r/WritingPrompts • u/Cody_Fox23 Skulking Mod | r/FoxFictions • May 22 '22
Constrained Writing [CW] Smash 'Em Up Sunday: (Rustbelt) Gothic
Welcome back to Smash ‘Em Up Sunday!
SEUSfire
On Sunday morning at 9:30 AM Eastern in our Discord server’s voice chat, come hang out and listen to the stories that have been submitted be read. I’d love to have you there! You can be a reader and/or a listener. Plus if you wrote we can offer crit in-chat if you like!
Last Week
Cody’s Choices
Community Choice
This Week’s Challenge
Welcome back to the proper 21st Century, writers. We are going to be revisiting an old theme this month that has been a bit neglected: Genre Month. There will be four genres presented for you to explore. No common theme beyond that so be sure to come back each week to see what I’ve brought up for you!
For the final week I’m pushing you to a rather obscure place: Rustbelt Gothic. This is a relatively new subgenre of the gothic tradition. To that end you can also do any gothic tradition. There’s traditional Gothic, Australian Gothic, Southern Gothic, Maori Gothic, Suburban Gothic, and so many other regional variants. Write what you like, I’m just being greedy in wanting Rustbelt specifically.
So let’s start with Gothic Fiction. Widely known for it’s dark foreboding airs and buildings full of illwill—it is named after a type of architecture after all—this genre focuses on the past encroaching on the present. The old buried things do not wish to stay buried. Vengeance, persecution, and murder are common themes. Some may stay grounded as others push to the supernatural. Thanks to time always passing there is always a past and always a present. This allows for the development of many regional subgenres. So let’s crack into one that I wish we could see more of.
Rustbelt Gothic.
Do you want a quick reference and maybe a helpful youtube video? Night In The Woods and Rust Belt Gothic: A Literary Analysis by RegularCarReviews (yes, really). With how popular the game is, it might be one of the most well known examples today. If you want to read about it well, here’s my best quick breakdown.
First, understand the Rustbelt is a section of the midwestern and northeastern US that was an industry powerhouse from the Industrial Revolution through the post WWII economic boom thanks to the rest of the northern hemisphere's manufacturing having been bombed to hell. People prospered and built nice towns and cities all on the money brought in through manufacture. However as more centers of manufacture opened back up internationally in Europe, Asia, and South America, as well as the move to the west coast and south fueled by lower labor costs and easier access to shipping than the Great Lakes, the towns died out.
Apty named as many of the abandoned mills and factories literally rust away, the metaphor extends to the towns themselves just becoming barren and listless. People unable to move sit in a state of unending anticipation that maybe, somehow, the factories will come to life again and things can go back to the way they were. But there is no going back. Companies don't want to return to the area more for the logistical issues than even the expense of labor and new construction. It just isn't a good business decision. However that hope is what drives these areas to anyone that promises them a return to The Old Days. Are you actually reading through all of this? If so, have a fun bonus constraint. It isn’t worth any more points, but it will be our little secret. Work in the phrase “A Serious house on serious earth” into your story.
However the political nature aside, these rustbelt settings evoke many gothic themes of impending doom, isolation as you can't escape the situation, desperation for the nightmare to end, and a depressing air of death on everything. David Trotter likened the dead old buildings of industry to the looming dark castles of classic gothic literature. It is fitting.
Anyhow, do some digging, maybe your own region has a tradition you want to showcase! Being in proximity to the region and my former life in Urbex makes the Rustbelt tradition really appealing for me and I would like to see more works in the genre. So I’ll be indulgent and leverage my feature. Good words, all!
How to Contribute
Write a story or poem, no more than 800 words in the comments using at least two things from the three categories below. The more you use, the more points you get. Because yes! There are points! You have until 11:59 PM EDT 28 May 2022 to submit a response.
After you are done writing please be sure to take some time to read through the stories before the next SEUS is posted and tell me which stories you liked the best. You can give me just a number one, or a top 5 and I’ll enter them in with appropriate weighting. Feel free to DM me on Reddit or Discord!
| Category | Points |
|---|---|
| Word List | 1 Point |
| Sentence Block | 2 Points |
| Defining Features | 3 Points |
Word List
Antiquated
Decay
Shadow
Dyspathy
Sentence Block
Darkness loomed over everything.
