r/WritingPrompts • u/katpoker666 Moderator • 18d ago
Off Topic [OT] Fun Trope Friday: Undead Laborers and Folk Horror!
Welcome to Fun Trope Friday, our feature that mashes up tropes and genres!
How’s it work? Glad you asked. :)
Every week we will have a new spotlight trope.
Each week, there will be a new genre assigned to write a story about the trope.
You can then either use or subvert the trope and/or genre in a 750-word max story or poem (unless otherwise specified).
To qualify for ranking, you will need to provide ONE actionable feedback. More are welcome of course!
Three winners will be selected each week based on votes, so remember to read your fellow authors’ works and DM me your votes for the top three.
Next up… IP
It’s October. The time of falling leaves, jack o’lanterns, and candy. And blood… so much blood. This month will be focusing on all things horror with maybe a treat or two to sweeten the pot. Please note this theme is only loosely applied.
"Humanity is mind-controlled and only slightly more conscious than your average zombie." — David Icke
Trope: Undead Laborers — When someone uses The Undead, such as zombies and reanimated corpses, as a cheap labor force for simple but time-consuming tasks, such as mining. From a business perspective, using undead workers is a very cost-efficient strategy: zombies and skeletons don't need to sleep or eat, never get sick, and are unlikely to spontaneously form undead trade unions due to lacking free will. As such, it is one of the least morally objectionable ways to use Human Resources, although it always depends on where exactly the dead are coming from and what the local culture considers desecration.
Genre: Folk Horror — Folk horror is a subgenre of horror that draws on folklore, rural settings, and ancient rituals to evoke fear and unease. It often explores themes of isolation, the supernatural, and the tension between modernity and ancient beliefs.Includes folklore elements, rural settings, and rituals.
Skill / Constraint - optional: Someone trips in some form.
So, have at it. Lean into the trope heavily or spin it on its head. The choice is yours!
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Last Week’s Winners
PLEASE remember to give feedback—this affects your ranking. PLEASE also remember to DM me your votes for the top five stories via Discord or Reddit—both katpoker666. This is a change from the top three of the past. In weeks where we get over 15 stories, we will do a top five ranking. Weeks with less than 15 stories will show only our top three winners. If you have any questions, please DM me as well.
Some fabulous stories this week and great crit at campfire and on the post! We had 18 stories, so we’re back to five winners. Congrats to:
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Ground rules:
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Thanks for joining in the fun!
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u/Morose_Prose 12d ago edited 12d ago
Depot of Death: Part One
Pale moonlight glinted from the few silver slivers of tin adrift in a sea of rust atop the dilapidated depot. Twisted steel tracks snaked around the perimeter. Broken glass crunched underfoot as Harlan and Margaret looked for an entrance.
Striking a match on his boot, Harlan lit up a quirly and shook his head. "Surprise, surprise! Percival's information was wrong. Again. This place is still locked up tight. Doors are blocked from the inside. Starting to think this is another one of his stupid romance plots to get us some alone time."
"As if we need an excuse," Margaret giggled. She snatched the smoke from his lips, taking a long puff. "There's gotta be fucking something in here, though. Looks like nobody's been inside in ages. Bandits would have picked this place clean and gotten the gold by now."
"Gold? Percy told me it was seized Confederate weaponry we could fence to collectors."
"And you believed him?"
"Says the woman who thinks we're gonna find Montezuma's treasure in an abandoned train depot. Gosh darn it. Let's cut our losses, head back to camp, tell Percy there's nothing but empty crates and rat shit in here." Harlan stomped out his smoke and whistled loudly into the cold autumn night. Galloping hooves clomped from afar. A massive steed approached in a cloud of dust.
Jabbing Harlan in the ribs, Margaret pointed at the beast. "Why is Griffith red?" she asked.
"Did you miss Bob's little science lecture at breakfast this morning?" Harlan inquired. Placing his hand gently under her chin, he lifted her gaze to the sky. "Lunar eclipse tonight. Turns the moon red. Reckon Griff is more reflective than you thought."
As her eyes drifted back to Earth, something caught Margaret's attention. "Wait. I think I can get through that window if I stand on Griffith." Clambering up the steed, Margaret steadied herself on the saddle. Smashing the remaining glass from the sill with the butt of her double-barreled shotgun, she slithered inside.
"How big is the mountain of riches in there?" Harlan shouted.
