shotgunps4lm

[shotgunps4lm]

16 CARRIAGES

[shotgunps4lm]

[ 1AM ] the stoop of a brightly lit psychic shop, pondering haven from the rain.

the rain hadn’t let up in hours. it came down hard and fast, streaking past the sick glow of the streetlamps, loud enough to drown out the buzz of the power lines and rattle the loose signage across the block from where she stands. every parked car looked half-drowned, wipers frozen in mid-swipe. a mass of thunder cracked in the distance.

the psychic shop sat wedged between a shuttered pizza place and an alley that looked altogether neglected with trash and scuttering rodents. there was chipped lavender paint flaked down the doorframe, like it had once been some half-ass notion of charming. the neon in the window spat tired red and pink light, open, aura readings, spiritual cleansings, half the letters flickering like they’d given up trying to convince anybody of legitimacy. the lights inside were out and the front door was locked. but the stoop out front was dry, and that was enough for the woman seeking refuge from a downpour.

sapphire sat with her back against the brick, one shoe flat, the other bent beneath her knee. her jacket, worn black leather and lined with flannel, smelled faintly of cedar and rock salt, mixed with the faintness of her favorite perfume. sleeves damp where the wind had cut sideways, soaking through at the wrists. she kept her hands tucked in close, not for comfort but to retain warmth; and to keep them near the grip of the pistol holstered at her hip, hidden just beneath the edge of her coat. she hadn’t meant to stop here. but sometimes the road pulled things out of you, and the storm had given her reason to sit still for a second.

she hadn’t planned on lingering. her intention was to get gas, a sandwich, and head back to the next stretch of nowhere. but the diner had been crowded with nerves and loose, loose tongues, as all these small towns tend to be. she caught conversations in fragmented pieces, between the scrape of a fork on ceramic plates and the hum of the fridge compressor. the waitress had leaned in close to an older man at the counter, voice dropped low, but still audible to anyone who was prying. a boy found dead behind an abandoned barn. no one saw it happen, and the body; torn up, but not like an animal. no tracks. no blood trail. and a preacher’s daughter gone missing just nights before, last seen walking home past the old rail yard.

when the footsteps came, she didn’t look up; not immediately, just listened to the sound of boots against concrete. sapphire’s eyes lifted slow, mouth already set.

“ if you’re here for a readin’ . . . ” she said, leaning away from the wall, texan drawl audible in each clipped syllable. “ you’re a little late for that, pretty boy. ” her gaze met his. green eyes. square jaw. a face that felt vaguely familiar, familiar in a way that tugged at something rattling the corners of her brain, yet not enough to name.

[shotgunps4lm]

dead  reckonin’ 

the fire had burned low by the time she shifted her weight to a more comfortable position, leather jacket creaking beneath the strain of damp seams and dirt under her head. the smoke curled up in loose, gray spirals, the smoke was barely enough to keep the bugs off yet the flames too stubborn to die completely. they'd made camp in the remnants of a collapsed barn, bones of the structure still standing in crooked beams and waterlogged boards, the smell of rot mixing with cedar and wet earth. it wasn’t the worst place they’d holed up and neither would the texan consider it one of the better places either. the squirrel they were consuming was gamey and chewy on the tongue.

michonne sat a few feet away, japanese sword ( there was a name for them, right? ) resting across her knees, silent the way she always got when the night became too much. too many memories. too many thoughts and sapphire didn’t say much either. the woman hadn’t spoken more than what was necessary for hours. there was a kind of rhythm they fell into after everything else burned out into evening; quiet glances, short nods, movements that did not need to be explained because they had learned to communicate silently, swiftly ( just in case ). they’d shared a sleeping bag twice. shared breath, shared want. and neither of them had asked for more.

sapphire’s gaze lingered too long on the curve of michonne’s jaw before she turned back to the tree line.