Something dwelled there.
Defining Features
Genre: Gothic
Subgenre: Rustbelt Gothic
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I hope to see you all again next week!
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u/throwthisoneintrash May 29 '22
The Factory Next Door
WC 481
Pappy always held my hand when I was little and pointed up at the building with the chimneys.
“Stay out of there, Claira-Belle, it's dangerous,” he’d say.
That sense of awe never left me as I grew up under the shadows of the old factory chimneys. They was practically spires from a picture of an old castle now that the rain had wore them away some.
You’d think the antiquated charm of a relic from olden times would have been a blessin’ for our little town, but it turned into the opposite. Word started spreadin’ like wildfire about something that dwelled there in the inner recesses of the rust and steel.
They said it carried an ax, swinging at anyone who trespassed. And I heard about how it growled at ya. While the Laughlan boys bragged about how they saw it chase them down with a lead pipe one time. They was liars from their mamma’s womb, but still, the stories had to mean somethin’.
I thought about them stories a bit, but my life was too busy now that Pappy had passed. I had a whole farm to run. Despite being next door to the old factory, I didn’t have the time nor the energy to put into frightenin’ myself. I just lived beside the old beast and I figured the so-called victims of the creature hidden inside deserved a mite of dyspathy.
Besides, I had been inside. ‘Tweren’t nothing to be afraid of.
Once you get past the decay of the outer shell, it’s more or less just some empty rooms. I wasn’t silly though. If I needed to go in there to keep trespassers from gettin’ onto my property from that way, I would do it with caution.
I kept my choppin’ ax near the factory entrance on the farm’s side, just in case i needed to shoo away one of them thieving types. I’d give ‘em a loud hollar and hopefully get them to think twice about it.
There was one time I heard someone in there and, creature or not, I had to get them to back away. So I did what any normal person would do. I ran into the old building and grabbed some lead pipe I found lying around and chased ‘em off with it. It was probably better for them anyway. I had never seen no creature there, but I wouldn’t want them to get ate by one.
For the most part though, I lived peacefully beside the old factory. As much as darkness loomed over everything, and I could see why folks came up with these wild stories, it never did bother me none. I was happy to live in my Pappy’s old house. A serious house on serious earth, he’d called it. Not at all like these fanciful stories about a creature in the factory that probably didn’t even exist.
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u/FyeNite May 29 '22
Hey throw,
Wow, and to think you struggled to get to 500 here. I don't believe it, this was done so well! I loved the way the story slowly turned from mild horror? to somewhat humorous.
Besides, I had been inside. ‘Tweren’t nothing to be afraid of.
And it was at this line that I knew where you were going with this, lol. And it was glorious all the way, hecking well done!
A serious house on serious earth,
What a strange line to include in such a strange story...
They was practically spires from a picture of an old castle now that the rain had wore them away some.
Okay, so here I thought you had a small error with "was" but then I realised that you were going for a particular accent. Perhaps it would be easier to tell if I had read it in that particular accent from the start but I feel like it would be easier to tell if the first few paragraphs had the accent more or as pronounced as it was later on.
I hope this helps.
Good words.
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u/throwthisoneintrash May 29 '22
Thank you for your feedback!
I appreciate the compliments and I think you caught something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. The accent might not be as pronounced in the first paragraph. Maybe I can do a quick ninja edit? lol
Thank you!
→ More replies (1)2
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u/ThePinkTeenager May 29 '22 edited May 29 '22
"Are we gonna have to sleep in the car?" asked Tim.
"Don't worry. I'm looking for a hotel." I responded.
I saw a town and drove toward it. Upon getting closer, I realized how antiquated the place was. Half the houses must've been built when Queen Victoria was alive. Still, something or somebody dwelled there. It even had an open inn.
"Hey look, I found one."
I parked the car and led the family toward the worn-down door.
"I don't like this place." said Olivia.
