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#fictional taxidermy

wafflebloggies · 5 months

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Lucanus quisquila (Junk Bug)

I found a good deep box frame, and ended up putting together a bug to go in it. She's made from paper clay around a tinfoil shape, with stocking stretched over to smooth it out, and then just a lot of beads, cardboard, and bits and pieces from my junk drawer.

#my arts #beetles #found materials #junk art #steampunk #a little bit anyway #clockwork beetle #beetle #thrift store finds #mixed media #mixed media art #victoriana #fictional taxidermy

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briefbestiary · 1 year

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Now to catch a wolpertinger one must either salt its tail or perform the aptly named "sack, stick, spade" method.

The "sack, stick, spade" method consists of propping open a sack with a spade, lighting a candle inside as a lure, and finally removing the spade and trapping it after it has gone inside.

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dandiesindanger · 8 months

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Taxidermy

New episode airs tomorrow! The ladz continue the hunt for clues.

Art by @foolcreature

#dandies in danger #dind #dandies #dandy #ladz #paranormal #podcast #roleplay podcast #queer podcast #horror podcast #rpg podcast #regency era #victorian era #historical fiction #historical fantasy #homebrew campaign #taxidermy

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aloeverawrites · 4 months

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“You just don’t like to write about dark things,”

Sir, I plan murders for a living. I make up some people, make up some more people and then make up a reason for those fictional people to kill those other fictional people.

I can handle the darkness.

I’m just asking you to stop using art to spread the message that bigotry and abuse is a good thing actually. Because that’s kind of been oppressing people for hundreds of years. So if you could just not do that, thanks.

#murder mystery #fiction affects reality #anti intellectualism #stop this all or nothing thinking it gets us nowhere #I literally wrote a book about a serial killer who wanted to taxidermy a guy #thing is I just don’t portray that as a good thing to do to people-#it’s not mentioned the topic that shows what kind of person who are it’s what you say about it

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cavelions · 1 year

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The year is about 30,000 BCE.

You are from a hunter-gatherer tribe in what is now Germany.

You walk with a small group of your friends, intending to hunt mountain hares on the hillside not far from camp. It is a cool Spring day and you can hear many song birds chirping. As you pass an area known to be frequented by cave lions, you see something in the near distance.

It's a lion, Stone cold lying on the ground. He appears to have been an unlucky casualty from a territorial battle with another male.

Before you get too close you grab a small rock and throw it at the lion to see if he's still alive. It hits his side and you are met with no reaction.

Lions are considered somewhat sacred to your people, they are not to be killed except in self-defense or otherwise absolutely necessary.

You run your fingers through his small mane-like ruff on his neck. It stretches from the back of his head to his shoulders and is a bit longer than the rest of his fur, and quite softer.

As you inspect the body it appears that the Ravens and other scavengers have not yet found him, which means other than the wounds on his neck and front legs his Pelt is in great shape.

The tallest of your three friends is in training to become a shaman. He still has several years to go but is already quite knowledgeable in the gods and healing. Before you take out your knives he speaks the last rights to the lion. As he finishes you take out your obsidian knife and the four of you turn the lion onto his stomach.

You take your blade and cut from the top of his rib cage to near his groin, slowly you and your friends peel away his skin. using a hand ax to separate his head and paws from the rest of his body.

The four of you Carry the Lion's Pelt back to camp, he will be worn in ceremonies by your friend. The gatherers of the tribe will take parts of the lion's brain, and tan his hide to preserve for many years.

#writing #short story #paganism #history #prehistory #historical fiction #vulture culture #taxidermy #ancient religions #animal death #gore

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callmeanxietygirl · 10 months

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#pulp fiction #taxidermy #mice

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swallowtailed · 1 year

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fatt is a sprawling podcast that frequently touches on many fields of study, and i listen to it while i work, so i guess it makes sense that at times i will find myself doing a task while it is described in the show. but it's never not surprising (or unsettling, or world-opening).

anyway, i decided to finish listening to tm 63: guaranteed events while doing a bit of data entry.

