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kiramoran · 1 year

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seconddoubt · 9 days

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thank you @noreign for the tag 💖

put your music library on shuffle and write down the first line of the first ten songs that play, post the poem that results

met a girl, fell in love

laying on your holy bed by the hallowed door

nothing here to fear

twister, oh does anyone see through you?

why does the sun go on shining?

see my friends

i'd love to touch the sky tonight

white bird, white bird

every time that i sell myself to you

state of life, may i live, may I love

i think it's quite cohesive until "twister" but then I really think the second half works, getting white bird after a line about touching the sky wasted my luck for the rest of the month i think,

no pressure tags 💖 @kiramoran @carelessmemories @shockadellica @imeminemp3 @wednesdayday + every single one who wants to do it, yes you are now tagged by me!

songlist: nothin' in the world can stop me worryin' 'bout that girl by the kinks / surrender by depeche mode / wednesday by tori amos / ridiculous thoughts by the cranberries / the end of the world by sharon van etten / (i cheated and skipped spillingardans by hatari, it ruined whatever flow it had going) / see my friends by the kinks / one more time by the cure / white bird by tia blake / asking for it by hole / state of independence by jon & vangelis

#tagged

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aokuro-san · 1 year

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Hello everyone… This is an experiment.

Note 1: After my talk with @iwanttofuckereh69 (which I tagged because you expressly asked me to) and some more talks about it with other users, the truth is that I wanted to share my work here. So these days I've been trying to translate some of my horror stories to share, of course, during the spooky season, haha.

I hope you like them (and if not, then we'll pretend none of this ever happened).

Note 2: "Belmont and the Scarecrow" was the story that got me out of the hole of inability to write that high school left me with. At that time it was 2019 and I couldn't find a job (in fact, I still can't find one to this day), so I tried to go back to what I think I'm good at and I enjoy.

I participated in two contests, and this was the only one of the two that published me in an online Mexican magazine dedicated to folk horror. It is not a story that requires much to understand, it is short, and it is perfect to start, since it was also my new start in the profession.

Note 3: Although I also warn you that I am not a NATIVE ENGLISH SPEAKER and I have translated it as best I could and with the tools that the Internet provides me. So if you see any errors, don't hesitate to tell me and I will change it^^

@kiramoran @obsidieneyes

(I'm also tagging you because well, you seemed interested too… If not, sorry for the inconvenience, ignore it!)

Anyway… Let's start with the experiment.

"Where is that thing?"

"Has anyone seen him there?"

"No! Stop yelling, you'll scare him"

"Come out, you mangy rat, come out!"

The adults were so focused on looking for the scarecrow that they did not notice the gutted dog on the side of the cornfield. It was Pierre, Mr. Fantin's German shepherd, and still alive, he looked with his crossed eyes in the light of Belmont's lantern.

The animal's intestines rested on the semi-disturbed earth, and a path of blood -very typical of a Perrault fairy tale- was lost inside the terrain.

Not so far away, the boy heard the corallines singing. They were waiting for the men by the bonfire: kneeling, naked and with their hair combed crazy. Five minutes had passed since three in the morning and the nerves were beginning to surface not only in them, but in all the inhabitants of Troumbé. And Belmont, who was only a boy of ten years, he felt that tension on his skin like sewing needles.

Driven by curiosity, but above all by responsibility, the boy went deeper into the cornfield.

It was the height of summer and sweat and mosquitoes attacked his face in equal measure. He was dressed entirely in corduroy and had a hard time moving among the tall, dry and spindly stalks of corn; slapping left and right, guided by the drops of blood that illuminated the ground.

The scarecrow had fled at two in the morning, an hour before the party. And, like Pierre before he died, he had belonged to M. Fantin for six long months. In fact, Belmont and the other kids of Troumbé had seen him countless times in that same corn field. And always, always, he had a big smile sewn into his sack mask.

The moment Belmont and his father heard that he had escaped, the boy was surprised (before reaching the cornfield, they had traveled through a large part of the forest, the town, and the lake). But not as much as when he found, after walking what seemed like an eternity, the creature crouched among the stalks, sobbing in the most silent way that could exist and illuminated by his flashlight.

Noticing the light, the scarecrow moved slowly and agonizingly and raised its old cloth-hooded head. Part of his jacket had torn and a big, splendid blue eye was staring at him. And around his eye, Belmont noticed that he had clusters of milky flesh, covered with freckles, eyebrows and eyelashes. His smile had disappeared and only a tear remained descending to the ground of the cornfield.

"Please, help me," the scarecrow then said, as soft as a whisper. "Please help.".

The boy cringed, in disbelief, watching the being kneel with its hands covered in blood.

"Help me," he repeated.

Suddenly, the adults' voices felt closer, which made them both shiver.

"Please," he repeated again, again on the verge of tears.

The boy shook his head, looking for where to look (not to the enormous eye of that scarecrow).

"No I can not", finally he answered.

"Please help."

"HEY, IT'S HERE!".

And then the rest of the flashlights illuminated them. The scarecrow tried to flee shouting a plaintive "HELP!", but the adults pounced on him like wild beasts on his prey. They almost crushed poor little Belmont who, in an attempt not to die under the command of a big farmer, fell on his back and hit his butt on the ground and blood.

The adults lifted the being into the air, grabbing its arms, legs and head, without any gentleness. In the struggle, the sack mask tore a little more, revealing slippery strands of hair, the color of straw. And between unbearable screams and useless strength, the inhabitants of Troumbé began to walk towards the bonfire.

Belmont, who had heard his father calling him, got up and walked after them, watching the flames of the campfire—finally alive and hungry—waiting for them. The corallines also rose, increasing the power of their spectral song. Between the small gaps left by the adults, Belmont was able to see their naked bodies painted with pig's blood. And to the rest of the children of Troumbé, praying to the goodness of the spider goddess.

"No, please no!", he cried the scarecrow, already too close to the bonfire. Belmont smelled his fear almost as much as fire. However, the adults did not think twice before throwing it into the sun.

"This year there will be a harvest!", the murderers cried, amidst the lustful screeches of the corallines. "This year there will be a harvest! This year there will be a harvest!".

The victim, writhing in the embers, tried again to escape his death. But a man, dressed in leather and with javelin in hand, stuck his spear into the scarecrow's neck, forcing him to stay. And then he smiled, just as his Troumbé companions did.

The black smoke was beginning to cover everything and the joy could not be more welcome. The men began to sing (it was, of course, the hymn of the spider goddess), and the corallines began to float, convulsing with pleasant faces.

"Come, son," said Belmont's father to Belmont. The boy took his hand, hypnotized by the black flames that covered the charred scarecrow.

"Are we sure we're doing the right thing?" he asked the fire, but it was his father who answered.

"Shut up and keep singing," he ordered her in a stern voice. Belmont could feel his gaze—the angry gaze of someone whose faith you question—on her cheek. And, like every child who loved and feared his father like he did, he continued singing.