Something Gothic

A compilation of all those "Something" Gothic posts. Feel free to submit. Looking for good art for the avatar and all that. Feel free to rec something.

[zanmor]

What is your religion and do you or will you have a christmas/holiday tree displayed in your household?

whether or not you put the tree up or would display it yourself, what is your personal religion and is there a tree displayed in your shared living space?

Christianity and yes

Christianity and no

Islam and yes

Islam and no

Hinduism and yes

Hinduism and no

atheism and yes

atheism and no

other and yes

other and no

Voting ended onDec 15, 2025

[zanmor]

Lost in the Stars: Book One in the Celestial Series [Charles, Sawyer, Moran, Will B] on Amazon.com. *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Lo

Hey one of my best friends wrote a book!

You can order it at the link above in ebook, hardback, or paperback.

It's a fantasy/sci fi story in a modern setting that is fun in a dysfunctional sort of way. Here's the blurb from the back of the book:

A seemingly normal teenager discovers her extraordinary origins. Caught between two worlds with no real place to call home, Shiloh Frear must work to uncover the hidden truths of her reality. Can she rectify her choices and escape her prescribed fate, or will she remain a permanent fixture in a strange and uncertain world?

I also know that the second book for the series is already well under way.

Oh, and there's a cute lesbian romance. :)

Help out my friend and read a cool story doing it!

[highways-are-liminal-spaces]

July gothic moods

-You can stand the heat, but the humidity is stifling. You step outside and the air seems to solidify around you, like cement. Don’t stop moving for too long or you’ll get stuck in it.

-It’s the Fourth of July, and everything along Main Street is red, white, and blue. Overhead, the sky is blue and the clouds are white, and later tonight there will be red fireworks. If we don’t set off the fireworks, the red will happen in other ways.

-You can see a thunderstorm rolling into town. If you think you see something more than lightning moving in the clouds, look away immediately and get inside. You don’t want to know what’s coming.

-The corn is getting taller. You remember when the stalks barely came up to your waist, but now it towers over your head, and you can hear it getting restless at night.

-Every time you walk past the the lake on a calm day, you feel the reckless urge to go fishing. You must resist this temptation.

-The summer nights are so loud and busy. You don’t notice how much noise the frogs and the crickets and the cicadas and the whip-poor-wills are making until they all suddenly fall silent.

-You head out of town for the weekend on a road trip. You’ve been driving for hours already, but you’re still in the same state and you haven’t seen anything but cornfields in every direction. You pass another HELL IS REAL billboard. You don’t think the sun has dipped any lower in the sky.

January | February | March | April | May | June | July | August | September | October | November | December

[tumblhurgoyf]

#NoMagicMay

I watched the Professor chatting with someone else about the Pinkerton thing.

One thing they expressed was that there was no way to act in an immediate way that influences sales number to send a message to Wizards. Like with the DnD stuff recently people could cancel DnDBeyond to send a message and that did something.

I think Magic players do have a medium to send a message. The medium is online play. We should blanket boycott all Magic apps, especially MODO and especially Arena for at least 30 days. They can't take back what has happened but we can send a message that they will feel. I think we should also throw FNM and all physical sales including the secondary market in as well, but digital play is big and more immediate.

This is unacceptable though I don't expect players to stay away forever. A month long boycott for the entirety of May would send a strong message and make them reconsider how they handle future leaks. Backed up with plenty of emails and public messages to say this is why it's happening.

#NoMagicMay

If you agree and want Wizards to know it then I humbly suggest you spread this. Encourage your friends. Encourage content creators. Reach out to big Magic influencer and let them know you're participating in #NoMagicMay and would like them to join.