#i think this is another point in favor of listening to twilight mirage after partizan actually #but like. oh my god #i knew about that line! and i figured it was in this episode! but i am just like.#TATTOO OF A BLUEBIRD.#fatt #hello world #the other greatest hit of fiction podcast imitating life was listening to the marrowcreek arc while doing taxidermy #which was alarming to say the fucking least #twilight mirage #fatt lb

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butch-bakugo · 2 years

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Honestly, sanitizing the origins of meat, leather and fur and bone to something just stated and never shown, is why white americans who dont hunt look down on indigenous communities irl.

The average white middle class american who dosent hunt game and eat it has no idea what gose into to making their natural products from the steak on the table to the yarn they knit with. They have no connection to the food they eat and products they use and thats why it has no value to them. They've never seen people kill, clean, cook and eat a cow all at once so when they watch an African tribe do it in a documentary, they are disgusted and horrified. When they natives in a docuseries kill and eat a seal then wear its fur for warmth and survival, they are upset. They were never taught or ever experienced a native way of living. Living close to the land, thanking the great spirit for another meal because there is no grocery store, what they catch is what they eat.

Americans are conditioned to feel sorry for any animal death and cry when they do instead of realizing this is the natural cycle of life. Of course the blood and gore of a dead deer is gross to you but only because you were never shown the reality of your food. Horror movies and exofascists want you to be disguested by any gore so seeing a dead bloody animal is 'horrific'. Of course this isnt an excuse for those who needlessly harm animals, thats fucked up, but a hunter and the act of hunting game isnt gross. Its survival and many people's lived realities. We, as a society, have got to stop fearing blood and need to desensitizating ourselves to meat and hide.

Because it fuels racism and ecofascism. It fuels racism when the only black people you see are on tv with a white commentator telling you about this "savage and uncivilized tribe in the Sahara who sacrifice cows and goats to this god "who they'll mispronounce or peta blaming the extinction of seals on inuk people that hunt them and use them to survive on their tribal lands. It makes hurting the african american people and indigenous people around you much easier when the only place you see them is in a bad light on the tv screen. It gives you a bias when you only see natives cutting open a dear with slasher music behind it. Not only that, but it makes good natural survival techniques that could save you one day look uncivilized and grotesque. It makes you see factory farming as more humane when the only difference is the amount of animals killed and the amount of bones and "useless" cuts of meat wasted. The amount of people i know who eat dry as shit well done steaks because they cant handle the thought of red meat or still juicy aka bloody meat in their mouths is ridiculous. My medium rare steak is the same as your well done one, the only difference is the time used to cook it. The blood is still there, its just less concentrated. Thats the reality of eating meat.

So just remember that killing and eating animals may be your ancestry but its many people's reality and its not uncivilized or gross, its day to day. Its natural and when done correctly, beautiful. Your an omnivore and meat is a necessity to a natural diet. Embrace it. Nature gave you that rabbit so you could live and its life lengthens yours. Thank the rabbit for its meat and stop anthropomorphizing your food. The rabbit cant talk to you or cryd cause either you would of gotten it and killed it humanely or a coyote would have gotten it and ripped it to shreds. Its do or die out there and passisim wont keep you alive.

