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Sherlockian gothic

to-johnlock-hell-in-a-handbasket:

You
distrust women. You aren’t interested in women. You ignore women’s advances. You
speak admiringly of male beauty. Some people still don’t realise you’re gay.

Your nemesis
is called James Moriarty. His twin brother is also called James Moriarty.
Nobody questions this. It’s never twins.

Everyone
else is called John. Most of your clients are called John. Watson is called
John. His wife calls him James. You think his name might be Ormond. You wish you could call him John.

Watson marries
for the first time. Watson has been married before. Watson’s wife died. Watson’s
wife is an orphan. Watson’s wife is visiting her mother. Watson never had a
wife.

You die at
a waterfall. You’re not dead.

It’s 1895.
It has been 1895 for 121 years. It’s always 1895.

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Slash Fic Gothic

ohmygodtearthisdudeapart:

You have blond hair, he has brown hair. You always have blond hair, he always has brown hair. You dye your hair brown, but suddenly his hair is blond, and you feel as though maybe you are him, and he is you, and you have blond hair again, and he has brown hair.

His gaze is impossibly fond, his eyes are impossibly blue, he pulls you impossibly closer, your heart beats impossibly fast, the bulge in his pants is impossibly hard, he should maybe get that checked out.

You don’t remember ever working out and yet you look down and see you have a six pack. When you next see yourself in the mirror you have an eight pack. When he takes of your shirt you have ten, twelve abs. You’re scared to look again in case there are more.

His eyes change colour depending on his moods. At first you thought it was a trick of the light, but now you’re not so sure. They switch between blue, green and grey. Once you thought you saw a flicker of red. You make sure to kiss with your eyes closed now.

You’re white, and so is he. Sometimes he’s your enemy, but you still love him, don’t you? Of course, it makes sense. You’re not sure what you like about him, exactly, but there must be something, right? There’s this intangible thing between you, isn’t there? You feel like you may have more chemistry with your non-white friend, but that can’t be right.

You don’t remember taking your clothes off but you’re naked now. Well, all you remember is toeing out of your shoes. You always toe out of them, although you don’t quite know what that means.

Your pronouns mix into a blur and you no longer know where you end and he begins… You reach out your hand to his hand on his arm… your arm… his… You are sitting and he straddles you but is facing away… There are hands everywhere…

Posted on

Fanfic Author Gothic

fabusina:

thebibliosphere:

bibliotecaria-d:

-You always have ideas. When you open a document, they disappear.

-You have a file full of ideas. It is lost. You open all your files and find hints of ideas mixed in between the lines. None of them connect. You follow them forever, deeper into the folders, until you can’t remember what you were looking for anymore. You end up reading fanfic until 4 AM.

-You’re not a torturer by profession. It’s merely a hobby. The sadism is a natural skill.

-Your fingers and wrists hurt from typing when you’re on a roll. You swear you’re not a masochist, but it hurts so good.

-Readers accuse you of causing them pain. You say you’re sorry, but you’re not. You comfort them while not-so-subtly digging for what caused them the most harm, eager to repeat the trick.

-Your friends enable you and laugh at your yelling. When you blame them, they claim they didn’t do anything. They never do anything. You no longer remember who started it, only that you’re halfway through the fic and still writing.

-You have a WIP. You swear you’re going to finish it next. It’s always next. There’s always another fic that has to be written first.

-Anonymous messages are sent to you, asking you not to acknowledge them publically. You know if you answer they’ll disappear from your inbox. Tumblr has eaten the Ask. Was it ever there in the first place?

-Someone comments on your fic. You have no idea who they are, but their username looks familiar. Every username looks familiar. You think you know them. They know you. It’s flattering, but you can’t shake the feeling that you should be alarmed by your poor memory.

-You reblog a writing prompt meme. It’s the same meme you reblogged yesterday. There are symbols instead of numbers, and you hope people will find them more interesting and send you more prompts this time.

-Promoting your own work is okay. You tell yourself this as you reblog yesterday’s fic post, tensely waiting for a rebuke that never comes.