[sepulchretide]

Things on my grandpa's dirt road farm that was actually pretty creepy in hindsight

There was always a specific spot where anything mechanical would shut down. Cars would stall and a four wheeler would cut off

A graveyard that didn’t belong to our family sat beside the home. We don’t know the names on the gravestones

There was a skeleton in the forest. We don’t know who passed there

A home at the beginning of the road burned down but the chimney remained. I swear we could see smoke coming from it sometimes

There were figures in the wheat fields sometimes but they were too far away to see. Grandpa said they were neighbors and we should never talk to them

My great grandmas house sits next to my grandpa’s, abandoned, and we were told to never go in there

Sometimes at night when I couldn’t sleep, I could hear the sound of clacking coming down the road

[hauntedcephalopod]

Grandpa’s Farm Gothic

[chromolume]

it’s all you americans talk about… liminal space this… cryptid that

[sasstricbypass]

america is big, we got.,.,.,. its a lot happening here

[darkbookworm13-deactivated20240]

It’s at least 3,000 miles just from the East Coast to the West, depending on where you start.

If I try to drive from here in Maine to New Mexico, it’s 2,400 miles. 

From here to Oregon, 800 miles from my current residence to my relatives in NJ, then another 3,000 miles after that. 

A brisk 8 day drive that meanders through mountains, forests, corn fields, dry, flat, empty plains, more mountains, and then a temperate rain forest in Oregon.

The land has some seriously creepy stuff, even just right outside our doors. 

There is often barking sounds on the other side of our back door. 

At 3 am. 

When no one would let their dog out. 

It’s a consensus not to even look out the fucking windows at night. 

Especially during the winter months. 

Nothing chills your heart faster than sitting in front of a window and hearing footsteps breaking through the snow behind you, only to look and not see anything. 

I live in a tiny town whose distance from larger cities ranges from 30 miles, to 70 miles. What is in between?

Giant stretches of forests, swamps, pockets of civilization, more trees, farms, wildlife, and winding roads. All of which gives the feeling of nature merely tolerating humans, and that we are one frost heave away from our houses being destroyed, one stretch of undergrowth away from our roads being pulled back into the earth.

And almost every night, we have to convince ourselves that the popping, echoing gunshot sounds are really fireworks, because we have no idea what they might be shooting at.

There’s a reason Stephen King sets almost all his stories in Maine.

[scottislate]

New Mexico, stuck under Colorado, next to Texas, and uncomfortably close to Arizona. I grew up there. The air is so dry your skin splits and doesn’t bleed. Coyotes sing at night. It starts off in the distance, but the response comes from all around. The sky, my gods, the sky. In the day it is vast and unfeeling. At night the stars show how little you truly are. This is the gentle stuff. I’m not going to talk about the whispered tales from those that live on, or close, to the reservations. I’m not going to go on about the years of drought, or how the ground gives way once the rain falls. The frost in the winter stays in the shadows, you can see the line where the sun stops. It will stay there until spring. People don’t tell you about the elevation, or how thin the air truly is. The stretches of empty road with only husks of houses to dot the side of the horizon. There’s no one around for miles except those three houses. How do they live out here? The closest town is half an hour away and it’s just a gas station with a laundry attached.   No one wants to be there. They’re just stuck. It has a talent for pulling people back to it. I’ve been across the country for years, but part of me is still there. The few that do get out don’t return. A visit to family turns into an extended stay. Car troubles, a missed flight, and then suddenly there’s a health scare. Can’t leave Aunt/Uncle/Grandparent alone in their time of need. It’s got you. Roswell is a joke. A failed National Inquirer article slapped with bumperstickers and half-assed tourist junk. The places that really run that chill down the spine are in the spaces between the sprawling mesas and hidden arroyos. Stand at the top of the Carlsbad Caverns trail. Look a mile down into the darkness. Don’t step off the path. just don’t.

[kaasknot]

The Land of Entrapment

[jumpingjacktrash]

here in minnesota we’re making jokes about how bad is the limescale in your sink

pretending we don’t know we’re sitting on top of limestone caverns filled with icy water

pretending we don’t suspect something lives down there

[ceruleancynic]

dammit jesse now I want to read about the things that live down there

meanwhile in maryland the summer is killing-hot, the air made of wet flannel, white heat-haze glazing the horizon, and the endless cicadas shrilling in every single tree sound like a vast engine revving and falling off, revving and falling off, slow and repeated, and everything is so green, lush poison-green, and you could swear you can hear the things growing, hear the fibrous creak and swell of tendrils flexing

and sometimes in the old places, the oldest places, where the salt-odor of woodsmoke and tobacco never quite go away, there is unexplained music in the night, and you should not try to find out where it’s coming from.  

