r/WritingPrompts • u/katpoker666 Moderator • 6d ago
Off Topic [OT] Fun Trope Friday: Undead Laborers and Folk Horror!
Welcome to Fun Trope Friday, our feature that mashes up tropes and genres!
How’s it work? Glad you asked. :)
Every week we will have a new spotlight trope.
Each week, there will be a new genre assigned to write a story about the trope.
You can then either use or subvert the trope and/or genre in a 750-word max story or poem (unless otherwise specified).
To qualify for ranking, you will need to provide ONE actionable feedback. More are welcome of course!
Three winners will be selected each week based on votes, so remember to read your fellow authors’ works and DM me your votes for the top three.
Next up… IP
It’s October. The time of falling leaves, jack o’lanterns, and candy. And blood… so much blood. This month will be focusing on all things horror with maybe a treat or two to sweeten the pot. Please note this theme is only loosely applied.
"Humanity is mind-controlled and only slightly more conscious than your average zombie." — David Icke
Trope: Undead Laborers — When someone uses The Undead, such as zombies and reanimated corpses, as a cheap labor force for simple but time-consuming tasks, such as mining. From a business perspective, using undead workers is a very cost-efficient strategy: zombies and skeletons don't need to sleep or eat, never get sick, and are unlikely to spontaneously form undead trade unions due to lacking free will. As such, it is one of the least morally objectionable ways to use Human Resources, although it always depends on where exactly the dead are coming from and what the local culture considers desecration.
Genre: Folk Horror — Folk horror is a subgenre of horror that draws on folklore, rural settings, and ancient rituals to evoke fear and unease. It often explores themes of isolation, the supernatural, and the tension between modernity and ancient beliefs.Includes folklore elements, rural settings, and rituals.
Skill / Constraint - optional: Someone trips in some form.
So, have at it. Lean into the trope heavily or spin it on its head. The choice is yours!
Have a great idea for a future topic to discuss or just want to give feedback? FTF is a fun feature, so it’s all about what you want—so please let me know! Please share in the comments or DM me on Discord or Reddit!
Last Week’s Winners
PLEASE remember to give feedback—this affects your ranking. PLEASE also remember to DM me your votes for the top five stories via Discord or Reddit—both katpoker666. This is a change from the top three of the past. In weeks where we get over 15 stories, we will do a top five ranking. Weeks with less than 15 stories will show only our top three winners. If you have any questions, please DM me as well.
Some fabulous stories this week and great crit at campfire and on the post! We had 18 stories, so we’re back to five winners. Congrats to:
Want to read your words aloud? Join the upcoming FTF Campfire
The next FTF campfire will be Thursday, October 15th from 6-8pm ET. It will be in the Discord Main Voice Lounge. Click on the events tab and mark ‘Interested’ to be kept up to date. No signup or prep needed and you don’t have to have written anything! So join in the fun—and shenanigans! 😊
Ground rules:
- Stories must incorporate both the trope and the genre
- Leave one story or poem between 100 and 750 words as a top-level comment unless otherwise specified. Use wordcounter.net to check your word count.
- Deadline: 11:59 PM EDT next Thursday. Please note stories submitted after the 6:00 PM EST campfire start may not be critted.
- No stories that have been written for another prompt or feature here on WP—please note after consultation with some of our delightful writers, new serials are now welcomed here
- No previously written content
- Any stories not meeting these rules will be disqualified from rankings
- Does your story not fit the Fun Trope Friday rules? You can post your story as a [PI] with your work when the FTF post is 3 days old!
- Please keep crit about the stories. Any crit deemed too distracting may be deleted. This is a time to focus on our wonderful authors.
- Vote by next Friday at 11:59 AM EDT to help your favorites rise to the top of the ranks (DM me at katpoker666 on Discord or Reddit)!
Thanks for joining in the fun!
9
u/AmeliaLP 2d ago
Ghost Farm
Wednesday 28th October: While on my daily walk I came across an old run down farm. The gate hung wide open. I cried out to check if anyone was around, but alas there was no reply. The wind started wailing wildly. Being so far from home, I decided to camp out in the farm. I crept through its grounds, looking for possible shelter. Though shrouded by fog, I could see the feint outline of a house up ahead.
Struggling against the raging storm, I trudged towards the house. Then something rather peculiar happened. I heard a sound on the wind, like a voice. Couldn’t understand it, may have even imagined it, all I know for sure is it was really fucking creepy. I glanced around for a possible source of the sound but none presented itself. So I simply continued walking towards the farmhouse.
Upon reaching it the door opened for me. I stood there for a moment, wondering if the wind had blown it open. Considered whether heading inside was wise. Suddenly a sizable tree branch came hurtling towards me. I ducked out the way, only just avoiding getting squashed. Out there was certain danger, inside I might survive. My decision was now clear. I walked through the doorway, and as I did the door slammed shut behind me.
After further exploration, I located a tiny mattress stuffed with hay. The house has no other furniture, it will have to do for now.
Thursday 29th October: I heard strange sounds during the night but thankfully nothing happed. Time to get out of here!
The front gate is now locked, tried climbing over the fence instead, but got pushed back by some unseen thing. Never should of come here! What the hell is wrong with this place?
I tripped over a stack of bricks on my way back to the house. Were those there yesterday? It was too foggy to tell...but I don’t think so.
Eleven o clock, a table full of food has appeared in the house. I’m really hungry but I don’t trust it.
One o clock, the food is getting really tempting now.
Two thirty, okay, fine! I’ll eat some.
Update, I’m not dead. Vision, normal. Stomach feels fine. It seems the food is alright, but that just brings more questions.
Friday October 30th: It’s midnight, I heard strange moaning sounds. Going to investigate, hopefully I won’t find anything too nasty.
Looked outside the window, saw something that pretty much confirms this place isn’t normal. Stacks of bricks floated through the air and started assembling themselves into walls. I have... many questions.
Attempted to exit the house, but its door handle kept vanishing. Whatever’s happening here, I do hope more food arrives or else I’ll surly starve.
Morning: I don’t even remember going back to sleep, but I suppose I must have since the sun now shines up above. Whoever or whatever was building last night has made significant progress. Four large walls and a stone floor have already been assembled.
Tried the gate again, but not only was my attempt fruitless there’s now a sign reading: YOU WILL NEVER LEAVE!! Not ominous at all! I’m fine, I feel absolutely fine!
Twelve thirty five, more food has indeed appeared. I suppose until I know what’s going on, there’s no harm in eating...even if that’s what they want me to do.
One o clock, I’m done eating and shall check if the door will open.
Ten minutes past, okay guess I’ll stay here for today. Let’s see if there’s anything hidden in this house.
Five o clock, It’s a baron void. An empty shell of a house. No personality, no decorations or style and worst of all nothing to entertain myself with. I hate it here!
Saturday October 31st: I understand now. My life before was pointless. I have been set free! Never stop, never think. I must build. And soon more will join. This is my final diary entry as my new life doesn’t require such things.
