Lambs to the Slaughter

Dad’s getting the sheep ready.

I’m standing on my tiptoes in the kitchen, nose to the cold window glass, steaming up a white patch with my breath. It’s past my bedtime, and it’s dark outside; I watch my dad’s torch as it slices yellow light through the black fields, as he leads one of his sheep by a rope. The window’s thin enough that I can hear the nervous bleating from the flock. I think they know what’s coming.

Dad does this sometimes. He’ll see tracks in the mud around our farm in the morning, or we’ll hear these cries in the distance when we let the dog out at night, and then Dad takes one of the good-sized sheep down by the big fence. It’s not tall, and it’s mostly wire, but the big fence goes all the way around our farm, and down to the village as well. Our hill’s close enough to the water that we need the fence too. 

It’s been there for ages. It’s how we keep the monster out.

Dad walks down to the gate in the fence; the silver in it glints when his torch hits it. He pulls the sheep in front of him as he opens the gate, and hurries it out, closing the gate behind it again as soon as it’s through. My dad’s not scared of anything, and he’s tough enough to batter anyone, but he’s still scared of the monster. Everyone is. Dad says it hates us.

He’s coming back up the field now. The sheep’s looking after him from behind the fence, like it’s confused. I feel bad for it. 

Dad comes through the front door, breathes out heavily, and slams the door behind him. He doesn’t even notice me until after he’s done up all the locks, and when he does see me, he jumps.

“What are you doing out of bed?” he asks. He looks more scared than angry.

“I wanted to see the monster,” I tell him.

He gets this serious Dad look, where he looks a hundred years old and looks like he’s about to tell me something grown-up and important. “If you see it, it can get you easier. You’ll go right up to it and it’ll eat you.” He just looks at me for a second, and then he sighs. “Get to bed. And stay in bed.”

I go. And I sleep with my covers right over my head, just in case.

I’m still awake when the dog starts barking downstairs. I lie completely still, and I listen. I can hear her jumping up and clawing at the door. She only does that when there’s someone outside.

She stops barking soon, and I know that whatever was there is gone. After a minute, I hear my Dad’s heavy footsteps downstairs. He stomps to the front of the house, and I hear the door close behind him - he always goes out afterwards, just to check that the fence is okay. It’s over now. I pull my covers off of my head, and try to go to sleep.

The dog starts barking again.

I open my eyes. I wish she would shut up. It’s only Dad.

I hear a shout from outside, and I freeze. The dog starts barking louder. It’s dark in my room, and the moon behind the curtains makes everything grey. It’s still and quiet and it just makes the dog seem louder, and I think I can hear my heart too, and she won’t stop barking.

Downstairs, my mum screams.

I get up and run to the window. I scrape the curtains back, and the dark falls into the room. All I can see is the moon, and the light of it catches on the sheep’s wool, and the silver fence, and the eyes of the man standing behind it.

He doesn’t look real. His hair is long and dark, and his skin is so pale he could be glowing, or dead. He looks young, but his clothes are old-fashioned, and the sleeves and collar of his shirt are soaked in red, and the back of my dad’s shirt is clutched in his hand. My dad is a dark lump on the ground.

The monster feels me staring, and looks up. His eyes stop glowing when he tilts his head, and I can see he’s glaring at me.

I pull the curtains back so hard I think they might come down, and run back to my bed. I slide under. I don’t breathe. I lie there and I wait as my whole body goes numb.

I stay there for the rest of the night, even after the dog stops barking, and my dad and the monster are gone.

Lambs to the Slaughter

Dad’s getting the sheep ready.

I’m standing on my tiptoes in the kitchen, nose to the cold window glass, steaming up a white patch with my breath. It’s past my bedtime, and it’s dark outside; I watch my dad’s torch as it slices yellow light through the black fields, as he leads one of his sheep by a rope. The window’s thin enough that I can hear the nervous bleating from the flock. I think they know what’s coming.

Dad does this sometimes. He’ll see tracks in the mud around our farm in the morning, or we’ll hear these cries in the distance when we let the dog out at night, and then Dad takes one of the good-sized sheep down by the big fence. It’s not tall, and it’s mostly wire, but the big fence goes all the way around our farm, and down to the village as well. Our hill’s close enough to the water that we need the fence too. 