she shifted her weight slowly, her joints were stiff from crouching too long, and she drew her hand closer toward the bow beside her pack. she did not draw the weapon, but something was off. not just the hush in the air but the kind of hush that felt held, like the woods themselves were waiting. there was no rustle of possum in the brush like it had been minutes before. just the quiet hum of something moving wrong.

the groan came next. it sounded low and wet, the kind that stuck to the back of your throat like rot, like decay, like death, death, death. sapphire held back a flinch from maneuvering through her body, used to this in ways she would never acknowledge out loud. she reached down and her fingers brush the smooth curve of the bow, notched an arrow by feel. the metal tip caught a glint of firelight before it vanished in the dark. she rose in one motion and effortlessly crouched down into a stance that indicate readiness on her part.

before the world turned to absolute shit in a basket, she had been a trauma physician at grady in atlanta. years ago before the outbreak and the sickness, her path had crossed michonne’s in the courtroom once; a medical battery case, messy politics, too many conflicting testimonies. sapphire had taken the stand as a witness. her white coat was clean and she delivered a testimony more acute than the scalpel scars still tucked along her hands. michonne had met her eyes across the bench and never once looked away.

the moans got louder, closer to their camping spot. but these did not sound like stumbling singletons, either; the movement appeared . . . grouped. like they’d been purposeful herded their way. sapphire glanced toward michonne, just once, a flick of dark eyes. the same glance she’d given before she undressed her the first time. a quiet warning built into the look.

“ they comin’ in from the right. ” she said it soft. somewhere past the trees, something cracked under the weight of too much movement. the brush did not shift — then it lurched with motions. the walkers poured in fast with bloated torsos and their skin sloughing off in patches. their eyes clouded, sightless but still fixed forward on any moving living targets. the stench hit first, smell akin to meat left too long in the sun.

@godmvsk

[shotgunps4lm]

PAM GRIER Sheba, Baby (1975) | dir. William Girdler

[shotgunps4lm]

[ 4PM ] the forested perimeter of a vast lake, cold from snow melt.

the  light  had  started  to  shift,  that  strange,  silver  hour  where  the  cold  deepened as the temperature dropped.  the  air  out  here  wasn’t  the  kind  that  hissed  off  asphalt  or  bled  through  open  windows  in  july,  that was weather she was more  acquainted  with.  this  was  denser  than  sapphire  was  ever  used  to,  almost  unhurried,  with  a  weight  that  settled  in  the  marrow  of  bones  uncomfortably.  the  winds  cut  through  the  trees  without  warning,  clustered  around  the  lake  like  a  rope, and press close  beneath  the  lining  of  her  jacket—weatherworn,  brown  leather,  creased  at  the  elbows  and  still  holding  the  scent  of  woodsmoke  and  motor  oil.  she’d  grown  up  under  heat  that  shimmered  like  a  mirage  waving off of the blacktop.  this  kind  of  cold  was a   stranger to the texan.

the  lake  stretched  wide  beneath  the  tree-line,  the  surface  appeared  still  under  a  thin  sliver  of  ice,  but  not  peaceful.  the  shoreline  of  the  lake  seemed  to  curve  in  a  way  that  felt  unnatural,  like  something  had  moved  through  recently  and  the  land  hadn’t  recover  from  the  disturbance.

she  moved  with  ease,  the  same  way  she  had  when  she  tracked  her  first  deer  at  six⸻barely  tall  enough  to  see  over  the  brush,  heart  rattling  in  her  chest  but  hands  kept  still  on  the  hunting  rifle.  her  father  had  made  her  wait,  crouched  beside  a  stump  for  nearly  two  hours,  whispering  that  rushing  the  shot  meant  wasting  the  kill.  so,  so  careful,  unhurried,  with  the  same  patience  her  father  drilled  into  her  back  when  she  was  ten  years  old,  squinting  at  overturned  earth  behind  the  shed  of  a  neighbors  home  where  something  had  passed  through  weeks  before.  he’d  crouched  beside  her,  pointed  out  the  drag  in  the  soil  where  the  claws  didn’t  quite  match  a  coyote’s  gait,  said,  “  anythin’  that  changes  shape  leaves  something  behind.  you  just  gotta  know  what  don’t  belong.  ”

the  brush  was  bent,  disturbed  soil,  a  sound  that  had  stopped  too  abruptly  to  be  a  coincidence  out  here.  the  animals  had  cleared  out  long  before  she  arrived  and  the  birds  didn’t  call;  even  the  bugs  were  silenced.  these  were  all  signs  that  indicated  a  predator  within  the  perimeter.

