I’m sick of magical worlds with no technology. I want fairy run coffee shops where you can get a latte with a shot of charisma, because you’ve got a big presentation you’re worried about, or witches working at Apple selling phones that automatically appear in your pocket if you accidentally leave it somewhere, or psychics running hair salons who always know how you want your hair to look, or aura reader therapists. I just really want normalized magic in modern society
Friends, have you ever asked yourselves: what would happen if I, a humble farmer, grew a pumpkin inside a metal nightmare machine shaped like a man’s head?
Fear not: central Ohio has your answer.
A FARMER squints into the distance, shading his eyes from the harsh Ohio sun. ”Life holds no meaning for me,” the farmer says to the tall, tall grass.
HIS WIFE approaches, cool evening wind rippling her yellow sundress. “Why Bob, what’s paining you?” She places her delicate, weather-worn hand on his burly, bowing shoulder. “You just ain’t been the same since winnin’ the Most Aggressively Pumpkiny Pumpkin prize at the annual Pumpkin Worship Extravaganza. I feel like you ain’t even here sometimes.”
"Enough, Martha," THE FARMER sighs. "Where can I go from here? Ain’t the only way from the top down? ‘S the law o’gravity. How can we ever hope to reach such heights again?"
MARTHA thinks for a moment, gently running her thumb along the seam of his plaid shirt. “I wish I could help Bob, I swear I do.” She turns her cornflower-blue gaze to the distance, tears glistening, unshed. “I just haven’t your genius. My horrifying visions just can’t be turned into pumpkins, and they’re all I got, besides you.”
THE FARMER’s squint deepens. “Say Martha,” he says, turning to her, taking her small hands in his large, calloused grip. “What about the unholy terror that haunts your dreams, the sightless, staring, malformed orange baby head that floats on a sea of blood?”
"Oh Bob," Martha says, tears beginning to brim over, "will I ever be free? I know people talk-"
"No, Martha," he says, "I’ll grow your terror for you. I’ll grow it all year. I’ll- I’ll make a mold! You can sculpt it, remember how you used to-"
"Oh Bob, what then? I don’t think I-"
"And then we show them, Martha." A strange light seems to glow from within THE FARMER’s deep-set eyes. "We show them ALL."
(Source: elise-nedal, via libraryfines)
*stays home* i should’ve gone out
*goes out* i should’ve stayed home
yo but sometimes there is a mouse clinging to your door outside that means you just gotta stay put
…um, where is my fanvid for Gone Girl using Out of the Woods?
I’ll take one of each pleaseandthank
(Source: tastefullyoffensive, via risingdeeper)
how I would described How To Get Away With Murder
I love the Internet so much, because this is an A+ valid description.
MAN i love anything and everything gothic americana like think about southwestern gothic with flickering motel lights and thieves and snakes hiding in sunset deserts, but also new england gothic with deep dark woods and bodies sunk into the bottom of freezing lakes, and appalachian gothic with dirty-feet tangle-haired children and small crumbling houses and the wind whistling eerily, and even midwest gothic with lonely tractors rusting away in the sunlight and endless plains and plains of vast nothingness as far as the eye can see, florida gothic (old bones sunk into the swamp), wisconsin gothic (the town’s been snowed in for weeks now, who knows what’s happening up there), california gothic (they don’t call ‘em ghost towns for nothing), colorado gothic (something’s living up in those mountains and it only comes out at night) and of course southern gothic to rule them all, a landscape of witchery, poverty, hellfire and damnation