#story: coyote lake | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

roosterbruiser · 10 months

Text

𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄

—𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔. —𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟔.𝟖𝐊 —𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 —𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐒, 𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟐𝐍𝐃, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

“Don’t wig out yet, baby. Let’s chat before I book it to the bus barn, huh? I can spare a few minutes for my best girl,” Bradley sighs, crouching down and squatting beside you. He knows you won’t be able to move Jake off of you by yourself now that he’s dead weight--you’re stuck. “Don’t think you’re gonna get anywhere anytime soon.”

Sweet Hell, it feels good to let the mask slip, Bradley thinks. To be honest. To openly enjoy the petrification instead of pretending that he cares about you and your feelings. There’s no hiding this divine pleasure in watching you squirm, in watching your helpless figure and your stricken expression.

You’re staring at him, more stunned and more horrified with every aching second that passes the two of you by, with blood matted on your eyelashes as Jake bleeds out over your body. And as soon as he says it, you realize it. It washes over you like the angry waves of the lake: yes, you’re stuck. Jake is on top of you, consciousness fading, mouth wide open with shock and agony still. His blood is pooling all over you, leaking into your hair and into your mouth.

That’s when the hysteria begins. It is sitting on the edge of your body, watching you as if it is a snake waiting to strike. And then it bubbles over--then you begin to wriggle from beneath Jake, fighting to get out from underneath him. But Jake moans--a distant, crumpled thing that is enough to tell you that he is hurting, you’re hurting him. You cease all movements, swallowing hard--all that bloody saliva slink down your throat and pool in your belly in a puddle of ice water.

Okay. I can’t move. You think hard. But he’s alive. For now, he’s alive.

“Bradley,” you whisper, voice quivering. “Please…please…it’s me. It’s--it’s me--Gale. Nightingale. It’s me, Bradley, it’s me! I’m not gonna--what are you? Don’t do this--!”

“Dolly can’t get her sentences straight,” Bradley says softly, laughing. He nods at you. “Try again.”

Sobbing, you shake your head.

“Why are you…why are you doing this, Bradley? I thought--!”

“--You really don’t understand?” Bradley asks. He smiles softly, petting your hair again. You’re too stunned to bat him away, to thrash your head in the opposite direction. “Good golly miss dolly, I gotta bash your ears now, huh?”

When you don’t answer, Bradley sits down on the ground, the ax just beside him. He keeps his palm on your face, smiling softly as he smooths the blood away from your chin and cheeks and into your hair. And there you are, your heart beating out of your chest and your mind fuzzier than the television at your grandmother’s house, staring up at him with big and sad eyes.

Craning your neck, you turn--the shotgun is up against the wall. You wouldn’t be able to reach it in time even if Jake wasn’t holding you down. And even if you could throw Jake off, the ax is just by Bradley. You couldn’t outrun him--not in your prime state, which you most certainly are not in now.

Prickles tickle the column of your spine when you look back at Bradley.

“I shot you,” you whisper to him. “I--I got you. Right outside the doors. I know I did--I heard you.”

Glancing at his arm, you double-check--yes, the sediment and gravel is still there. That wasn’t where you shot him. It couldn’t be. It would be red and oozing and more severe--especially at such a close range.

As if he knows what you’re thinking, he turns so you can see the top of his hip. He pulls his shirt up and yes--there it is. A red, oozing buckshot wound. Severe from the close-range shot of your shotgun.

“Thought it’d be a nifty idea--the whole tripping over Coyote story,” Bradley says. “‘Cause you did get me--but you’re just not as good of a shot as you think you are, dolly. Had to rough myself up in case I started bleeding through my shirt. Really play the part, right?”

And you don’t respond, fat tears streaming down your face. Bradley tuts, thumbing a few of them away. Without another word, he brings his thumbs to his lips and slowly pushes it down onto his tongue. Terror holds your lungs hostage as he suckles your tears.

As the salt melts on Bradley’s tongue, he grins. He can practically taste your fear--it’s as fulfilling to him as nectar is to you. But he’s always preferred salt over sugar.

“What’s happening?” You ask, choking on your sobs. “What happened to you, Bradley?”

“Dolly, Bradley’s long gone now. Been fading ever since I got that specks-wearing fella. Shit, I’ll tell you, though--that boy is a fighter. Kept making it back in.” Brows furrowed, you say nothing. You don’t know what the fuck is going on. “And here I thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” Bradley taunts, pinching your nose. “Dolly, I’m not him. Well--I mean, I’m him,” Bradley says, gesturing to his body. Then he points to his temple. “But I’m not him.”

Vision blurring with pink-tinted tears, you sob again.

“What are you talking about?” You ask, weeping openly. “You must be out of your fucking mind!”

“I guess you could say Bradley is out of his mind,” he says, grinning. “Best to believe me, dolly.”

But you know. You know that this isn’t Bradley. It’s suddenly as clear as a glass windowpane on a cool, spring morning after the rain has passed. The man crouched beside you is Bradley by appearance, yes, with his broad shoulders and powerful legs and short shorts, but he’s not really here. No. Because he would never hurt you. How could he? He’s the boy who would ask you to dip your finger in his coffee to sweeten it. It would be blasphemous if you even thought for one moment that he would harm you.

The realization washes over your face, contorts your expression.

“There she goes. She gets it now. Good girl,” Bradley coos, his voice low and velvety. “Didn’t you feel it? Didn’t you feel it when he was gone?”

Sobbing, you shake your head.

“Who are you?” You ask, trembling.

Jake is growing heavier on your body--it’s difficult to breathe now.

“You know who I am,” he says, nodding gently. “You read all about me in the papers, didn’t you? The maniac. That’s what they called me--right? The guy who killed all the camp counselors and the camp nurse at Camp Arcadia. Some no good devil-worshiper.”

Mind spinning, lungs aching, you shake your head.

“But you’re dead,” you whisper. “They found your…they found your body there with the others. Thirty years ago.”

He takes a long, hard look at you. It is not one particularly seeped in malice, not one that sends a chill down your tailbone. It’s a long, hard look at your face as if he’s playing the part of upset father and you’re the unruly daughter who came in past her curfew.

“I know you felt me,” he whispers to you. “I came to you in the night.”

Eyebrows furrowed, you’re just about to refute this claim, just about to scream out for help! when the truth tickles your cheeks as it lands just before your eyes.

Oh. The nightmares. Every night that you were not in bed with Bradley, every time you finally fell asleep, he was there waiting. He stalked you. He found you. He terrified you.

“Your fear was so sweet,” Bradley coos. “Tangled up in your sheets, frozen, sweating bullets. You let me get so close to you. I would’ve devoured you if I’d had the time.”

“Fuck you,” you whisper meekly.

A tired sobs rips out of your lungs.

“See, now, Bradley did take care of that part all by himself,” he says, eyebrows raised. “I didn’t have to do much convincing. He was really far gone for you, dolly. Did you know that? I’d bet you’re the reason he kept fighting it--poor fool. Didn’t even know what he was fighting.”

Bile climbs your throat.

“You’re a fucking monster!”

He grins.

“I’m not,” he says. “I’m just a man who made a deal with the Devil.”

You shake your head at him, shivering, trembling.

“There’s no such thing,” you spit. “You’re trying to scare me.”

“All those bad things that happen in the world, happening here, and you don’t believe there’s something behind it?” He asks, brows perched. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Last time I came around, nurse’s were still religious. None of this agnostic nonsense.”

“There’s no Devil,” you whisper--thought you feel like you’re losing your conviction as the energy drains from your body. “You’re a--a conman.”

He sighs.

“How do you think I came back?” He whispers. “At random? God’s will?”

You don’t know. You don’t know. All you know is that the person before you is not Bradley.

“You’re lying,” you whisper.

“Let’s not yank each other’s chain. Total honesty, alright? Scout’s honor,” Bradley says, crossing his heart. “It was destiny. The storm. The tree. Our pal Jake here finding the axes--finding my ax.” Bradley thumps Jake on the back--he doesn’t moan. He doesn’t make any sound at all--and he doesn’t move. “Bradley cutting his hand--giving me his blood. And, God, so much of it.”

Bradley’s a bleeder. Oh, God. You remember it so vividly--the blood as it dripped down his arm, his sheepish smile, his quiet apologies.

“You…” You cough--blood spurts out of your mouth and sprays Bradley’s knee. You know, with your entire chest and everything inside of it, that it is not your blood. “Why Bradley?”

He stares down at you--all the flecks of gold in his sweet, big eyes are gone. And behind those eyes, just behind the crystal film, is nothing. Void of life. Void of kindness. Void of warmth. They’re just two black holes in his face, rimmed with pretty lashes.

“You know, I always like it when people were sad. Scared. The best was when people were sad and scared, you know? I didn’t know why I liked it--I just knew that I got a good and funny feeling whenever I could hear my baby sister crying in her crib. I used to pinch her in the night--just to make her wail. And then I’d listen and listen until her voice got hoarse. When she thought I was gone, or when she was all cried out--I’d jump out at her. Get right up in her face and scream.” He sighs. You’re shivering as he speaks, throat dry. He’s smiling fondly in remembrance, left eye twitching softly. “People like Bradley are always a little sad and a little scared.”

“People like him?” You whisper.

He nods.

“Orphans. Lovesick orphans,” he whispers. “He kept me full.”

Closing your eyes, you struggle to move. But you can’t--you’re perfectly, completely pinned down to the floor.

“What about me?” You whisper brokenly. Defeat begins its descent in your body--numbing your fingers and toes, lulling your head to the side, pressing against your eyelids. “Why didn’t you choose me?”

Now he furrows his brows.

“Well, you were hardly ever scared,” he says. “At least when you were awake you weren’t. I couldn’t get you to draw any blood when you were asleep. Hell, I couldn’t ever get you to hold the ax either.”

Sighing, almost completely still, you just stare at him. He stares at you, too.

“I’m scared all the time,” you whisper helplessly.

He shakes his head.

“You’re not,” he answers. “Or else I’d be inside of you.”

Recoiling, you shake your head.

“You’re sick,” you whisper.