-People laugh at something you wrote. You can’t figure out what. When you ask, nobody responds. They never laughed in the first place. You’re not sure you wrote anything.

-The fic is 50 hours long and 7000 words long; no one cares. A 10 minute speedwrite is reblogged into eternity.

-The kudos stack up. They are a solid block of names. You can’t read who left them. When you blink and look again, only 10 Guests have left kudos.

-Your inbox is full. There’s a comment on your fic. It has been edited 17 times. Six more emails come in as you read the initial comment. The numbers in your inbox climb and climb. You can’t find what’s been changed in the comment, but you can’t stop obsessively comparing each message.

-This comment is a book report. Glee and fear fill you in equal amounts.

-Someone apologizes for leaving a comment on an old fic. You can’t find who started the absurd rumor that authors don’t like comments on old fics. You plan their murder anyway.

-You eye your old username and associated fics. You pray that no one ever finds them. You resist the urge to tell people where to look.

-The fic is finished. You are dead. You are sick of it. You’ve never been so tired in your life. You hate the world. You force yourself to post it, absolutely exhausted, and suddenly can’t sleep for refreshing your inbox.

-The words multiply. You can’t control them. They eat your brain and come out your eyes. When people try to talk to you, you speak in snatches of character dialogue and narrate unconnected events. They keep talking to you, encouraging you to say more. The words own you now.

-No one believes you when you say the story is writing itself. You stare in despair at the screen. Why won’t anyone help you?

-You’ve misspelled ‘the.’ Autocorrect is wonderful until it’s not.

-Sleep is for the weak. You dream you’re still writing.

-The fic is 50 hours long and 7000 words long; no one cares. A 10 minute speedwrite is reblogged into eternity.

Hahaha, ah it’s funny because it’s true. *eyetic* what do you mean there’s blood coming out of my nose? No, no I’m fine, go right ahead. Reblog the scone post again, I don’t mind.

-Someone apologizes for leaving a comment on an old fic. You can’t find
who started the absurd rumor that authors don’t like comments on old
fics. You plan their murder anyway.

GODS OWN TRUTH. Who told readers that there’s a statute of limitations on commenting? Why is apologizing for commenting so common? Who has abused these readers for sincerely expressing their appreciation and affection for fanwork?

Posted on

Fanfic Author Gothic

bibliotecaria-d:

-You always have ideas. When you open a document, they disappear.

-You have a file full of ideas. It is lost. You open all your files and find hints of ideas mixed in between the lines. None of them connect. You follow them forever, deeper into the folders, until you can’t remember what you were looking for anymore. You end up reading fanfic until 4 AM.

-You’re not a torturer by profession. It’s merely a hobby. The sadism is a natural skill.

-Your fingers and wrists hurt from typing when you’re on a roll. You swear you’re not a masochist, but it hurts so good.

-Readers accuse you of causing them pain. You say you’re sorry, but you’re not. You comfort them while not-so-subtly digging for what caused them the most harm, eager to repeat the trick.

-Your friends enable you and laugh at your yelling. When you blame them, they claim they didn’t do anything. They never do anything. You no longer remember who started it, only that you’re halfway through the fic and still writing.

-You have a WIP. You swear you’re going to finish it next. It’s always next. There’s always another fic that has to be written first.

-Anonymous messages are sent to you, asking you not to acknowledge them publicly. You know if you answer they’ll disappear from your inbox. Tumblr has eaten the Ask. Was it ever there in the first place?

-Someone comments on your fic. You have no idea who they are, but their username looks familiar. Every username looks familiar. You think you know them. They know you. It’s flattering, but you can’t shake the feeling that you should be alarmed by your poor memory.

-You reblog a writing prompt meme. It’s the same meme you reblogged yesterday. There are symbols instead of numbers, and you hope people will find them more interesting and send you more prompts this time.

-Promoting your own work is okay. You tell yourself this as you reblog yesterday’s fic post, tensely waiting for a rebuke that never comes.