It’s been there for ages. It’s how we keep the monster out.

Dad walks down to the gate in the fence; the silver in it glints when his torch hits it. He pulls the sheep in front of him as he opens the gate, and hurries it out, closing the gate behind it again as soon as it’s through. My dad’s not scared of anything, and he’s tough enough to batter anyone, but he’s still scared of the monster. Everyone is. Dad says it hates us.

He’s coming back up the field now. The sheep’s looking after him from behind the fence, like it’s confused. I feel bad for it. 

Dad comes through the front door, breathes out heavily, and slams the door behind him. He doesn’t even notice me until after he’s done up all the locks, and when he does see me, he jumps.

“What are you doing out of bed?” he asks. He looks more scared than angry.

“I wanted to see the monster,” I tell him.

He gets this serious Dad look, where he looks a hundred years old and looks like he’s about to tell me something grown-up and important. “If you see it, it can get you easier. You’ll go right up to it and it’ll eat you.” He just looks at me for a second, and then he sighs. “Get to bed. And stay in bed.”

I go. And I sleep with my covers right over my head, just in case.

I’m still awake when the dog starts barking downstairs. I lie completely still, and I listen. I can hear her jumping up and clawing at the door. She only does that when there’s someone outside.

She stops barking soon, and I know that whatever was there is gone. After a minute, I hear my Dad’s heavy footsteps downstairs. He stomps to the front of the house, and I hear the door close behind him - he always goes out afterwards, just to check that the fence is okay. It’s over now. I pull my covers off of my head, and try to go to sleep.

The dog starts barking again.

I open my eyes. I wish she would shut up. It’s only Dad.

I hear a shout from outside, and I freeze. The dog starts barking louder. It’s dark in my room, and the moon behind the curtains makes everything grey. It’s still and quiet and it just makes the dog seem louder, and I think I can hear my heart too, and she won’t stop barking.

Downstairs, my mum screams.

I get up and run to the window. I scrape the curtains back, and the dark falls into the room. All I can see is the moon, and the light of it catches on the sheep’s wool, and the silver fence, and the eyes of the man standing behind it.

He doesn’t look real. His hair is long and dark, and his skin is so pale he could be glowing, or dead. He looks young, but his clothes are old-fashioned, and the sleeves and collar of his shirt are soaked in red, and the back of my dad’s shirt is clutched in his hand. My dad is a dark lump on the ground.

The monster feels me staring, and looks up. His eyes stop glowing when he tilts his head, and I can see he’s glaring at me.

I pull the curtains back so hard I think they might come down, and run back to my bed. I slide under. I don’t breathe. I lie there and I wait as my whole body goes numb.

I stay there for the rest of the night, even after the dog stops barking, and my dad and the monster are gone.

In The Tall Grass

In the fields past the farmhouses, the sun strokes the grass with cold hands. Early morning claws it from behind the horizon and it sits behind the distant trees, lashing through their silhouettes and sending streaks of gold through the mist. Pale, crumbling walls split the landscapes into little kingdoms under a bright, white sky, each identical, sprouting two-foot-tall yellow-green strands, dry and flowering. All of them bend to a near-imperceptible breeze. None of the fields are otherwise disturbed, save for one, in the centre, where the grass bends as if being walked through, though no-one is there. It bends in a long line across the little field, moving, and when it comes to a wall, it turns, follows it upwards to the next one, where it turns again. In the fields past the farmhouses, something invisible walks in slow circles, parting clouds of mayflies as it goes.

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Platform Two

The tiny train station is an island in the night: the wall lamps throw harsh yellow light over the edge of the platform, out to the train tracks, fading out against the first long strands of the grass beyond. The dark has smothered the fields, the hills, the loch in the distance. Beyond the bubble of gold, the night has swallowed the world.

I’m on platform two. There are only two: the train station consists of one structure - both platforms back to back, divided by a ticket booth. Besides the booth, the station is entirely exposed to the elements, and besides the old man asleep inside the little building, it’s entirely deserted. I stand just behind the yellow line, staring out at the point in the dark where a train might appear, fiddling with a lighter in one hand.

I am not from here. I cannot wait to leave.