“I mean, there were even some hard times, right? Had to slice that Mable girl when I was heading for Jake. Tear her bible up good so she would stop sniffing around. What good is a church girl without her scripture?”

Chills cover your arms and legs--finally overpowering the warm blood on your body as it dries on your skin.

“But why Jake?” You whisper brokenly. “Why him?”

“Because he’s the best shot. Because he was in the way of you,” Bradley answers, brows furrowed. “And you’re something special. Well--you were before you went all the way with Bradley. That’s why this is so perfect--the guy you didn’t pick is holding you down.”

You cough--your lungs are deflating.

“Why was I special?” It’s all you can manage to choke out.

“Virgin blood is strong--pure. Untainted. That’s what…that’s what happened last time, you see. Nurse Abbott was waiting until marriage. I picked ‘em off one-by-one until she was alone…” Bradley says, staring at your face, watching his own reflection in your tearful eyes. He sighs. “And then--!”

“--She killed you. She was the one who did it, wasn’t she?” You whisper, sneering. Your lip trembles. “She killed you.”

Bradley’s lip twitches--his smile doesn’t falter.

“No bullshitting, right? Yes. She…she did,” he answers. “I killed her, too, though. That’s an important part to the story, dolly. And I’ve really been feeling like the universe wanted me to come back and finish what I started. So…that’s what I’m gonna do.”

He picks up the ax, holds it so it reflects off the sunlight. And then he grins at you.

“No,” you whimper weakly. You’re trembling all over, lungs empty, ribs crushed, head aching, throat choked. But something sinks in your gut when he stands, holding the ax against himself. “Please…please--!”

“I love it when you beg for it,” he whispers to you. You stop speaking, just staring up at him, dazed with grief as the reality of right now blankets you. You’re going to die. He seems to see it in your face, smell it in the air. He smiles again. “I’m gonna go back to the bus now. Phoenix will let me in--I’ll get her first. She’ll go fast, I bet. Give in quick. Might have to work hard to get Coyote, though. He seemed pretty determined to keep those kids safe, didn’t he? I wonder if he’ll fight as hard as Fanboy did.”

“He’ll kill you,” you whisper, sobbing. “He’ll kill you!”

“He wouldn’t kill Bradley,” he says, cocking his head to the side. “Neither would you.”

Saying nothing, you just stare up at him.

“And when I’ve finished the kiddos off, I’ll come back for you,” he says, pointing the ax at you. It nearly touches your nose. “Saving the best for last.”

Before he leaves, he walks into the kitchen. Something changes--the music stops. He’s started the tape over. Running Up That Hill begins again.

When he reappears, he grins at you.

“See you in a jiff,” he promises.

With that, he’s off. Stepping over Jake’s body and yours, he galivants across the blood-soaked wooden floor and heads for the doors. And then he’s gone--a gust of hot, summer air caressing your face.

Now all you can hear is the sound of your own sobs--they echo in the mess hall, vibrate across the picnic tables, and land uneasily on Jake’s back.

Alone. You’re alone now. All your friends are dead--or they’re going to be dead soon.

Everything in your body--every ache, every muscle, every bone, every nerve--is telling you to close your eyes. Give in. Let go. Wait for it to come. Breathe until you cannot anymore. Think about what flowers you will want at your funeral and hope your father remembers that you hate carnations.

“Is he gone?”

Jolting, you look at Jake--your vision is tinted pink from the blood in your eyes, from the tears. And the heaviness of his body suddenly becomes a bit lighter--lighter like he is lifting himself just barely.

“Jake?” You whisper.

There’s not response for a minute. And for a fleeting few moments, as you gaze down at his eyes that are still closed and his lips that are still shut, you think you’re losing your mind. Making this up. Imagining him here so you won’t have to die all by yourself.

But then his lashes flutter--a tiny groan falls out of his mouth.

“He’s…he’s gone, right?”

And then, without warning, Jake suddenly rolls off your body. It is a quick movement--like he’s using the last of his strength, like he’s doing this final thing for you.

The pain that shoots through his body when he lands on his back is excruciating. It is so excruciating, so blinding, that he almost can’t stop himself from screaming. But he does--he does for you. He breathes through his nose roughly, sobbing softly.

“Jake…” you whisper, suddenly able to move. You scramble to sit up, covered in gore still, leaning over him. “Jake, I--Jake, I thought you were dead.”

And before you can even get over the sudden shock of Jake being alive, of Jake moving off your body, your hands are moving before you give them explicit permission to. You’re pulling on his shoulders, trying to get him to move onto his belly again so you can staunch his wound, but he cries out.

“Stop, Gale!” He begs, tears streaming down his face.

“I’m trying to help--!”

Suddenly, his eyes are open and pouring into yours. And God, there are those green eyes. Greener than grass. Greener than keylimes. Greener than moss. Greener than the earth. He’s looking right at you, the one who’s trying to save him, and you suddenly understand that he doesn’t want to be saved by you.

“Let me help…help you for once,” Jake whispers. “You go.”

Two stray tears stream down his face.

He’s thinking about everything that Bradley said, how he taunted you, how still he had to be so Bradley didn’t really finish him off. He’s thinking about that bus full of kids, thinking about Payback, Fanboy, Bob, Paul. He’s thinking about it all and how you’re going to have to do this by yourself. And he’s going to stay here. He has to stay here--he can’t run, he can’t hide, he can’t walk. He can’t even feel his toes. He has to stay here.

“Jake,” you mutter, beginning to weep. “I can’t--I can’t leave you here.”

It’s an impossible decision--one that is tearing your heart to bits as you hover over him.

He’s trembling--it feels like you’re rubbing noses with death again as saliva gathers underneath your tongue.

“Please,” he whispers. “Please…go. There’s no time, baby, there’s no…”

“Jake,” you weep. “I didn’t listen to you! It’s him--it’s…it’s…”

You won’t know who to say it is. It’s Bradley, but it’s not. But you can’t get yourself to say that it is Damien Gwyar--the original maniac, the one who slayed everyone all those years ago.

“I love you, baby,” Jake mutters. A few tears stream down his face. “I’d die if I…if I didn’t tell you that before I…before I…”

Die, Jake thinks. Before I die.

“I love you,” you sob. And you mean it--you really, truly do. Even if it is muddled, if it’s complicated, if it’s wrong, if it’s right, if you’re exhausted, if it’s true--you mean it. “I love you, Jake. You idiot.”

And you can’t say anything else, just collapsing against his chest to sob again. And against his blood-soaked shirt, on this blood-soaked floor, you let all the tears and snot run and run until you feel like you’re entirely empty.

With the final bit of his strength, he reaches up--ignoring the searing burning--and holds both of your cheeks. And your cheeks, so wet and sticky and familiar, nearly make his throat close. He wishes he had held you more. He hopes he gets to hold you again.

“Knew it,” he whispers, a sad smile tugging on his lips.

“I’m sorry,” you weep. “Jake, I’m so sorry--I didn’t know what-what to do. I didn’t know what to do and-and--!”

“--It’s okay,” he whispers. His bottom lip wobbles. “Get your gun, Nightingale.”

Like his word is Lord, you do get the gun. Your legs are wobbling and you can hardly walk, can hardly wrap your fingers around it, but you do. And then you return to his crumpled form, sinking to your knees and looking down at him.

“I don’t wanna leave you,” you repeat brokenly. “Jake, I’m so sorry. I’m so…I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve been better. I should’ve--I could’ve--!”

But even when you say it--knowing it’s the truth--you also know that Bradley must be getting close to the bus barn. He might even be opening the doors now. He might even be halfway through Phoenix, her screams loud and the blood--

“Shhh,” he whispers. “No time.”

“I can save you,” you whisper. “God, please let me save you! Let me have this!”

You’re begging.

Jake shakes his head.

“Go,” Jake whispers back. He strokes your hair very softly, tries to remember the way it feels in his hands. And then he pushes you softly.

Hastily, and with great anguish, you kiss his lips. All you can taste is blood, but you keep kissing him. You kiss and cry and he kisses back as his blood pools around him on the floor. He’s dizzy and you’re exhausted to the point of near-delusion.

Then you stand up.

“I’m coming back for you,” you promise him.

You really mean it, too. Whether he is alive or dead, whether you’ll bandage him or cover him with a sheet, you’re coming back for him. You will not leave Jake alone here. Not in your lifetime.

“I’ll be here,” he whispers brokenly. He’s staring up at you, quivering. “You’ve gotta…you’ve gotta fight.”

“People keep telling me that,” you whisper.

His jaw is locked in place when he speaks again. You hope, with everything in your heart, that this is not the last time you’ll ever see him looking at you the way he is now.

“You give ‘im Hell.”

You give ‘im Hell.

You’re still sobbing when you walk outside again. The heat is abrasive, the sun is beating down, you’re sticky with blood, but your legs are working and you’re moving towards the bus barn. Right now, in this precise moment when your heart is pounding out of your chest, it’s all you can focus on. You have to get from here to here.

And there he is--Bradley. He’s standing just outside the bus, the bus barn door wide open and letting the sunlight pour in. But the bus doors are still closed.

You don’t understand why this is happening, but it is. It really, truly is. It’s here, right before your eyes. Gone is the man that you love, the one who came inside of you only a few days ago. And standing in his place is whatever the fuck is beckoning everyone off the bus.

“I had to…I had to hurt him,” Bradley sobs. He’s good at this--there’s real tears streaming down his face, snot dripping out from his nose and onto his mustache. He’s holding his palm against the bus, still gripping the ax. “God, I think I…I think I killed him! But he was coming for Gale…”

“What happened to Gale?” Coyote asks, reaching for the handle to open the bus doors. He’s panting already, panicked. Bradley has a lot of blood on him--splattered all over his face and clothes. And when he ripped the bus barn door open, he was sobbing. “Shit, is she…oh my, God…”

Everyone on the bus is looking at Bradley: a man who has seemingly lost everything in the span of only a little while. The tape to lure Jake into the mess hall has restarted, blood has been spilled, and Bradley is sobbing outside the bus from the loss of you.