WC: 670
4
u/frenchfriesandcoke55 12h ago edited 11h ago
Great story you have here! Love the suspense of trying to figure out what is happening to the MC and the twist at the end where they become a laborer for the property.
However, there are a few things that could take it to the next level.
1. Increase the idea the MC is slowly losing their mind earlier on
-The mc seems fairly coherent and like they have their wits about them until the last half day of their entrapment. I think you could sprinkle in more subtle details earlier on relating to them losing their faculties or feeling a draw toward helping the house.2. Passive vs active speech
-Your opening line is a big one for this sentiment, but there are quite a few other lines sprinkled throughout that do this too. It would also cut down your word count so you could add more pertinent details like the ones mentioned above in #1.Ex. You wrote: While on my daily walk I came across an old rundown farm.
THE FIX: I came across an old, rundown farm.-Punchier to the reader and brings them right into the story rather then wading through 5 words that aren’t necessary for the story.
Ex. You wrote: Then something rather peculiar happened. I heard a sound on the wind, like a voice. Couldn’t understand it, may have even imagined it, all I know for sure is it was really fucking creepy.
THE FIX: Then something rather peculiar happened. A sound on the wind—like a voice. I couldn’t understand it and may have even imagined it. What I do know? It was really fucking creepy.-or something like this. It just cuts out unnecessary words and ramps up her internal emotions by drawing the reader in better. It makes for punchier, shorter sentences that speak to the horror she’s feeling.
3. Toward vs Towards
-This might just be a personal preference, but I’ve had editors in the past say it should be toward not towards. Same thing with backward. Backward not backwards. But again could just be stylistic preference of different people.But again, great work on this piece and the creativity behind the plot to fit this week’s constraints. Look forward to reading more of your work in the future!
8
u/Divayth--Fyr 1d ago edited 11h ago
In The Wildwood
.
Joshua winced as the warbling tones of Sister Belton pierced all other voices in the congregation. She wandered around the simple melody without ever quite finding it, as she had done since approximately the Mesozoic.
“...come to the church in the wildwood, oh come to the church in the dale…”
Brother Hewitt’s contribution could be described as a monobaritone: low, and unvarying. It sometimes fit the harmony very well, like a broken clock.
Brother Joshua, now graced with the traditional appellation of adulthood, hadn’t come to this backwoods little church in over forty years—not since his parents split up. It was not especially dear to his childhood, this little brown church in the dale. But he had promised his mostly-estranged sister, after their mother’s passing, and so here he was.
Of course, she wasn’t here. Some dumb excuse.
He’d abandoned his car at a Denny’s and got a cart-ride with the Munford family. Mr. Munford looked exactly like his father had, way back when.
Sister Betty Malone had been the pastor, long ago. A formidable, terrifying little woman, her repetitive, droning sermons interspersed with brimstone and thunder, and desperate, weeping pleas to repent. Joshua had no idea who had taken over. The sign out front had just proclaimed ‘Freeland Blood of the Apostle Church’.
As the returning prodigal, Joshua had endured endless handshakes in the vestibule from everyone, including Sister Marion Visegrip. Well, Sister Wysick, really, but the nickname still applied. She had strong hands, and a talent for grinding your knuckles internally that had, if anything, improved with time.
Some of them had come back around for another handshake, he was sure of it. Did they get bonus points? He’d avoided eye contact or much conversation, in fear of being invited to dinner.
The muttered condolences, sincere or otherwise, had been a bit off. They seemed more concerned over his mother’s leaving the church than her passing, but it was hard to say.
“...to the trees where the wild flowers bloom,
Where the parting prayer’s never chanted,
and we weep not beside any tomb…”
Joshua didn’t remember this far into the song. He stood there holding his hymnbook, mouthing the words and pretending to give a damn, but it didn’t seem quite right.
Finally, the musical part of the evening’s entertainment was done, and a great thudding rustle announced a mass seating. Joshua swiftly joined, before anyone got the idea he was volunteering for something.
From behind the altar, striding up to the pulpit, came an apparition. Sister Betty Malone.
Joshua’s mind was a mix of fear and mathematics. She was over eighty. Had been. Back then. Nearly ninety, and that was over forty years ago. She looked old, sure, but regular old. Seventies kind of old.
She looked and moved younger now than she had in 1981.
Looking around, while trying very hard not to look around, Joshua made eye contact with some of his handshakers.
Brother Hewitt couldn’t be much past sixty. Warbling Sister Benton was maybe fifty-five? Still?
Their eyes locked on him and he looked away, but made the error of looking back up at Reverend Malone.
There was nothing there, in her eyes. They were empty and black. No. No, a deep, dark red.
“We welcome home a stranger and a friend.” Her voice twanged nightmare notes in ancient memory. “Brother Joshua Pickens, son of divorce, has come among us this blessed day.”
“Welcome, Brother Joshua,” said the entire congregation in startling unison.
“Ahhh– er, hahhh,” was his eloquent reply.
Again, everyone stood. Joshua didn’t. Again, everyone sang. Joshua sat silent.
“Just as I am, without one plea,
but that my blood be shed for thee…”
Rev. Malone pointed a finger, and pleaded.
“Won’t you come to the altar, Joshua? You can atone, now. Your mother’s heresies need not stain your soul. Won’t you come?”
Joshua’s eyes darted about, but he couldn’t move. The song was within him, hypnotizing, powerful. There was no warbling now, no monotone to wreck the harmony. He was sinful. He was broken. He was nothing. The song seemed to rise and rise within him, till he sang along, somehow knowing the words.
“Just as I am, though tossed about,
with many a conflict, many a doubt,
fightings and fears within, without,
Messiah Malone, I come, I come.”
Against what was left of his will, he stumbled and crawled to the altar. A howling of hunger grew, and there was a laying on of hands.
750 words. Might be more undead worship than labor. He sort of trips.
Feedback welcome.
8
u/katpoker666 Moderator 4h ago
[ineligible for voting]
‘Progress’
Fourteen-hour workdays:
Sixteen calls per day,
Two double-eared,
Where you do both at once.
On a plane.
Off a plane.
Client site and hotel.
Who cares which city?
It’s all the same.
Weekends, a blissful ten.
Family time matters,
After all!
Doesn’t matter if you’re
Too dead to see them.
Eventually, you break.
Everyone does.
Retired, fired, quit…
Chewed up and spat out
By the great machine
Of human progress.
This horror isn’t new.
It’s ancient, primal.
This one’s privileged,
No black lung
No asbestosis.
More heart attacks
And stenosis
But still akin.
As we all suffer
Under progress’ yoke.
WC: 100
Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated
8
u/MaxStickies r/StickiesStories 5d ago edited 2d ago
A Foul Use For A Head
The door to the ramshackle hut creaks open at Lagon’s touch, unleashing the stench of mildew. He holds his nose and peers inside, yet naught but a few sputtering candles light the one, wide room. Creeping over the threshold, his eyes dart this way and that, watching for any sign of the Wild Willow Witch.