[jhaernyl]

@gallusrostromegalus

[gallusrostromegalus]

The intense and permanent haunting of a land upon which countess horrors have been visited, and that is too large and wild for us to really comprehend is probably the most intense and universal American feeling.

[thebibliosphere]

here in minnesota

We’re fucking what now

[shortkingmoon]

colorado is a strange sort of place, a passing-through kind of place, a place that holds just as many people who stay as leave. the highways stretch like ley-lines or the lines of old palms; 25 north and south, 70 east and west, 76 and 470 and 285 curling all around and tangling in the middle like loose thread

the mountains are their own place, the plains their own, too, with the hogback and the foothills in between like a strangely-comforting barrier, “this far, and that’s enough. this far, and you’re still close to home. this far, and no further.” the people in the mountains rarely make the plains; the people in the plains rarely make the hills, and the people in the middle rarely leave the developments which spread outward every year like creeping moss.

[heywriters]

Summertime in California, when it’s 110 and you wake up in a sweat at 7am and can’t fall back asleep regardless of how much sleep you actually got. You open a door or a window and smell smoke. The air is hazy, the sky is orange, the sun bright red. You go back inside. You stay inside. You don’t worry about the fire, it’s probably miles away. The smoke lasts for days and even after a shower you can’t get the smell out of your nostrils, can’t get the taste off your tongue. You hope your neighbor doesn’t mow his lawn, you hope no one throws a cigarette out a window on your road, or lets a loose chain drag behind their truck. 

The wind picks up, you get nervous. a helicopter passes low overhead, you get anxious. You wait for sirens. You watch more helicopters carrying heavy sacks of retardant, tanks of water, and keep testing the way the wind blows. Somehow, the fire misses you this summer.

Wintertime in California. The yellowed, crackling grass that looks like miles of sand dunes turns gray and falls loose from the baked earth. You pray for rain but you beg that it doesn’t come with lightning. Still, you don’t expect rain because every winter is “dry.” Snow falls somewhere in the mountains where someone skis then comes back and tells you it wasn’t much. No rain means more fire in the summer.

Then, after New Year’s, it rains. And rains. And gushes. The ground is baked stiff and won’t absorb water after an hour of moderate rain. The water rises. It fills streets, houses, threatens levees and dams. After days of this the ground finally softens. The plants, their root systems shriveled and mostly washed away by the flooding, can’t hold the dirt in place. Where it has no choice,the earth gives way to landslides.

The Sierra Nevadas, riddled with abandoned gold mines and in some place stripped by hydraulic mining. The water is always tainted with mercury and alkali. Occasionally a mine collapses and a sinkhole appears. If the house shakes you ask your friends and neighbors if they felt it too, but then you forget it happened. You actually sleep through most tremors.

Everyone knows at least one old mining song. School projects and field trips are to Fort Sumter and the missions. Cracking adobe that predates the country. You can tell vultures apart from other birds of prey easy because they’re the ones you see most often. Orchards that go on for miles and towns built on top of old olive orchards—occasionally a business or private home has kept a few to remind you. They don’t plant them. Those are the original trees.

You’re hiking and you find a massive flat rock with fist-sized holes bored into it. Trees and fenceposts that look like they were used for target practice with a machine gun. You hear what sounds like a lawn sprinkler go off and you get as far away from the rocks as you can, watching where you step.

Sacramento is a concrete jungle of one way streets and sky-blocking towers before endless miles of ugly industrial wasteland. San Francisco is a twisting maze of clogged overpasses where you drive three miles an hour and watch a dense blanket of bonechilling fog climb over the hills and obscure everything before you enter the city and keep your foot pressed flat to the brake at the steepest intersections. LA is a fever dream, a knotted nightmare of traffic you can never escape, air you can’t breathe even when there’s no fire, and someone’s always playing Norteño, which sounds exactly like polka but with melancholy Spanish lyrics.