"It's a little fucking hard to see! Give me a minute to get the door—oh, fuck me!"
Bolting to the door, Harlan drew his custom iron from the leather on his hip. He cocked the hammer back. "What's happening in there?"
Hinges squealed and rust rattled as the door opened. Margaret's face wore a mud-covered scowl as the sanguine moonlight illuminated her. "Had a Harlan moment. Tripped over my own two fucking feet in the pitch blackness," she muttered.
The iron returned to Harlan's hip. "Here." He produced a bandana from the back pocket of his jeans and gently wiped the detritus from Margaret's face. "See anything worthwhile inside?"
"No lights. Let's grab a lantern and do a sweep," Margaret huffed.
Heavy dust clung to rotting crates haphazardly strewn about the cavernous depot. Every container was adorned with scrolls covered in writing that neither understood. They crept further into the belly of the beast, cautiously navigating the wooden maze.
As they reached the center, Harlan froze in place, grasping Margaret's hand. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"Scraping, or scratching." Harlan placed his ear to a nearby box. "It's coming from inside here."
"Probably rats," Margaret flippantly dismissed his concern. "Couldn't hurt to crack one open, see if there's anything of any fucking value here." She retrieved an old iron bar from next to one of the crates, handing it to Harlan. "You can do the honors."
"Fine. Stand back and cover my ass, please." Jamming the rod between the rotting slats, Harlan broke through the wood with ease. "Give me some light."
The lantern hovered over his shoulder, barely illuminating the darkness. Dark jade eyes caught the flickering flame.
"Are those... dragons?" Margaret crept closer. She reached out to touch the contents of the crate. "Huh. These statues look like they might actually be worth somethin'."
As her fingers touched the cold stone, a clawed hand grasped her wrist. The statues toppled over. Margaret pulled away, falling backwards into Harlan's arms. From the darkness emerged a man clad in traditional Chinese attire. His eyes milky white. Yellow teeth snarled from rotting lips. A guttural moan echoed through the depot. With arms extended, the man hopped toward the two.
Iron flew from leather, and barrels came level in perfect sync. The man didn't stop. Bullets and shells boomed. The ringing in their ears was soon replaced by the cracking of wood as the other crates opened.
To be continued...
- - -
Word Count: 748
Bonus Constraint: Margaret stumbles in the dark and then stumbles back when grabbed.
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u/Divayth--Fyr 12d ago
Hey Doc!
It never occurred to me that this genre could be done as a western, but it sure could, and can, and now is.
You're so good at gently sarcastic dialogue, and it works really well here.
"I pulled a Harlan" lol
Tricky to convey that the horse was white when it is first seen as red, but you pulled it off pretty well. If I got it, I assume most will.
You start out, though, describing pale moonlight without a mention of its ominous redness.
I assume the undead labor is as guards of the ancient treasures, which is indeed a time-honored traditional role for the undead.
I sort of wondered why Griffith was stationed in the distance. There's probably a good reason.
Curious to find out if Percival is evil or an idiot, or possibly both.
"How big is the mountain of riches in there?" Harlan shouted.
"It's a little fucking dark in here!
I would suggest dropping either 'in there' or 'in here' as it feels repetitive.
That's all I got! Very cool characters and good words!
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u/oliverjsn8 13d ago edited 12d ago
Upon Ole Devil’s Knoll
CW: Violence
Along dirt roads weathered and worn,
Through rounded hills, land I was born.
Where forest rose before man exist,
And valleys cowled within pale mist.
From a college town out very far,
Traveled three souls by way of car.
Two young fellas, named Drew and Lou,
One fine lass, I believe called Sue?
Ah, the memory, I see it clearly,
And now speak of it quite tearily,
For no one… let alone three,
Should meet that fate. I hope you’d agree.
They pulled into my gas station,
Where they stared in unquiet fascination,
At the antiquated pump, with a sign that read,
‘No Cards Accepted’ in letters, bold, red.
I approached, not trying to hide,
Along the car’s passenger side.
Announcing my intention to help,
I was met with a yelp, yelp, and YELP.
The sight of me must have been unpleasant,
For my hygiene was… off at the present.
I had just completed an engine overhaul.
Oil and dirt stained my good overalls.
After a minute of gestural scrutiny,
Drew asked three questions of me:
Will you take Visa, just this one exception?
Do you happen to sell beer and contraception?