"We'll be fine. It's just a little old, that's all."
An ancient woman stood behind a decaying front desk. Her name tag said Lydia Starling. "What brings you here?" she asked.
"We're on a road trip."
I paid for a room, and she gave me a room key. Like an actual, physical key with the number 13 on it.
The hallway to the room had no windows and bad lights, so darkness loomed over everything. I needed my phone flashlight to see the room numbers. When I found room 13, I opened the door.
"ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE!"
The kids screamed. I jumped backwards and froze.
A man in old-fashioned clothing was standing on the other side of the door. Somehow, I knew he was a ghost. No... this can't be real. I must be hallucinating or something.
"Help!" yelled Tim.
Incredulously, I was right.
"Who are you? What do you want?" I barked.
"This is my home." The ghost's voice sent chills down my spine. "Go away."
Suddenly, I was enraged by his dyspathy for my terrified children. "No. Explain yourself right now or else!"
He didn't respond.
Without thinking, I shoved him. My hand went straight through his body, and I nearly fell.
The ghost looked at himself in horror. "I am dead!"
"You didn't know?"
"You did?"
"Dude, you're transparent."
We stared at each other. The kids stopped screaming, but they were obviously (and understandably) confused. Finally, I spoke.
"Sir, I rented this room. Will you please let me in?"
The ghost stepped back, allowing us inside.
As we settled in, I kept a wary eye on the ghost. But rather than showing aggression, he hid in the shadows near the dresser. After putting the kids to bed, I talked to him.
"What year is it?" I asked.
"1953."
"And what's your name, sir?"
"What's yours?"
"Alex Russell."
"Fred Starling."
Starling... where had I heard that name?
"Do you have a daughter?"
"I have two."
"I just have Olivia and her brother."
"That's her name? Lovely girl. She reminds me of Linda when she was that age."
"Linda?"
"My older daughter. She's 19."
Not anymore, I thought. Wait a second...
"You said this is your home. Why do you live in a hotel?"
"Because I own it."
I gasped. "You're the desk woman's father."
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u/atcroft May 29 '22
Good story--enjoyed it.
One nit--did the name change from "Lydia" on the name tag to "Linda" at the end? Or is that just me?
Otherwise well done.
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u/gdbessemer May 29 '22 edited May 29 '22
The Audition - Part 4
We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service.
The whistle echoed eerily through the twisted metal ruins of the Heap, the shrill call taken up and repeated by the other Breakers. Mike dropped his stubby pick and sat down in the dirt, hands long numb from the reverberations of swinging metal against metal. Tracing his way back through the stacks of discarded movie props seemed too much to bear anymore.
Sometimes Breakers just found a niche to crawl into and die. Earlier they’d found someone’s body under a mostly intact X-wing. After peeling the surrounding scrap off, they signaled Retrieval to come. Retrieval took the spaceship and tied it down to their truck bed with the care of a swaddled infant, but they’d left the corpse in the dirt. The sheer dyspathy of it all would have made Mike laugh, if his throat wasn’t full of metal shavings and dust.
He’d wondered what they needed to reclaim all this old junk for, if they were just going to throw it back on the Heap again. But they’d learned to avoid questions; anyone who went to see the Boss never came back. Maybe today would have been Mike’s day to just crawl under something and die too—back a ways there’d been a nice 1960’s Batmobile dogpiled by rusted filing cabinets.
But a glint in the dark caught his eye. Some vestige of curiosity compelled Mike to crawl over and look.
Ducking under a curtain of rusted chains, he came into a clearing in the junk. It looked like something had dwelled here. Then the setting sun hit just the right angle and filled the clearing with light.
There was a sculpture of stark beauty: row after row of tiny people with bodies of broken cell phones and dented cups with wire limbs. Each had separate expressions, and were clearly made with a love bordering on insanity. The scrap metal dolls were facing a large stretch of canvas, yellowed with decay and spotted with holes, lashed to an upright frame made from boom mikes.