A pot rests cold in the hearth, green liquid within. Upon the wall, a tapestry sways in a draught, a fierce demon glaring from its surface. A spider scuttles loudly across the old oak floor.
The intruder lowers his hand to his knife. Hairs on his neck standing on end, he feels eyes upon him.
“Help me!” croaks a dry raspy voice. Lagon spins, boot catching a nail, and tumbles to the floor.
A skull on the mantelpiece opens its mouth. “Get up you fool, and help me!”
“What the sphagnum are you?!”
“Oh, I’m a dainty little elephant—the fuck you think I am?!”
“Alright, alright, keep quiet.” Standing ungainly, Lagon approaches the talking, skinless bonce. “Don’t want the witch to hear me.”
“That hag? She’s away for quite some time. Visiting her sister on Mount Cyclops.”
“There’s witches on Mount Cyclops?”
“Does it matter? Look, kid, I’ve been stuck here too damn long with only Old Sprout-Breath for company; I need fresh air, and a better perch.”
Lagon glances to some shelves across the room. “Well, sorry to hear that, but I’m not sure I should… take too much.”
The skull sighs. “You’re after her gem, right?”
“Well, duh.”
“Yes, of course you are. In that case, luck is in your favour; the crystal is inside me. Just have to reach in and grab it.”
“That so?”
“Simple as, kid. Go on. Have a gander.”
Reaching out, the intruder hesitates, eyeing the dark markings all over the bone. “I don’t know. What if she put a spell on you?”
“Oh, this? Nah! That’s just decoration. I am an ornament.”
“I guess that makes sense. But—”
“You don’t believe me, I get it. Maybe you should search the place, see if you can find your prize.”
“I think I will.”
First, Lagon checks the shelves, the cupboards and the nooks and crannies, all to no avail. Inside the hearth his hand goes, under the loose floorboards, and behind the tapestry. He rummages through the garden, top to bottom, and still no sign of the gem.
The skull cackles at his return. “Nothing? Well, too bad. Looks like I was right all along.”
“She might’ve taken it with her.”
“Perhaps… no way of knowing, unless you check everywhere.”
“Which really makes me want to do it more, of course.”
“Yes, yes, very witty. Damn kids and their new-fangled sarcasm,” the skull mutters. “Well, you’re just wasting time; gem could be yours by now.”
“Nah, I think I’ll leave it, come back another day.”
Lagon steps towards the door, pulls it open a crack.
“Wait!” the skull shrieks. “Please, wait!”
“Oh, what now?!”
“You don’t know what it’s like, seeing what I see, day in and day out. What she uses me for.”
“Um… like what?”
“Storage, fucking storage! Toenails, eyes of newt, anything she has surplus of! It all goes in me! I’m so stained!”
Sans tears, the bonce begins to sob, teeth clacking with each strained wail. Lagon shakes his head, glancing outside, back to the forest.
“Fine,” he says. “But you promise you’re not cursed?”
The skull jumps an inch from its perch. “Yes, yes, I’m as clean as the day I was made!”
“Agh, alright! No need to make this harder than it is!”
Gingerly, the intruder reaches forth, pulling back once or twice. The skull watches him in silence. His fingers brush bone, and…
Nothing happens.
“Oh, thank the Woodsman,” he says.
“Told you I was clean.”
“Stop saying that. Anyway, let’s… where’s the damn gem?”
“Heh, what gem?”
“You know what gem!”
“Oh, that’s just a myth, kid. To lure in dirty, boastful, filching little thieves… my favourite prey.”
Before Lagon’s very eyes, the skull becomes a hand, fingers wrapped around his wrist. A black-sleeved forearm grows, followed by a shoulder, a body, legs and the other arm. With a bang, a head and neck emerges from a bloody hole above the chest.
The Wild Willow Witch ogles him with glowing white eyes, rimmed by rotten skin.
“I think I’ll make you a scarecrow,” she says, grinning. “Keep those damned crows off my pumpkins. They’ve been ever so… peckish!”
WC: 750
Crit and feedback are welcome.
8
u/Worldly_Lab_7061 3d ago
Love and Labor After Death
"Oh, to be a corporate slave in love, not even the maggots can dull your shine, chers. A light in the ever-expanding dark, I say," Madame Esme muses as she carefully arranges the two corpses whose hands remain hopelessly entangled.
Humidity hangs thick and heavy as the steam coming off a bubbling pot of good gumbo down deep in the Atchafalaya Basin this summer night. The kind of warmth that clings to the skin, sticky and wet, before sinking deep into the bones, rendering them weak. Even high in a treehouse, perched on the most ancient bald cypress in the bayou, there is no escaping it.
Heat is of little concern to Madame Esme, though her hair would disagree, for she has deep magic to work for an even deeper evil: Entergy.
Breathing deeply, she takes a fistful of the carefully gathered graveyard dirt without wincing, letting the soil mix with the blood of her split palm.
"Try not to hate me for this, it's not personal. Just business," she whispers to the spirits as she pulls the tragic lovers from their eternal rest back to the broken shells their souls had long since shed.
Life slams back into the bodies, restoring their flesh and bones, but not their pallor or disfigurements. Maggots fall to the ground, forcefully expelled from the decaying crevices now sealed with new, still-dead flesh. Their spirits settle, the couple open their eyes ... and begin to scream.
Earplugs in, Esme waits for the newly undead couple to acclimate.
Much to her surprise, even while screaming, they untangle not to check themselves but one another. Dirt-caked fingernails graze over freshly repaired noses, cheeks, and necks without care for a world outside the one they share in. The horror in their eyes mixes with relief and a love so profound it made the witch that had brought them back a discomfort she had not felt in over a century.
Cutting their reunion short, Esme clears her throat. "I'm startin' to understand that workplace accident you two had. More randy than a pair of feral cats."
Brought back to the cruel reality of their resurrection, the man and woman hold onto each other as they look at the witch who forced them back with a mix of unease and distrust.
The woman opens her mouth but only succeeds in expelling a mix of dirt, bugs, and dark red-black bile that stains Esme's newly polished wood floors. The sight incites irritation rather than sympathy from the witch, who groans as she calculates the cost of the cleaning bill for a maid who'd need her to pay extra for transport.
Holding his heaving lover, the resurrected man asks, "Just who in the hell are you? Aren't you a doctor? Can't you get her some help!?"
Letting out a sharp cackle, Esme shakes her head. "With those medical school prices? Not in this life or any hereafter, baby."
"I am much better than any doc, cher. You and your girl have been brought back by a top-notch employer," she explains, barely sparing the man's partner a glance.
Finally done expelling every foul thing that had made its way inside of her, the woman of the couple speaks up, her voice surprisingly clear.
"Brought back? ... So we were really gone?”
With staggering restraint, Esme answers, “Right you are, my corpse flower.”
