence is offered no sigil of sympathy like the rest of the dead.

About fifty years ago, a group of out of towners moved in on the border of town and started a farm together. A mom, a dad and their son. The farmer’s two brothers moved in alongside them once the chickens began disappearing.

The Krutt moves at a swift place from its lair on the hills; a blot of soot and hay across the setting skies. One night, the chickens are snatched from their pens. On another, the cows vanished. It is when the farmer’s brothers disappear that the newcomers skip town.

Their purpose lost to blood and rust, the Kratt loses its hollowed out wings. Mortified, it sets itself alight and burnt into tiny splintered pieces. Tucked away, its ashes live on within the Steppe.

And so, the Kratt is now lost to time. The uncanny folk are the only creatures who remember its unholy reign. They visit its farmhouse tomb to paint its stiles currant-berry black. 

The regulars in town are as flat as the land. They walk in clusters on withered backroads, murmuring rhymes with little reason.

Most live in townhouses; shacks passed from generation to generation until all family ties in the area are crossed and tangled into difficult knots. Sometimes, on neighbourhood walks, these places fog and fade like abstract scribbles in the rain.

There are some who lived in the apartments once. Towering concrete blocks on the edge of the town’s gates. The place is empty now and the elders warn you not to go near. 

Walking to school, you can see the shadows of those who once lived there wave from the fractured windows. This is their limbo; the machine inside of skin twisted inside out for all to observe. You can do nothing for them but stare longingly.

There’s a man in town who only makes an appearance at night. They have pointed ears, teeth and glares. Your grandmother can remember him standing in the old cornfield when she was a girl, holding a briefcase made out of tired carpet. He was trying to persuade folks to replace their brushes with a vacuum. Unsurprisingly, he was immediately turned down.

He took a wife a few years ago. She had golden hair and shining eyes. Now, when she wanders through her nightly shopping routine, her eyes are ringed and her forehead is wrinkled with paranoia. Their hair dances around her pale cheeks like writhing serpents. 

Everywhere you look, on doors, on walls, on gates, you can find the runes. Do they keep you in, or do they keep the things out? You doubt you’ll ever get an answer.

[lurkingismypastime]

writing a story :)

I love eerie things and ghosts that aren’t necessarily malicious, and I’ve wanted to write something like that for a long time but I think I have a sketch for it now? So behold!! My concept word blurbs!! :D

This is disorganized, and there’s a lot to be added, but enjoy this extremely rough sketch!

I want to keep a wild and mysterious feeling, there’s not really a society or any schools to learn about this stuff, this part of the world is strange and untamable.

There’s this creature named Mire that’s your run-of-the-mill small town cryptid. They’re genderfluid and they freely travel between here and the Other, which regularly overlaps during those eerie hours. In fact whenever you get that feeling probably mean they’re overlapping. This overlap is called Gloaming (hence why I’m calling this project Gloam).

They were passing through town, guiding ghosts into the Gloam, when a handful of kids stumbled across them. The kids hid promptly, but one tossed a candy bar or something out and Mire decided to take it because one, free candy, and two, they want to put the kids at ease. Then commences a long process where the kids think they’re earning the trust of a stray monster, but the monster is trying to earn their trust instead. Like if the cat you keep feeding shows up so that one day you’ll get the courage to actually come out and pet it.

After all this, Mire basically makes the town their home base. They meet up with the kids pretty often. Picture this big ol’ shapeshifter hiding in a eighth grader’s shadow to sneak into a diner, and joining in the conversation while this group of middle schoolers seemingly gets an extra meal that they keep slipping under the table. Nothings there, but there’s no mess and the food doesn’t reappear??

[saltriverroad]

Under the near-constant hum of cicadas and the watchful eye of God sits Salt River Baptist Church, a place where troubled youth might uncover salvation in light of their transgressions. When timid 17-year-old Abel is sent there, he soon forms an unexpected bond with fellow attendee Alex Walls, a freckled farm boy whose overly boyish attitude deters him. However, Amid Oak tree shade, dusty brown pews, and religious stricture, the two question their beliefs upon discovering a heady desire for each other.

This is my favorite thing I have ever made. It would mean the WORLD to me if you took a look at it.

READ THE FULL STORY HERE