And finally, he asked if I knew the way,
To the place that they intended to stay.
Oh, the name of that horrible place,
That name, I thought, time would erase.
Known by locals as Ole Devil’s Knoll,
Left of the red barn and just past Butcher’s Shoal,
Look for a road grown over and thorny,
You’ve missed it if you pass the home of John Dorne.
I begged that they stay here, especially that night,
When the moon was red, full, and bright.
For, on such a night, back in forty-five,
Did Judy Miller come back, more dead than alive.
Judy told her story to Sally, and Sally told Joe,
Who over a still passed the tale onto Bo,
And he slurred it to Moe, while inebriated,
Who whispered it to Tammy, whom he was related,
Then she to young pa, who at the time was no older than I,
Of a house, on the knoll, where the dead did not die.
It went that Judy took Paul, hand in hand,
To trespass upon that cursed land.
Intending to act in ways that make mothers weep.
Seeking a ‘where’ their secret would keep.
Through sawbriar bushes, they saw dreadful things,
Such as people chopped up and stitched back with strings,
Ghouls that shambled nearby a rickety home,
From their rot mouths echoed a moan.
Whilst a man with the horns of a goat,
A serpent's tail from long billowing coat,
Skin mottled blue, and raven wings splayed,
Spoke words unholy, to a fresh body laid.
It rose all stiff, and with a pitiable jerk,
Then he commanded it to join in the work,
The foul creature took up a mattock,
And dug in patterns seeming erratic.
When Judy gasped seeing it her half-brother,
Who had gone missing like many another.
Alerting vile man and the undead creatures,
Setting forth with their blank features.
Under that moon, looking like blood,
They slipped and tripped in the dark mud.
The two ran back along the trail,
When Paul cried out in an inhuman wail.
A ghoul had caught him by the hair of his head.
The rest of the hoard made sure Paul was soon dead.
As Judy’s heart filled with despair,
By the man she was lifted into the air.
And dropped, from treetop high, like a stone.
The sickening stop, breaking most every bone.
Then, with a knife, he started his fun,
When from the east came the sun.
The man, he smiled, as he burned away,
While Judy bled out where she lay.
The monsters drug away most of Paul,
Leaving the pieces deemed too small.
If not for passing Parson Brown,
Who was making his way into town,
Judy would have died, right then.
Instead she clung on till day ten.
My story, I ended with renewed plea,
The three give up, and, AGAIN, stay here with me.
Instead, they drove away with nary a wave,
Even though their lives I was trying to save.
After that long, long, sleepless night,
Filled, to the brim, with dreams giving me fright,
I walked up Ole Devil’s Knoll, in daylight.
Where, I found the most sickening sight.
Resting under a bent tree,
Made up of the remains of three,
Was a creature, stitched into one.
That I took mercy on, with my shotgun.
WC: 747
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u/m00nlighter_ 12d ago
Heya Oliver!
I am so damn impressed. I see a few places where this poem could be gently polished, but the amount of worldbuilding and folk-speak and horror tropes and all are freaking awesome. The overalls, the beer and contraception, the location/landmark names, the series of who told who and devil reveal and a lot more are chefs kiss.Great body horror in here too. I really don't have crit, i just had to gush a bit. Well done. Good words!
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u/JKHmattox 13d ago edited 13d ago
The Matriarch Grove
CW: Second-person pov body horror
Sprawling emerald hills roll beneath the late morning sun. Half meadow, half a tangle of mixed fall foliage; the former potato farm bills itself as a rustic retreat far from the chaotic bustle of Boston or New York.
Your friend Mia found the place by chance when she was in college. Once a journalism major at the University of Maine, she'd explored countless desperately rural communities, mesmerized by their disintegration back into the wilderness. Many of her articles describe this as nature mending itself after centuries of human exploration and abuse.
There are five in your tour group, plus the guide. The woman is middle-aged, gray frosting her once jet black hair. Drawing an exaggerated breath of crisp October air, she glances skyward into the canopy of maple trees shading the gathering of women from the sun.
“This hardwood stand is over a hundred years old,” she explains, the breeze shifting her salted locks. “My great grandmother planted our first maple, The Matriarch, back in 1923.”
You peer around the well manicured grove. Gnarled, bark-encrusted trunks crane towards the heavens, each over three feet in diameter at their base. They aren't arranged in neat lines like most cultivated tree farms, but rather a hodgepodge pattern with no logical order.