“He got her,” Bradley sobs. “He…He got Gale. I wasn’t quick enough. He just--he threw her on the ground, cracked her head open. Oh, God…the crack. It was--it was--!”

Bradley cuts himself off with his own choked sobs.

Phoenix’s fingernails dig into the bus seat. She can hardly hear Bradley, can hardly hear anything, feel anything. But she hears him say it. You’re gone, she thinks. You’re dead now, too.

Just as Coyote is about to open the bus doors, just as he is about to let Bradley on and grieve and sob and ask for the full story and just as Phoenix is about to spring to the mess hall to find you, everyone hears a gun cock in utter and complete unison.

And suddenly, you’re here. You’re standing in the doorway, drenched in blood, hair matted against your head. You’re holding the shotgun, legs wobbling but feet planted firmly, and aiming it directly at Bradley. You’re alive--most gloriously alive.

“Don’t open those doors!” You announce. Your voice echoes. “Get the fuck away from the bus!”

“Gale…” Bradley says, feigning shock. His heart is pounding, but he decides to keep it going. Don’t let the curtains close. He turns towards you, stumbles a few steps--he’s still holding the ax. “Gale, I--I thought you were dead! I thought--I thought Jake killed you!”

“Don’t listen to him,” you scream. “You…you fuck!”

Coyote and Phoenix watch in horror, their eyebrows furrowed.

“What the fuck is going on?” Coyote asks.

Phoenix is staring at Bradley as he stumbles towards you. He’s gripping the ax with such conviction, tears still streaming down his face. And from where she’s standing, she can only see a quarter of his face. But she sees it exactly when you do: a wink. Barely there, hardly evident, but real.

And it suddenly clicks--washes over her like a wave of warm, salty water.

“Bradley is the killer,” she whispers. She grips Coyote’s arm, quivering. “Bradley is the…oh my, God.”

“I thought you were gone,” Bradley weeps. And with his back turned to the bus, he grins at you--entirely sure no one will see him. “I’m so--I’m so sorry I left you.”

“Don’t come any closer!” You scream. Your hands are shaking.

“I’m just trying to help you,” he sobs, smile growing wider and wider. “C’mere, doll, I’m so sorry I left you with that--with that monster!”

He grows nearer and nearer with every step.

From your peripherals, you see movement on the bus--Coyote reaching for the handle to open the bus doors.

“Don’t open the fucking doors!” You demand, voice echoing in the barn. “Just--no matter what, don’t do it! Okay?”

Coyote freezes. His stomach is turning itself inside out as all the children group at the back of the bus and watch you point a gun at Mister Rooster.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Bradley whispers to you. “I’m saving you for last.”

“I will fucking kill you!” You scream--voice hoarse. Tears are pouring down your cheeks. “I’ll kill you if you step closer to me! I’ve shot you before and I’ll sure as Hell do it again!”

He’s only a few feet in front of you now.

“You can’t,” he whispers to you. He’s standing with his chest--Bradley’s chest--pressed against the barrels of your shotgun. He grins at you. “You won’t.”

Arms nearly going limp, you open your mouth to retaliate--but nothing comes. Nothing at all. You’re choking on air, staring evil right in the face, and you cannot pull the trigger because it is wearing the skin of the man you adore so.

He knows it already.

Coyote and Phoenix watch in horror as your finger slips from the trigger. And the horror extends to the entire bus, making all the kids clutch the seats and each other, when Bradley suddenly swings the ax.

It comes so quickly that you hardly have time to duck--the blade catches the top of your shoulder, slicing your skin open. Hot blood oozes from the wound as you fall to your hands and knees, scrambling for the gun you dropped.

Bradley’s quicker than you--kicking it aside again before he grabs hold of your hair. He wraps it tightly in his fist and pulls up until you’re screaming in pain, almost delirious with it as you swing your arms to hit him.

“She needs help,” Phoenix says, panting. “Oh my--fuck, she needs help!”

“She doesn’t want us to open the doors!” Coyote says, eyes wide as he watches Bradley drag you forward as you swing your arms fruitlessly. “What should we--fuck, what should we do?”

“You really couldn’t have just stayed put, huh?” Bradley sneers, throwing you against the dirt floor. You don’t have much fight left in you--he can tell. He straddles you, pins your arms against the ground. Even your squirming does nothing. “I wanted to save you for the end, dolly.”

And you’re panicking now, screaming and fighting to get out from under him. Your heart is in your throat and your stomach is falling and you keep bucking your hips up to no avail. Again--you’re stuck. Pinned.

But this time--this time something is different. This isn’t Jake and he isn’t hurt. This is Damien and he’s setting the ax down. He’s wrapping his hands around the column of your throat as you thrash viciously, kicking your heels into the dirt. And then, with the hands that caressed you so lovingly only a little while ago, he’s choking you.

“It’ll do,” he grunts, pushing down on the soft middle of your throat. His fingers are hot as the blood caking your skin begins to crumble off beneath his grip. “You got bloody enough.”

You’ve never been choked before--not in any capacity. You work with a few girls with stories about it; strange older cousins they were left alone with, angry older brothers who used to babysit them, violent ex-husbands who didn’t like them to talk back, strangers in the night hiding in bushes, lovers in the bedroom who kissed it better. Before this very moment, you’ve never known what it means to not be able to breathe.

Grabbing fistfulls of dirt as Bradley’s knees dig into your arms, your vision is already beginning to blacken. And every time you buck your hips, Bradley weighs down on you harder.

“I wanna watch all that light blink off,” Bradley mutters, teeth grit. He’s still smiling softly, pushing down harder and harder. “Dirty, dirty girl.”

It is precisely when he says this that you realize that this is it. You are going to die. He is not going to let up and you told everyone to stay on the bus. And his is the last face you’ll ever see. And even though he’s taking your life--you can feel it draining from your stunted lungs and your purple lips--you’re glad that it’s a familiar one. In a strange, strange way, you wish that he would hold your hand through it.

“Do something!” Phoenix sobs.

Coyote hustles to the front of the bus, searching desperately for a clue of what to do. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, doesn’t know what he can do.

“I don’t know what to do!”

Eyes lulling to the side, muscles going numb beneath your hot skin, you see something in the haze--something bizarre. It’s Bob. He’s lying on the dirt floor beside you, watching you. His face is pink and pale and he’s wearing his glasses that are no longer broken. He doesn’t say anything at all. He just lies beside you, looks into your eyes, and moves to lay his hand on your shoulder. His hand is warm.

Entire body growing warm, heart sinking in your gut, you know that this must be dying.

Yes, this is it. My brain is being deprived of oxygen. I’m hallucinating. There are no ghosts here. Bob is gone and it will stay that way.

And then, sudden as a firework popping in the near distance, there’s a loud noise. It’s loud enough to make Bradley jump, falter--his grip slips down your throat. You can breathe, only for a moment, as Coyote lays on the horn of the bus.

All the blood comes rushing back to your limbs, all that warmth and numbness begins to fade. You know you only have one moment--just one moment to get away and you have to use it.

Because you’re covered in slick blood, because Bradley got spooked, because Coyote laid on the horn, you’re able to slip your right hand out from underneath Bradley. And in one swift and precise movement, you jam your thumb into his eye. It isn’t enough to cause permanent damage--but it is enough to make him jerk off and away from you.

“Go! Go, Gale!” Phoenix screams, pounding on the windows. “Run!”

Scrambling, taking deep breaths and coughing, you get to your feet in an instant. And before you can even think about it, you’re grabbing the ax. And then you’re grabbing the shotgun while Bradley writhes, holding both hands over his eye as blood drips down his cheek.

“You stupid bitch!” He wails. “You fucking cunt! My fucking eye!”

You’re running as fast as your legs can carry you--outside, into the heat, away from camp, and through the oak trees. You’re running as far as you can, you decide, even if your lungs are screaming and you’re still sputtering.

But Jesus Christ--you’re alive. The sun is on your face and your hair is billowing in the wind and the frogs are crying on the water and you’re alive. You didn’t die. He didn’t do it. Bob is gone.

Bradley, still holding his injured eye, stumbles to his feet. And in his haze, blood wetting his hand, he looks around for you. You’re gone--so is his ax and so is your gun.

“Fucking bitch! I’m gonna fucking get you!”

He glances at the bus--Coyote is standing in the windshield with his arms crossed over his broad chest. And before Bradley can do anything, Coyote holds up the kitchen knife in his hand--it gleams in the sunlight.

“You’re all gonna fucking die tonight!” Bradley screams.

You’re running for a long time--at least that’s what it feels like. Your arms are heavy and you’re losing blood and you can hardly see because of the bright sun. Everything hurts and you’re fuzzy, but you know you have to keep going. Keep fighting.

Behind you, you don’t hear any signs of being chased. Not yet. No snapping twigs, no rustling leaves, no grunts, no groans. You’re certain it won’t last long.

“Nightingale!” Bradley bellows, entering the woods. “Let’s just cut to the good part, dolly!”

Whimpering, you run harder and faster. Your whole body is on fire, but you hold tight to the ax and the gun. But you’re tipping over an edge, close to collapsing. So you duck behind the thick trunk of a tree, pressing your back against it.

Your heart thumps in your ears as blood rushes across your temples. You’re panting, panicking. What are you going to do? How are you going to get away? But--no. You can’t get away. You can’t run. You have to fight.

Just as your heart begins to calm, just as your breathing starts to slow, you suddenly hear it.

Hounds of Love is playing now--the tape scratched and skipping, distorted on the loudspeaker. It’s echoing all across camp.

The hounds of love are hunting

I've always been a coward

“Gale!” Bradley screams, stumbling in the woods. He knows he’s hot on your trail--he can smell how afraid you are right now. “C’mon, dolly! Come on out and let’s finish this! I know you’re tired. You’re so close to giving up--I can feel it. So, just give up. Put your neck into my palms and rest. Close your eyes and let it happen! Don’t you want to see your boys again? Bradley and Bob? Mickey and Reuben?”

He’s close--his voice is loud and clear.

Your fingers are numb with panic.

