Untitled

AND I KNOW IT WELL 

[loudquiet]

                                             𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄 .      independent original character 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐖 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑 . trans man . contract operator for the logging company mclane TST .                                            𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄 .      this blog will be exploring themes of survivalism among mass hysteria , global phenomenon , ancient horror , psychological fear , and unexplainable events . there will be instances of violence , gore , disturbing circumstances , and sex . all will be tagged accordingly . mutuals exclusive . must be above the age of 18 .                                                     𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐄 .      in 2009 adrien molitor aged 68 woke up in his home at five in the morning alongside his wife kenley. they ate breakfast , they prepared for the day , let out the dogs . kenley watched as her husband tore flakes from their hay bales for the geldings , walked into the forest beside their home , and disappeared . over the course of four months , fifty similar instances developed in the nearby region . within eight , over 25,000 instances within the state of oregon alone . the phenomenon swept the west coast and overran the americas with little to no explanation other than a psychological compulsion with no sign of viral or fungal infection , affecting young and the old . within a year it went global .                                                    𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃 .      searches for those that have disappeared have resulted in the discovery of enormous , wide sink holes deep within the woods all around the world . people are just falling into them . some do , some don’t . drone explorations show there is no navigable bottom . but it sounds like water down there .                                               𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄 .                                                               doc . 

[loudquiet]

you want a starter :)

[notmorbid]

the school for good mothers.

dialogue prompts from the school for good mothers: a novel by jessamine chan.

i haven’t been sleeping. i wasn’t thinking.

are you hungry? did they feed you?

i’m going to miss you like crazy.

i feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.

what happened? you look pale.

if i had standards or scruples, i wouldn’t be here.

as if i need someone else to punish me.

can i kiss you?

it’s not like i’ve never thought about it. i have. a lot.

you’re not seeing me at my best.

promise you won’t tell anyone?

i miss being half of something.

daughters are allowed to have secrets.

at least we’re together. isn’t that the most important thing?

what kind of trouble are you in?

i feel mortified, but proud.

are all children so fickle?

you don’t want to tell me. you don’t have to.

i love you. please forgive me.

how did it feel, doing something right?

no more processing today, okay?

i’m just saying you’re brave. you’re a survivor.

don’t look at me. don’t be obvious.

some people just have that evil vibe, you know?

i’m not fighting you. this isn’t high school.

i’m so sorry. i should have helped you.

you have to stop treating me like the enemy.

why torture yourself?

take ‘can’t’ out of your vocabulary.

sometimes i really hate you.

you’re better company than you used to be.

everything you need should already be inside you.

your anger makes me nervous.

this looks like somewhere they’d film a zombie movie.

i feel like your chaperone.

there are few things scarier than a desirous teenaged girl.

loneliness has its own strange, insistent heat.

tell me what you need from me.

my heart actually aches. it feels like someone’s squeezing it. 

parents always think you’re little kids, even when you’re grown.

i missed you, asshole.

i used to think i valued loyalty over all else.

does survival count as progress?

you remember. thank you for remembering.

please be happy. i want you to be so, so happy.

this city has too many memories.

you know i’m not good at saying no to you.

are you going to be okay by yourself?

i’ll tell you later. i promise.

[loudquiet]

what if i changed quentin’s fc 

[loudquiet]

𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓·:

“   beer is beer.  “    𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦 ,    even if the deadened tips of his fingers might ache for something that inspires more warmth in his blood.   his cough cracks in his chest like the waning underbelly of a fire pit.   “  much obliged.   i buy you one for your trouble?   kinda saved my ass out there.  “   

     𝐚 𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫 , 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 .     “     don’t trouble yourself , you’re gonna need the money to pay the tow man in the morning once things have cleared up .     “     he settles in with his own can , a man simply spilling out of his seat as he edges his toes closer to the radiating brilliance that ebbs from the wood stove nearby .     “     consider it on me .     “ 

[loudquiet]

     "     𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 .     "     it’s a rainier can he’s setting down in front of his company rather than a glass     ---     there weren’t any on account no one had done the dishes that morning .     “     all they got right now . delivery truck tipped over on the runaway trying to get up here .     “ 

@viennawait​ // sc

[loudquiet]

quentin doesn’t know it but he’s actually like. really brave lol 

[loudquiet]

     "     𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭 , 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 . i put another one of these in me and it’s gonna be you who’ll have to be in charge of getting me home , and that’s ,     “     he licks his thumb , gives it a moment to feel for the passing breeze before letting it thump back down onto their table ,     “     a fucking long ways away .     “ 

@lamoltitudine​ // sc

[loudquiet]

     "     𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 .     "     his fingers seem far too large to be able to see delicacy converge with firm , the wrap constricting just the way it ought to around her forearm .     “     that thing could have killed you .     “ 

@ruinaa​ // sc

[gothish]

via

[gothish]

via

[nonpsychotic]

dudes be like "i know a place" and its the fog

[loudquiet]

@newsworth​

   “   𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 ,   𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐇.   𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘.   “      it had been a bitterly stiff waltz ,   a barbed expression and anxious welter in his stomach that he had tracked in underneath his boots from the outside ,   where by the time the sun could reach him there were absolutely no favors to be done.   his smile back was more taut than the one he was offered.   his fingers prickled inside his gloves and his faced pinked at the wonder of what the man and all the other casual eyes might make of him ,   but all the same he reached out to accept the charger block with a grateful nod.   “   thank you ,   “   he said.   wary as he was in that room full of strangers ,   he wasn’t without his manners.   “   i appreciate it.   don’t suppose you could also tell me where the ski lodge is ?   “   and then the warmth to his face got worse.   it was a stupid question.   he didn’t know why ,   he just knew it was.