“Why aren't these planted in rows,” you ask, touching the bark of a nearby trunk.
An almost wicked grin spreads across the woman's face. “We have a unique process that fosters increased output and crop longevity, while also enhancing the flavor of our product.”
“Interesting,” Mia interjects, her eyes narrowing. “I don't see how this would affect anything.”
“You don't believe me?” the woman muses, producing a flask from inside her flannel jacket. “Perhaps a sample of our Maple-infused whiskey will change your mind.”
The woman hands the flask to Mia first. Sniffing the open container, your friend hesitantly lifts it to her lips. One after another, each woman takes a sip until the flask makes its way into your hands.
“C'mon,” your friend encourages with a mischievous grin. “It's not like it's poison or something.”
The elixir's subtle burn evokes an involuntary cough. They all snicker. You wipe your mouth, offering the metal container back to the smirking tour guide.
“Jesus!” you gasp. “What proof is that?”
“Infinity, my darlings…”
The woman's chuckle turns menacing with the growing cacophony of gurgled rumblings wrenching your gut. A hand flies to your middle. Mia's jaw drops, mouth yawning into an elongated oval. A silent scream dies in her throat as you double over in pain.
Two of the women stagger away from the grinning tree farmer. One falls to her knees, toppling forward onto her face. The other screams as she claws at her stomach beneath a puffy, zippered jacket.
The last woman breaks into a sprint across the maple grove. She hurdles a low stone wall, twisting her ankle when she lands. Hobbling, she drags her ruined foot behind her as she continues her escape. Finally, the woman trips, landing on her side.
Knees buckling, you sink, a pressure building beneath your sternum. Mia remains frozen, her eyes fixed on your glacial descent. A lurching spasm arches your spine. You fall backwards, folding your legs so that your thighs press atop the back of your calves. You lay on your back, staring into the crisp indigo sky.
A crackling snap whitens your vision. The pressure spikes downward, something shearing through the back of your leather jacket. It burrows into the ground, your clothes shredding as the root-like appendage increases in girth and depth.
Mia finally chokes a scream from her lungs. “Oh God—my feet!”
You're unable to look. The pressure displacing your diaphragm surges. Your shirt tightens, skin stretching as something uncoils inside you. A sickening pop accosts your eardrums as a wooden shoot erupts from your gut.
The rapidly maturing sapling rockets skyward as its width wedges you apart slowly. Your hands grasp at the spear growing through your body, its rough bark grating your fingertips as it climbs towards the sun. Its foliage unfurls into an orange crown, casting shadows over your body. You groan, the expanding trunk opening you further.
When the growth stops, a silence washes over the grove. You can barely breathe. There is a boundary between bark and flesh, the massive tree impaling your body staking you forever to the ground.
The tree farmer crouches down beside you. Placing a hand on your forehead, she smiles. “Tourists produce the best maple syrup, deary—it’s nothing personal.”
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u/Divayth--Fyr 13d ago edited 13d ago
In The Wildwood
.
Joshua winced as the warbling tones of Sister Belton pierced all other voices in the congregation. She wandered around the simple melody without ever quite finding it, as she had done since approximately the Mesozoic.
“...come to the church in the wildwood, oh come to the church in the dale…”
Brother Hewitt’s contribution could be described as a monobaritone: low, and unvarying. It sometimes fit the harmony very well, like a broken clock.
Brother Joshua, now graced with the traditional appellation of adulthood, hadn’t come to this backwoods little church in over forty years—not since his parents split up. It was not especially dear to his childhood, this little brown church in the dale. But he had promised his mostly-estranged sister, after their mother’s passing, and so here he was.
Of course, she wasn’t here. Some dumb excuse.
He’d abandoned his car at a Denny’s and got a cart-ride with the Munford family. Mr. Munford looked exactly like his father had, way back when.
Sister Betty Malone had been the pastor, long ago. A formidable, terrifying little woman, her repetitive, droning sermons interspersed with brimstone and thunder, and desperate, weeping pleas to repent. Joshua had no idea who had taken over. The sign out front had just proclaimed ‘Freeland Blood of the Apostle Church’.
As the returning prodigal, Joshua had endured endless handshakes in the vestibule from everyone, including Sister Marion Visegrip. Well, Sister Wysick, really, but the nickname still applied. She had strong hands, and a talent for grinding your knuckles internally that had, if anything, improved with time.