Looking at her partner, the woman touches his reanimated face, the ruined, bloody, burnt, version she had last seen flashing before her eyes for a moment.
“This is better, ain’t it, Johnny? Us together?” she asks, her voice a mere shadow of what it was before.
Johnny takes her face in his hands, ignoring the witch entirely. “Carly-Mae there’s never been a day I didn’t love you. Heart beating or dead as doornail, I'm yours.”
“You always did say you’d work a thousand years if you got to spend at least one of them with me,” Carly-Mae replies, giving her love a bittersweet smile.
He grunts, sighing, “Don’t know how corporate heard that but should’ve known they’d be listening.”
Trying to pull the attention back to herself, Esme attempts to inconspicuously knock over one of her many glass jars. Instead of falling and rolling on the ground, the jar knocks over one that she needed for her eczema. Lunging for it, her foot catches on the end table. She goes down but manages to catch her lotion, so all is not lost.
The undead couple looks on, unimpressed.
WC: 746, Crit, feedback and comments all welcome and encouraged!
3
u/psilocybediatribe 12h ago
Hey Worldy_Lab,
I’m a sucker for a zombie romance. And you’ve nailed that here. I loved Johnny and Carly-Mae. Their interactions, their sincerity, their devotion to one another really captures how their love that transcends death. Your descriptions are great, toeing that line between horror and romance. There’s horror in the atmosphere, descriptions, and Madame Esme herself. Juxtaposed with the innocence and sincerity of Johnny and Sally_Mae. It’s really well done.
My only critique would be I think incorporating the constraint feels rather forced in the ending. It feels out of character for the Madam Esme you’ve built in my mind. She’s cynical and witty and has come to terms with what she does. But nuanced enough to still feel discomfort when faced with the couple. I’d have almost preferred you end it on Johnny’s last comment and perhaps some biting reply from Esme on their new employer rather than the humor which works but doesn’t mesh with the Esme you’ve built in the brief words you had to work with.
And if Entergy is the company I’m thinking of, I had them briefly, they’re a perfect local villain. A minor critique for critique’s sake, and might be a personal preference anyway, because the story is great. Nice work, good words!
3
u/Worldly_Lab_7061 11h ago
Thanks for the comment and critique! I was hoping to show a bit more of the immaturity that was hinted at with Esme's character with it. She's more someone who is constantly actively justifying what they do because they know it's wrong. Seeing two people so selflessly devoted to one another and happy to be in each others arms is both discomforting and nerve wracking because she doesn't fully accept what she did as right. Wanted to kinda shatter the illusion of the witty, cynical witch to reveal the insecure, selfish person she really is while adding some humor. I will keep in mind what you said though and try and edit it better. Thanks again! Really appreciate feedback.
2
u/psilocybediatribe 9h ago
Valid. With true love vs emotionally stunted hag their final rebuke lands perfectly. We get emotionally stunted cynical hag, briefly uncomfortable hag, sarcastic hag, immature hag. But in the 60 words:
Trying to pull the attention back to herself, …so all is not lost.
You’re telling immaturity, have us feel it.
Sick of this ooey-gooey, lovey-dovey corpse couple, Esme…
Gives immature, no one’s saying immature. Because I agree with your instinct, we feel and understand her discomfort, you’ve crafted it into the story, you’re shattering the illusion, but turning her into a punchline. An emotional arc within a narrative arc limited to 750 words is tough to pull off. I’m guilty of it, I’ll end up with a shallow character and a complex character because it’s so hard to flesh out both. You’ve done it but undermined one in the process. That’s my only caution. I’ll stop beating a dead horse, enjoy spooky season!
6
u/JKHmattox 12h ago edited 10h ago
The Matriarch Grove
CW: Second-person pov body horror
Sprawling emerald hills roll beneath the late morning sun. Half meadow, half a tangle of mixed fall foliage; the former potato farm bills itself as a rustic retreat far from the chaotic bustle of Boston or New York.
Your friend Mia found the place by chance when she was in college. Once a journalism major at the University of Maine, she'd explored countless desperately rural communities, mesmerized by their disintegration back into the wilderness. Many of her articles describe this as nature mending itself after centuries of human exploration and abuse.
There are five in your tour group, plus the guide. The woman is middle-aged, gray frosting her once jet black hair. Drawing an exaggerated breath of crisp October air, she glances skyward into the canopy of maple trees shading the gathering of women from the sun.
“This hardwood stand is over a hundred years old,” she explains, the breeze shifting her salted locks. “My great grandmother planted our first maple, The Matriarch, back in 1923.”
You peer around the well manicured grove. Gnarled, bark-encrusted trunks crane towards the heavens, each over three feet in diameter at their base. They aren't arranged in neat lines like most cultivated tree farms, but rather a hodgepodge pattern with no logical order.
“Why aren't these planted in rows,” you ask, touching the bark of a nearby trunk.
An almost wicked grin spreads across the woman's face. “We have a unique process that fosters increased output and crop longevity, while also enhancing the flavor of our product.”
“Interesting,” Mia interjects, her eyes narrowing. “I don't see how this would affect anything.”
“You don't believe me?” the woman muses, producing a flask from inside her flannel jacket. “Perhaps a sample of our Maple-infused whiskey will change your mind.”
The woman hands the flask to Mia first. Sniffing the open container, your friend hesitantly lifts it to her lips. One after another, each woman takes a sip until the flask makes its way into your hands.
“C'mon,” your friend encourages with a mischievous grin. “It's not like it's poison or something.”
The elixir's subtle burn evokes an involuntary cough. They all snicker. You wipe your mouth, offering the metal container back to the smirking tour guide.
“Jesus!” you gasp. “What proof is that?”
“Infinity, my darlings…”
The woman's chuckle turns menacing with the growing cacophony of gurgled rumblings wrenching your gut. A hand flies to your middle. Mia's jaw drops, mouth yawning into an elongated oval. A silent scream dies in her throat as you double over in pain.
Two of the women stagger away from the grinning tree farmer. One falls to her knees, toppling forward onto her face. The other screams as she claws at her stomach beneath a puffy, zippered jacket.
The last woman breaks into a sprint across the maple grove. She hurdles a low stone wall, twisting her ankle when she lands. Hobbling, she drags her ruined foot behind her as she continues her escape. Finally, the woman trips, landing on her side.
Knees buckling, you sink, a pressure building beneath your sternum. Mia remains frozen, her eyes fixed on your glacial descent. A lurching spasm arches your spine. You fall backwards, folding your legs so that your thighs press atop the back of your calves. You lay on your back, staring into the crisp indigo sky.
A crackling snap whitens your vision. The pressure spikes downward, something shearing through the back of your leather jacket. It burrows into the ground, your clothes shredding as the root-like appendage increases in girth and depth.
Mia finally chokes a scream from her lungs. “Oh God—my feet!”