     "     𝐢 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 .     "     it’s all the guff he’ll give him , he’d been unfamiliar with the area at one time in his life just as much and by no means was this the time of year to find oneself floundering on which exit to take .     “     you’re either coming up on it , or you just passed it .     “     it was that simple , and by leaps and bounds all the more frustrating than it would suggest . the roads hadn’t been salted up this way just yet     ---     backtracking wasn’t advised this late out ; black ice ran slick when it was this cold .       a passing shoulder nicks him on the journey towards the little bathroom tucked in the back . quentin doesn’t give it much of his mind , his attention on chris’ fingers as they piece and pick apart the tangle of white wire .     “     we got three out here . you’re probably looking for the summit     ---     that’s where most people are going .     “ 

[soracities]

“[His] voice flowed out like a fragrance released in rain.”

— Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red

[loudquiet]

Fuck im sorry guys my laptop took a shit on me so I'm stuck on mobile for a while until I can pick up a new one, hopefully in the next few weeks

[pixelrose-voidpunk]

PNW gothic

(That’s Pacific North West in case you live somewhere that doesn’t share a name with another notable location in the same country, leading you to use your region name rather than your state because god fucking forbid people think you live in DC)

You go for a walk. It’s the same walk you always do. Today you see someone, he walks too straight and his clothes are too clean. You cross the street and keep your head down. You don’t walk that route again.

There are deer all over the place until hunting season opens. Your cousins complain about it. They’ll be there one day and gone the next. The moment it ends they’re back. It’s almost like they know.

There’s room to breathe, trees in between everything. They refuse to mow down the green belt between one housing complex and the next, between the old folks apartments and the Fred Meyer. There’s direct access to trees wherever you are. You can see the buildings on the other side of the green belt, but when you pass the tree line you see nothing but the dark expanse of towering firs that go on forever.

Contrary to popular belief it doesn’t rain that often up here, unless it’s winter. Actually it’s rather rare, especially in spring and summer. It hasn’t rained in weeks, the clouds collect until you can swear you see them sag with weight. And then it comes all at once, one day where the sky dumps water to the starving scorched earth. Your driveway is flooded, it’s not safe to leave your house. You hear it pounding on the metal roof, your roof isn’t metal, it wasn’t metal yesterday but it is today. The thunder rolls in. You crack open your window just a bit to listen. And just like that it’s dry again. It hasn’t rained in weeks.

Last year the foxgloves were purple. This year they’re pure snowy white. You have no idea what that means but it’s so very beautiful... so... beautiful......

You own five umbrellas. They sit by every door of your house. You don’t know where they came from, and you never use them. You own six umbrellas. You wish you brought one when you left the house, you have so many and it’s so wet today. But you never remember. You own seven umbrellas.

On the Internet you see posts of people fearing the things in the woods, in the fields, on the sides of the highway and in the corners of their vision in the dark on a camping trip. You scoff, safe in the embrace of the forest. Perhaps it’s different back east, but you know that nothing in this forest could be more dangerous than what’s outside of it.

You made the mistake of getting attached to someone normal, getting too comfortable with your cousins new wife, or a guy in your college classes. They seem so normal, so sweet, maybe this one will be different. But eventually they slip up and their true voice scratches through, harsh and grating, tripping over human tongues not built for their hellish language. You were never safe here. It’s not nicer here, they just learned how to camouflage.

The mountain is bigger. It’s always big but it’s getting bigger. The eruption is overdue, they say. When it blows every city on the west side is gone, everyone will die in minutes. You laugh and take a picture, the mountain looks so big and pretty today!

Your doorbell rings, you freeze. No one rings the doorbell, every one of your neighbors has a unique knock. You didn’t order anything, nor are you expecting anyone. You duck down beneath the window, close the blinds, shut off the tv. The doorbell rings again. You press your ear to the door and you can hear their ravenous breathing, the gnashing of their teeth. You text your neighbors but they already know. The next three blocks go silent in a wave. You chance a peek between the blinds of your living room window. Oh god, those used to be children those used to be human... you went to highschool with him. Oh g o d

Your friend hands you a rock. You keep it. You find a rock. You keep it. There’s a rock on your dresser and you don’t know where you got it. You give it to the cashier at the 7/11, the one with pink hair and eyes that are still human. She keeps it.

At 1 am on the dot the coyotes howl. Every night. So many of them. You never find whatever it is they killed. You live in a suburb.

I don’t care if he was your best friend in middle school. I don’t care if you were in love with him. Either he’s dead or he was never what he looked like. None of them were. Hide in the forest. The forest never lies.

A new church pops up on a corner, just yesterday it was an empty lot. It’s an ugly building, with a weirdly large parking lot. It doesn’t exactly say what sort of church it is, some rambling name that looks computer generated. “Church of the love of the cross of Baby Jesus”. There’s never anyone there but you get a pamphlet shoved under your welcome mat anyway, it has you full name written on it. You get an email from a friend you had in high school, she invites you to a charity dinner at the church. You block her on everything you can think of and change your commute to not pass that church anymore.

Everyone you meet is a witch. Sometimes they don’t even notice. Can you accidentally do witchcraft? Is that a thing that can happen? It’s like it’s infectious. But it’s better than the alternative. At least you know the witches are safe. One day you wake up with an altar on your dresser. You’re a witch.

It’s Tuesday and there’s a riot in Downtown Seattle. It’s so bad, the city is trashed, they’ll never recover. The next day no one is even talking about it. you can’t even remember what the riot was about, was there even one? Next Tuesday, there’s a riot in Downtown Seattle....

[babywuv]

weird little abandoned house in the woods