-People laugh at something you wrote. You can’t figure out what. When you ask, nobody responds. They never laughed in the first place. You’re not sure you wrote anything.

-The fic is 50 hours long and 7000 words long; no one cares. A 10 minute speedwrite is reblogged into eternity.

-The kudos stack up. They are a solid block of names. You can’t read who left them. When you blink and look again, only 10 Guests have left kudos.

-Your inbox is full. There’s a comment on your fic. It has been edited 17 times. Six more emails come in as you read the initial comment. The numbers in your inbox climb and climb. You can’t find what’s been changed in the comment, but you can’t stop obsessively comparing each message.

-This comment is a book report. Glee and fear fill you in equal amounts.

-Someone apologizes for leaving a comment on an old fic. You can’t find who started the absurd rumor that authors don’t like comments on old fics. You plan their murder anyway.

-You eye your old username and associated fics. You pray that no one ever finds them. You resist the urge to tell people where to look.

-The fic is finished. You are dead. You are sick of it. You’ve never been so tired in your life. You hate the world. You force yourself to post it, absolutely exhausted, and suddenly can’t sleep for refreshing your inbox.

-The words multiply. You can’t control them. They eat your brain and come out your eyes. When people try to talk to you, you speak in snatches of character dialogue and narrate unconnected events. They keep talking to you, encouraging you to say more. The words own you now.

-No one believes you when you say the story is writing itself. You stare in despair at the screen. Why won’t anyone help you?

-You’ve misspelled ‘the.’ Autocorrect is wonderful until it’s not.

-Sleep is for the weak. You dream you’re still writing.

Posted on

Millennial Job Search Gothic

deducecanoe:

tortillapunx:

  • you have an interview next week. you always have an interview next week. The managers who interview you all seem to share the same pleasant, blank face. They promise to call you back in a few days. They never do.
  • they say the minimum wage is going up soon. 
  • you must have two years of experience. you must have five years of experience. you must have ten years of experience. experience in what, exactly? the job requirements bleed into an ancient latin text as you attempt to decipher them. 
  • the people in the photos in the craigslist ads smile eerily at you. their eyes seem to follow you around the room even after you click away from the job posting.
  • do not apply in person, the posting says. do not send in your resume. do not apply. we’ve lost too many employees to the creature as is.
  • you plan on leaving your job soon. you’ve been planning on leaving your job soon for months. you keep making excuses as to why you haven’t left your job yet, but you know deep down that even if you put in your two weeks tomorrow, you wouldn’t leave the company as the same person you were when you applied. if they let you leave alive at all.
  • you seem to see “help wanted” signs everywhere. when you enter and inquire about them, the employees wave you away. you hear their cries for help again as you leave.
  • you are more than qualified for the job that you are applying to. you are over-qualified for the job you are applying to.
  • you do not get the job.

Oh god.

Posted on

Iowa Gothic

jazzforthecaptain:

  • On humid September nights, sit on the back stairs and listen to the chirps of crickets in the timber. In October, listen to the screams of rabbits, dying in the teeth of foxes. In November the woods and fields are silent; by December there is nothing to hear, anywhere, at all.
  • Every seven years, the cicadas come. You will know them by their wingbeats. You will know them by their drumbeats. You will run, but you will never run fast or far enough.
  • The Mississippi River can be called by many names: Big Muddy, Old Man River, Old Blue, The Gathering of the Waters. The other names must be whispered, or screamed at midnight with your hands full of rich river mud and pig’s blood. Sometimes the river answers. You hope it doesn’t.
  • “Des Moines” is derived from Rivière de Moines, meaning ‘River of the Monks.’ The reason has been lost. Sometimes, the Des Moines River flows red. Sometimes, people who wade into its waters have been healed of their maladies. Other times, they are never seen again.
  • There is beauty in the fields by the light of a full spring moon. The new corn, the new leaves of soybean are touched with silver, and the slender, long-legged shadows that walk the rows have never been more visible.