You're unable to look. The pressure displacing your diaphragm surges. Your shirt tightens, skin stretching as something uncoils inside you. A sickening pop accosts your eardrums as a wooden shoot erupts from your gut.
The rapidly maturing sapling rockets skyward as its width wedges you apart slowly. Your hands grasp at the spear growing through your body, its rough bark grating your fingertips as it climbs towards the sun. Its foliage unfurls into an orange crown, casting shadows over your body. You groan, the expanding trunk opening you further.
When the growth stops, a silence washes over the grove. You can barely breathe. There is a boundary between bark and flesh, the massive tree impaling your body staking you forever to the ground.
The tree farmer crouches down beside you. Placing a hand on your forehead, she smiles. “Tourists produce the best maple syrup, deary—it’s nothing personal.”
7
u/oliverjsn8 11h ago edited 1h ago
Upon Ole Devil’s Knoll
CW: Violence
Along dirt roads weathered and worn,
Through rounded hills, land I was born.
Where forest rose before man exist,
And valleys cowled within pale mist.
From a college town out very far,
Traveled three souls by way of car.
Two young fellas, named Drew and Lou,
One fine lass, I believe called Sue?
Ah, the memory, I see it clearly,
And now speak of it quite tearily,
For no one… let alone three,
Should meet that fate. I hope you’d agree.
They pulled into my gas station,
Where they stared in unquiet fascination,
At the antiquated pump, with a sign that read,
‘No Cards Accepted’ in letters, bold, red.
I approached, not trying to hide,
Along the car’s passenger side.
Announcing my intention to help,
I was met with a yelp, yelp, and YELP.
The sight of me must have been unpleasant,
For my hygiene was… off at the present.
I had just completed an engine overhaul.
Oil and dirt stained my good overalls.
After a minute of gestural scrutiny,
Drew asked three questions of me:
Will you take Visa, just this one exception?
Do you happen to sell beer and contraception?
And finally, he asked if I knew the way,
To the place that they intended to stay.
Oh, the name of that horrible place,
That name, I thought, time would erase.
Known by locals as Ole Devil’s Knoll,
Left of the red barn and just past Butcher’s Shoal,
Look for a road grown over and thorny,
You’ve missed it if you pass the home of John Dorne.
I begged that they stay here, especially that night,
When the moon was red, full, and bright.
For, on such a night, back in forty-five,
Did Judy Miller come back, more dead than alive.
Judy told her story to Sally, and Sally told Joe,
Who over a still passed the tale onto Bo,
And he slurred it to Moe, while inebriated,
Who whispered it to Tammy, whom he was related,
Then she to young pa, who at the time was no older than I,
Of a house, on the knoll, where the dead did not die.
It went that Judy took Paul, hand in hand,
To trespass upon that cursed land.
Intending to act in ways that make mothers weep.
Seeking a ‘where’ their secret would keep.
Through sawbriar bushes, they saw dreadful things,
Such as people chopped up and stitched back with strings,
Ghouls that shambled nearby a rickety home,
From their rot mouths echoed a moan.
Whilst a man with the horns of a goat,
A serpent's tail from long billowing coat,
Skin mottled blue, and raven wings splayed,
Spoke words unholy, to a fresh body laid.
It rose all stiff, and with a pitiable jerk,
Then he commanded it to join in the work,
The foul creature took up a mattock,
And dug in patterns seeming erratic.
When Judy gasped seeing it her half-brother,
Who had gone missing like many another.
Alerting vile man and the undead creatures,
Setting forth with their blank features.
Under that moon, looking like blood,
They slipped and tripped in the dark mud.
The two ran back along the trail,
When Paul cried out in an inhuman wail.
A ghoul had caught him by the hair of his head.
The rest of the hoard made sure Paul was soon dead.
As Judy’s heart filled with despair,
By the man she was lifted into the air.
And dropped, from treetop high, like a stone.
The sickening stop, breaking most every bone.
Then, with a knife, he started his fun,
When from the east came the sun.
The man, he smiled, as he burned away,
While Judy bled out where she lay.
The monsters drug away most of Paul,
Leaving the pieces deemed too small.
If not for passing Parson Brown,
Who was making his way into town,
Judy would have died, right then.
Instead she clung on till day ten.
My story, I ended with renewed plea,
The three give up, and, AGAIN, stay here with me.
Instead, they drove away with nary a wave,
Even though their lives I was trying to save.
After that long, long, sleepless night,
Filled, to the brim, with dreams giving me fright,
I walked up Ole Devil’s Knoll, in daylight.
Where, I found the most sickening sight.
Resting under a bent tree,
Made up of the remains of three,
Was a creature, stitched into one.
That I took mercy on, with my shotgun.
WC: 747
5
u/frenchfriesandcoke55 2d ago edited 9h ago
The Terms of the Agreement
I needed a night nurse for my mom. But this… this is not what I asked for.
Yeah, sure. The company was shadier than my neighbor’s drug dealer, but we couldn’t afford a nursing home or typical in-home care. Mom has dementia and she’d never forgive me if I condemned her to a state-funded facility.
So, after a deep dive on google (that reassured me I’m broke as hell), I walked to the Lucky Mart for ice cream—where I came across a flyer for Revenant Home Services. Their motto? A pestilence at night is a revenant’s delight!
Really thought they were trying to be funny in a dark humor kind of way. In hindsight, I should’ve known when an old hag showed up with crystals, an old knife, and a dusty leather-bound book.
“Are you the caretaker?” I ask the decrepit sack of bones in front me as I sit in my chair, fidgeting.
“Sign the contract, then the help will arrive. No need to fret, dear. We have you covered.” She waves a wrinkled, spotted hand dismissively.
“And how much will it be? Our budget is pretty tight—“
“Here it is.” With a snap of her fingers a crisp white paper appears in front of me. My stomach drops. “Just sign below, my sweet.”
I swallow deeply, cheeks flushing. “I’m sorry but I can’t afford that—“
“There is another way,” the crone says.
“Another way? Like a payment plan?” I lean forward in my chair.
“Of sorts.” Another paper appears. This one is old—the edges are yellowed and curling, quill-inked letters fading.
I quickly scan the new contract, my lips pursing. “Is this for real? You just want my corpse after I die? No strings attached?”
“Correct.” Her dark eyes bore into me as she taps a yellowed fingernail on the table.
Apprehension licks its way down my spine, but what other options do I have? Mom needs help.
“Why do you want my corpse?”
“It’s an endless cycle of the living and the dead giving life to one another. We won’t be selling your organs or anything untoward such as that.”
I nod once, a cold sweat coating my skin as I sign my name. The red ink beneath my trembling hand looks like dried blood.
Once it’s done, she snaps her fingers and the contract disappears in a puff of smoke. Her lips tilt up at the corners. She grabs the knife and performs a quick ritual.
The distinctive smell of rot invades my nostrils—eyes watering. Coughing, I cover my face with my shirt.
The front door slams open. A scream rips from my throat. I fall from my chair, tripping over my feet. A grotesque skin-covered skeleton lumbers into the house.