“You were supposed to save all of ‘em! They were counting on you…everybody was. Bob most of all--he wasn’t afraid until he woke up and saw the infection was spreading, dolly. But he thought you had him…he thought you were gonna help him.”

It's coming for me through the trees

Oh, help me, someone

Help me, please

Closing your eyes, you try to go deaf to his words.

No. No. No.

And when you fidget, a twig snaps beneath your feet. So you quickly lean down and rip your shoes off--leaving you in your bloody socks. But then you take them off, too--just to feel the soil and the thorns beneath your feet.

Bradley looks around the woods--the sun breaks through the canopy of leaves from up above. No sign of you, but he knows he’s close. He has to be close. You can’t have made it far--not after what he did to you in the bus barn.

From nothing real

I just can't deal with this

I'm still afraid to be there

“We were all counting on you. Your name--it’s actually the last thing that Fanboy said before he bit it. Well, before I took off the top of his head. He must’ve been panicking--scrambling, I guess. Couldn’t think of any other name but yours, dolly.”

Clamping your hand over your mouth, you stifle your sobs.

He’s lying, you tell yourself. He has to be.

Bradley’s getting angry--it’s bubbling up inside of him in that ugly, ugly way. He sighs loudly, finally moving his hand from his eye. Blood drips off his chin and into the mud.

“You’re a sad, sad little girl who can’t save anyone! You’re a sorry fucking excuse for a nurse! And a fucking coward at that! You’re hiding from me, running away from all those people you’re supposed to protect!”

I've always been a coward

And never know what's good for me

“I’m gonna head back to camp now,” Bradley taunts. “I’ll pick ‘em off--make ‘em scream for you. You’ll hear it. Wherever you are…you’ll hear it, dolly. Believe me that.”

You have to move. You know it. Even if it’s a bluff--even if it’s a trap.

So, with what strength and ammo you have left, you cock the gun. Bradley hears it--zeroing in on your location. You’re only a few paces before him, hiding behind a thick-trunked oak tree.

“There you are,” he whispers as he begins to slowly walk towards you. “Good girl.”

Shivering, you round the corner. Bradley is only a few feet in front of you, glowing beneath the afternoon sunlight. His eye is bleeding--his lashes matted with blood.

“You’re not getting those kids,” you whisper to him. You’re pointing the gun at him, the ax on the ground beside you. Your feet are planted firmly. “You’re not getting back to that camp.”

Oh, help me, darling

Help me, please

Heart pounding, pulse thumping, you stare at Bradley.

“You don’t have much say in the matter, do you?” He asks. He comes closer, knowing full and well that you won’t pull the trigger. Again, his chest grazes the barrels. He looks into your eyes--registers all your exhaustion. He doesn’t know how you’re still standing. “Just let go, Nightingale. Just give in.”

He moves slowly--you watch him, eyes glossed over, as he wraps his hand around the barrels. You don’t move to stop him--not even when your heart jumps into your throat.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. You swallow hard. “I’m so tired.”

He looks at you long and hard as he pushes the barrels up towards the sky--you don’t stop him again. He steps closer to you.

“I know,” he whispers. “Don’t you miss him? You didn’t even know when he left, dolly.”

Pain ripples across your chest, your heart constricting.

It's in the trees

It's coming

“What happens if I let go?” You whisper.

Bradley blinks at you.

“You’ll sleep,” he tells you.

Sleep. It sounds so good. So enticing. Dangerously handsome.

“Is he…” you whisper, sniffing hard as tears prickle your eyes. “Is he sleeping?”

He knows you mean Bradley--the real, actual Bradley.

“Your side is so cold,” he whispers. “Come to bed.”

Come to bed. You want to. You want to so badly.

But then you think of Bob’s broken glasses. Jake’s bloody handprints on your face. Mable’s weight on your shoulders. Phoenix holding Bob’s body. Coyote telling you the children won’t be touched. Fanboy and Payback dying together.

“I’m tired,” you mutter. A few tears run down your face as your lip wobbles. “I’m too tired to keep going.”

Hold me down

It's coming for me through the trees

He comes closer to you, vibrating with excitement.

Before you can stop it, his hand is on your hip. You know it isn’t Bradley--but it looks like him. It feels like him. You don’t push his hand away.

“Wanna go out with a bang?” He asks, grinning. He presses himself against you, his hips rutting against yours.

Shakily, your finger falls on the trigger.

“Yes,” you mutter to him. His hand falls on your throat again. “I wanna go out with a bang.”

And then the gunshot rings out. It sends birds fleeing, punctures your eardrum, makes Bradley recoil. And before he can retaliate, before he can wrap his hands around your throat--the tree branch, the one the bullet severed, falls onto his head.

He crumples beneath it with a sharp intake of breath, pinning him onto the ground.

“Gale, you--!”

Quickly, you step over him, breathing hard.

“Fuck you,” you spit. “You’re not Bradley.”

And with that, you bring the butt of the shotgun down against his forehead until his eyes are closed and his body is still.

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: DAMN WTF.....I LOVE KATE BUSH

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒:

@thedroneranger

@fandom-life-12

@avaleineandafryingpan

@popsycles

@guacala

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@oliviah-25

@zalmael

@chicomonks

@aboutelijahhh

@angelbabyange

@zbeez-outlet

@dempy

@awkwardgiraffe726

@awesomebooklover17

@ofxinnocence

@nyx2021

@callsign-joyride

@flashyourgreeneyesatme

@one-sweet-gubler

@olliepig

@beyondthesefourwalls

@cherrycola27

@hangmans-wingman

@malindacath

@thenewdaysalreadyhere

@shehulkracing

@vemonbby

@ohemgeewhat

@emi-flaces

@mishala005

@headinthecloudssblog

@anony1080

@bellaireland1981

@djs8891

@xoxabs88xox

@stiles-banshees

@birdy-bat-writes

@bananas1234

@shotgunhallelujah

@pono-pura-vida

@agentminnesota187

@onethirstyunicorn

@furiousladyking

@fandomxpreferences

@untoldshortsofthefandoms

@rintheemolion

@daggerspare-standingby

@harper1666

@princess76179

@roosters-girl

@jstarr86

@blahblechblah

@aemondssiut

@twsssmlmaa

@shawnsblue

@wolfiealina

@gothidecorem

@the-philthepill13

@hangmanscoming

@whoeverineedtobe

@lostinheavensworld

@laneyspaulding19

@averyhotchner

@peakascum

@jjlevin

@endofdays56

@xomrsalliej4787xo

@hypatia93

@sunlightmurdock

@tvjunkie08

@okyeeaaahhhh

@ijustwantedplums

@darkheartcherry

@sometimesanalice

@angelbabyyy99

@bradshawseresinbabe

@unhinged-btch

@bradshawbabe

@topguncult

@kmc1989

258 notes · View notes

theminecraftbee · 3 months

Note

I have a sales pitch for your folklore animals!

Gem as the wolf: cunning, often representative of death, normally endears itself to its prey in some fashion [ex. Tricking Little Red Riding Hood by dressing up as her grandmother], meant to be feared and defeated, but always gets you in the end

Pearl as the Bear: the bear is often the muscle in stories, something that is overtly feared, but still tends to fall to the trickery of animals like the coyote or the fox. [Ex. Losing its tail in a frozen lake because of the fox]

Regardless, very interested to see what you've got brewing 👁️‍🗨️

oh those are GOOD ONES actually I really like those for them… yeah I may switch gem to wolf you’re RIGHT………. ohhh I’m really thinking now…..

anyway AS I SAID WE’LL SEE IF IT GOES ANYWHERE I JUST HAVE. IDEAS.

#answered #silverskye13 #also to be fair death also has another symbol in this one. don’t worry about it though

78 notes · View notes

encrucijada · 5 months

Text

HAZE DOGS — a wip by ester cuervos

【 genre & categroy: horror, low fantasy, adult 】

【 pov: 2nd person retrospective 】

【 what if princess mononoke, the hunt from the magnus archives, and night in the woods had a baby. guy too scared for horror keeps writing it. great news for all the girls (gender neutral) who've ever wanted to go apeshit!! i'm technically catholic so i'm allowed to bastardise catholicism 】

【 cw: cults, blood and gore, religious blasphemy, cannibalism, harm to animals 】

【 tone & themes: feminine horror, corruption, bottled rage, divinity, unhinged, atmospheric, eerie, immortality/mortality 】

a b o u t : an isolated town is haunted by otherworldly canines incapable of dying. when connor hidalgo mejía comes back to life after being sacrificed by her old classmates, the town finds a temporary solution to their problem that will keep more people from dying: they offer connor and only connor to the animals. with her boyfriend's mother at the head, connor becomes the reluctant but not entirely unwilling idol of worship of a cult that begins to form around her. the people of her town really believe she can somehow free them of this haunting. but aurora vidal isn't the only one pulling the strings for power. everyone wants a piece of connor's divinity, a god is easy to manipulate when she's actually just a nineteen-year-old girl who up until last month only had two concerns: make it to tomorrow and get to know her estranged brother. the temporary solution starts to feel like a permanent one with connor soon not being able to find peace in life or in death.

another story about a girl in a white dress getting sacrificed... except she's wearing cool alternative clothes on top of that white dress. also the dark academia plot of "person we all hate died under mysterious circumstances" except this time the person keeps coming back to life, worse each time.

c h a r a c t e r s :

connor hidalgo mejía. she/they. embodies the energy of the "alt friend" from 00s teen movies. would have bitten you to win an argument even before things got freaky. what if jesus was a dog.