The Central Valley gets funnel clouds that touch down even less often than snow falls, but you remember once as a kid getting sleet in the Valley and thinking that’s what snow was then later hudding in the school cafeteria because of a tornado warning. You remember visiting the ocean and bringing home kelp and colored glass. In the mountains you found a sticky pinecone the size of your head and a snake with miniscule legs. An owl with a broken wing was brought to your classroom, there are giant statues of golden bears at the state fair, and someone’s always going missing from Modesto.

But in the springtime, the hills are orange and purple and you realize that oak trees are actually green once a year. The heavy wind makes the grasses sway in waves and it sounds like waves and you’re nowhere near the ocean anymore, but it’s right there, endlessly green and almost sentient. The hills are moving. 

[lunetta-suzie-jewel]

Meanwhile, on the East Coast…

New Jersey: there’s literally a demon living in the long stretch of woods that runs up and down the state. we’ve befriended it.

[boogiewoogiebuglegal]

San Diego. The ocean is blue, except where it isn’t, where it’s just a touch of dark green, in exactly the place your eye tries to focus. Go inland fifteen minutes and it’s scrub-land, irrigated enough that you’re not supposed to see the desert and the cactus waiting, always waiting their turn. The hawks are there too, and they don’t give a damn. They’re waiting and they don’t care if you know it. 

There are mountains with giant boulders cleaved in half—to make a path for the freeway, they say. But maybe, at night, the boulders move. 

[imawriterhelp]

West Virginia: Almost like a crib rolling mountains that time has whittled into looking like hills trap you in. You’re boxed in and they control everything. You don’t see the sky upon the horizon until they decide to show it to you.

The people here are just like the mountains, quiet, and selective about what they tell. And none of us asks any more questions than we need to. We know better than to follow the haggard people walking down the road with two shovels in hands. We know better than to stare at a man and a woman handing each other, something, in front of a graveyard behind the stop sign.

[sonneillonv-deactivated20220218]

In Ohio, something walks behind the corn.  Possibly multiple somethings.  Possibly many, MANY multiple somethings.

They have shiny eyes that reflect your headlights.  When you see them, you look away as fast as you can.  DO NOT MEET THE GAZE OF THE THINGS IN THE CORN.

Corn is planted in neat rows.  It should be child’s play to find your way through a corn-field.  Just pick a row and walk down it until you hit the end.  And yet, people get lost in cornfields all the time.  Sometimes people even DIE lost in cornfields, though this is less common in the age of cell phones.  And if your cell phone just happens to lose signal at the place where you are CERTAIN you have walked the rows at least twice as far as the cornfield should logically stretch… keep walking, friend.  Just keep walking.

If you find a scarecrow in the field, treat it with respect.  Then walk away.  Straight away.  Don’t look back.  DON’T LOOK BACK.  Do not look down at the corn fields at night.  Do not look for the scarecrows while you are sitting on your bed in the small hours, looking out your bedroom window.  If you see them, they will know it.  If you see them, you may see things that you cannot forget.

[defilerwyrm]

Texas is a land of ghosts and lies. Foreigners imagine a vast, flat desert when there’s no desert in the state: the prickly pear cactus sprawls between oak trees and mesquite, and the climate swings from tropical to arid in the course of a year. They imagine horses instead of traffic worse than Manhattan; they imagine vast blue skies instead of all this smog. They imagine a Stetson on every head and yeah, sure, maybe once you’re out in the steppes, but most of the time that one’s a lie, too.

Everywhere is haunted. We touch the visor and lift our feet off the floorboard and pedal as we roll across a railroad track. We drive out to the crossroads in the dead of night with flour on the trunk’s lip to see the tiny handprints of dead children trying to push us out of the way. We see things in the shimmering curtains of heat that aren’t there when we blink. I’ve seen things moving in the fields in the dark. There are so many churches, dead and living, because frightened people will pray to one ghost to keep the rest of them at bay.