she  crouched  near  a  patch  of  wet  earth  and  pressed  two  fingers  to  the  drag  mark  there,  faint  but  wrong.  she  stood  slowly,  scanning  the  tree-line  again,  already  knowing  she  wasn’t  alone.  not  out  here.  not  anymore.  someone  was  watching.  probably  the  same  someone  who  left  claw  scores  half-hidden  along  a  cedar  trunk  a  few  yards  back  towards  her  cabin.  didn’t  matter  if  he  meant  harm  or  not;  she  wasn’t  here  for  good  intentions,  butchered  families  camping  along  the  lake  demanded  justice.

[shotgunps4lm]

❛ hey, it's okay. i didn't mean to scare you. ❜

the  nozzle  clicked  once,  then  again,  reluctant  in  that  way  small-town  pumps  always  were.  slow  to  dispense,  slower  to  shut  off,  but  the  gas  was  cheap,  and  that  counted  for  more  than  convenience.  sapphire  leaned  her  weight  into  one  hip,  eyes  scanning  the  empty  lot  while  her  mustang  idled  behind  her,  engine  ticking  softly  beneath  the  low  hum  of  the  overhead  fluorescents.  the  light  above  was  dim  and  stuttering,  drawing  halos  around  the  dust  and  moths  that  circled  like  they  had  nowhere  better  to  die.  the  hour  was  late  enough  that  the  quiet  started  to  feel  suspicious.  too  still.  too  open.

she  didn’t  hear  the  footsteps  at  first. just  the  brief  metallic  chime  of  the  gas  station  door  swinging  shut  behind  someone greeting her,  followed  by  the  hush  of  presence  moving  too  close  without  warning.  not  frantic.  not  clumsy.  just . . .   there.

sapphire  didn’t  turn  right  away.  her  shoulders  pulled  taut,  just  enough  to  signal  awareness  without  invitation.  one  hand  stayed  on  the  pump  handle,  knuckles  paling  from  old  habit,  while  the  other  inched  closer  to  her  side⸻hovering  near  the  hem  of  her  oversized hoodie  where  the  weight  of  steel  sits,  reflex  still  wired  into  muscle.  she’d  been  followed  before.  worse,  cornered.  she  learned  young  how  to  measure  intent  without  needing  to  see  a  face.  it  was  in  the  stagnation  behind  her,  the  air  pressure  shift,  the  kind  of  pause  people  make  when  they’re  deciding  if  someone  is  prey  or  kin.

then  a  voice  breaks  through all that  stillness. 

“  hey,  it’s  okay.  i  didn’t  mean  to  scare  you.  ”

sapphire  finally  looked.  not  all  the  way;  just  enough  to  catch  the  outline  of  a  woman  behind  her.  young.  appears  human.  no  immediate  threat  bleeding  off  her,  but  there  was  something  else  there,  too.  something  harder  to  pin  down.  she  didn’t  recognize  her,  and  that  meant  the  woman  was  either  passing  through  or  lying  about  it.

“  you  always  get  this  close  to  strangas’  at  night, girl?  ”   sapphire  asked,  her  voice  flat  in  return,  eyebrow  quirking  upward. 

