It's been weeks since I first read Cat Voleur's Revenge Arc and I am still not over this incredible layout courtesy of publisher Archive of the Odd. Modern epistolary horror that looks like printouts from the web. Incredible!
todays bird
Show & Tell
Monterey Bay Aquarium

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

Discoholic 🪩
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
KIROKAZE
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

Andulka
DEAR READER
Three Goblin Art
AnasAbdin
Not today Justin
ojovivo
hello vonnie

pixel skylines
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izzy's playlists!
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@residualdreams
It's been weeks since I first read Cat Voleur's Revenge Arc and I am still not over this incredible layout courtesy of publisher Archive of the Odd. Modern epistolary horror that looks like printouts from the web. Incredible!
I wrote a little book for Halloween! Three of my favorite spooky little stories that didn't get picked up this year, but I think they go nicely together so I put them into a chapbook for Halloween.
A mother and daughter wait out a storm...
A stranger arrives late at night...
Sisters attempt to contact their mother from beyond the grave...
THE TREES AND OTHER STORIES: A HALLOWEEN CHAPBOOK features girls and women in the past dealing with the everyday and the supernatural. This is a gift from me to the community, 100% free to read. There are content warnings for those who need them.
PDF copies for printing and for ebook readers download here.
Skeleton recovered from the Le Lanchon experiments on human evolution. In these tests, volunteers were subjected to procedures to "accelerate the development of mankind". No subject is recorded to have survived. Their crab-like form is thought to be an instance of carcinization.
This photograph is one of the few remaining images of the volunteers while they were still alive.
The subjects developed a compact and efficient shape, with a defensive ribcage shell and a keratinous claw. Most traces of human intelligence were lost in the process.
My story "the gift of comprehension" will be published by Witch House Magazine in October. This is a little thing about existential breakdown and a hole in the floor and I am so pleased that it found the perfect home. I wrote this story the week after my brother in law died last year so it has a special little place in my heart. I submitted it nine times before it got picked up and I'm so glad I didn't give up because I think it's special and I'm excited to be able to finally share it.
Loving Your Writing
Loving your writing doesn't mean going "oh my god, every single thing I've ever written is an absolute masterpiece and I'm the best writer ever!"
Instead, it means acknowledging that your old writing had its flaws, as does your current, but you did the best you could with what you had at the time. Acknowledging that old writer you had things they could improve in their style, but that without making the mistakes you did, you would never have grown to be able to see them.
No, your writing isn't perfect. I think it's healthy to acknowledge that. However, don't hurt yourself and put yourself down because of it. Instead, make the necessary mistakes you need to to be able to learn and get better.
Don't trap yourself in the corner of "if I make mistakes, I'm no good. If I'm not good, I shouldn't write." That's not fair. Not to you, and frankly not to your readers or other writers. Being a perfectionist is only harmful, not helpful.
Instead, make your mistakes. Learn, Grow. Get better. Broaden your horizons. Learn what you do well and what you can improve on. You will become a better writer only by allowing this process.
You've got this.
Happy writing ~
Gorgeous cover for One Morning in August, my Lovecraft + Little House on the Prairie short story available through PsychoToxin Press.
Bea slipped a clothespin over the shoulder of Mary’s dress. It hung on the line strung between a branch of the spindly old oak and a ring screwed into the side of the sod house, alongside Jenny’s nightgown and three pairs of James’s work trousers. Bea woke up before dawn to mend the most recent tears in the trousers, and had then spent her morning doing the laundry down at the creek. August was always hot as sin, and Bea had been disappointed to discover that the heat would redden her skin on the Nebraskan prairie even more than it did back in Boston. At least here there was space. That’s what James said, and it’s what Bea told herself, too. The city had been crowded and dirty; here they had clean air, land to farm, and room for the children to play. And it was cool by the creek. The cluster of trees offered shelter from the sun and the water ran cold and clear, over the rocks and between her toes. She would crouch in the drink and bang sweat and dust out of her husband’s work clothes and their daughter's dresses. There, she could enjoy the balm while it lasted. Up by the house there was only the oak for shade, and it was dead. The tree was fine for holding up one end of the laundry line, and it could have held up a child if required. But Jenny and Mary, now eleven and thirteen, had stopped climbing trees soon after they moved in four years before, and the last time little Hiram had made an attempt he’d fallen out and broken his arm. Doctor Roberts made him promise to be careful lest he fall on his head next time. Bea worried about Hiram, only six years old and already helping his father in the field. Bea knew that James was training him well, that he needed to learn how to help run the farm, but he was such a clever and curious boy, but if they were still in Boston he’d already be starting school, he should– A shout shook Bea out of her contemplation.