People know which way to hang horseshoes around here. It’s a U-shape, so the luck doesn’t spill out. I think I must have hung one upside-down once.

The stars at night are big and bright and so are the eyes reflecting the porch light out among the trees.

And if you think that’s scary, try living here when you’re Black and/or queer.

[dee-the-red-witch]

Pacific Northwest- more people just plain disappear here. The trees and mountains eat sound and attempts at civilization at an almost violent rate, lone feet still wearing sneakers wash up on the beaches.

And I’ll just repeat what @gallusrostromegalus said:

The intense and permanent haunting of a land upon which countess horrors have been visited, and that is too large and wild for us to really comprehend is probably the most intense and universal American feeling.

[libraford]

The only people who have anything to say about Indiana are the people who were born there. In all other instances, it seems like you pass right through- a ghost, a traveler, a salesman. 

Crossroads are either trod upon or they are where petitions are made to devils and gods alike. But in either instance, no one spends that much time at them. No one wants to be caught making deals. 

Gambling is still outlawed in several counties, after all. 

But you wouldn’t know it by day. 

The sun shines bright and terrible, casting long shadows along the highways. Neighbors say ‘hello’ to you, they chat with you in line at the supermarket, they ask you how your weekend was- even if you’ve never spoken to them. 

There are crossroads. And there are backroads. The crossroads are a place you meet. The backroads are the way you speak- in nosy riddles, in pleasantries, in little innocent questions in hopes that you’ll one day slip up and tell them the truth- what men you’ve spoken to under the cover of night. 

It’s insidious. They want to know so that they can say it wasn’t them. It surely was not. It was you. They ought to tell the pastor. 

But your strength grows deep like roots and caverns, like limestone bedrock that hardens your water, like rough hands from years of work. 

And you will see them again at the darkest hour, just out of the radius of a street light, for the same reasons you’re there. 

The Crossroads of America. 

See you there. 

[otorohanga]

a guide to exploring abandoned farms

essential supplies include: plenty of food and water, a change of socks, a hat, rope, bandaids, a knife, gloves, an acorn in your pocket, and an offering

there are always odd noises on the farm. half of them come from the animals

try to forget what the lake looks like between the hours of three and four AM

never ever find yourself alone in the milking shed in the south end of the farm. time passes differently there

if you happen to hurt yourself in your exploration, make sure you do not bleed onto the dirt

bring plenty of water, you do not want to drink from there

the cows will watch you, this is normal

close every gate you open, even if the fields are empty. don’t ever leave one open behind you, just trust me

beware unstable rocks, the cracks tend to be filled with insect nests

bring a weapon with you, but no guns

if you see someone else while exploring, never tell them your name. you can never be sure if they are real or not, and further out you go, the less real they will seem. the patupaiarehe have evolved in cruel and unusual ways

do not go inside the empty share-milkers cottages, whatever you do, do not go inside. something else lives there now

a tree with the undersides of its leaves showing mean that a storm is coming. a tree with no leaves means the storm has already come

sometimes the hills look like they’re moving. be aware of this, because some things don’t like to be disturbed

do not sleep under the full moon, in fact, just don’t sleep on the farm

finding skulls is normal, only become worried when you start finding ribs

if you find yourself lost in a forest, continue walking in a straight line until you are free again. the trees may make it look as though you are going in circles, but i promise you’re not. ignore the soft music you can hear

your phone won’t work out here

the ghosts from the land wars won’t harm you, but be sure to show them respect

don’t take anything from the farm with you when you leave. just be grateful you have made it out alive

[kittleimp]

This is labeled as New Zealand Gothic so there are a few things specific to NZ here, but I live in Michigan and let me tell you. This isn’t a joke, not is it region specific. There is a farm my father has visited since childhood that never felt right. He once saw a black mass that they don’t like to talk about. A few years ago a swarm of flies attacked his tent one morning while he was camping with a friend. That same day, he became suddenly and violently ill. He brought whatever attached itself to him back home and it didn’t leave until we did a full cleansing ritual.