Some of them had come back around for another handshake, he was sure of it. Did they get bonus points? He’d avoided eye contact or much conversation, in fear of being invited to dinner.
The muttered condolences, sincere or otherwise, had been a bit off. They seemed more concerned over his mother’s leaving the church than her passing, but it was hard to say.
“...to the trees where the wild flowers bloom,
Where the parting prayer’s never chanted,
and we weep not beside any tomb…”
Joshua didn’t remember this far into the song. He stood there holding his hymnbook, mouthing the words and pretending to give a damn, but it didn’t seem quite right.
Finally, the musical part of the evening’s entertainment was done, and a great thudding rustle announced a mass seating. Joshua swiftly joined, before anyone got the idea he was volunteering for something.
From behind the altar, striding up to the pulpit, came an apparition. Sister Betty Malone.
Joshua’s mind was a mix of fear and mathematics. She was over eighty. Had been. Back then. Nearly ninety, and that was over forty years ago. She looked old, sure, but regular old. Seventies kind of old.
She looked and moved younger now than she had in 1981.
Looking around, while trying very hard not to look around, Joshua made eye contact with some of his handshakers.
Brother Hewitt couldn’t be much past sixty. Warbling Sister Benton was maybe fifty-five? Still?
Their eyes locked on him and he looked away, but made the error of looking back up at Reverend Malone.
There was nothing there, in her eyes. They were empty and black. No. No, a deep, dark red.
“We welcome home a stranger and a friend.” Her voice twanged nightmare notes in ancient memory. “Brother Joshua Pickens, son of divorce, has come among us this blessed day.”
“Welcome, Brother Joshua,” said the entire congregation in startling unison.
“Ahhh– er, hahhh,” was his eloquent reply.
Again, everyone stood. Joshua didn’t. Again, everyone sang. Joshua sat silent.
“Just as I am, without one plea,
but that my blood be shed for thee…”
Rev. Malone pointed a finger, and pleaded.
“Won’t you come to the altar, Joshua? You can atone, now. Your mother’s heresies need not stain your soul. Won’t you come?”
Joshua’s eyes darted about, but he couldn’t move. The song was within him, hypnotizing, powerful. There was no warbling now, no monotone to wreck the harmony. He was sinful. He was broken. He was nothing. The song seemed to rise and rise within him, till he sang along, somehow knowing the words.
“Just as I am, though tossed about,
with many a conflict, many a doubt,
fightings and fears within, without,
Messiah Malone, I come, I come.”
Against what was left of his will, he stumbled and crawled to the altar. A howling of hunger grew, and there was a laying on of hands.
=========
750 words. Might be more undead worship than labor. He sort of trips.
Feedback welcome.
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u/m00nlighter_ 12d ago
Howdy Div!
This is so... quiet? But spooky as hell. Churches are always so creepy in horror lol. I like the descriptions of the singing not finding the melody and being monobaritone. The songs you linked add to the creepy vibe a lot. Theyre gorgeous but imagining them as a score for this added a fun extra depth for me.I also like the slight foreshadowing with Munford looking like his father...
Most of the things i was gonna point out have been edited lol there were a lot of names at first but by the end they all felt necessary so idk if that is crit or not bahaha.
Anywho. Nice folky vibes in this subtle, scary story. Good words!
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u/psilocybediatribe 14d ago
Konkonb Zonbi
The Suzuki grinds to a stop just outside the vodou-man’s kay. The sharp angles of the thatch roof bleed into the heavy crimson timber of the frame and glossy shutters. The door is swung wide and welcoming. From within music plays, a soft melody that accompanies the “ko-kee” of the native frogs.
“Bonswa.” The houngan emerges, his long shadow trembling in the mist amid the warm, flickering glow. The intense heat of day finally broken by the cool mountain breeze in the damp valley.
“Bonswa,” the doctor replies in the local creole dialect. “Kizan ou ye?”
“Mwen byen, mèsi,” the vodou-man responds. “I am Papá Zavyé, but dey call me X.”
The doctor shakes the firm hand of the houngan. “I am Doctor Cyril Gauthier.”
“De plant dokté.” Zavyé nods.
“Ethnobotanist, yes.”
Zavyé leads him inside.