On the canvas was a picture of a dapper 1920’s gangster waving around a tommy gun. A title card written on cardboard hung on top: “A Serious House on a Serious Earth. Starring Mike Holligan.” Despite the crude ink it was unmistakably a painting of him, acting out the part he’d auditioned for so many years ago.
His eyes caught the corner of the frame: the artist’s signature. It was a hoofprint.
Unbidden tears stung his eyes as memories of his past life surfaced. How long had he been in the Heap? Long enough for it to feel like all the magic in the world had died.
He stood up fully, heedless of the sun’s glare. He looked back and saw the Boss’ house in silhouette, up on a hill somewhere on the outskirts of the Heap.
Live or die, it was time to pay the Boss a visit.
By the time he staggered out of the maze, darkness loomed over everything. The Boss’ shack was lit by an antiquated overhead light that flickered on and off.
Mike shouldered open the door. The inside of the room was dark, except for the burning end of a cigar hovering above human height. “I quit,” he said, throwing down his pick.
“You quit?” a voice growled. The light outside flickered on, offering a brief glimpse of the Boss.
He was the giant fairy. His bulk filled the entire end of the room, feet sticking out around a comically small desk, back bent and head against the ceiling. Then the room was dark again.
“I could grind you to dust and make soup from your blood,” said the giant.
“Like you did to the horse fairy?”
Silence. “She didn’t want to participate anymore. Ran off into the Heap.”
“I found her art. Looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.” Mike let the implication of that sink in.
The burning end of the cigar flamed brighter for a moment. “We had a role to fill. As did you. If you want to quit, I’ll squash you like a bug.”
“Do it.”
The giant roared. Mike watched dispassionately as he struggled to move. The shack groaned against the giant’s weight, but no matter how his hands smashed or his feet pounded, he couldn’t find leverage to even stand up, let alone do good on his threats. After a minute of harmless flailing, the giant broke down, chest heaving with sobs.
Mike turned to leave. The light outside flashed on again, showing the door was covered in a peeling white paint. For the first time in a long time, he felt some hope. He twisted the knob and stepped through into a bright light.
WC: 797
Read more at r/gdbessemer!
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u/Neona65 May 29 '22
Love that you have a totally different take on the theme this week.
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u/gdbessemer May 29 '22
Thanks! It's a SEUSerial story, you can see how Mike got here in previous parts:
https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/uqdkji/cw_smash_em_up_sunday_swashbuckler/
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u/Zetakh May 29 '22 edited May 29 '22
The Slaughterhouse
Rural darkness loomed over everything as the beaten-up old car rumbled over the decrepit road, the wheels bouncing over the tough tufts of grass that fought to reclaim the trail.
“How much further, Vicky?”
“Not sure, Erin. GPS lost signal thirty minutes ago, but it can’t be much farther.”
“I hope you’re right. If we don’t find it soon we’re gonna have to turn back, we’re nearly down to half gas and I am not getting stranded out here in the middle of the night.”
“Amen– wait, what’s that?”
A rusted fence rose out of the darkness, its decaying gate swinging back and forth in the faint wind as it dragged a broken chain through the dirt beneath it.
Vicky stopped the car. “Well, saves us the trouble of breaking in. Go hold it open while I drive through.”
Erin smirked. “You want me to get out of the car in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere?”
“Yeah, I know. You’re gonna get murdered. But someone’s gotta open the gate, and I’m driving!”
“Yes’m. If I get grabbed by cannibal yokels, come get me!” she said, hopping out of the car and walking over to the gate.
“If that happens, I’ll choose dyspathy and life and leave you here!”
Erin flipped her the bird, then grabbed the old gate and pulled. She grunted with the effort as she heaved the hunk of rust out of the way with a shriek of hinges, then waved Vicky through and turned to follow.
She yelped as she felt something prick her palm, the gate slipping from her grasp.
“What happened?” Vicky asked.
“Scratched my hand on the gate,” Erin answered, getting back in. She pressed her sleeve into her palm, wiping away the small swell of blood. “Not bad, though, but I’m definitely gonna need a tetanus shot.”
“There should be band-aids in the bag. Let’s be careful in there now.”
Soon the road ended, replaced by an overgrown gravel parking lot. Beyond it lay their destination, a small mountain of metal and darkness loomed out of the night like the corpse of a starving giant.
The Slaughterhouse.
They stopped and got out, staring up at the foreboding building.
“Well,” Erin murmured, “this is it.”
“Yep,” Vicky concurred. “Let’s go.”
They jogged up to the main entrance, their torches illuminating the massive metal doors and the sign above it.
“A Serious House on Serious Earth,” Vicky read. “Morbid.”
“But not wrong.” Erin tried the door. “Nope, rusted shut. Not getting in that way.”
“Damn.” Vicky cast her torchlight about, searching. “There.”
A large fenced-in pen stood ahead of them, funnel-shaped and attached to the building’s wall.
Erin blanched. “Fuck. Okay.”
They climbed through the wide bars of the cattle intake and approached the rusted opening, still veiled by yellowing plastic curtains.
As they paused in front of the entryway, wind whispered past them and into the old building with a sound like a rattling breath. As if something dwelled there, a hungering beast awoken from slumber.
Vicky shuddered. “Ready?”
“Not really,” Erin answered. “But we’re here. Let’s go.”
Vicky nodded, then ducked through the curtain.
Erin steeled herself and brushed the curtains aside, shuddering as the stained plastic brushed over her injured palm.
She straightened, looking back to see a fresh stain of blood mingling with the old. “Shit.”
“Damn,” Vicky said. She’d climbed out of the fenced-in path and was standing on an old conveyor belt, her torch casting about. “Look at this place.”
Erin swept her own torch around to take it in. Antiquated tools hung from hooks and lay scattered on the floor – knives, saws, cleavers, things that had no name. Every inch of them coated in rust and ancient, dark-brown stains.
She was about to answer when she heard a noise. A strange, rhythmic sound of metal on metal, mixed with the rattle of chain and the groan of machinery.
“Did you hear that?”
Vicky nodded. “I did. We should–”
The conveyor belt started.
Vicky yelled, stumbling off the belt and onto the floor, hissing as her knee hit the concrete.
“Vicky! Are you o–” Erin shrieked as sudden pain erupted in her injured hand, something tearing at her injured flesh. She looked down and saw a rusted hook buried in her palm, a chain pulled taught behind it.
Pulling her along the cattle track.
“Vicky!” she cried, Help me!”
Vicky stared, frozen with horror. A jagged black gate was opening at the far end of the cattle track, blood-red light spilling out between glistening iron teeth as a hungry sigh swept over the killing floor.
Another hook erupted from the yawning maw and buried itself in Erin’s leg.
The chains pulled.
“It hurts! Vicky!”
Vicky chose life.
She left Erin there.
Thanks for reading! Feedback always appreciated!
Feel free to check out my sub, r/ZetakhWritesStuff for more!
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u/Neona65 May 29 '22
Vicky's not a very good friend, is she?
A rusted fence rose out of the darkness, its decaying gate swinging back and forth in the faint wind as it dragged a broken chain through the dirt beneath it. - Loved this image.
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u/Zetakh May 29 '22
To be fair to Vicky, I don't think she could have helped! The Slaughterhouse would most likely have eaten her too if she had tried to help :(
Glad you enjoyed the read, though, and the imagery! First time I tried my hand at proper rust belt, so I'm very happy to hear it carried well!
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u/VaguelyGuessing May 28 '22
David sat on the crumbling wall surrounding Giant’s Foot, the old mining town. He dangled his legs and kicked at the wall, his eyes focused on the rusted sign that hung above the boarded-up bakery. Every time the wind blew, which was often here in the valley, the sign would screech wildly, like some ghost spewed out of hell.
He tried to imagine what Giant’s Foot would have been like back in the old days – a bustling town, children running along the streets, mothers lining up at the bakery, the spicy scent of freshly baked bara brith wafting through those now boarded up windows.
It would have been colourful, he decided. Not like now. Now, darkness loomed over everything, even when the sun was shining. Now, the only smell that hung in the air was the stench of stale decay.
“I wondered if I’d see you again,” a voice said, startling him.
David turned to face the girl he’d seen the week before. Daisy.
“Ma told me not to come here,” David said, his eyes flitting briefly to the sign above the bakery.
“Really?” Daisy climbed the wall and sat next to him. “Why did she tell you that?”
He shrugged. “It’s really stupid.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
He wanted to tell Daisy what his mother had told him, about how Giant’s Foot was cursed, how only a few people chose to still live there because they were stubborn as old billy goats. They’d rather rot, they would. But Daisy lived here, and he didn’t want to upset her.
“She seems to think the place is haunted.” It wasn’t a complete lie. David’s mother made wild claims about the land. That the town was built over a cairn, the bones of the dead disturbed and disrespected.
When Daisy didn’t answer, David turned to look at her. She was staring towards the town, her face pale. “There are ghosts,” she said, finally.
David scoffed, but the way she said it sent a shiver down his spine, nonetheless. When she didn’t laugh, he shifted in his seat. “So, there really was a burial mound?”
“No. There was a school, just there.” She pointed towards a pile of rocks on the field across from an antiquated church.
“I suppose it makes sense there was a school. But schools don’t have ghosts.”
“That one has.”
“What happened to it?”
“The building crumbled during an awful storm, and…” Daisy drew in a sharp breath.
At that moment, David’s phone, which had been pressed against his thigh, burst into a series of vibrations and threw his heart up into his mouth. He took it out and scanned the message.
“What is it?” Daisy asked.
“It’s my mum. I’ve got to go, sorry.”
The girl gave a sad smile. “Goodbye.”
David spent the next four days babysitting his little sister while his mum went to work. Each day, he gazed through the sparkling gems scuttling down his window, out towards Giant’s Foot – the bleak smear on an otherwise lush landscape. He was drawn to it. It wasn’t just Daisy, either. There was something about the place, the way it seemed to exist in a different space, a different time. As though everything in the world could change and move, but Giant’s Foot would remain untouched. The same.
The next morning, David arrived at the wall at sunrise. He waited for a whole hour, but Daisy didn’t show up. So, for the first time in his life, David stepped over the threshold, and into Giant’s Foot. He stopped at a small shop with faded advertisements, pushed the door open, causing the little bell above it to tinkle gently.
The woman at the counter squinted at him.
“Alright? Aren’t you that boy? Been sitting on the wall staring in.”
David smiled and reached for a Mars bar, placing it down on the counter. “I’m waiting for Daisy.”
The woman frowned. “Daisy?”
“Yes. She lives here. A girl about my age… dark hair, blue eyes.”
When the woman’s eyes widened, David felt his stomach drop. “Is she alright?”
The old woman blinked away and swiped a trembling hand over the counter to sweep up the coins he’d left her.
“It’s no laughin’ matter, boy. We deserve better than bein’ mocked. You should leave, now.” She shook her head.
David blinked in surprise. His neck grew hot under his collar, but rather than argue, he thanked her and left.
As he stormed back towards the wall, he caught sight of a pile of lichen-kissed rocks across from the church. He drew closer, the woman’s words still ringing in his ears. There he found an oval shaped iron plaque he hadn’t noticed before. David ran his fingers over the words.
In remembrance of Daisy Cadell, always loved, never forgotten.
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u/katpoker666 May 29 '22
This was spooky in such a lovely way. A classic ghost story, but with some great subtle twists. I really like how you gave Daisy her own personality:)
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u/turnaround0101 May 28 '22 edited May 29 '22
“Come back to bed.”
Darkness loomed over everything, casting the man’s body into shadowed hummocks and valleys that sagged into the quicksand center of the bed. Tansy rifled through a pile of discarded clothing until she found her lighter.
She opened the window. Lit a cigarette. Didn’t put it to her lips. She was quitting.
She’d been quitting for the past three years.
“Fine, be that way,” the man said. He rolled over, broad back a cliff face in the dark.