ángel quijada vidal. he/they. connor's boyfriend. dark academia protagonist who got lost and ended up in a horror movie. ignoring social cues on purpose because he thinks they're stupid.

delilah estévez herrera. she/her. connor's best friend. literally the prettiest person in the room at all times. not joining your cult bestie sick aesthetic tho. borrowing her from my buddy jude <3

acacia quijada vidal. she/her. connor's frenemy. would befriend you and then vaguepost about you online. ángel's sister. youngest sister syndrome. dead blue eyes.

aurora vidal ochoa. she/her. ángel's mum. gaslight gatekeep girlboss. woke up and decided to become a cult leader. marisa coulter energy (derogatory).

benjy hidalgo mejía. he/him. connor's brother, apparently. has the energy of the bum older brother with a shitty band and a warning sign of his door you'd find in a 90s movie.

zagreus. he/it. pubby :3 nothing weird going on here i prommy.

aesthetic: a foggy open field, coyote howls in the dead of night, wiping blood from your mouth, maximalist teen girl bedrooms, light reflecting off of animal eyes, an empty dilapidated church, bite marks on your shoulder, tall grass swaying in the breeze, an abandoned fountain filled with greenish water, broken statues, taxidermy animals, the rattle of a dog's chain, crackling television signal, cloudy weather and the smell of ozone before a storm, glitter makeup rolling down your cheeks, music so loud others hear it on your headphones, a lake with party trash floating on the surface, your fanciest clothes splattered with blood, the cold smoothness of fine jewellery, low quality camera footage, a trail of kisses down your spine, teeth that are too sharp, halos made with neon bracelets, cupping your cheeks with bloodied hands, curling up under the covers in bed when it's cold

snippet!!!

“Cool, right?” you asked your reflection, answered yourself with a smile that cut your purple mouth in two with white teeth.

You grabbed your keys.

Benjy was in the living room. He still occupied space like he was a guest instead of a resident, you looked at him and tried to find yourself on his face, on his shoulders, his hair, his hands. But other than the brown of your skin and his skin, you couldn’t, the only thing you shared that your mum had too were the freckles, but what did that prove? If that was proof of kin then Ángel would be your brother, Acacia your sister, Dafne a quarter of something with the smattered speckles on the bridge of their nose.

“Where the fuck are you going?”

He was your brother enough to talk like he’d known all nineteen years of your life.

You stopped in front of the television, a horror movie screaming behind you, blood and guts and bad sound effects of tearing skin, someone’s burbly wail from a cut throat.

“Vidal party.”

“What’s a Vidal? Am I supposed to know what that is?”

“They own like half the town, huge house, can’t miss it.”

“And they invited the likes of you?”

#tumblr if you fuck up the formatting again i will haunt you in dreams #anyways. hoping to write this next year?? hoping for some focus??hoping to finally Finish something for once??#pia.docx #wip intro #( wip ) haze dogs

107 notes · View notes

crushedsweets · 1 month

Note

What does nat and Kate do want they spend time together (plus love your art and the little story of nat got attacked by that coyote and Kate saved her)

everythings here is suited for my AU/headcanons!!! if its not canon, i know! LOL

ok so. kate loves running. its practically her only hobby. she does laps around the lake even when shes not patrolling. it clears her mind, lungs, etc.

meanwhile, clocky used to play volleyball and basketball in highschool (and she was damn good at it)

SOOO I THINK!!! I THIIIIIINKKKKK!!! clocky would start joining kate on her jogs. it'd be funny cuz at first, kate would fucking SMOKE clocky and not even realize. she'd turn around and see clocky out of breath leaning against a tree like ?????????

in turn, clocky would teach kate how to play volleyball. kates naturally pretty athletic and coordinated, so i think she'd catch on quick and it would be really nice for the two!

they'd also watch movies, listen to music, maybe teach kate charcoal? fits the whole..yk... mine..thing...

#also thank you so much!!#kate the chaser #clockwork #clockwork creepypasta #creeped #asks

41 notes · View notes

bonefall · 7 months

Note

so are wild boar still considered “extinct” locally by the humans? given that wild boar in england are currently considered extinct, even though there are pockets of population

(context: i was looking up animals that england has driven to extinction with my partner last night because we were both feeling Some Kind Of Way about species conservation, and how england is basically the worst monster historically in terms of driving entire species to extinction, and continues to be hugely negligible. then i remembered boars in better bones i was like “aren’t there boars?” and then saw that they were also considered extinct, which surprised me)

Yeah England is a fucking monster in terms of bad conservation, and its colonial influence in how OTHER places view conservation can't be understated. But anyway I'll save that for another time

(But like it fucks me up that you guys only have one protected river in the whole UK and it's mostly in Wales. What the fuck. It's been 30 years and they're just now thinking about adding another. Brits in the audience who can i kill for you? If we throw someone in the thames maybe they'll dissolve)

Here's the thing I have in mind; England is so fucked that people don't even know how fucked it is. Do you know how important hogs are to a mixed-oak woodland? What types of moors need burning, grazing, or being left alone? That the entire island of Great Britan is supposed to have a thriving freshwater pearl mussel population? That England isn't supposed to have pine forests?

There is so so so much here to cover and talk about, AND I'm telling this story from the perspective of cats! They have to have encountered the things to know about them, even if it was culturally!

And what that means is that I am willing to bend a couple of things SO that I can include them as part of the story! Things that SHOULD be here, that should be or ARE being reintroduced, especially when they're lesser known.

(In fact I think your boar thing is a perfect example. You're telling me the story I want to hear-- that you heard something offhand, went "woah arent those in this work I'm a fan of?" And then you learned more. Goal accomplished!)

In my head I file boars and mussels under the "Eagle Exception." Something that, with a bit of alt history, could be seen in this environment.

It's based off the canon eagles (which ironically I'm massively downplaying in my rework of the BB!Tribe). The golden eagle has been extinct in England for a very long time, but it's right there in canon, so logically there could be similar animals or reintroduction projects.

List so far;

(Also BB!Great Britan is called Albion to mark that it's a little different.)

Freshwater Pearl Mussels (extinct in White Hart, populated in Sanctuary Lake)

Boars (rare in White Hart, populated in Sanctuary Lake. Replacing the majority of deadly badger and fox encounters because badgers arent bears and foxes arent coyotes, Erin :/)

Golden Eagle (exclusive to Tribe mountain)

Beavers (Being actively reintroduced to parts of Albion in the 2010s)

Wolves (extinct)

Lynxes (suspected extinct; there may be some around specifically because I want to make an example of how non-domestic cats in this universe are non-sapient.)

Salmon (uncommon in White Hart, populated in Sanctuary Lake)

Atlantic Sturgeon (exclusive to Sanctuary Lake, rare even there)

Medicinal Leech (dying population in White Hart since Chelford expansion, extinct in Sanctuary Lake)

Additionally I'm keeping my eye on the European Buffalo (wiseant) reintroduction, but that's not in my modeled region and I don't want to jump the gun on it. Last I checked the project JUST managed to get its bull this year after a long 2020-induced delay

#better bones au #Ecological Overhauls #Guiding Principle

78 notes · View notes

midnightsun-if · 6 months

Note

can we have the most favorite media thing (like, favorite videogame series, favorite book, movie, etc) from all the ros?

Koda

Video Game: Stardew Valley, it’s just something he enjoys playing and he’s so proud of his farm.

Book: Charlotte’s Web, he knows it’s a book meant for children but he has a lot of fond memories curled up against his mom as she read it to him.

Movie: Brother Bear, it’s a bit on the nose but he loves the story, the visuals, and the soundtrack.

Song: On My Way by Phil Collins from Brother Bear.

Scarlett

Video Game: Dragon Age, she rarely plays video games but she’s always enjoyed that one.

Book: The Return of the King (LotR), A Dance With Dragons (ASoIF), or Pride and Prejudice… It’s a toss up.

Movie: Casablanca or Scream.

Song: Tchaikovsky— Swan Lake, Op.20, Act: 2, No. 10, Scene: Moderato.

Cyrus/Cyra

Video Game: Either classic Mario or Ori and the Blind Forest. They typically like platformers though.

Book: The Raven, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, or Jurassic Park.

Movie: The Queen or The Chronicles of Narnia.

Song: Here Comes The Sun by The Beatles.

Quinn

Video Game: Wii Sports, it’s always something they’ve enjoyed playing.

Book: The Odyssey.

Movie: The Sandlot or Field of Dreams.

Song: Dog Days Are Over by Florence + The Machine.

Caden

Video Game: Peggle… It’s calming to them.

Book: The Da Vinci Code, its book that they’ve read numerous times.

Movie: Good Will Hunting or The Bucket List.

Song: My Heart Will Go On by Celine Dion.

Sloane

Video Game: Elden Ring, it’s something they’ve enjoyed playing.

Book: Peter Pan, it’s something that reminds them of their childhood… However, painful that is now.

Movie: Hook, for the same reason as Peter Pan.

Song: Paint It, Black by The Rolling Stones.

Blake

Video Game: Sims, it’s one of the few things that’s been able to keep their attention.

Book: A Tale of Two Cities.

Movie: Coyote Ugly or Pretty Woman.

Song: …Baby One More Time by Britney Spears.

Reginald/Regina

Video Game: Left 4 Dead, but they also adore Knights of the Old Republic too.

Book: Dracula (funnily enough) or The Hobbit… (The Dragonriders of Pern series has its own category.)

Movie: Star Wars (Originals).

Song: The Force Theme by Samuel Kim (Cover).

#midnight sun #asks #ro: blake herrera #ro: r presley #ro: c aurelia #ro: sloane addams #ro: quinn grant #ro: koda kingston #ro: caden randall #ro: scarlett voltaire

40 notes · View notes

corvidist · 9 months

Text

Located on the north shore of Great Slave Lake, Yellowknife today is the territorial capital and largest city of the Northwest Territories of Canada. This is not the story of that city, but rather of what comes after.

(PA stands for Post-Anthropocene. It is not the system used by Directors for measuring time.)

1 PA

The city of Yellowknife, prior to the war, was growing at an exponential pace. Its stable climate, ample water supply, and the relocation of many important government functions eventually led to its population surpassing 200,000 by the time a one-megaton thermonuclear warhead, launched from western Gansu province, landed just south of its primary airport. The city's fairly compact layout, combined with the yield of the device, led to total devastation, the first days seeing the deaths of over half the city's residents.

One year later, a global nuclear cooling effect has taken hold, and the charred ruins of Yellowknife lay empty. Some Human survivors remain on the outskirts, however the city as a whole is largely devoid of complex life. There are more survivors however, both Human and nonhuman, within the fallout radius, and elevated radiation levels will lead to increased rates of genetic mutation among the next generation. While typically leading to death or chronic illness in those impacted, among dwindling nearby Raven and Crow populations two mutations will actually prove mildly beneficial. A slight change in beak shape, and a growth abnormality in the right set of talons.