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By The Lochside

I don’t think anyone else saw it happen, that afternoon. And to be fair to you, it doesn’t feel dangerous by the water in the afternoon, but it’s still risky. I’m not too proud to admit that the only reason I did see what happened to you was because I was being careless, too, but even then, I was nervous. I knew better. You can’t have known better, or you never would have gone down to the loch.

You must have been from somewhere else – maybe you were camping. It had been a beautiful weekend for it, I have to admit, and if I didn’t know the area well, it would have appealed to me, too. Even at this time of year, the hills rise lush and green over the horizon, and when the sun’s out, you can see the undersides of clouds brush against them, fraying like lamb’s wool. It’s not unusual to see unfamiliar faces up there, photographers, or kids exploring the ruined old cottages, long since abandoned – few of them venture down here, though, and thankfully, fewer of them reach the loch.

I was out walking when I saw you, just far enough uphill from you to have a clear view of the lochside. I had to squint to make you out, but you were there, walking leisurely along an expanse of grass right next to the loch, only separated from the water by the thin stretch of pebbles that made up the shore. I stopped dead in my tracks to watch you, mesmerised by the sight of you in all your ignorance as you ambled on.

It was fine, until you stopped walking. It took me a second to register why. Though most of the valley is farmland, the loch is largely surrounded by trees and bushes, and it had obscured the object of your attentions – when I looked a little closer, I could make it out. A dappled grey horse stood a short distance away, staring towards you.

My mouth fell open, gently, and a slowly-building fear pushed my heart into my throat. I watched the horse emerge from behind the foliage, taking a few steps closer to you, and then it stood, as if waiting. I saw you lift a hand and try to call it towards you - when it didn’t respond, you walked towards it, slowly so as not to scare it.

I wanted to warn you, then. You clearly weren’t from round here, or you would have been as scared as I was. Everyone round here knows what to watch out for in the fields, but you were naïve, and you didn’t know what the horse was. Someone still could’ve stopped you, but I was too afraid, and there was nobody else around.

You were about halfway to the thing when I noticed a change in you: you had been hunched, trying to appear non-threatening, but your posture loosened; you had moved cautiously before, but you became dazed, approaching the beast like a sleepwalker. As my heart slammed against my ribs, you came to stand beside it, and it knelt – I’d never seen a horse kneel down for a rider before, but this one did, and you climbed onto its back in a dream.

I couldn’t stand by any longer – I shouted out to you, but you didn’t react. I hovered, unsure of whether to stay put, stay safe, or to run to you – instead, I tried shouting again, with every scrap of local history I knew ringing in my head.

There are all sorts of superstitions in our town, and I don’t believe half, but I know not to go to the loch. There have been more visitors up here lately, drawn by the local legends – people are fascinated with legends, these days: old mythology, old heritage. The thought of being the one to prove such a creature exists is a thrill to them, I think. The idea of a kelpie, a real one tucked away in the Highlands, excites them, because they’ve never had to live around one. They’ve never had to watch out for eyes in the night, or stay away from the water in case something compels you into it, whatever form it takes - some people who’ve seen it describe a man; some describe a horse. These outsiders don’t care about that.

It’s a shame, though, because you weren’t like them. You didn’t even know.

As soon as it stood up, you seemed to come to your senses. You looked around you, confused, and tried to move – your movements quickly became more frantic as you realised that you were stuck to its back. I heard you cry out, and my heart wrenched. You tried to hit it, as if it would let you go, but it didn’t: instead, the kelpie turned towards the loch, and took off at a run.

The horror that had compelled me to keep watching hit its limit, and I turned away, starting at a run back towards home – I didn’t see what followed, I only heard you scream in fear, and how the crash of water that followed cut it off. I don’t know what happened to you. Perhaps it only drowned you. When I got home, and told my wife that, she didn’t look convinced.

I told a lot of people, afterwards. I don’t reckon anyone will go looking for you, though. Maybe people you knew from wherever you came from will look, but nobody from here. We know better than to go down to the loch.

Bramble Jam

I woke up in the bramble patch, this morning. I decided to make jam.

I don’t really remember how I got there, or what led me there. I had been washing dishes, I think - when I came back home, I found a plate that had shattered into six in the sink. I must have dropped it. These things happen, I suppose. At least I picked some of the fruit, while I was out there. I remembered I had apples at home, and I thought to myself, why not?