Alone again, Tansy stared out into their yard. Perhaps it was dishonest to call it theirs and think of leaving, but there were years in it. She tracked them by the decaying skeletons of the cars; more shadowy hummocks, multiplying every year. Were they really projects if they never saw a wrench or ratchet? A fresh coat of paint? In some places flakes of rust crunched beneath her feet as thick as the parched and dying grass, and still.
She watched the embers fall from her cigarette. Traced their path back up to the smoke. The only light in all the world, though some nights she searched out the moon.
At length an animal screamed, high and shrill, sounding like a woman, or a girl. Movement by the dead and dying cars. Something dwelled there; a mistake, but something always did. Rabbits and squirrels and the like coming back as soon as the blood dried, nevermind the tomcat, or the dogs, or the other predators lurking in the night.
Tansy thought it was the shelter. Out there, in the world, you did things to get a roof over your head.
He snored behind her, a chainsaw ripping into life. Tansy stepped into slippers and a robe. Walked outside. The screen door a broken whisper behind her.
It was cold out there in the world. Empty, after the death in those old cars. So different from the day, and the suffocating weight of the sun. Tansy tried not to shiver. The moon peaked shyly through the trees and then gone, submissive as it was to the vagaries of wind and cloud. The dyspathetic mirror of the night.
Tansy walked farther, up the curving path to the driveway. Rust and grass and years crunched beneath her slippered feet. His pickup loomed beneath the sycamore tree, towering up out of the darkness at her. Once, he’d kept the keys in the ignition. They had no neighbors, and people didn’t steal out here. People shot people for stealing out here.
He didn’t keep the keys there anymore. Tansy wasn’t sure where he kept them now.
She walked on past dismembered pickup beds, her old VW bug pounded almost flat in an accident, the antiquated motorcycle he’d inherited from his dad, part and parcel with the debts, the other things. The dogs barked when she reached the garden. The moon peaked out; thought better of her choice, and hid.
“Come back to bed,” he’d said. Come back to bed.
Darkness loomed over everything, and somewhere out there, the world dwelled in it. She dropped the carcass of her cigarette. Lit another. Inhaled. Whispered “Fuck,” and sank down into the dirt, dust pooling in the air around her.
And somewhere in that, the dogs stopped barking. That was new, Tansy thought. That was new.
At length she walked home, past the truck beds and the sycamore tree, the garden and the dogs, following a line of cigarette butts by the light of the uncertain moon until they led her back to the bed.
The screen closing behind her. Tansy turning. Looking. Smoke in her eyes and clouds passing, the moonlight cut to tatters, islands where the cigarette butts lay.
Then darkness. His bare back like a cliff face. Whiskey scents and whiskey bottles. The man coarse, the bed sagging, everything decaying, or decayed.
But tonight he’d been asleep when she came back. Up the driveway, the dogs stopped barking. Cracks showed through the rusty cage that held her world.
And in the darkness, way out there, a cigarette butt still smoked faintly, tendrils twining towards the sky. Three years sketched out across the ground in discarded cigarettes, creeping a little further every time.
An animal screamed, high and shrill. The dogs barked, then fell quiet. Chainsaw snores ripped holes in the night.
Clouds parted, and the moon was in the world.
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u/VaguelyGuessing May 29 '22 edited May 29 '22
Not much to critique, just to say that your writing really sucked me in. I think the amount of writing you do.. it really shows! I can’t wait to read a turnaround novel :)
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u/Neona65 May 28 '22
love the ominous atmosphere of this, you did a great job getting the feeling of despair across.
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u/azdv May 28 '22
A TEACHERS SECRET
Mr. Faulkner. Mainland Point Highs freshman history teacher. Standing at over six feet with cold blue eyes, a constant scowl and heavy work boots echoed through the halls and classroom like a death rattle for troublemakers. To many of the students, his presence carried the same crushing atmosphere as the old antiquated car factories whose smokestacks loomed over the town. One of these students however was fascinated by Mr. Faulkner and all the rumors. He found him just as intimidating as the rest but unlike the rest he wanted to know. With Halloween night fast approaching Ricky Charleson saw the perfect opportunity.