Do not fuck around on farm land. Especially if you don’t know what was on that land before it.

[flyingpurplepizzaeater]

@aprilwitching

[carmot-arch-deactivated20240621]

I actually need to add to this because there’s some stuff the locals out in Missouri told me.

around dawn/dusk/twilight if you feel something behind you, don’t turn around.  Even if you are in an open field

you hear a woman crying in the woods, hope that its probably a cougar.  dont go looking for it

avoid the woods around these farmlands if you can

dont cross streams

try not to be there around the evening time.  whatever you’re feeling will get worse and might follow

if you’re religious, don’t bring any artifacts of such if you can.  crosses etc.  it can upset whatever is there.  

I dont care how pretty the rock is, don’t pick it up

avoid going in most buildings.  not just the ones listed above.  especially barns.  look in, look around, don’t physically walk in there. not only is it structurally unsafe, you don’t know whats hiding in there.  corporeal or not.

lastly, before you leave.  check your belongings and pockets and anywhere anything you can stash stuff in. chances are you will be missing something, that’s normal.  if you had something there you didn’t before.  sometimes they just happen to be there even with no recollection.  get rid of it on that land, not off of it!

[normal-horoscopes]

IT IS RARE IN THIS DAY AND AGE THAT THE EARTH IS ALLOWED TO RECLAIM LAND BUT WHEN IT DOES IT DOES SO TOOTH AND NAIL AND WILL NOT GIVE IT UP AGAIN SO EASILY

[aplusbabe]

Tumblr Gothic

-You see a funny post. After you read it, you move your cursor to the like button. It is already red. You have never seen that post before.

-Your dash is filled with strangers. Maybe you knew them once, but you cannot remember that time.

-Someone has sent you a message. “I would appreciate it if you would go to my page and try out my game!” You block them and delete the message. A few minutes later, you have a new message.

-There is a new update. There is a new update. There is a new update. Everything looks the same. The users are outraged.

-You complain to your friends about how much you hate Tumblr. “Why do you still use it, then?” You start to sweat. You’ve already said too much.

-You scroll through your dashboard. Your eyes glaze over. You no longer see the posts. You keep scrolling.

[english-english]

london gothic

The only way to the place you’re going is through a dark passageway. It’s a sunny day, but you can’t see to the other side. Everyone else keeps walking past the passageway as if they don’t see it.

The Northern line isn’t running above Camden Town. The buses have stopped going that way too. People start referring to North London like it’s Manchester. “That’s just how things are up North,” they say. “My sister moved up there but I haven’t heard from her in months.”

It’s been raining for days. It is always raining. Your flat is damp, condensation collecting on the insides of the windows. The walls are weeping. Your feet are wet. You will never be dry or warm again.

A pop up shop opens on Portobello Road. It sells herbs and homeopathic remedies one week, crystals and amulets the next. The third week, it’s stocked with rabbit’s feet and animal skulls, lizard skins and strange feathered things. People can’t get enough. The week after that, the store is gone.

You roll your eyes at a group of tourists taking a Jack the Ripper walking tour: a dozen of them winding through the alleys and pubs, following a guide holding an umbrella above his head. You see the same group again later, and there are only ten of them now. The guide looks straight at you. You look away.

There’s a red telephone box on every corner. The tourists like to take pictures inside, outside, on top of them. Every night, after midnight, all the telephones begin to ring. Your mother told you never to answer. You cross the street to avoid the sound, pulling your scarf tighter around your throat as you scurry on.

It’s summer and the ponds in Hampstead Heath are spreading. The grass is growing higher, up to a man’s chest. It’s all marshland now, all the paths and bridges swallowed up by rising water and vegetation. That’s just how things are now, up North.