At a time when most edible plant and animal life is dead, and what remains is often small and burrowed, these chance mutations will forever alter the course of Earth's history.

1000 PA

Around this time, somewhere in Tierra Del Fuego, the last Human takes their final breath. While the effects of nuclear cooldown are long forgotten (at least at the superficial level), the destruction of nearly 80% of the ozone layer proved far more consequential in the long run. Even as industrial greenhouse gas emissions were suddenly and violently halted, the amount released by the firestorms that engulfed much of the Earth at the end of the Anthropocene led to further runaway warming, picking up around 20 PA.

By now only small pockets of large plant life remain, much of it in areas too hard-hit by the initial nuclear exchange for Humans to take advantage of before the end. Much of Earth's plant life is comparatively smaller, hardier shrubbery and root organisms that can survive drastic weather changes and high UV exposure. This is an improvement from the first 100 years, however, is a very difficult environment for land organisms much larger than coyotes to survive in.

Amidst the desolation, events unfold in the North American Arctic. With populations at a level that Humans would have long ago considered critically endangered, Crows and Ravens in this region, low on options, begin to crossbreed, leading to the first early "Directors". Still, without the caloric intake necessary, this new species remains, like its ancestors, at a level of only basic sapience for the time being.

100,000 PA

It's been 99,000 years or so since the death of the last Human, a little less since the hatching of the first members of a species that could vaguely be described as Directors. In that time, tool use, especially among those individuals, has diversified significantly. Use of large rocks to hunt creatures from the air, early harnessing of gathered fire, spears to reach deep into burrows, and stone shovels for digging out root plants. Still, the overall cognition of this species lacks certain important complexities.

Around this time, that is quickly changing. As the species has been psychologically driven for millennia to find, gather, and consume any food they come across on account of its sparse availability, the steady return of an ample food supply has led to the consumption of higher-than-necessary quantities. This, combined with improving tool use and the occasional harnessing of captured fire, will, given enough time, lead to the dawning of Earth's second technological society.

For now, however, the average life of a Director wouldn't look remarkably different from the life of any typical Crow or Raven of the present day. A few more tools, a little more complexity in communication and games, but all in all nothing that would get one whisked away to a research lab by today's Humans.

300,000 PA

Amid the treetops, an endless expanse of wilderness stops only at the side of a fantastic lake. As winter ends, in rudimentary language a group of avians discuss an idea to help one another tend to their nests. Soon, most of the roost disperses, but a few members stay behind. Together they craft tools, collect food, make art, and otherwise watch out for one another.

It works out well.

It works out very well.

As the next winter comes around, more decide to join them.

The first permanent communities constructed by Directors are only as large as the surrounding environment permits, and in the warm season, most continue to break off into smaller family territories. Still, these year-round communities wait for them upon their return, and as they have for millions of years, prove vital in the exchange of information.

Each warm season the communities grow, and understandings of everything from food acquisition to the inner workings of nature grow with them. The first instances of selective breeding can be recorded in this time period, particularly among grasshopper species and, of all plants, sunflowers, an odd final "gift" from the last Human survivors in the region being their ample presence.

One year, a casual game causes sparks to erupt on the shoreline of the lake, the right stones dropped on top of one another from just the right altitude. It lights a small fire in nearby brush, which quickly goes out on its own.

400,000 PA

An ominous orange glow rises in the distance. Far from the permanent community, though if the winds change moving it won't be too difficult, at least at this time of year. They can always make a new one, and the controlled burn serves a purpose too important to not carry out. As Directors are too small to adequately clear land, at least on their own, a complex system of agroforestry has developed instead. This region's culture, now harboring one of the post-Anthropocene world's first new writing systems, uses it to manage forests and encourage the growth of edible plant life. Much of it involves introducing plant species selectively bred for nearly 100,000 years, to a point unrecognizable from its original form. Each year, on top of the tried and true, they tinker with new methods and record the results. All part of a more complex, more widespread ideology that has begun to blossom.

As a generalist species with fairly short lifespans, early Directors have a better sense of the cycles of life and death than early Humans and are more prone to consider the impacts of their actions outside of their own lifespan. Much more than us, they live on through their offspring. To an extent, this culture, like many others, believes in integration with nature rather than dominance.

Despite this, what is said is not always done, and language tends to focus more on avoiding annihilation rather than alteration, though the hypocrisy of some of these sentiments will become increasingly important as technology advances. For now, the first large communities have begun to pop up around these controlled burn sites, sedentary agricultural hubs, and rudimentary fisheries along the coast. They feature a one-level layout among the tree canopy, largely for waste management, with everything from basic trade workshops and artistry to storage areas, even archives or libraries in the largest communities. However, unlike early Human cities, these possess no leader, no monarch to give orders, and no currency.

This will become a running theme as Directors progress further into their development.

490,000 PA

Is City of North Winds in the distance, a group of Directors works together to pull an early lighter-than-air craft. It carries a variety of items belonging to their rural community, now migrating to the city for easier access to food and resources amidst lowered global temperatures following an unknown volcanic eruption.

The city in the distance has a population of over two million, the largest city on Home at the time. Its most densely populated section has been under construction for thousands of years, trees selectively bred to grow taller and more resistant to flame, their branches sturdier, reaching high above the forest canopy. Recently developed bioluminescent lanterns seem to hang across every surface, and everything from tapestries and streamers to chimes and windmills adorn the exterior. Within the branches and cavernous clearings of this city, the region's culture blossoms, as does a (somewhat) new system of labor organization.

First originating on the Island of currently plentiful shrubbery, known in the Anthropocene as Baffin Island, the collective system arose in response to a need for accounting of who was doing what at any given time as the population grew. In order to do this, collectives were formed, loose groups of individuals coming together to complete needed tasks for a community. These groups were and continue to be open to join and leave as an individual wishes, with no structure or hierarchy within them save for systems of apprenticeship that were established as certain forms of labor complexified. It takes Is City of North Winds by storm, as although there is no force by which to drive people to personally adopt the system, the cold has everyone on edge.

More confined than usual, amidst the city's interior its residents watch as much of the livestock that couldn't be brought inside, some of it entirely immobile as a consequence of millennia of alteration, ends up succumbing to the extreme cold. Debate, long engaged in but seldom at a societal level, over the ethics of many of the selective breeding practices being engaged in begins to rage. It will lead to the three lakes' culture's slow disillusionment with many of their practices, which will take root, vanish, and reappear over hundreds of generations. It will take over 9,000 years for this undercurrent of discontent to finally be put to rest.

498,000 PA

In a smaller auditorium at the edge of the community, a crowd gathers before a group of travelers from far southeast. Outside, an already-operating windmill is wired to produce a small amount of energy, just enough to power three models of a strange new contraption. The audience is intrigued. While aesthetically displeasing, the increasing number of ways to harness this energy poses unique opportunities in dozens of fields, and the crowd can't help but speculate.

499,000 PA

Solstices ago, a research collective in the underground section of the city received a design for a device via mail. It comes once again from the southeast, where a thus far unwieldy technology has slowly become better understood in spite of limited general interest. Now, it bears fruit. The world's first electron microscopes in nearly 500,000 years, small towers compared to their operators. Within 200 years, laboratory gene editing will be commonplace. Within 500, society as they know it will be nearly unrecognizable.

500,000 PA

Night falls on Was, Is, and Shall Be City of North Winds. The glowing, immensely decorated mountain of sorts rises high above the forest canopy, surpassing even the monolithic posts of airship docks.

Society has changed in so many aspects over the past thousand years that it is somewhat pointless to try and list everything. Still, perhaps the most significant among these changes is what has occurred on the cultural level. To the residents of this community, and indeed to most of First Home's cultures, the development of direct genetic modification was a turning point beyond anything in the history of the configuration. Technologies that would have otherwise taken incredible spans of time to direct to fruition now took a few solstices. And, importantly, most could be done utilizing only stem cells.

As part of a wider societal craze, many ancient ethical debates had the equivalent of a sledgehammer taken to them as communities unified around a new goal, preached but not truly practiced by cultures since the beginning of their civilization. That goal, the recognition, and more importantly treatment of all complex life as being inherently equal to their own configuration, was perhaps finally within reach.

Far from the city, a grasshopper lands on a well-positioned sunflower, one of many that grow freely in the wilderness of the central north. They do not consider the balloon rockets departing in the west, or, at least not strongly, the nature of the airships passing in the distance. Still, it is because of their sacrifice that they fly, and now it is for them that they will continue.

35 notes · View notes

katcoquette · 2 years

Text

Cabin in the Woods Collection

Top Gun: Maverick Characters x Reader (Rooster, Hangman, Bob, Phoenix, Coyote, Fanboy, Payback, Fritz), each fic will have its' own warnings

A collection of stand-alone stories* set in the same cabin in the woods (though if you dare to read them all, you may find spooky overlap and uncover a wider plot).

*as in- while they all reference each other/connect/are released in timeline order, they do not have to all be read to understand what's going on in any one fic, or read in this order. enjoy one, some, or all!