It was my grandmother who called blackberries ‘brambles’; I think it’s apt, if only for the way the bushes catch against you, raising red scratches on your skin. I’ve hundreds of them from this morning, and the juice stains make them look so much worse. Ah, well. 

I’ve got the fruit all laid out in front of me, now, on the countertop; I’m working through the brambles, cutting them down to help them boil. Each time I slice through one, it sends red spattering against my hands, across the kitchen counter, grisly. It won’t make much difference now, though, after earlier. The knock and scrape of the knife against the cutting board stings in the silence of the early afternoon.

I live alone, in the farmhouse. My mother used to say I’d have to marry fast, so I could have someone to watch me, but I’ve never had any time for men. I haven’t seen much of anyone, lately, since she died - the people in town don’t like to stray too far, and after what happened to my mother, I can’t blame them. She went over the nasty side of the fields. It’s awful, but I tell myself, at least I never saw it.

I run the last of the brambles through. It’s just the apples, now. I turn the tap on next to me and it falls out in a foam, running over the remains of my plate. It’s a shame: these plates were nice, painted with flowers - an heirloom from my grandmother. He had plates like this, with the ceramic moulded into dainty patterns, fancy. I got to eat off one, once. He threw one at my head, once, and it didn’t connect, but it wouldn’t have mattered if it did. Nobody would have done anything.

There’s a knife in my hand, stained with red, sweet viscera. I wish it was his. It could have happened like this, if I’d decided when the plate flew that I couldn’t do it anymore. It could have happened like this, but it would have been so much faster. Maybe it would have worked better. Oh, he deserves this pain, but I can’t stand the knowing, the knowing that he’s still

I’m in the fields again. 

I don’t remember how I got here. I’m up to my knees in the dry, sharp grass, faded yellow, with the loch in the far distance - thank god, only in the far distance - and facing the hills, the one where the green is marred by the black, jagged shape of old ruins. I turn, my skirt catching on the longer strands, and I see that my house is still close. That’s a relief.

The journey back doesn’t take long - I’ve taken to wearing my boots, even when I’m inside. You can never be sure when things like this will happen to you. I don’t mind much, even though it’s not at all convenient - it’s serene out here, in the safe fields.

I reach the kitchen door, still ajar - this is the worst part, the state that the house is left in. No broken plates this time, just the knife lying in the centre of the floor with a bright red streak to mark its fall, but the stove has been on, and the smell of gas is thick in the air. It’s just dangerous. I turn it off quickly. The knife and the counters need cleaning, and I need to get on with my work, but I catch a glimpse of my hands, caked and dirty with earth from the fields and the remnants of the juice, and I know I can’t do anything before I wash them. Really, I don’t know how I do it. 

Flicking the tap on, I start to scrub the mud off my hands. The water runs brown and red, and the stains linger on my skin. I’ll never get it off of me. It cakes my hands, my face, it covers me. It smothers me. This hair is light but mine hangs heavy: I’d go to God with grass stains on me, if I could.

God would want me if I felt bad, but I don’t. Heaven help me, I feel no remorse. I’ll drag them all down with me and be glad.

There’s matches across the room, on the windowsill. It’s so quiet in here. It still stinks of gas in here. I can’t drag them all down with me but this one will do for now, this one

I’m standing by the window. I can’t remember why I came over here, but my nose registers the gas again, and I open the window wide. That would have been it, I think. The sound of crows and wind and living washes over me, and I realise I can still hear the tap running - I go over, and turn it off. I’ll forget my own head, one day.

I go back to the kitchen counter, where the brambles sit in a red heap, defeated, and the apples lie in wait. The jam won’t be ready til tonight, if I carry on like this, but I suppose it’s not my fault I’m absent-minded. If I do go back to the fields again, I’d like to remember it, this time. It’s such a lovely walk.

I haven't been on this tumblr in a thousand years, but I've started a new blog for my new paranormal short story series! There's a new story every week, check them out!! (likes and rbs are v much appreciated, lets get spooky)

Sometimes I think it’s gettin’ better And then it gets much worse Is it just part of the process? Well, Jesus Christ, it hurts Though I know I should know better Well, I can make this work Is it just part of the process? Well, Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, it hurts

I’m glad that Florence is still doing the thing she does best which is be incredibly terrifying in a way that you cannot explain without sounding like you believe in witches

(via twitter)

@veliseraptor

I think the most relatable older sibling thing Justin Mcelroy has done was, while crying about how much he loved and missed his younger brothers, say “i hate you both as people”

Do this anonymously or not, I wanna know.