I can count the ribs through its torn, dirty shirt. Cheek bones prominent enough to cut. Pale flesh hangs from its limbs in bloody ribbons. And its eyes… burning with an unnatural flame.
“In the back bedroom, darling,” the witch says to the walking corpse. It smiles, maggots crawling between the holes in its black teeth.
I turn to the waste basket beside me and expel the contents of my stomach. Looking back at the lying hag, I point an accusing finger at the bedroom.
“W-what is that thing!? Get it out of here. I’m canceling our contract.”
Her grin turns sinister, eyes sparking with magical delight. “It’s a revenant darling. And it’s too late for that. If the blood loss doesn’t kill her, the pestilence surely will.”
I run for the bedroom. The grotesque human’s mouth is on my mother’s neck. A wet gasp rattles her chest as a sucking noise permeates the room. The light fades from her eyes as the skin of the being above her fills out.
Time slows. Mind going blank. The revenant slowly rises before me. Its body now flushed and brimming with life. A bloated tongue licks crimson, cracked lips.
I’m frozen on the threshold. My throat closes at its advance. But all I see is my poor mom. Lifeless. A mottling bluish, purple tinge to her sunken frame.
No….
“Leave her,” the evil hag commands. “The girl will be dead from the pestilence soon enough. We’ll come back later to collect her contracted debt.”
I gasp as my lungs constrict unnaturally—blood dripping from my nose—as the revenant’s bloated, altered form shuffles past me to follow its mistress.
What have I done?
WC: 746 without the title
Crit and feedback welcome! I’m not much of a horror person as I don’t read, write, or watch it, so any tips to improve in this genre are greatly appreciated. Thanks again for reading!
2
u/psilocybediatribe 10h ago
You’ve captured horror very well. You build the horror organically in your words, descriptions, atmosphere, and dialogue.
Time slows. Mind going blank. The revenant slowly rises before me. Its body now flushed and brimming with life. Red stains its mouth. A bloated tongue licks cracked lips.
I’m frozen on the threshold. My throat closes at its advance. But all I see is my poor mom. Lifeless. A blue tinge to her deflated skin.
No….
“Leave her,” the evil hag commands. “The girl will be dead from the pestilence soon enough. We’ll come back later to collect her contracted debt.”
What you’ve done here is spot on horror. The character’s experience let us feel the horror, the descriptions let us see it, the dialogue gives us the inevitability of the evil. It’s textbook. You’ve nailed it.
Critiques:
We all know red and blue. But:
A bloated tongue licks cracked crimson lips.
Gives more horror.
Then take: ‘I’m frozen… deflated skin.’
We’re getting physical sensation and description, but the paragraph is built around the emotion. That’s great instinct because 4 straight lines describing the MC’s reaction and description could overwhelm the reader telling us what to feel but not giving us something to feel.How I think you could take it further:
We’re getting death, give us more.
Frozen gives death and blue but also consider rigid/catatonic/paralyzed.
Throat tightens/constricts/chokes/seizes at its advance.
A deathly pale/pallor to her sunken/shrunken skin. An ashen hue to her withered skin. Or a cadaverous/pallid blue so you’re giving blue but modifying it. Deflated is good but gives me balloon, where sunken/shrunken/withered give me dying.The meaning remains. But each beat builds an increasing sense of horror.
I’m paralyzed on the threshold. My throat chokes at its advance. But all I see is my poor mom. A cadaverous pallor to her withered skin.
You’ve done this in other places she’s an old hag, wrinkled hands, frail fingers. The emaciated imagery of the revenant. There’s growing horror, you’re building it, capitalize on it in the climax. Because What have I done? is the perfect ending already.
Other small things:
Shadier then > shadier than
But in hindsight, I should have known > I should’ve known better…
Because you leave us asking should’ve known what? Hindsight implies better but you can shave 7 words to 4 which helps with a word limit.
She snaps her frail fingers and another paper appears > Another paper appears
You’ve established her magic, no need to repeat it. These are edits for brevity. But also to keep momentum. You’re already under the limit, I still find it useful asking whether the reader needs this or if I’m overexplaining and can allocate these 6 words better somewhere else.
Her grin turns positively sinister, eyes sparking with magical delight
Positively sinister sounds odd.
Her grin turns sinister. Eyes sparking with malevolent delight.
You’ve captured the dichotomy you had sinister grin, but now positively and magical doesn’t make me pause. Similarly,
A wet gasp rattles her chest as a wet, sucking noise permeates the room
Don’t think you need wet twice. Gurgling and squelching capture each wet sound. And it's more visceral. Wet gasp, wet sucking noise pull me out of the action. Gurgling, squelching don't let me escape.
A gurgling rattles her chest as a sick squelching permeates the room
You’ve crafted a great horror story already as someone who doesn’t read/write/watch it. All my critiques are about building the atmosphere, dread, tension that are core elements of horror from someone who is a fan of it. I’m nitpicking, they’re little things, but if you wanted genre tips, it’s where I’d focus. Remember, we are trapped in here with you. Don't let us out. That's horror. Well done, good words!
2
u/frenchfriesandcoke55 9h ago
Thank you so much for this! Definitely the critique I was looking for and all your examples are so helpful as a visual learner. Part of me is kicking myself for not seeing some of these things already. Brevity is also something I’ve been attempting to get better at, but I know it’s a struggle area of mine.
All this feedback is amazing and I’ll definitely be referring back to this for my next horror write when an FTF calls for it lol. Thank you for reading and for taking the time to write this incredible critique!
2
u/psilocybediatribe 8h ago
Of course! Trust me, I’ve posted something and kicked myself after plenty of times. I think your arc is similar to mine. I enjoy this constraint and community because they’re helping me realize things as a writer.
I even moved from FTF to practicing two sentence horror. I started out asking how much emotional damage I could inflict on a reader in two sentences or 750 words (deranged? probably). I ended up discovering how much responsibility a writer has for each sentence and each of those words.
The critiques here helped me move from a mindset of oh revision is a correction of failed creativity (I blame school), to revision is creativity applied to the reader's experience.
And horror is a great medium because in two sentence horror I can write:
The babysitter texted to say she finally put the kids down. But I'd sent them to bed before she arrived.
I’ve told you almost nothing. If horror weren’t the medium, I’ve described a miscommunication. But horror lets me outsource the implication to the reader’s imagination. Which someone pointed out to me in a critique last week: trust the reader.
Keep up the great work! And you’ve got 3 more Fridays this month if I’m counting right.
8
u/psilocybediatribe 2d ago
Konkonb Zonbi
The Suzuki grinds to a stop just outside the vodou-man’s kay. The sharp angles of the thatch roof bleed into the heavy crimson timber of the frame and glossy shutters. The door is swung wide and welcoming. From within music plays, a soft melody that accompanies the “ko-kee” of the native frogs.