For #saturdark - shadow! A bit from my Little House on the Prairie + Lovecraft story One Morning in August. “Things were happening around Bea–people were screaming, the dog barked, doors slammed. But all she could do was stare into the roiling shadows, entranced. Every time she blinked, something else about it gained her attention. Its shifting colors. Its vibration. How its edges nipped at the sky, alive and reaching.” One Morning in August, available as a PsychoToxin Press Eye Tale
In today’s creepy yarn from Cassandra Daucus, some childhood sins linger long after we’re grown.
I got published!!! 🎉🎉🎉
The Wait
Huddled in the gloom beneath the eaves, he remembers old friends: Percy, Carol, Brent, and so many others. At the moment he has no friends; they have all left him. Everybody, eventually, leaves him. He's so lonely. If his glass eyes could leak, he would surely be weeping.
He's oblivious to the dust that swims through the draft but mindful of the scurry of water on the roof. Rain will sneak under the shingles and drip from the rafter on the far end of the attic. Along with fire, water is the only thing that can damage him. There are only spiders, and they won’t fix the leak. So he plays with his toys in the dry part of the attic.
He sifts through the meager pile of plastic blocks, pressing them together with hues paired to memorialize holidays long past. Red on green for Christmas with Harold. What fun they'd had under the tree! Red on red for Valentine’s with Beth. They'd made special chocolates for her brother, not a day to forget. Red on brown for Thanksgiving with Corey and Casey. Casey had carved and it had been a fine meal indeed.
That's all the bricks; not enough for a house, not even a single wall. A few tugs of his porcelain fingers and he can build again, something new.
The crunch of gravel cuts through the pattering of the rain, followed quickly by sharp shouts and the slam of the front door. High-pitched laughter echoes through the empty hallways.
The scent of loneliness, bitter and cloying, wafts through the house. Along with that familiar aroma is something new and different. It declares a love of chaos, and a desire to cause pain. Excitement vibrates through his soft body; he can't wait to meet this new friend.
But he's patient; he can wait.
Even up here, tucked comfy under a blanket of cobwebs, the friend will find him. He sprawls, limbs akimbo, and waits, alongside vibrant blocks scattered like so many friends across the wooden boards.
FIN.
I wrote this for a "haunted toys" prompt and the first thing that came to mind was a doll playing with Legos. I did my best to make it not silly! Thanks for reading.
"That is to say, they were always this way. They were always going to be this way."
The Morning After, 2
Follow @unsettlingstories for more; please reblog or tip to support. All images and text are © Max Lobdell, 2022.
The wind howled mournfully, rattling the windows as she watched the disease consume his body. It turned him into a shadow of himself. Greedily, It ate up every bit of strength he had until he couldn't leave the bed, couldn't even move without a guiding hand.
His body wasn't enough to feed the insatiable hunger, It stole his memories, too. The good ones it had a particular craving for. Until only the bad, the ones that left him screaming and tugging at his hair, remained.
It grew, and drained him, until all she had left was the tumor that had snaked its way through his organs and dribbled into his bloodstream, spreading like wildfire in September. Sometimes she swore she could smell the smoke.
It had devoured Him bit by bit and now It laid in his place, tucked under the quilt she had made.