[shotgunps4lm]

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊.    (  a collection of various  location prompts centered around time & weather.  feel free to adjust as desired.  )

[ 1AM ] the stoop of a brightly lit psychic shop, pondering haven from the rain. [ 2AM ] the [ lobby / room ] of a run-down motel during a tumultuous storm. [ 3AM ] a dark graveyard thick with petrichor, well beyond visiting hours. [ 4AM ] an empty, rusty gas station nearly flooding with rainwater. [ 5AM ] a cabin in the frozen woods, large fire raging under the hearth. [ 6AM ] a bus stop hazily lit by the rising sun, earth smelling of petrichor. [ 7AM ] a crowded coffee shop, patrons in a rush to escape the morning rain. [ 8AM ] a serene camping site overlooking a valley, air humid & fresh. [ 9AM ] a diner smelling of breakfast food as rain patters on the window. [ 10AM ] a walled-in garden full of flowers, just as the afternoon heat sets in. [ 11AM ] an empty public playground, equipment hot from the sun. [ 12PM ] the middle of a sweltering outdoors shopping center. [ 1PM ] the side of the highway after your car breaks down from the heat. [ 2PM ] a bustling farmer's market ripe with produce, unhindered by the rain. [ 3PM ] a city sidewalk gloomy with mist & countless puddles. [ 4PM ] the forested perimeter of a vast lake, cold from snow melt. [ 5PM ] a [ restaurant / diner ], interior lights flickering under a fierce storm. [ 6PM ] a car interior, passengers stuck on a dangerously snowy & dark road. [ 7PM ] an outdoors event as the heat backs off, full of laughter & live music. [ 8PM ] the long queue of a club, impatient patrons stuck in the rain. [ 9PM ] the threshold of an apartment, knocking to be let out of the hailstorm. [ 10PM ] a windy beach past public hours, grains of sand mimicking the stars. [ 11PM ] the backseat of a car parked in the pouring rain on a lonely road. [ 12AM ] a pier on the cold, misty waterfront as fireworks are let off.

[shotgunps4lm]

TIKA SUMPTER as Danica Nobody's Fool (2018), dir. Tyler Perry

[shotgunps4lm]

i express all of my emotions by saying “fuck” in varying tones

[shotgunps4lm]

❛ you think you could give me a hand? ❜ ( from cassie ! )

on  a  good  day,  the  county  library  carried  the  scent  of  aging  adhesive  and  faint  lemon  floor  polish—sterile,  institutional,  with  just  enough  bite  to  remind  one  of  school  halls  and  government  offices.  her  boots  were  worn  at  the  heel,  hoodie  zipped  halfway  to  the  throat,  sunglasses  resting  in  the  fold  of  her  collar.  she  made  no  effort  to  brush  the  gravel  from  her  cuffs.  in  a  town  like  this,  people  only  looked  twice  if  they  already  knew  the  weight  you  walked  in  with. an open carry state, after all.

cassie  was  already  inside,  holed  up  in  one  of  the  side  rooms  they  rotated  for  genealogy  nights  or  aa  meetings  depending  on  the  week.  red  circles,  handwritten  notes,  printouts  pulled  from  databases  most  wouldn’t  know  how  to  access.  sapphire  didn’t  knock.  just  stepped  inside,  the  hunter let the door  creak  and  fall  shut  behind  her. “  sure.  ”

“  look  like  you  haven’t  slept inna’ minute,  ” sapphire  announces to  her  cousin,  not  intentionally unkind.  more  like  a  readout  than  a  comment.  before  a  proper  greeting  could  even  leave  her  mouth.  notoriously  her.  she  spun  the  chair  backward  and  dropped  into  it,  forearms  draped  over  the  top.

the  truth  was,  she  didn’t  know  how  they  were  supposed  to  act  around  each  other  now.  not  after  all  the  funerals.  not  with  the  bloodlines  between  them  grown  so  thin  they  barely  held  shape.  she  remembered  summers  back  in  texas,  in  missouri  too;  reunions  before  the  silence  set  in,  before  the  grown  folks  whispered  after  sundown  and  started  crossing  names  off  prayer  lists.  cassie  had  always  been  the  clean  one,  the  smart  one,  the  one  they; her aunt, the neighbors,  said  would  make  it  out  without  carrying  the  stain.  and  she  had—for  a  time.  college,  the  family  photos  in  frames  instead  of  shoeboxes. but things  out  there  didn’t  care  about  paper.  not  the  degree,  not  the  college  acceptance  letter.  they  found  you  anyway,  same  as  they  always  had.