He figured everyone would be out and about in costumes so he could spy on his teacher unobserved. Due to some special connections, he managed to find out where Faulkner lived. Dressed in a Devil costume, Ricky biked halfway to the house then stashed his bike and walked the rest of the way. He took refuge in a bush and waited.
According to the rumors, Faulkner always left the house at six-thirty sharp to go to the supermarket. Ricky checked his phone and almost on cue, Faulkner exited his house. For some reason, the teacher never drove anywhere so Ricky had to be careful. Thankfully, Faulkner’s neighborhood always went all out on Halloween, so the freshman was able to easily blend in with the bustling holiday enjoyers.
Sure enough, he followed Faulkner to the grocery store. He pursued Faulkner through a shockingly quick shopping trip and then back out to the streets. His journey and curiosity almost came to a screeching halt as Faulkner entered the woods.
The only thing back there was the old factories. Ricky, now shaking a little, followed not willing to come this far and just quit. Faulkner looked around before pushing open one of the doors to the old American Classic Cars plant. Ricky followed shortly behind. He ducked down as Faulkner rounded the corner and into an office. Ricky silently moved closer to the office and heard two voices. One he recognized as Faulkner, the other he didn’t know.
“Any luck?”
“None tonight…too many…too many teenagers.”
“Are you getting worse sir?”
“I don’t know anymore…you’d think after this long my body would be used to Earth's air and bacteria.”
“Maybe it’s something that followed from back home.”
“Could be…ert lipt oz kenty?”
“He’s been following me the whole time…”
Ricky's eyes widen and he shot to his feet, he made a mad dash for the door but was cut by a dark blue blur. What stood in front of him was far from human. The creature bore blue scaly skin, four arms, and antennas. Ricky didn’t know what he was but he could tell that he was sick. Then he felt a sharp pain in the back of his head and everything went black…
When he came too, he was alone in his front yard. His head throbbed. Ricky scoped out the front yard.
“A…dream?”
“That’s right Mr. Charleson. Just a dream…you saw and heard nothing got it?”
He knew the voice. He shakily raised his hand and gave a weak thumbs up to the figure of Faulkner that he couldn’t see clearly…but knew was his alien form.
(536 words)
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u/Neona65 May 28 '22
Totally didn't see that going alien. A very different take on the theme this week, I enjoyed reading it.
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u/Neona65 May 27 '22 edited May 28 '22
Waiting
In the tall grass, in the fading sun, antiquated remains of childhood are almost buried. The rusty metal bars of what once was a swing set stands like a headstone. Can you hear the creak of the chains that were once here? Broken bits of pavement might still be found under the wild snarled weeds and layers of earth that have with dyspathy overtaken it.
The merry-go-round was here, you can feel the impression like a sunken grave. And over there, tangled in the vines and trees you can see the decaying remnants of what was a slide. Now just hunks of twisted metal, bowed like a feeble old man, a shadow of its former self. The skeletal remains of what might have been monkey bars or a teeter totter have been entombed by nature out there with it.
Decades ago, something dwelled here but now only silence resides. This was once the site of a school playground but now it’s only a tomb, my tomb.
I can occasionally hear the echoes of a child playing or a teacher weeping coming from somewhere among the scattered bricks and debris but I cannot interact. I cannot leave my grave. There’s not much of me to be found here, buried under the cracked pavement, maybe a piece of my leather shoes or a link of my silver bracelet.
I’ve been here waiting to be found since the year the playground was built. My killer, just a boy then himself, put me in the shallow earth. I watched as the pavers went over my body, totally unaware of my presence. I watched as he finished school here, no one suspecting what he had done. I heard children whispering about his death in a car accident years later. He died without anyone knowing I was here.
My parents passed decades ago, I felt their grief the years they lived without me, never realizing how close I actually was.. Only one person alive remembers me, my baby sister and it is for her I am waiting. She lives in a house across the field, riddled with dementia, sometimes she waves at me or calls my name. She knows I am here. There’s a nurse with her all the time now. I suspect I won’t have to wait much longer. When she is ready, we will leave this place together and I will escape my tomb forever.
[WC 400]
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Feedback Appreciated and welcome
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