✦ spooky | ✧ cute fall

teaser

✦ Almost There (Reuben "Payback" Fitch)

✧ Rooftop Dreamin' (Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw)

✦ Handprints (Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia)

✧ Muddy Trails (Jake "Hangman" Seresin)

✧ Autumn Leaves & Apple Trees (Billy "Fritz" Avalone) 10.09.2022

✦ (Natasha "Phoenix" Trace) 10.11.2022

✧ A Day at the Lake (Javy "Coyote" Machado) 10.13.2022

✦ (Robert "Bob" Floyd) 10.15.2022

✧ Sun-Stained Glass (Natasha "Phoenix" Trace) 10.17.2022

✦ Meet Me in the Cellar (Javy "Coyote" Machado) 10.19.2022

✧ (Robert "Bob" Floyd) 10.21.2022

✧ Afternoon Delight (Reuben "Payback" Fitch) 10.23.2022

✦ Over There (Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw) 10.25.2022

✧ (Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia) 10.27.2022

✦ 3:14 AM (Jake "Hangman" Seresin) 10.29.2022

✦ Crunch (Billy "Fritz" Avalone) 10.30.2022

epilogue 10.31.2022

#top gun maverick #top gun fic #tgm fic #katescabininthewoods #kateslists #bradley rooster bradshaw #jake hangman seresin #natasha phoenix trace #javy coyote machado #robert bob floyd #billy fritz avalone #reuben payback fitch #mickey fanboy garcia

156 notes · View notes

videoviolence · 4 months

Text

midwestern funeral director simulator

#ft. my bf's oc john [he's the priest !!]#story: coyote lake #horror oc #original characters #horror art #my art.png

405 notes · View notes

atmilliways · 8 months

Text

Wrong On The Money (38-39)

part 38 & 39 of ?? | 921 words | Teen+

Blackmail fic on Ao3 | on tumblr

Summary:

During the break, while Steve ducks into the kitchen, Margaret gestures for Eddie to lean her way and he graciously lends an ear. “How the hell,” she murmurs with a faint smirk, “did this dweeb ever convince anyone he was cool?”

Margaret chapter! Did I make her a student at my alma mater? Yes. Was the unofficial school motto while I was there 'queer in a year or a money back'? Also yes. Was that also true in the late '80s? No damn clue, but let me have this.

38.

During the break, while Steve ducks into the kitchen, Margaret gestures for Eddie to lean her way and he graciously lends an ear.

“How the hell,” she murmurs with a faint smirk, “did this dweeb ever convince anyone he was cool?”

“He has his moments,” Eddie mutters, remembering Steve poised to dive shirtless into Lovers Lake. Ripping a bat in half and spitting a mouthful of dark blood onto the cracked lake bed in the Upside Down. Poised with an ax over one shoulder telling him (and Dustin, directing it at him, like Steve somehow knew even before he did) not to be a hero.

Sometimes he dreams about Steve giving him mouth to mouth, but he’s not sure if that’s an actual memory or because Dustin told him it happened.

“Earth to Eddie,” Margaret singsongs, definitely smirking now. “I know he saved you from some sort of freaky coyote attack or whatever—” a baffling comment, until he remembers the official cover story “—but stop drooling.”

He flushes instantly, flooding with panic at the idea of being so obvious. Can everyone see it written across his face? Can Steve?! “I wasn’t—”

“Dude, I go to Sarah Lawrence,” she interrupts, as if he knows anything about colleges or what that particular school has to do with anything. “I’ve seen some of the guys in my dorm do the same thing over guys like that, trust me.”

“Oh. Okay,” Eddie says blankly.

His instinct, of course, is still to panic. And wonder if he can jump through the nearest window hard enough to defenestrate himself and hit the ground running, rather than bounce off the glass like a baby bird. But it’s Margaret, one of his oldest friends after Jeff. She’s always been sardonic—and college seems to have cranked that up past eleven, somehow—but there’s acceptance in her words, too. As casual as seeing a cat and commenting that, hey, there’s a cat. Eddie is drooling over a guy. Eddie is gay. Like that's that, no big deal.

But . . . does have to be? It wasn't with Jeff. Or with Wayne. Or, somehow, with Steve.

“. . . Maybe I should visit you in New York sometime,” he says finally, unsure of how long he'd been lost in thought.

Rolling her eyes, Margaret all but punches him in the arm. “You’d better. Come for Halloween. We'll take the train into the city, it’ll blow your mind.” She glances towards the kitchen. “Bring Steve, if he doesn’t mind getting hit on. Lots of people like pretty dweebs.”

Eddie bites the inside of his cheek, remembering Steve’s clubbing outfit even as his stomach twists around a stab of jealousy. Yeah, somehow he doesn’t think Steve would mind the attention, but. . . . Nope, no thank you, don’t like that and won’t be looking too closely at why, here there be dragons—big, scary, doomed to be unrequited ones.

39.

By the end of the session, actual cheers break out when the dice settles and a stroke of Sir Anton’s broadsword ends the final battle in one swift, fatal blow. Eddie narrates the creature’s head falling from atop its shoulders and rolling messily across the cavern floor. Will grabs Steve by the shoulder and gives him an enthusiastic ‘I knew you could do it’ shake. Lucas leans across the table for a high five, which Dustin insists on copying. Even Gareth gets in a whoop of victory while drumming on the edge of the table.

And Steve looks pleased with himself, grinning wider than Eddie has seen him all day. He’s modest about it—the creature was already dying, but he’d insisted on cutting off the heads just in case.

His instincts were good, too. There’s a whole page of notes that Eddie doesn’t get to use now, but he doesn’t even care; it’s worth it to see Steve smiling like this, happy at being included.

There’s an edge of surprise to it though, which Eddie turns over and over in his head all through cleaning up. His friends go home or to their respective motels (or in Gareth’s case at the moment, both), and Steve disappears for a while to drive the gremlins home.

And yeah. That surprise. He’d seen it flare up again and again throughout the campaign. It's more a simple revelation that Steve was having more fun than he’d expected. It had cropped up whenever anyone had acknowledged him as an valued part of the party . . . aside from the many times he’d looked like a droopy-eyed deer in the headlights and deferred to Will for help.

Which, yes, okay, usually Eddie might have found that irritating. But as he’d hissed under his breath to Gareth once and Frank thrice, Steve had saved his life. If the guy wanted to outsource remembering his stats to a younger, smarter mind after all those concussions, he could go right ahead. (Besides, every time had Will sitting up straighter than Eddie had ever seen him, and he has a feeling that Steve had a lot to do with that.)

. . . Not the point.

The point is, where had that surprise been when Eddie had blackmailed him? When Eddie had demanded interest?

It’s one thing for Steve to be surprised about nerds accepting him. But the utter lack of popular-kid expectation that no one could touch him, of consequences being things that happened to other people? That’s weird. If Eddie didn’t know any better he’d think Steve thought he deserved it or something.

But that’s nuts, right? No way. That couldn’t. . . .

That wouldn’t make any sense, right?

#he's getting sooooo close #steddie blackmail fic #steddie #steddie fic #stranger things fic #eddie munson #hellfire club #steve harrington #margaret is a character i made up but i love and support her in all her endeavors

19 notes · View notes

summitclan-chronicles · 6 months

Text

Let's Take A Hike.

It's been over a full day since our pinned post was put up! I already have some followers and I welcome everyone - thank you for your interest already! Since we have a small audience I thought I would come in and say hello in a more relaxed way.

My name is Jingo (he/him)! I am the owner of SCC, as well as cat enthusiast, book consumer and local idea-haver. My favorite activity is Thinking Purposefully - mostly about my surroundings. The sky, the buildings, art pieces, textures, colors, smells, sounds, tones - taking in my environment in a planned methodical manner makes me feel immersed in it, like I'm giving every thing in my vicinity its deserved attention.

This habit is exactly how Summitclan was born.

In late summer of 2023, when the air is still thick but the wind blows cool, I started having a difficult time of things & my ever-patient and attentive partner decided to take me to a little lake to get me in the sun. We had a picnic, listened to music, danced, and the waves hush-hushed against the rocks. This day gave birth to a weekend tradition of hiking New York State's wilderness.

First it was just nature walks, then small forays into wooded foothills, with loops and connected webbings of trails. Then we set our sights on the Adirondack range, and the rolling peaks we always admired during the early morning drive to work, blue sentinels that - at the time of posting - are slowly being swallowed by encroaching wintry night-dawns.

I have been to, and fallen in love with, a little troop of peaks now: Buck Mountain is a dear friend, but I have also gotten to know Roostercomb and Shelving Rock. On all these ventures I found myself unable to stop Thinking Purposefully. I notice every fallen acorn, rustling leaf and broken stick; I eagerly observe how water falls down rocks, how leaves flutter to the ground, how downed trees entangle with each other, keeping each other alive. I discovered minute bugs, observant chipmunks, hidden slugs, old snail shells, coyote tracks, whitetail antler scrapes and old abandoned black bear dens.

As often happens, I became haunted by little cats.

If you've gone this far you probably have heard of Warrior Cats, and its magnetic pull toward certain people. In any natural setting they crawl into the backs of my eyes, and my hikes are no different, similarly influenced by tiny invasive animals with funny habits. But I am a writer, a poet, a dork; I like exploring ideas. I'll never solve a rubik's cube, but my brain might as well be one.

As I turned warrior-cats-in-the-adirondacks around and around, I started mucking up a silly fanclan I started calling AntlerClan after its fake mountain, Antlerhead Mountain. (This is still the name of the mountain in the full version, but the cats don't know that.) The cats in my head now form prehistoric generations of Summitclan: they showed me how they came together, how they showed they cared, and what they did for the cats in the future... but I was still seeing this from the angle of a fanfiction, and try as I might I could not escape the thick fog of "modern" characters. I could think of many ideas for the formations, the cultures, the stories, the values, but what about now?

It occured to me that it wasn't a story I could, or even would, write alone. This sort of project isn't really something to be discussed, but lived and experienced, I supposed: interpreted and used and tested against organic situations.

So, I retooled some things to make them compatible with roleplay instead. The little cats in my head were pleased with the changes. Now they told me all sorts of things and I knew this was a community I was building, not a story.

So here we are at the summit of our hike, and the birth of Summitclan. As my thoughts were cresting I happened to find my copy of Tailchaser's Song. After a spotty reread I got the idea to drop the capitalized "Clan." It feels appropriate in the books, when the Clanhood feels so intensely identifying and they feel so othered from neighboring groups. But Summitclan lives alone, and is intrinsically one with the rest of the surrounding population of cats. They cannot afford to feel othered or to turn their nose at things unfamiliar or strange, so isolated are they.

So, Summitclan it was. I had my moment in the sun, standing at the peak of my work: the building was done. Now came the hard work of going back down before dark.

September 9th, 2023 I made my very first draft of the roleplay version of my idea. On the 26th, I had my things properly organized and rewritten to my liking. I decided I would start advertising in November, and open in 2024.