You run down the steps into Piccadilly Circus and weave through the crowd to the ticket barrier. You touch your Oyster card to the reader and it beeps disapprovingly. The reader flashes the message: Seek Assistance. You try again and get the same message. You’re irritated, you’re in a hurry. You look around for a ticket agent, but you don’t see anyone. The booths are shuttered. The station is empty. The lights are flickering. There is no one here to assist you.

[dialmformara]

Homestuck Gothic

How long have you been a fan of Homestuck? You don’t understand the question. You have always been a fan of Homestuck.

Driving through the countryside, you see horses in a field. It is deeply ironic.

It is nearing midnight on November 8, 2016. You watch the election results come in. For a moment you see not his face, but the painted smile of Violent J. Bicycle horns honk in the distance.

The world has cancer. This has never not been a thing that happened.

You are playing pool with your friends. The cue ball dares you to hit it. You hear a fire engine go by. The eleven ball vanishes. One of your friends pulls a pin out of the six ball.

Why are we so fucking awesome? That is the best question anyone has ever asked. The answer eludes you. Was the ever an answer? What was the question again?

I warned you about stairs, bro. I warned you, dawg.

[oldtumblhurgoyf]

(x)

[oldtumblhurgoyf]

(x)

[thebibliosphere]

Ridiculously Easy.

“Ridiculously easy buttermilk biscuits!” You click the link. It’s a novella about finding inner peace in suburbia. You never knew you were disturbed till now.

“Ridiculously easy green beans!” You click the link, there are twelve ingredients. None of them are green beans.

“Ridiculously easy salted pistachio caramel latte coffee cake in three easy steps!” You click the link. There are twelve steps. 

“Ridiculously easy marshmallow fondant!“ You click the link. It’s another novella about suburbia, this time about the dangers of feeding chemicals to your children. You wonder when you acquired these children and worry about their eyes. They are too bright, too happy, too shining…

“Ridiculously easy evaporated milk custard!*” *Must own own cow.

“Ridiculously easy shortcake in 12 steps!” You click the link. There are no steps.

“Ridiculously easy, easy to make, easy in three minutes, easy!” It doesn’t tell you what you’re making but you’re pretty certain it shouldn’t be hissing.

“Ridiculously easy,” the article reads, “easy, it’s so easy, easy” you hear laughing. Your face hurts why does your face hurt?

“It’s so easy,” you tell you friends, your smile is not your own. You can feel your teeth growing, “so easy, you’ll hardly feel a thing!”

[2x2verse]

clickbait cooking gothic

[lucaskieran-blog]

Slash Fic Gothic

You have blond hair, he has brown hair. You always have blond hair, he always has brown hair. You dye your hair brown, but suddenly his hair is blond, and you feel as though maybe you are him, and he is you, and you have blond hair again, and he has brown hair.

His gaze is impossibly fond, his eyes are impossibly blue, he pulls you impossibly closer, your heart beats impossibly fast, the bulge in his pants is impossibly hard, he should maybe get that checked out.

You don’t remember ever working out and yet you look down and see you have a six pack. When you next see yourself in the mirror you have an eight pack. When he takes of your shirt you have ten, twelve abs. You’re scared to look again in case there are more.

His eyes change colour depending on his moods. At first you thought it was a trick of the light, but now you’re not so sure. They switch between blue, green and grey. Once you thought you saw a flicker of red. You make sure to kiss with your eyes closed now.

You’re white, and so is he. Sometimes he’s your enemy, but you still love him, don’t you? Of course, it makes sense. You’re not sure what you like about him, exactly, but there must be something, right? There’s this intangible thing between you, isn’t there? You feel like you may have more chemistry with your non-white friend, but that can’t be right.

You don’t remember taking your clothes off but you’re naked now. Well, all you remember is toeing out of your shoes. You always toe out of them, although you don’t quite know what that means.

Your pronouns mix into a blur and you no longer know where you end and he begins… You reach out your hand to his hand on his arm… your arm… his… You are sitting and he straddles you but is facing away… There are hands everywhere…

[justgot1]

THE ACCURACY HURTS.