“Bonswa.” The houngan emerges, his long shadow trembling in the mist amid the warm, flickering glow. The intense heat of day finally broken by the cool mountain breeze in the damp valley.
“Bonswa,” the doctor replies in the local creole dialect. “Kizan ou ye?”
“Mwen byen, mèsi,” the vodou-man responds. “I am Papá Zavyé, but dey call me X.”
The doctor shakes the firm hand of the houngan. “I am Doctor Cyril Gauthier.”
“De plant dokté.” Zavyé nods.
“Ethnobotanist, yes.”
Zavyé leads him inside.
“The bokor,” Gauthier begins—
“De bokor knows how to shake your hand and say goodbye, Dokté,” Zavyé hisses, voice sharp in the citrus-scented air. “Dey wash dey hands in de juice before de skin can drink de powder. You? You walk into de jungle looking at plants. In dis place a polite greeting can put a man in a box.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Yes, but I am no bokor, no.” The houngan turns, moving deeper past the beads into the ounfró, the temple. At its center, the poto mitan, the pillar, is carved with intricate spiraling serpents. “De Lwa follow dis like a road.”
“Beautiful,” Gauthier murmurs.
“In the village… they mention zombies,” he says, not quite asking the question.
“In de village down de river, dey talk about de zonbi. Dey tink de dead rise because dey are cursed. Dey call it magic. But you know what I know. Is just de forest, Dokté. And some men, dey know how to make de forest cruel.”
The doctor hesitates as the houngan hands him a drink, watching as Zavyé drinks first. He sips the syrupy rum, staring at the softly lit pillar while the insects sing.
Gauthier blinks as the serpents move…
“You-you-you’re just my type—” The strobe lights flash and a mirrored disco ball descends. X turns gracefully while he sings, “—oh, you got a pulse and you’re still breathing.”
As the arpeggiated synth rises, X executes a frenetic pirouette while Gauthier feels his legs turn to rubber.
“Wh-what w-was in that?” the doctor mumbles. Heart rate spiking, muscles starting to twitch. Grabbing for the chair, he misses, stumbles and drops.
“Is konkonb zonbi a, de Datura, Dokté.” X leans over him. “Is a good trip, no?”
Gauthier starts to seize in the harsh technicolor haze, the shadows drawing closer around him, taking form.
“Wh-who are they?” He isn’t sure he’s speaking.
X answers regardless. “Dem?” He gestures broadly, his outstretched arms encompassing the room. The doctor’s vision narrows and the rushing in his ears grows. “Dem is you, Dokté.”
Gauthier’s skin crawls, possessed by some phantom energy. He keeps convulsing, the shadows hovering over him. The bokor’s face is the final flash in the darkness as a question dies on his lips.
“Why? Why is a question for a you, but dere is no you, only dem. You understand?”
He doesn’t. He doesn’t. In the delirium he goes blind, and his tachycardic heart reaches its apex as the arpeggiated synth falls and so does he…
Gauthier comes to in the fading light of a setting sun. He is stiff. Stiff as the wooden board beneath him. X leans over.
“Bonjou, dokté—”
The doctor turns to retch and is greeted by a wooden wall. He heaves, his throat bone dry, tongue the texture of scorched earth.
“Shh.” X comforts him, hands him a mug of tea, helps him sit up. “Drink and feel better.”
Gauthier clutches the tea, drinks greedily. The acrid taste, bitter against his swollen tongue, he doesn’t care. His hands reach before X refills his mug.
After a few minutes the doctor sits up. The insects trilling sweet harmonies of lust in the settling black of the valley. He is sitting in…
“Is this a coffin?”
“Wi.” X nods. The shadows approaching again. The stars pulse in syncopated rhythm with the chitinous snare and the manic violins of diaphanous wings.
“Am I dead?”
“Who am I to say?”
“Wh-what?” Gauthier asks.
The shadows bend for him, lifting him gently from the coffin.
“You-you-you’re just my type—” X smiles darkly. “—oh, you got a pulse but you’re not breathing.”
WC: 746. Critiques and feedback always welcome. Thank you for reading.
3
u/m00nlighter_ r/m00nlighting 1d ago
Helloooo Psilocybe!
What a creepy creepy tale you have here. I enjoyed rhe dialect and terminologies that you used, great descriptions and sensory details as well.At first I was like "why does X have a disco ball?" Bahahahaha but ah yes, the datura. Scary ass plant, and an interesting one for him to use to make a zombie of his own.
Theres a couple of line edits here and there but i feel like the fragments are purposeful and that would be silly to point out. Oh! I also loved the hand stuff w the bokor. Nice nod and word play there.
"Tachycardic" felt slightly more scientific or whatnot than the other text, but since Gauthier is a doctor it makes sense also he would think in that way. This is me really searching for crit lol
I enjoyed reading this! Well done on the trope and genre. Good words!
2
u/psilocybediatribe 12h ago
Thank you moonlighter! High praise. I always enjoy reading your stories and FTFs.
I appreciate your reading and think you've hit every nail on the head. I agree 'tachycardic heart' was odd phrasing but it sounded like a band or song in my head and like you say I figured he's a doctor in delirium why not?
Thanks again and looking forward to to your future words!
•
u/katpoker666 Moderator 1h ago
Extraordinary, Psilo. You captured the voodoo vibe so well! Delightfully creepy with great characterization, descriptions, and dialogue. Good words!
7
u/Morose_Prose 8h ago edited 3h ago
Depot of Death: Part One
Pale moonlight glinted from the few silver slivers of tin adrift in a sea of rust atop the dilapidated depot. Twisted steel tracks snaked around the perimeter. Broken glass crunched underfoot as Harlan and Margaret looked for an entrance.
Striking a match on his boot, Harlan lit up a quirly and shook his head. "Surprise, surprise! Percival's information was wrong. Again. This place is still locked up tight. Doors are blocked from the inside. Starting to think this is another one of his stupid romance plots to get us some alone time."
"As if we need an excuse," Margaret giggled. She snatched the smoke from his lips, taking a long puff. "There's gotta be fucking something in here, though. Looks like nobody's been inside in ages. Bandits would have picked this place clean and gotten the gold by now."
"Gold? Percy told me it was seized Confederate weaponry we could fence to collectors."
"And you believed him?"
"Says the woman who thinks we're gonna find Montezuma's treasure in an abandoned train depot. Gosh darn it. Let's cut our losses, head back to camp, tell Percy there's nothing but empty crates and rat shit in here." Harlan stomped out his smoke and whistled loudly into the cold autumn night. Galloping hooves clomped from afar. A massive steed approached in a cloud of dust.
Jabbing Harlan in the ribs, Margaret pointed at the beast. "Why is Griffith red?" she asked.
"Did you miss Bob's little science lecture at breakfast this morning?" Harlan inquired. Placing his hand gently under her chin, he lifted her gaze to the sky. "Lunar eclipse tonight. Turns the moon red. Reckon Griff is more reflective than you thought."