So here we are. It is a Friday, November 3rd. We have reached the parking lot at the bottom of our hike, now. When you hike with someone you learn a lot about them: do they take the muddy path or the dry path? hard or easy? do they pause often to take in the view? I hope you've learned enough about me now to feel comfortable joining my community. I plan on going on a lot of hikes.

In the meantime, here are some photos of my adventures. Whatever comes up the trail ahead, I wish you the best, and I'm very glad I met you!

#warrior cats #roleplay #adirondacks #hiking #nature #frog #walnuts #roostercomb summit #<- the first image featured is the summit #cameo: the great cloudsplitter Mount Marcy is also in this photo!#she is my fiancees dream hike. pray for us when that happens.

10 notes · View notes

wisteriasymphony · 2 months

Text

havign artist block rn but i have an interaction in mind relating to my characters and @bakawitch 's ballet box so i'll just write it out.

[Scene: Adrien has just finished infodumping about Swan Lake to Claudia and the kwamis, (Plagg, Karra, Odile & Odette)] Claudia: Well if you like these ones so much why don't you use them? Adrien: [sputtering] Psh- No, of course not! The White and Black Swans are traditionally feminine roles! I would be blaspheming on Tchaikovsky's work, not to mention the rich cultural tradition of Ballet as a whole! [Comedic Beat. In the background, it can be seen that Odile and Odette very clearly could not give less of a shit about this] Adrien: What I wiiill say, though, Claudia— In keeping with upholding Tchaikovsky's work, you can only choose a name that is within the actual ballet. Claudia: Wh?! Bitch— I can't share names with Odile! You don't do that! Did you ever go around in your little cat costume calling yourself "Plagg"? Adrien: [about to pull his copy of the transcribed score of Swan Lake and a 600 page book documenting the entire ballet's production off his bookshelf] And that's a whole different story! I'm just saying that Tchaikovsky would've wanted— [The scene shifts focus to Odile and Odette, watching these two idiots argue over proper naming conventions. Karra, Coyote of Deception, floats in from stage left] Karra: [pulls pigeon feather out between her teeth, puts on the widest tooth-baring grin imaginable] Birds, huh? What's this, you two have a twin thing going on or something? [Odile stares Karra down with the force of a thousand suns] Odile: [In a thick Russian accent] What is this, you have 'friendless mongrel thing' going on? [vine boom distraught coyote] [Out of focus, Odette chastises her 'sister'/counterpart/whatever for being so harsh, but the main point is that Karra is a friendless loser idiot]

#if this doesn't line up with your version please feel free to shoot me dead bestie #bakawitch ballet box #miraculous fandom #miraculous lb #mlb adrien #adrien agreste #kwami oc #mlb kwami oc #coyote kwami

4 notes · View notes

bogbiter · 8 months

Text

Prologue

"There is a small house south of Kettlewood. It lies at the south most corner of the St.Francois Mountains, resting nicely in a nestled patch of forest. The trees leading up to the property do a great job obscuring it from view, but gives it a wide scenic display of the Ozark town below from Sauk Lake towards the little Glimmer of the Highway. The house itself was of craftsman make, with a sharp pitched roof that led to wide eaves, and its two stories were made entirely of timber painted white. The second story had three windows facing the stone driveway, and within view of the Westmost window was a boy.

Strawberry blonde and with angelic curls, he hid his face behind a plush owl, holding it against his cheek as if afraid, even in his sleep, it would fly away and never return. Perhaps he had drifted off watching the lights of the distant town and highway. Maybe that's what brought him fear, in some child-like imagination he had perceived some threat lurking out there. Maybe a shadow passed by that cowered the lights: a break in the distant luminance of headlights and the concentrated urban glow. So he hid under green sheets, too scared to tell the others in the house the feelings weighing his chest down and stilling his legs.

But despite his fears, he knew this home was safe. For why else, though spooked, did he deem it safe enough to rest, without closing the blinds? Maybe he just found it safer to have some light shine in, than face the pitch-black. Faint moonlight illuminated him as it broke through the trees, almost as if the world acknowledged him trying to shrink in on himself. And yet the little plush barn owl did everything in its power to shield him from the light above.

Outside the world was vocal, for this late spring had now heralded crickets and katydids venerating the rains earlier and the promise of warmer afternoons. An old bloodhound, whose muzzle was now given a silver sheen, rested on the porch. In its youth it would have explored in the darker hours before returning around 9 pm, unless he had been called in otherwise. Chasing off coyotes from even the scent of the chickens and quail the man of the house raised. Or skulking around the trees looking for possums to spook. Now he was too old to leap over logs mid chase or turn to defend his haunches from an equally annoyed raccoon's bite. He could run up to a truck after it had recently parked, crawl into his owners' laps, and steal an unattended porkchop from the table.

Now, laying down next to his dog bed he stared out at the night, his vision not as sharp as it used to be, but his nose was still sharp enough to make out any poor critter trying to sneak by. It could be a fair distance, he could smell them 3 miles down the road, on a good day with the wind on his face, he could get a good fragrance range of the valley below. So it did rattle the dog when he could smell something coming up the road. And for the life of him he couldn't remember a scent like this. There was something like a horse, sulfur, and wet rain. Yet there was a new scent it just couldn't identify. Like club soda but… way way stronger. The bloodhound covered its nose and whined, exhaling as though he was trying to involuntarily cough.

As the smell got closer, the bloodhound got up, walking down the wooden steps of the porch and towards the dirt road, staying on the stone and grass of his owners' domain, knowing too well how reckless drivers could be on these dirt roads in these dark midnight hours. He smells it, and as he does he hears something rustle above him in the trees. To the bloodhound in that moment, they just resembled obscured, somewhat flat shapes running through the trees. And stopping where the branches hung over the road. They made no motions towards him, and when he turned back around to face the end of the road, he heard a sharp whistle, and could see a faint glow of blue in the woods below.

The dog was in no state to leave the yard and chase after the glow, and some primordial part of its brain told it to run back to the house. It started at a fast walk, whatever was in the trees above him following along when he suddenly jumped at the sound of something collapsing onto the dirt road with an audible thud, sending rocks in a scattered wake. He started to pant, a growl welling in his chest as he observed something that looked like an intruder. Even amidst the night this figure was pitch black, sulking in any light around it minus the white, piercing, vertical slits in place of eyes it possessed. It was riding something, a horse of some kind. Though it seemed to be made of a similar shadowy Ether that constricted itself to a horse's frame. However its face possessed no lower jaw, and many smaller tentacles. The Hound didn't even consider the massive wound on the collapsed steed, that was literally eating away at its body as though individual polygons were being erased from reality. The chorus of the night had gone silent, and as the steed writhed against somewhat red clay hued pebbles, its rider shakily left its back, and crawled its way over to the dog.

Panic. Raw, inexorable. The dog unconsciously whined, tail between its legs as it scampered backwards, bumping into the truck as it tried to step back away from the crawling hominid. The shadows of its head were too sharp, too angular, as its face came out like a shallow curve. Its neck was thick, attached to a bird-like chest which spouted gangly thin limbs from sloping shoulders. It made no noise as it tried to clamber to the dog, whose own claws scraped against the ground as meager rasps for barks exhumed from its quivering face.

That's when the shadow before him was dragged back, as those strange flat things from the trees had tried to drag the creature away. They resembled well, the odd bastardization of a colugo and a bird of prey. It's sharp-billed, flat-head nipped at the feet of the shadow. It writhed and attempted to sway back. The Carpet Birds with long, slender front and rear limbs that possessed a large membrane of skin that extended between their paired limbs, rolled and awkwardly waddled away from the shadow, hissing like angry barn cats as if to catch the crawler's attention. The dog made a stiff jog away, but no sooner did it that the Carpet Birds scuttled away from the shadow as well. The Bloodhound turned back to face the attacker, confident enough to start barking at the figure. Before its eyes shot wide and it tucked itself low to the ground.

Holding the shadow above the ground was a being carved from some abstract paradigm. The shadow writhed in its touch, clawing at its basalt carved form. It wad like the odd perversion of a torso, a floating triangular shield where a head would be. Instead a row or six lights around the collar focused on the shadow, each glowing a lightning blue. Intricate carvings moved from its body to its limbs, long and skeletal, mechanical, carved. The hand of this entity, crushed the neck of the shadow, sending a strange blue light into its ephemeral inky form, and sending the aberration to flicker out of existence just like its steed. The standing construct looked down at the bloodhound, upon stilt legs mirroring stakes, as the dog practically went limp at the sight. The air felt like static, the being before it thumming with something undeniably alive, but not in the traditional sense. It simply began to walk away, the truck audibly unlocking and locking in rapid succession, before disappearing behind the curve of the greenery and down the road.

The Bloodhound waited till the springing motion of its locomotion could no longer be heard before it ran to the door and scratched against it, whining. It was frantic, and given with such force that the hinges sounded like they might possibly break, as the dog called upon some forgotten strength it never knew it possessed. Opening the door, shotgun in hand, an old man wearing full body gray pajamas opened the door, looking around for any possible varmint or intruder. His sourpuss face, wrinkled and filled with utter annoyance, scanned the yard with his flashlight. Nothing stood out to him, except when he panned the flashlight down to his whining mutt, looking up at him with pleading eyes. The dog wasn't easy to spook, having lived through several feral dog attacks and having aided the man in boar hunts earlier in the two's shared time together. So the old timer moved to the side, as his companion ran inside and up the stairs of the home, claws tapping against wooden boards.

For the Remaining five years of the Bloodhound's life, he slept indoors at the feet of the boy facing the westmost window. It was safer inside during the night. "

HAHAHAHA. PROLOGUE TO THE HERMITVERSE NOVEL IM WORKING ON. I WILL GET THIS DAMN THING FINISHED, ON MY RIGHT EYE I SWEAR OF IT! Hope yall enjoy :))

#hermitverse #worldbuilding #bogbiter #THIS BLOG SHALL NOT DIE #ITS LOGIC IS ETERNAL

10 notes · View notes