“  this  the  place  with  the  disappearances?  ”  sapphire  asked,  slinging  her  bag  down  into  the  nearest  chair.  her  jacket  still  smelled  faintly  of  road  salt  and  smoke.  “  or  is  this  more  of  a  .  .  .  ”  her  eyes  passed  over  the  loose  pages,  “  —clown  in  the  cornfield  type  situation?  ”

[shotgunps4lm]

❛ i think you were right. what we're looking for… it's not here. ❜ ( from dean ! )

the diner lights hummed monotonously  above  sapphire’s  head,  casting  a  harsh,  fluorescent  glare  onto  chipped, cheap  tables  and  vinyl  seats  split  at  the  seams  from  decades  of  bodies  sliding  in  and  out.  the  air  hung heavily with acrid bitterness of reheated coffee  and  grease  that  never  quite  cleared  from  the  kitchen.  no  matter  how  many  windows  were  left  cracked by the aging cook in the back.  her  coffee  sat  untouched,  surface  gone  flat,  cooling  in  the  ceramic  mug  as  she  tracked  the  rain  sliding  slow  down  the  glass  beside  her,  headlights  refracted  through  the  wet  smear  on  the  window,  streaked  like  half-formed  haints  that  blurred  and  dissolved  before  they  fully  took  shape. every mile from lawrence to la crosse looked just like this to her⸻the same rain-slicked roads, the same nothing towns, and the same gas station neon bleeding, red, blue, into the dark. same, same, same.

“ ain’t  i  always, winchester? ”  she glances from the display of papers in front of her,  meeting  dean’s  across  the  booth  with  quiet  intensity,  her  voice  lowered  beneath  the  muted  hum  of  the  jukebox  playing  something  she  recognized  from  a  distant,  forgotten  stretch  of  road.   ‘ riders on the storm ’ — echoing through warped speakers, rough around the edges but steady. “ if  it’s  not  here,  then  it  moved  before  we  did, ”  she  said  simply,  a  conclusion  drawn  without  doubt,  because  whatever  trail  she’d  been  following  had  run  cold  before  they  crossed  into  town,  and  sapphire  knew  better  than  to  chase  something  that  already  had  too  much  of  a  head  start.  she  leaned  back  slowly,  the  cool  vinyl  pressing  firm  between  her  shoulders,  eyes  narrowed  slightly  in  thought,  already  thinking over  next  steps—routes,  distances,  probabilities.

[shotgunps4lm]

the  chapel  wasn’t  holy  anymore  and  hadn’t  been  for  decades.  the  damage  was  structural,  internal even, starting  with  the  rafters  and  steadily  working  downward,  rainwater  seeping  through  neglected  patches  in  the  roof  until  the  beams  warped  and  buckled  beneath  the  gradual  pressure.  the  ceiling  had  caved  slightly  at  its  midpoint,  creating  a  shallow  bowl  shape  that  pooled  stagnant  water  after  heavy  storms,  softening  the  wooden  floor  beneath  until  it  felt  dangerously  spongy  underfoot.   whatever  sermons  had  once  echoed  here  had  been  scraped  out  and  replaced  with  things  that  were hungrier, more primordial.

⸻ she  hadn’t  come  looking  for  sanctuary.  people  like  her  stopped  expecting  that  long  ago.  what  sapphire  came  for  was  the  pattern;  missing  persons,  three  in  two  weeks,  last  seen  heading  toward  the  edge  of  town,  all  trails  dying  out  before  they  touched  the  boundary  line  of  this  property.  the  carvings  on  the  floor  were not antique. 

not  the  kind  that  carried  legacy.  they  were  newer,  sloppier—reproductions  pulled  from  bastardized  translations  and  copied  from  message  boards  by  someone  who  didn’t  know  what  they  were  inviting.  the  sigils  were  half-formed,  the  salt  ring  fractured  on  the  western  edge,  the  pattern  broken  just  enough  to  let  something  in.  the  candles  had  gone  cold,  but  not  long.  the  scent  of  tallow  and  old  ash  still  clung  to  the  room.  “ you . . .  the  reason  for  the  blood  outside? ”  she  asked,  finally,  gaze  steady at the man, visible under the brim of her hat.  long hair, dead, dead. dangerous.

her  voice  curved with  weight  now,  not  with  fear,  but  with  an intentionality she meant.  she  didn’t  bother  dressing  it  up  with  pleasantries.  her  hand  hovered  near  her  hip,  just  inches  from  the  jubilee,  the  old  winchester  rifle  her  father  passed  down—salt-burned  scripture  carved  deep  along  its  stock,  etched  protective  wards  layered  over  worn  steel,  the  kind  of  weapon  that  carried  history  as  much  as  ammunition. 

lone‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ stature‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ inched ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ closer‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ to‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ that‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ sight.‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ a‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ young‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ female‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ tracing‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ fingertips‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ within‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ the‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ scripture‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ like‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ grace. ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ but‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ it‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ wasn't‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ of‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ true ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ faith.‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ another‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ farce‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ created‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ by‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ man‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ to‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ honor‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ something‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ rotten. ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ a ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ festering ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ idea. ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ ❛ :‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ THAT ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ SURE ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ as‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ hell‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ ain't‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ god‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ talkin'. ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ that's‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ somethin' ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ older. ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ meaner. ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ i ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ reckon ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ we ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ oughta ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ listen ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ close. ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ : ❜

FOR‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ /‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ @shotgunps4lm ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ , ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ FROM‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ THIS‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ :‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ ACCEPTING‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎‏‎ ‎ ...‏‎

[shotgunps4lm]

❛ did you find the person that you were looking for? ❜ omg hii

“ i  found  what  was  left  of  her. ”

the  statement  didn’t  waver.  no  embellishment,  no  plea  for  understanding—just  fact.  and  for  someone  like  him,  something  like  him,  that  was  all  it  needed  to  be.  sapphire  stepped  in  with  the  forest  lingering  on  her:  boots  damp  from  moss  and  runoff,  gravel  wedged  into  the  soles,  the  air  around her  was thick with mildew  and  pine from the outside.  the  door  creaked  behind  her  but  stayed  open,  letting  the  motel’s  weak  exterior  light  bleed  in  around  the  edges.  the  television  hummed  in  the  background,  its  screen  casting  soft  flickers  of  blue  across  the  bedspread,  just  enough  light  to  make  out  the  corners  of  the  room. on the screen, some  late-night  ‘60s  sitcom  loops  on  mute; i dream of jeannie she half-recognizes,  and the  laugh  track  flickers  without  sound.

“ she  didn’t  run, ”  she  continued,  voice  even,  with  a  lilt  of  accent  gracing  each  syllable, chasing one after another.  “ stood  her  ground.  whatever  it  was,  she  faced  that shit.  probably  fought  back.  not  much  left  behind to tell, but  the  scene  was . . .  too  clean.  no  blood,  no  debris . . . just  a  tear  in  the  brush,  angled  north.  i can tell something  dragged  her. ”

her  eyes, dark, dark,   met  his  then;  not  confrontational,  not  deferential,  just  assessing.  like  she  was  still  deciding  whether  he  was  a  variable  or  a  threat.  like  she  knew  he  didn’t  need  light  to  see  and  didn’t  trust  anyone  who  could  look  at  a  body  and  feel  nothing.  or  feel  everything.  something  about  that  unsettled  her  in ways she could not described.  maybe  it  was  the  way  faith  raised  her  to  believe  that  mercy  wore  a  face,  that  god’s  messengers  weren’t  supposed  to  haunt  rooms  like  this.  maybe, maybe, maybe. the  church-folk  back  home  called  it  divine  purpose,  but  all  she  ever  saw  was  how  easy  it  was  to  kill  when  you  believed  heaven  wanted  it to be  done.  didn’t  matter  if  it  was  demons,  monsters,  or  people  who  didn’t  fit  the  scripture—someone  always  thought  it  was  righteous.

sapphire  moved  past  him.  drops  her  bag  near  the  desk,  landing  with  the  solid  weight  of  metal  and  supplies.  the  table  lamp  buzzed  once  before  holding  steady,  casting  pale  light  across  peeling  wallpaper  and  a  ceiling  water-stained  to  hell and back.  disgusting like every other roach infested spot she hits up. her  hand  hovered  near  her  side,  close  to  the  weapon  but  not  on  it.  they  both  knew  it  wouldn’t  make  a  difference  here.

“ you  askin'  me  that, ”  she  said,  “ means  ya  already  know. ” 

[shotgunps4lm]

♰  verse  —  dead  reckonin’  (the walking  dead  verse) tag:  v.  verse  /  praise  the  dead,  trust  no  living  ♰ setting:  rural  georgia,  post-outbreak  southeast aesthetics:  dried  blood  on  rusted  tin,  bible  verses  scrawled  in  charcoal,  feral  faith  and  quiet  survival

sapphire  doesn’t  talk  about  where  she  was  when  it  started,  only  that  she  stayed  alive.  by  the  time  the  walkers  stopped  being  the  main  threat,  she  had  already  adapted to this world:  boots  laced,    silence  learned  down  to  a  science.  she  moves  between  zones  with  a  low  profile,  usually  alone,  sometimes  stepping  in  when  a  settlement  can  pay  her  with  real  value—medicine,  working  ammunition,  and access  to  clean  maps.

sap doesn't  trust  leadership,  doesn't  follow  orders,  and  doesn't  believe  in  hope  the  way  some  do.   

♰  verse  —  no  gods  here  (modern  crime/noir  verse/no supernatural elements) tag:  vi.  verse  /  cash,  consequence,  and  the  crooked, crooked  south  ♰ setting:  gulf  coast  cities,  bayou  backroads,  southeastern  underworld aesthetics:  motel  carpet  soaked  in  bleach,  courthouse  steps  with  bullet  casings  in  the  cracks,  black  leather  bible  held  shut  with  a  rubber  band  you  hire  her  when  someone’s  missing  and  you’re  scared  to  file  the  paperwork.  you hire her when  a  debt’s  gone  bad  or  a  body’s  gone  quiet.  she  doesn’t  advertise,  doesn’t  trust  fixers,  and  doesn’t  meet  clients  in  daylight.  if  you  find  her,  you’re  either  desperate for help,  dirt and blood on your hands,  or  not  expected  to  last  long very long.

she  grew  up  in  a  shotgun  house  two  miles  outside  of  beaumont,  texas.  southern  baptist  on  the  surface,  something  much  older  buried  in  the  crawlspace.  she  never stays in one place too long,  doesn’t  smile  much,  doesn’t  stay  anywhere  long  enough  for  the  neighbors  to  start  watching  her  windows.  everything  about  her  feels  temporary  by  design.  she  carries  three  knives,  one  sidearm,  and  a  burned-out  conscience  kept  in  the  glove  compartment.  there’s  a  pistol  in  her  duffel  and  a  burner  phone  always  on  its  last  charge.  she  keeps  cash  under  the  seat.

[shotgunps4lm]

five most recent in google search history

google  search  history (last  sync:  motel  wi-fi,  two  towns  back)

“houma,  louisiana  missing  persons  2025”

gas  station  off  hwy  96  near  antioch  tx  (open  late)

vintage  winchester  1894  breakdown  diagram

dog  seen  at  crossroads  folklore  (regional  variants)

state  records ___ unexplained  deaths  ___  cop  reported  but  never  followed  up