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Texas Gothic

• You drive down an empty stretch of highway, one lane each side. A shiny red Ford comes from seemingly nowhere and gets on your tail so you slow down and drive in the shoulder to let them pass. 5 miles down, is that the same Ford behind you again? It will be. Let it pass.

• A white steeple breeches past the tops of trees in a wooded area just out of town. Don't try to find the church it belongs to.

• Listen to the quiet night air and hear it: Remember the Alamo... Remember the Alamo... Remember the Promise... Remember the Alamo... Remember the Promise... Remember the Alamo...

• There's a hallway lined with different stylized crosses of all sizes in your grandparents' house. A single oil lamp glows. You follow the filled and holy walls. The hallway seems to be longer than you remember. The glow from the lamp is gone.

• Ghost towns are not named that because they are deserted, but because they are occupied and you should never attempt to drive through or stay in one past sunset. The town will be gone in the morning.

• 35 has no beginning, no end, no hope of ever being complete, just like your soul if you don't escape NOW.

• The eerie, glowing eyes staring back at you from the middle of that field in the early, foggy morning surely belong to deer out for breakfast, but you don't stick around to figure out why each set seems to have an extra eye. It's none of your business, afterall.

• City-slickers never visit the small towns. They never visit. They never visit. They've forgotten us. They never visit...

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February - Brendon Burton

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bone rosary necklace by vampyrgrl

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Little herb graveyard🪦🌱

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My body is a prison

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Everything's easier way out west

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Short DPXDC Prompts #726

After a Bad reaction from their parents when Danny revealed that he was Phantom, He and Jazz flee to their Uncle’s house who offered to house the two until Jazz turned 18.

It doesn’t take long for them to realize that Uncle Wally was hiding a secret identity of his own

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I not really care about my name as just as a name. It’s fine, something old but still common. And I don’t feel like it’s part of me. It’s a sound that sometimes means someone talking to me. I don’t even feel anything about it being the name my parents gave me when they had a million hopes for who’d I’d be, almost none I’ll be able to live up to.

What I do hate is that my family sees my name and thinks of someone who’s not me. They see me as a person, with wants and hopes and a personality. I’m not their unfulfilled dreams, but I’m still not her. I’ll never be her. I don’t want what they think I do. I hope for so much more. I act like this to survive having to lie about who I am.

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I wrote a thing.

 Holofernes Hollow

Prologue

The embers looked like fireflies, pouring out of the skeleton of the horticultural shop.

With his glasses crushed to dust somewhere inside and the new, aching black gulf on the right side of his vision, he could almost pretend that he was watching a theatrical lightshow. Any moment now, dancers would leap out with their faces made ethereal by golden masks and start leading the Midwinter Prayer.

But the stink of smoke digging into his skin and the heat of the flames baking the blood onto his cheek made the desire impossible to keep hold of. The roaring of the inferno echoed in his ears, drowning out the gathering crowd and ringing bells of the fire guild’s carriage.

At that moment, his knees buckled and the roof fell in.

Keep reading

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What part of me is truest?

Which part is the most important?

The way I talk, the way I think, the way I breathe?

Or the way I love, the labels and names I use?

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I’m afraid of being an adult.

Afraid of making a choice

Stay or leave?

I could move far away. Be free from everything I hate here. Here. Home. The place I’ve lived as long as I can remember. Where my life has been. This place has shaped me.

Me. Something I could never be here. No amount of years will erase the parts of me that I hide. The parts that would get me shunned, put me in danger. The queer parts. Ones that don’t fit into the boxes I’ve been given.

I could leave. Be free. Be me for once. What the point of a place shaping something that remains hidden in the shadows? Is being me worth loosing everything I’ve known? Could I be brave enough to leave? To stay?

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2 or 20, no years will repair the decay in your lungs

It was a normal night, just like any other. I was in my room, doing whatever I did three years ago. It was late, pitch black outside. I heard noises coming from outside, yelling and sirens. I opened my door, curious to the commotion.

There were paramedics in the entryway, heading towards the master bedroom. I could only watch as they took my grandpa away. My grandma might have followed, I can’t remember quite clearly. The house turned silent, and I drifted off to sleep.

That was the first of many hospital trips he would make. My grandma always followed, helping to ease his pain. My mother required nothing of me in those months, barely even taking me to visit. Still, I had never seen the stark walls of a hospital so regularly in my life,

Eventually, there was a name for his problem. Lung cancer. It didn’t seem so scary then, cancer didn’t always mean death. My grandma never made it a secret she had suffered from breast cancer once. And there she was, not even a mark to show for it. Cancer was okay, it was treatable, it was fixable. There was still hope. So he went on chemo.

Chemo was fine. He didn’t seem that different, not even balder. The radiation didn’t affect him, which was probably a warning sign. I probably should have expected it, in all honesty.

One day, I came home from school, as naive as that day months ago. I was called upstairs by my mother, and she gave me the news. He was dead, gone forever. My grandpa, her father, had passed as I sat bored in a classroom. Our family of 6 had become 5. The master bedroom would be filled by one person, one old woman. The next day, on my way to school, I noticed it was raining without covering the light of the sun. I took as a signal that my grandfather was being welcomed to heaven even

I will fully admit I didn’t cry, as heartless as you might find me. I didn’t feel much of anything, to be honest. Numbness didn’t take me, neither did anger, nor fear. He wasn’t much to me, never even a full person, really. He was my grandpa, a old, grumpy truck driver. He joked about eating baby possums, and told us my grandma was married to a man with 3 eyes and 12 ears. He said perty too often and pretended to hate Lilly even as they spent hours together.

Weeks later, the funeral was hosted. There were so many people, names and faces I have long forgotten. There was food, for sadness doesn’t quell hunger. The preacher said a prayer for him, the last time I truly thought god was real. Then came the speeches. His wife, children, nieces and nephews, grandchildren, all said some words about the man I never truly got to know. My cousin, many years my senior, described how he was all those years ago. His children praised him in his fatherhood. My grandma spoke of the man she had loved. That was the first time I’d shed tears for him, the whole man he was.

It shouldn’t have happened, he should lived many a year more. I’d never seen him with any kind of tobacco, certainly not a cigarette. He had given up smoking over 20 years ago, well before I was born. It shouldn’t have mattered, those those days long past. Yet lung cancer doesn’t give a care, no matter how long ago you stopped. The cigarettes don’t disappear, the smoke in your lungs doesn’t leave. The cough in your throat only grows stronger. It shouldn’t have mattered, having ended for over a quarter of his life. Yet it did, it robbed the world of a good man.

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Why is it my burden to bear, that my father chose to keep me ignorant of myself, in all of its hollow glory

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They say you hear about your mothers first home as if a dream, a fairytale. It never quite seems real, no matter how real your mothers life was. You grow too old for fairytales, dealing with the here, the now. But what you don’t know is that little girls need those dreams, those fairy tales. They’re her history too, one she can’t yet crave. Years back, when she’s grown deaf to those words of wonder, she’ll wonder what it was like. Growing up with the fairytales that made up her grandmother, that makes up her. She’ll long for the stories you both grew out of, only one of you ever knowing the tales of your history.

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Did you know her?

Of course not

You knew words lined up on a screen

Yet you still fell head first anyway