Keep reading

Posted on

Tumblr gothic

hylianfishfood:

-“There have been no updates. The site has always been like this.” The new staff post says. You agree, but something feels off.

-“These posts are gonna look weird when the format changes back,” you say, though you do not know why. Later, you receive an email. Your account has been deleted.

-You cry for the xkit guy to save you. “You know what you did to the xkit guy!” They scream. You stare at your bloody hands. You know what you did to the xkit guy.

-There’s another meme. You chuckle as the same picture of a glass shard in a toilet bowl shows up on your dash. You don’t get it. You reblog it anyway.

-“If it’s good enough for me, it’s good enough for queue.” Something screams, and leaps out of your computer. This always happens, at the scheduled times.

-“We’re always willing to listen to our users!” Staff says. It is a lie. Your friend sends them a message and disappears.

-You look in your purse. There are breadsticks there. You do not remember grabbing them.

-It’s Halloween again. It’s been Halloween as long as you can remember. The skeleton that runs past your house at exactly 4:39 PM every day waves at you. You wave back.

Posted on

MCU Gothic

copperbadge:

genrenommer:

genrenommer:

There is a big new announcement. There is a huge new announcement. There is a terrifyingly large new announcement.

Marvel has posted a new teaser video. It appears to be 1:36 of static and incoherent screaming. It already has over a thousand comments.

Sebastian Stan has extended his contract. It extends to death. It does not specify whose.

Six new Chrises have announced starring roles in upcoming pictures. There is a rumor swirling around that soon they will have enough. Enough for what, no one is sure.

Everyone is smiling extra brightly for the press tour. They seem to be blinking an awful lot. You think it looks like Morse Code, but that cannot be right. Why would they be asking for help?

There is finally more Black Widow merchandise. The merchandise consists soley of boxes filled with spiders.

Joss Whedon is discovered wandering the backlot, clutching a bloody knife. “I just need people to realize that no character is safe,” he insists.

Chris Evans hasn’t been seen in months, yet new gifsets of him keep appearing. They are all posted from the same account, which has no other activity.

There have been even more delays surrounding Ant-Man. Something does not want the film to be seen.

RDJ’s clothes all seem to be coming from some parallel universe, even more so than usual. Your favorite is the tuxedo with Lisa Frank lapels and an unsettling usage of paisley.

Reblogging myself just so I can tag

copperbadge

who helped inspire this, particularly the last one.

THAT BLACK WIDOW ONE THOUGH

image

Also RDJ would stab a friend to wear a Lisa Frank tuxedo, you know he would.

Posted on

things you will see on a road trip across america

roachpatrol:

-so much desert that you will get scared 

-seriously from california to new mexico is terrifying like it’s eight straight hours of pale red desert and the sky is so large that everything, even your car, even your hands, looks like a tenuously small and fragile diorama placed on an endless pale red table and left there to dissolve. 

-a gas station that for some reason has large dinosaurs made out of scrap metal. they are 1000% awesome. sometimes they move. take a million pictures.

-a fruit stand that sells the best fruit you have ever eaten. later you won’t quite remember which fruit. strawberries, maybe? peaches?

-small black birds, subtly different in every state. some have gold eyes and some are a little iridescent and some are black from beak to toes. the sparrows they compete with for crumbs look exactly the same wherever you go. 

-a completely empty rest stop. no one eats at the concrete tables. no one plays in the tiny strip of grass or gravel. you will find a small and beautiful stone. 

-a hawaii license plate, somewhere around ohio. i still don’t know how they get the cars across the ocean. i don’t know why anyone would leave hawaii for ohio. i don’t know why anyone lives in ohio. 

-an incredibly weird duck. you had no idea ducks could look so incredibly weird, and you wish you were still ignorant of how incredibly weird ducks can, apparently, look. 

-a small folksy roadside waystation that sells fudge and incredibly tacky statues of eagles and wolves and cowboys. if you like fudge, eat the fudge from here. 

-a lizard doing pushups. if you are particularly fortunate: many lizards doing pushups.

-approximately one gajillion starbucks shops. don’t bother counting them. it will make you angry. 

-a storm somewhere around oklahoma, if you’re lucky. the clouds tower up in fantastic fluffy castles miles and miles into the air and are painted pink and gold and purple and the sky turns a dozen impossible shades of blue and when the rain comes down over your car it sounds like the world is ending. 

-weird burrs will stick to your legs. you’ll flick them out of the car eighty or eight hundred miles from where their parent plant was grown, and not be sure whether you should wish the little hitchikers well or not. 

-a dog wearing sunglasses with his head hanging out of a car window. this will be the high point of the trip. 

-the world’s most depressing restaurant. you will know it when you wind up there and have to eat the terrible food, and listen to the terrible music, and look at all the listless waiters and want to tell them get in my car, for god’s sake get in, i’ll take you out of whatever crapsack little town this is that you can’t get out of on your own. but you won’t say that because it’s rude. maybe they have family here. maybe they even like it here.

-a painting of a sailboat in a motel located at least a hundred miles from any significant body of water. 

-several genuinely hilarious postcards. buy them.

-a cat that will not let you pet it. this will be the low point of the trip. 

-corn. so much corn you will get scared. who the fuck is going to eat all this corn? 

-a small stream in some small woods and the light will come down perfectly and the water will be beautiful and the grass will be beautiful and there will be flowers maybe or the leaves of the trees are starting to turn gold and there are birds chirping and it will be so perfect you will want to stand there and stay forever and live in this little magical painting off the side of the highway and be some kind of highway druid. but instead, you’ll get bored after a while, and get back in the car. 

Posted on

texas gothic

starrycastiels:

it’s december. every one is bundled up in coats and scarves. it is 93 degrees.

it rains. the dead patch of earth that is the state suddenly blooms. plants test their boundaries, creeping across miles of cement for a chance at water. cars wreck by the multitude. school districts start murmuring about closing for inclement weather. it’s been weeks. no one has left their house in fear the rain may start again.

you can feel the air sticking to your skin. something in it is pulling at you. when you step outside, your vision clouds, presumably because of the steam on your eyewear. you reach up to clean the lenses before remembering you don’t wear glasses. you still can’t see.

it’s wednesday. the tornado sirens start. dogs howl in unison. wind screams along. you, too, wail with the sirens. they never stop. it’s wednesday.

you own a pair of cowboy boots. they fit perfectly. they’ve fit perfectly since you were 12. you don’t remember buying them.

you get stuck behind a railroad crossing and wait for the train to pass. you count the train cars to pass the time. you’re at 538. you’ve started over repeatedly. they’re still coming.

the sidewalk is hot enough to fry an egg. you know, because you watched your neighbor sizzle and crisp on it.

there is a barbecue place down the street. family owned, they say. best damn brisket in the state, they say. shame about all those missing people, they say.

the clerk at walmart smiles at you. her nametag has no name. you grab your groceries. her eyes are watering. she is still smiling. she forces  “have a good day, y’all.” through her teeth. her smile is no smaller. tears are streaming down her face.

you fall asleep to the hum of air conditioners. you wake up to the hum of air conditioners. by the middle of july, you realize the hum has become a roar.

you’re on the highway. you’re not sure which one, you just know you’re headed out of state. lubbock is 100 miles away. out of the corner of your eye, you see an obsolete oil derrick surrounded by cows. the cows stare at you. you take your eyes off the road to stare back. you stare at them for what feels like ages, but when you look back at the road, lubbock is still 100 miles away.

the forecast for one afternoon is 100% sunny, with 100% chance of severe thunderstorms, with a 100% chance of both hail and tornadoes. you watch all of these things occur simultaneously. 

it’s pecan season. the tree in your yard is laden with nuts. there is a crowd gathered round, holding plastic bags and odd contraptions meant to pick them from the ground after they fall at maximum efficiency. very quickly, your tree is bare, and yet the crowd is still there, scouring the ground. when it’s clear all the pecans are gone, the mob regroups around your tree, waiting for the next spring and the next bud.