“The bokor,” Gauthier begins—
“De bokor knows how to shake your hand and say goodbye, Dokté,” Zavyé hisses, voice sharp in the citrus-scented air. “Dey wash dey hands in de juice before de skin can drink de powder. You? You walk into de jungle looking at plants. In dis place a polite greeting can put a man in a box.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Yes, but I am no bokor, no.” The houngan turns, moving deeper past the beads into the ounfró, the temple. At its center, the poto mitan, the pillar, is carved with intricate spiraling serpents. “De Lwa follow dis like a road.”
“Beautiful,” Gauthier murmurs.
“In the village… they mention zombies,” he says, not quite asking the question.
“In de village down de river, dey talk about de zonbi. Dey tink de dead rise because dey are cursed. Dey call it magic. But you know what I know. Is just de forest, Dokté. And some men, dey know how to make de forest cruel.”
The doctor hesitates as the houngan hands him a drink, watching as Zavyé drinks first. He sips the syrupy rum, staring at the softly lit pillar while the insects sing.
Gauthier blinks as the serpents move…
“You-you-you’re just my type—” The strobe lights flash and a mirrored disco ball descends. X turns gracefully while he sings, “—oh, you got a pulse and you’re still breathing.”
As the arpeggiated synth rises, X executes a frenetic pirouette while Gauthier feels his legs turn to rubber.
“Wh-what w-was in that?” the doctor mumbles. Heart rate spiking, muscles starting to twitch. Grabbing for the chair, he misses, stumbles and drops.
“Is konkonb zonbi a, de Datura, Dokté.” X leans over him. “Is a good trip, no?”
Gauthier starts to seize in the harsh technicolor haze, the shadows drawing closer around him, taking form.
“Wh-who are they?” He isn’t sure he’s speaking.
X answers regardless. “Dem?” He gestures broadly, his outstretched arms encompassing the room. The doctor’s vision narrows and the rushing in his ears grows. “Dem is you, Dokté.”
Gauthier’s skin crawls, possessed by some phantom energy. He keeps convulsing, the shadows hovering over him. The bokor’s face is the final flash in the darkness as a question dies on his lips.
“Why? Why is a question for a you, but dere is no you, only dem. You understand?”
He doesn’t. He doesn’t. In the delirium he goes blind, and his tachycardic heart reaches its apex as the arpeggiated synth falls and so does he…
Gauthier comes to in the fading light of a setting sun. He is stiff. Stiff as the wooden board beneath him. X leans over.
“Bonjou, dokté—”
The doctor turns to retch and is greeted by a wooden wall. He heaves, his throat bone dry, tongue the texture of scorched earth.
“Shh.” X comforts him, hands him a mug of tea, helps him sit up. “Drink and feel better.”
Gauthier clutches the tea, drinks greedily. The acrid taste, bitter against his swollen tongue, he doesn’t care. His hands reach before X refills his mug.
After a few minutes the doctor sits up. The insects trilling sweet harmonies of lust in the settling black of the valley. He is sitting in…
“Is this a coffin?”
“Wi.” X nods. The shadows approaching again. The stars pulse in syncopated rhythm with the chitinous snare and the manic violins of diaphanous wings.
“Am I dead?”
“Who am I to say?”
“Wh-what?” Gauthier asks.
The shadows bend for him, lifting him gently from the coffin.
“You-you-you’re just my type—” X smiles darkly. “—oh, you got a pulse but you’re not breathing.”
WC: 746. Critiques and feedback always welcome. Thank you for reading.
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u/AmeliaLP 12d ago
Hi Psilocybe, there's some good description going on in this story. I also think you did a nice job at writing an accent within the dialogue. Sort of strange in places and made me laugh a few times, good words.
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u/katpoker666 12d ago
[ineligible for voting]
‘Progress’
Fourteen-hour workdays:
Sixteen calls per day,
Two double-eared,
Where you do both at once.
On a plane.
Off a plane.
Client site and hotel.
Who cares which city?
It’s all the same.
Weekends, a blissful ten.
Family time matters,
After all!
Doesn’t matter if you’re
Too dead to see them.
Eventually, you break.
Everyone does.
Retired, fired, quit…
Chewed up and spat out
By the great machine
Of human progress.
This horror isn’t new.
It’s ancient, primal.
This one’s privileged,
No black lung
No asbestosis.
More heart attacks
And stenosis
But still akin.
As we all suffer
Under progress’ yoke.
WC: 100
Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated