chthonic-creature

[chthonic-creature]

oddly specific character tropes/dynamics

harsh character who bites x soft character who holds a hand out to them anyways

[chthonic-creature]

Original template cr: @mhuyo from Twitter

[chthonic-creature]

"there is no exquisite beauty...without some strangeness in the proportion."

-Edgar Allan Poe

[chthonic-creature]

"But how can you love a person who is not whole? Because you, like the moon, are not only beautiful when full, in all your fractions and phases and ivory white pieces, I love you. "

—Beau Taplin, Moon Phases

[chthonic-creature]

[chthonic-creature]

oh to sit in a gloomy coffee shop in an oversized sweater, writing heart wrenching stories while it rains

[chthonic-creature]

-Songs of Sapphique by Catherine Fisher

[chthonic-creature]

I hope this blog to show my journey as a writer, and also a record of my slow descent into madness.

[chthonic-creature]

“Am I pretty?” the woman asked, revealing her slit mouth. Skin carved down to the pearly white bone, a permanent smile.

You might’ve been, thought the girl. The man who cut that gory smile into her face must’ve thought she was.

Did she think herself pretty? With her ebony hair, and her dark eyes paired with long lashes that fanned over her cheeks. It didn’t matter, the girl supposed. Whether she thought herself pretty or not, the woman would’ve always ended up here. Standing in the middle of the train compartment in her white gown, knee-length and long-sleeved, that was tinted the same gloomy shade of blue that was cast over the train.

Outside dark storm clouds loomed over a tormented shore, closing out the sky. Heavy rain pattered against the windows and the train compartment rattled from the howling winds. The storm had grown stronger since the woman boarded the train. If you could call what she had done ‘boarding the train’.

For the train never slowed nor stopped. Speeding towards the rocky cliffs that frothing waves crashed against, but never getting any closer. There weren’t any stations for miles, or perhaps there weren’t any stations at all, the girl couldn’t say for sure. The woman had simply appeared. While the girl had been watching two droplets of water race down the window. The woman had come into being—seemingly out of thin air with her slit mouth—as the girl herself had done once. She was the first passenger to ride in this train compartment with her.

Poor woman, how unfortunate must she be.

It didn’t rain outside any of the other compartments. Early in her journey the girl used to look through the little window in the doors that separated her compartment from the others. Sometimes she would catch a glimpse of sunlight streaming in from a forest or what might be a garden. Other times she would see the other passengers.  

An old woman in the compartment after hers.

 A girl even younger than she had been in the compartment before.

Though she saw that pair only once. They got off the train soon after. New passengers took their place and eventually they left too. It hadn’t rained in their compartments when they got on nor when they got off. The girl didn’t know how long it’d been since she got on, but she didn’t think she’d ever get off.

Rain was good at washing things away, and slippery tracks made it hard for trains to stop.

“Am I pretty?” the woman asked again.

“I don’t know,” the girl replied. It took her a while to find her voice. The last time she used it, her throat had been left raw.  

She looked at the woman again. Those bloody gaping holes in her face; they’d lose some of their color the longer she spent here. They’d dry up, maybe, and take on the appearance of being patched up. Packed full of dirt and stone. The woman wouldn’t have to worry about anyone finding her ugly. It was just them.  

“Am I?” the girl asked, showing the woman her scarred face.

A slit mouth just like hers, carved by the same man. Only he’d decided to cut the girl open all the way up to the curve of her cheeks and all along the path of her jaw. Because he thought her pretty too. Before she denied him. Then he buried her at the bottom of those rocky cliffs, where he would then bury the woman. 

There the rain and the waves had washed away the prints of his boots, and the signs of her struggle. The knife that had been used to gut her, left crimson, had been cleaned with salt water. And the patch of land that had become her grave while she was still gasping for breath, her lungs full of her blood, had been smoothed over as if left untouched to fool any dog or man who came looking.

Though none ever did, and none ever would.

So the girl and the woman would continue to ride the train. 

“Am I pretty?” The lady asked, showing you her slit mouth. “I don’t know, am I?” You ask, showing her your scarred face.

[chthonic-creature]

Hello! I'm Bella, short for Isabella. Welcome to my writeblr that I've been putting off on making it for a couple of months because of a mix of procrastination and university work load. I'm 18, she/her, pansexual // bisexual (either label works for me). I like reading and writing and drawing (I'm not good at it, but I'm trying). My favorite genres are fantasy (gothic fantasy and cozy fantasy) and magical realism.

Find Me Elsewhere: tiktok | instagram

A Masterlist For My WIPS:

Project Skeletons— young adult/new adult fantasy

Project Red Death— young adult/new adult fantasy

Project Ethereal— new adult fantasy

Project Outcasts— magical realism, a collection of short stories