As her eyes drifted back to Earth, something caught Margaret's attention. "Wait. I think I can get through that window if I stand on Griffith." Clambering up the steed, Margaret steadied herself on the saddle. Smashing the remaining glass from the sill with the butt of her double-barreled shotgun, she slithered inside.
"How big is the mountain of riches in there?" Harlan shouted.
"It's a little fucking hard to see! Give me a minute to get the door—oh, fuck me!"
Bolting to the door, Harlan drew his custom iron from the leather on his hip. He cocked the hammer back. "What's happening in there?"
Hinges squealed and rust rattled as the door opened. Margaret's face wore a mud-covered scowl as the sanguine moonlight illuminated her. "Had a Harlan moment. Tripped over my own two fucking feet in the pitch blackness," she muttered.
The iron returned to Harlan's hip. "Here." He produced a bandana from the back pocket of his jeans and gently wiped the detritus from Margaret's face. "See anything worthwhile inside?"
"No lights. Let's grab a lantern and do a sweep," Margaret huffed.
Heavy dust clung to rotting crates haphazardly strewn about the cavernous depot. Every container was adorned with scrolls covered in writing that neither understood. They crept further into the belly of the beast, cautiously navigating the wooden maze.
As they reached the center, Harlan froze in place, grasping Margaret's hand. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"Scraping, or scratching." Harlan placed his ear to a nearby box. "It's coming from inside here."
"Probably rats," Margaret flippantly dismissed his concern. "Couldn't hurt to crack one open, see if there's anything of any fucking value here." She retrieved an old iron bar from next to one of the crates, handing it to Harlan. "You can do the honors."
"Fine. Stand back and cover my ass, please." Jamming the rod between the rotting slats, Harlan broke through the wood with ease. "Give me some light."
The lantern hovered over his shoulder, barely illuminating the darkness. Dark jade eyes caught the flickering flame.
"Are those... dragons?" Margaret crept closer. She reached out to touch the contents of the crate. "Huh. These statues look like they might actually be worth somethin'."
As her fingers touched the cold stone, a clawed hand grasped her wrist. The statues toppled over. Margaret pulled away, falling backwards into Harlan's arms. From the darkness emerged a man clad in traditional Chinese attire. His eyes milky white. Yellow teeth snarled from rotting lips. A guttural moan echoed through the depot. With arms extended, the man hopped toward the two.
Iron flew from leather, and barrels came level in perfect sync. The man didn't stop. Bullets and shells boomed. The ringing in their ears was soon replaced by the cracking of wood as the other crates opened.
To be continued...
- - -
Word Count: 748
Bonus Constraint: Margaret stumbles in the dark and then stumbles back when grabbed.
3
u/Divayth--Fyr 7h ago
Hey Doc!
It never occurred to me that this genre could be done as a western, but it sure could, and can, and now is.
You're so good at gently sarcastic dialogue, and it works really well here.
"I pulled a Harlan" lol
Tricky to convey that the horse was white when it is first seen as red, but you pulled it off pretty well. If I got it, I assume most will.
You start out, though, describing pale moonlight without a mention of its ominous redness.
I assume the undead labor is as guards of the ancient treasures, which is indeed a time-honored traditional role for the undead.
I sort of wondered why Griffith was stationed in the distance. There's probably a good reason.
Curious to find out if Percival is evil or an idiot, or possibly both.
"How big is the mountain of riches in there?" Harlan shouted.
"It's a little fucking dark in here!
I would suggest dropping either 'in there' or 'in here' as it feels repetitive.
That's all I got! Very cool characters and good words!
9
u/m00nlighter_ r/m00nlighting 6d ago edited 4d ago
The Dead-Not-Dead
They rise from the soil in the steeple of night, the dead who refuse to stay dead. Floating from their graves above sapphire ether, staring into shadows with eyes of unseeing sight.
Through the chemicals, chronologies, and canticles they come, whispering work to be done, work to be done, wading from shadow to shadow, gorging on the darkness until their unworking guts work it back up in black bile that seeps into the soil.
Deep beneath the surface, their putrid puke sinks, poisoning the stream that feeds the trees which create the shadows, turning their trunks the color of bones in the steeple of night. Brittle branches break and burst against the ground, shooting fireworks of maggots and bark.
When their unworking stomachs have worked up their fill, the dead who refuse to stay dead, with familiar faces concealed by bone-tree shade, return to the soil on their night-blue clouds, tucked in by the busy busy keepers of the forest.
The keepers stir their chemicals into the stream, maintain their chronologies in leather-bound journals, and sing their canticles (work to be done, work to be done) beneath the steeple of night as they re-bury those who refuse to stay buried beneath the bile-stained, maggot-and-bark-filled soil.
Through the nave of morning the keepers stay busy busy, seeding shadowless trees further upstream, chopping down the dead trees that have stayed dead (when the watcher isn't watching). They keep keeping while the watcher collects, contaminates, and coddles.
The watcher stares through the forest with eyes of unseeing sight. They watch shadowless trees sprout while the dead-not-dead wade between shadows in the steeple of night; watch silvery fish swim in the apse-of-evening-lit upstream while the dead-still-dead trees are chemicaled and canticled into mulch; and watch stained glass slivers dance in the nave of morning while the keepers remove pages from the chronologies and place them in cross-shapes above the dead-now-dead who have run out of bone-shade to wade in.
When branches crack, their bursting fireworks of maggots and bark are watched with precision. The broken boughs are collected, their dead-still-planted origins examined. The watcher mutters work to be done, work to be done as they begin digging into the shadow-veiled soil in the apse of evening.
Beneath the maggot-bark surface, and above the puke-poisoned roots of bone trees, the watcher uncovers the dead who refuse to stay dead, with familiar faces concealed by bile-colored dirt.
The watcher watches their dead-not-dead slumber, whispering busy busy questions into their graves-not-graves with a tongue polluted by chemicals, chronologies, and canticles. Questions that breathe sapphire ether into their unworking, laboring lungs.
Through salty, wet lips, with familiar faces held firm against their bosom, the watcher demands the keepers keep away from the roots and the remnants still planted beneath the shadows in the steeple of night.
When unworking, laboring lungs have had their fill and release their clouds of night-blue whispers and the dead-not-dead who refuse to be unseen begin to wade between the shadows, when the stream is blocked by phlegmy curdles of soil and bile, and when the bone-yellow trees swear threats through brittle, cracking teeth of bark and maggot-filled branches, the watcher, writhing in an un-crossed grave, allows the keepers their chemicals, chronologies, and canticles once more.
Through the nave of morning and into the apse of evening, the keepers keep busy busy in the corner of the watcher's unseeing eyes, singing work to be done, work to be done as they scrape the soiled soil.
The watcher takes up their tune, keeping their gaze on the shadowless trees, the silvery fish, and stained-glass slivers until a crack echoes through the forest.
WC: 607
Crit and feedback welcome and appreciated!
Songy wongy