His replacement was a ghastly thing, with its own pulse, its own heartbeat. She despised it until the only thing she could do was love It. After all It was what remained, gasping and grasping for life not its own.
She fed It, sustained It. Perhaps, if she nurtured It enough It would become Him. It regurgitated his thoughts and memories, garbled and condensed down to something only she recognized because there were threads within them that aligned with her own.
It grew stronger until It could join her on the porch just like He used to, watching the birds as they broke their fast and welcomed the dawn.
However, the birds would no longer come to the feeders, no matter how much seed she put out.
It danced with her in the living room and stood behind her as she stirred something on the stove, savory smells turning putrid and fetid in his wake.
It was now an echo of Him, and oh how that made her ache, how it made her rage until the caustic voice of his proxy shushed her. Consoled her. She longed for Him, yet she found herself settling for this beast, this thing, this terror that now resembled His form.
The house was dark and she couldn't remember when the lights were last on. The cold seeped in through the crumbling plaster. She swayed to some distant tinny music that she recalled from the night they met. His arms wrapped around her, his mouth stretched into the grotesque smile she had become accustomed to. He pressed it to her temple, she no longer shuddered from His touch.
"You're here," she said as He laid her down on the bare, stained mattress. Cobwebs adorned the ceiling and there were brown rings where the rain had leaked through the roof.
"Where are you going?" She asked as he got up. In the dark he looked just like he should, dark hair, dark eyes, plush lips, strong even. She smiled at the ghost of a memory that passed around her like smoke.
"Bringing you with me," he answered, as he opened his mouth. His teeth were sharper than she remembered them being.
There were lots of thoughts like that these days. When her mind registered the ghastly pallor and yet didn't flinch away.
His gullet widened, he kneeled at the foot of the bed and consumed her, or what was left. Piece by piece, just like Him. She'd be a part of Him now and not even death could stop it.
Mama's Here
“Mama, I’m cold.”
Half asleep, she lifts the blanket to let him under. He curls up next to her. His size surprises her every time; the last growth spurt hit him hard. His skin is clammy through the thin fabric of his pajamas, hands small and frigid between her warm ones.
“Baby, are you okay?”
“Okay. But maybe I’m sick.” His whisper fills a hollow in her chest.
“Sleep,” she murmurs. “Mama’s here.”
In the morning he’s gone; he always leaves. She gets up, dries her eyes. After work she’ll visit his grave and ask him to visit again soon.
First published in Trembling With Fear, November 27. 2022
been too shy to talk to you on twitter but happy to see you here, seriously look up to you. Whats your favorite moth
Thank you so much! And my answer will change depending on the day, but a big favorite is Creatonotos gangis! They use that inflatable moth ass to spread pheromones! You might recognize that organ from this story!
A Fantastic Moth indeed!
If I leave the old crow an offering will it leave me the things I need to take flight?
Welcome to Tumblr, Dusty!!
The Last Email Cole Bruce Sent To His Mother
Hey Mom,
London is fine but I got lost today. Ducked into a shop to ask for directions, ended up with a box instead. High on a cluttered shelf, it’s a wonder I found it. Looking at it makes my fingers itch; I had to have it. I would attach a photo but it’s too black for the camera to see. When the thing inside moves the box shifts in my hands. What do you think it is? When I figure out how to get it open I’ll let you know; it’s something special, I can feel it.
Love,
Cole
First published in Trembling With Fear, October 23. 2022
Goiânia, Brazil. Following the execution of the will of mining executive Carlos Silva, these photographs were given to his son, João, in 1999. João knew his father had many factories and processing facilities across the country, but he was unsure of the location of the one shown in the pictures.
He did share that his father had been obsessed with digging the deepest hole in the world when João was younger, but his interest had evaporated seemingly overnight in the early 1970s. When asked to speculate on the oddities in the pictures, João just laughed and said, “maybe he found something in the hole.”
Follow @unsettlingstories for more; please reblog to support. All images and text are © Max Lobdell, 2022.