[cesperanza]

You smell like sandlewood.  You don’t know what sandlewood even IS.

[la-belle-laide]

Once your shoes are off, you pad everywhere. You try to walk, but you can’t, your feet don’t comply. Your only option if you want to get from room to room is to pad.

Your tongues battle for dominance. There can be only one victor. One tongue is not walking away from this battle. Will it be yours?

He tastes like smoke and wine, whatever he had for dinner, and something distinctly him. You don’t know what that taste is or where it comes from… only that it is distinctly…him…

Is he The Smaller Man? Or The Larger Man? Are you The Pale Man? Are you The Slender Man? The Blond Man? You no longer have a name… you are just an epithet.

You thought you were about the same size, but, the clothes come off… and he’s The Larger Man. So large. He’s got six inches on you. You can tuck your head under his chin. Ten inches now… is he growing? Are you shrinking?

It’s weeping. OH GOD WHY IS IT WEEPING?

[gogoblueberry-deactivated201801]

gothic overwatch

you hear a mccree shout its high noon. there is no mccree on either team. the sun has vanished from the sky.

you have won. you prepare to watch the play of the game. there is a bastion on your team. you watch as a reaper gets three kills from their ult. nobody has won anymore.

“nerf this” yells d.va as she activates her ult. an emanating wave of existential dread washes over you. terror causing your team to panic.  that is her ult. the human condition cannot be nerfed.

your team has been wiped in overtime. you hear mercy ult. “heroes never die.” you are not revived. perhaps you were never truly a hero.

the timer begins to countdown in the final five seconds. you rush down a corridor to the objective. an ice wall erupts from the ground blocking your path. you turn around to find another ice wall. the round ends, but you remain.

“EXPERIENCE TRANQUILITY” announces zenyatta, the healing waves emanating to the rest of your team. your tranquility is not experienced. dread is the only thing you can feel. you are killed by a widowmaker.

you are widowmaker. you grapple to your sniper’s perch. you look through your scope at the enemy team. they are not there. the doors open. no team emerges. the timer is broken.

you are fighting a team consisting only of roadhogs. you are immediately hooked. you are hooked again. you are never killed. caught within this virtual wimbledon for eternity.

RYUU GA WAGA TEKI WO KURAU. the dragon shoots through the wall. you wait for it to pass so you can proceed to the capture objective. the dragon never ends.

you burst upwards into the sky as pharah. the enemy team is grouped on the objective. your ultimate has just fully charged. justice rains from above but you are killed instead. this is what justice is.

(credit to @archaicprospect and @gogoblueberry)

[mahoumoonlight]

gothic americana

❝ hell is REAL. ❞

[somethinggothic]

how many states have those HELL IS REAL billboards along highways? Because I know where to find two or three here in Ohio.

[jimperbam]

Illinois Gothic

The weather is considered legitimate conversation. Everyone talks about the weather regardless of the season. The weather is on all minds. The weather refuses to be ignored.

Start in a corn field and drive fifteen minutes in any direction. You will either be in the middle of a bustling city or by another corn field. Which one it is will change depending on the day.

It is twenty below zero. The snow is three feet deep and still falling. School is not canceled. School is never canceled. What happens in the blinding whiteout that the children must not see?

It is always colder by the lake. Even at the peak of summer, you will shudder when the wind lifts from the water. You wonder what dwells beneath the blue-grey waves that makes the air so chill.

When someone says they are going to the city, everyone always knows which city they mean. You’re not sure why so few people are brave enough to call the city by its true name.

The wind is always blowing, but no one pays any attention. Tourists and new arrivals are the only ones who comment. Perhaps it’s because they can almost hear the whispers on the gusts that everyone else has learned to ignore.

The lanes in a construction zone converge. There have been signs placed for miles, but cars wait until the last possible moment to merge. You’re not sure why they’re so afraid to become one. Perhaps they know something you don’t.

You live in a decent sized town, but the people the town over have never heard of it. How can that be when it’s only a twenty-minute drive? And why can’t you find your town on any maps?