Let’s finish this out while we’re at it.

did that raven just get kissed and then fall over blushing.

I AM THIS RAVEN

“I AM TOO GAY TO FUNCTION”

“SEND HELP”

He’s been murdered

@what-did-xerxes-say bartfaq

Long Distance Relationship

Long distance relationship aren’t always ideal. In fact, they’re really tough. You spend countless of hours just talking through a phone or through a screen. You can’t see the person when you want to or when you most need them… You can’t hug, you can’t hold hands, you can’t kiss. You lose the intimacy in a physical sense. But then, your relationship becomes based on each other and nothing else. You learn to communicate, because a long distance relationship without communication is nothing. You learn to trust, because you can’t always see or know everything the person is doing. You learn to sacrifice, because someone’s always going to lose a bit of sleep from the time difference. And lastly, you learn to appreciate. When you only have a limited amount of time with a person, you learn to appreciate and cherish every single moment you have with them. When you finally see that person after weeks or months of seeing them only through a computer screen. It is one of the greatest feelings in the world. When you’ve waited for something so long and you finally have it, you cherish it. The key to a long distance relationship is faith. If both of you are not willing to give up, if you both are willing to stand up and still try after every time one of you or both of you fail. “Distance isn’t for the fearful, it’s for the bold.” It’s for those who are willing to spend a lot of time alone in exchange for the little time with the one they love. It’s for knowing a good thing when they see it, even if they don’t see it nearly enough.

Me: I don’t know if I ever want to be pregnant, I’d rather adopt a kid or two that are a bit older

Someone: Are you SURE? Older adoptees present UNIQUE CHALLENGES

Me: We are discussing human beings not digital pets

Literally every child every born and/or parented presents unique challenges. It’s like people are unique individuals…..or something………….

An amazing and revolutionary concept

When people ask me, “Why do you want to adopt teenagers?” I always answer, “Because you asked like that.”

I’m real over it. If I become a foster mom to a 17 year old kid and I get the privilege of the option to adopt them? You better believe I am legally making that kid mine.

“They’ll be a legal adult in no time, why spend the money to adopt? They’ll be aged out of the system.”

There’s no aging out of family, Marvin.

“They might be rebellious or smoke or do drugs or steal things! What if they won’t listen to you?”

Then I guess I’ll have to step up and do some fruxking parenting, Stanley.

“You want to adopt problem children then?”

All. Children. Are. Problem. Children. If you’re not prepared to deal with the fact that at some point, any child ever, whether you birthed them yourself or adopted them at any age, could become a problem? Then you are NOT ready to have children, and should really just step off and let the people who actually want to be parents live in peace with their kids.

Hey I’m so glad this post is picking up

Everyone has a very distinct memory or feeling attached to Feel Good Inc by Gorillaz and honestly I think that’s rather sexy of life

The asexual flag was created in 2010 on AVEN. As late as 2016, there are loads of results on google calling the general lesbian flag (the pink one) the ‘lipstick lesbian flag’, and it still has the lipstick kiss mark on it. This flag without the lipstick mark was co-opted as the general lesbian flag more recently than the asexual flag, and it takes time for public recognition of a symbol to organically grow. Just like the asexual flag did, the lesbian flag will grow in popularity naturally over time. 

If you see there is an asexual flag and not a lesbian one somewhere, the logical conclusion is not to go, “OMG ASEXUALS ARE DEPRIVING LESBIANS OF REPRESENTATION!!! LESBIANS GET NOTHING!!!” it’s to say, “Well, in a few years, my flag will be just as successful as the asexual one :)”

Asexual folks are not robbing lesbians of anything just because they have an older and more recognisable flag. Please don’t attack ace folks over this stuff. Let’s all coexist and support each other as members of the queer community and not be bitter and nasty about things that are no-one’s fault.

everyone: “but youre doing so well in school”

me: i am literally dying i dont know who i am and im a shell of myself. i cant remember one thing i did last week, everything is a blur and i some how simultaneously sleep all the time and never sleep