#levi speaks #killing and eating an animal is a ritual to natives #we thank the earth and the animal for the meal and we move on #white americans have been shown so much fictional media that they assume every creature has anin depth internal dialoge and complex emotion #they dont #the all think they are disney princesses where if they show enough kindness towards wild animals #the animal wont attack them #youd starve #eat meat its what your teeth are meant to do #theres a reason hunters say thenfirst 3 shots are the hardest because youve been conditioned to think these animals are people #they arnt #and with sustainable farming and hunting the world would be a much healthier place #roadkill wouldnt be so shocking #seeing a just cleaned dear wont be so gross #seeing taxidermy and animal skulls wont be so macombre #its just the remains of an animal #they arnt in pain and they arnt haunting you #they are dead #racism #nativephobia #indigenophobia #im not tagging animal death as it hasnt got shit to do with cats or dogs or other animals white people dont eat #ur the only ones who care

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theashleymatt · 2 months

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What to do When the Head Grows Back

Imagine, if you will, a group of sisters as they roll a headless body into a gaping grave dug on the grounds of a pictorial countryside cottage. Hold that image close, know that we’ll get there soon enough.

It’s lashing outside today. I see the hairy trolls in the backyard sheltering under giant toadstools. I try not to think of how damp they must feel. I break a nail on a tin of beans I open for soup. This bothers me more than the trolls, who I know can see me looking at them.

To get my mind off the damp and sad and cold trolls, I go to my study where I find solace in the goats and the swans and the chicks. Nested in their cabinets are all manner of billed, flippered and hooved creatures. I unlock and open one of the glass-fronted cabinets, the largest in the dank and dusty room – I must ask Gerty to stop shedding so much skin in here – I open the cabinet to pet little Ozzy. Her coat is still bloody from the day she was hit at the cross walk between Ossington and Marshall. Hit square in the neck, must have broken on impact. I’m sad for her still. I wish the driver had met as tragic a death. The blood on Ozzy wasn’t from the first impact. No, it was from when an 18-wheeler coming the other direction didn’t stop and ran poor Ozzy over, smooshing her already dead deer body. Her intestines and stomach popped out like the eye from a socket, they did. The taxidermist tried to tell me the blood would attract pests if they didn’t wash the fur. I told them I could handle the pests. It’s the trolls I have trouble with. No, the blood stays. I don’t want to re-write history. That would be dishonorable to good, lovely, innocent Ozzy. I dust Ozzy’s hooves and thumb her ears. I look in to her fake glass eyes and think I see someone, something looking back at me. Her long-departed soul? Really, I think I see a reflection. Someone behind me. I don’t want to break the spell Ozzy has over me right now so don’t turn to see if there’s anyone there, ready to bludgeon me or tickle me under the armpits. Instead, I kiss the bloody fur of Ozzy and close the door to her glass-fronted forever home and move to the smallest door in the room. Just big enough for a sightless, defenseless mole. The rain is still coming down hard. There is a sense we could all be washed away and I’m okay with that. The nervous feeling, that is. Pit-of-the-stomach fear that I swallow and drink down like something bitter.

As I move to the smallest door in the room I pass by my prized possessions. My western European mallard from 1815, stunned to death by the cannons of the last Napoleonic war. Stuffed in the United Kingdom of the Netherlands and acquired in 1984 by my beloved nanny Rosemond and gifted to me on her deathbed. I pass by the last osprey to have been shot in England. Proudly displayed since 1847 and gifted to my grandfather in 1918 when its owner was clearing house and deserting his country in its most troubled time of need. The coward. England needed drag queens more than ever then. He and his fringe dresses and platforms, high-tailed it to the French Rivera. I’m not sure he fared very well there, but the murdered osprey at least got a safe home.

I smell something off before I see what’s wrong in the picture. There is a burnt scent, of something delicious, sweet and spicey, with an undertone of boozy shit. After I smell the smell, I see the smallest door in the room has been pried open, its tiny brass lock bent out of shape. I open the wooden door on my tiny, defenseless mole home and see the cavity filled with the wrong things. I see a pile of figs and a coiled shit sitting in a puddle of whiskey, rather than what should be there. Feet. The two Christmas cactus-looking lobed feet plucked from the body of a Eurasian coot. I found that coot myself, nesting amongst garbage along the edge of a canal in Gent. 1998 it was. That coot was asking for it. Calling out to its mate in the middle of the night and fighting off gangs of mallards that owned the waterway during the day. It was keeping me up night after night, echoing day after day, so bang, boom. I shot that Eurasian coot smack in the back. It was a mess. All that was left were its unique little tri-stemmed feet. Not like a duck’s feet, it must be known. There is so much memory wrapped up in those stems. It was a mistake to show them to Gerty. She has a second set of keys to every lock in this house. Once I caught her sucking on the dried rubbery lobes like a baby with a soother. I had to swat her away before she did more damage to them. But it couldn’t have been Gerty who took them, she’s on leave for the last misstep, and she has the keys so she wouldn’t have broken the lock. Gerty is a smart one, despite what I’ve said about her. It wouldn’t be the trolls either. While they are creepy and I wouldn’t put it past them to get up to no good, they fortunately lack opposable thumbs, at least the ones in our area, to work the doorknobs on the front door, let alone bust open a lock inside. No, whoever did this is one sadistic hooligan. Ruining perfectly good figs by leaving them in a poo. I’m tempted to eat one, a fig that is. Give it a quick rinse. The rain is letting up. I resist the fig.

They say there are five love languages. I looked them up the other day to see which category I may have the danger of falling into. Some of the debased pie charts say gift giving is one. Others contradict that by saying it’s receiving gifts. That’d be pretty selfish. More of a demanding and needy language. Contradiction sound more up my ally as a language I can speak. Southy was a contradiction and a toucher. Old Southy. He’d paw and pet at you all day if you’d let him. I didn’t let him. It was all I could do to get away. He’d try to hug me from behind while I was at the sink shaving pieces off a frozen fish for lunch. My back aching, my feet swollen. Touch, no thank you. In the end we did have quality time together. Southy was there when I took the coot out. We made memories on that trip. I invariably think of old Southy-boy, baby girl when I look at the coot feet. Maybe that’s why I’m thinking about hunting the thief down, even while I’m out at my happy place at this cliff’s edge, two days later. The storm is long gone but the earth is still sopping, damp and mucky. Another storm is already approaching. I can see it out there, gathering steam. Collecting energy. It’s disgusting.

At the bottom of this cliff I see the music box I threw over the edge a decade ago. No scavenger has come by yet to claim its broken pieces. The music box was inefficient. It took 20 minutes to set up to listen to a seven-minute song. It was a glorious seven minutes. You could spend your whole life living up to those bombastic, clear, seven minutes of sound. That’s why I threw it off the cliff. I couldn’t handle the joy it brought and the time it took to get it. I know I won’t be able to find answers at this edge about the smarmy thief that broke in to my sanctum. So, I leave my happy place.

Now on the moor, I’m looking for a hole. There’s a spot on this walk, the walk I used to take every day with Dag, every day until their back legs started going lame and we had to take her out back and put an end to her. Trust me, in the end it was better for everyone. Everyone being me. Dag was all dragging sore-ridden paws, looked like they’d been gnawed at by a rabid beast. Dag and I used to enjoy the crisp constant blowing wind. I’d know when the hole was coming up. Dag would start to get dead serious and focused, no more bounding and bouncing. Laser focused. A scent in the air, one I couldn’t detect.

It’s a shame Dag isn’t here now. I could use the help. I hear the faint sound of screaming. I’m getting close. My boots start to suck in to the wet peat. If I’m not careful I’ll get sucked right in and never be seen again. I spot the hole. A perfect circle, you’d think no animal could have made it. But that’s the hubris of man. To think only we can create symmetry with machinery and tools. You’d be a fool to think such things. Every year hikers come across this hole and think, what’s that there? unsuspecting of the life that lives below. They stick their plucky little necks down there in the dark, cold tunnel hoping to spot a goldmine or a bog body, but ultimately meet with Bea. Delightful Bea. I won’t trouble you with what Bea does to those jolly hikers. You I’m sure can imagine. The screams of the trapped hikers are getting louder. I scream back, trying to harmonize, but it’s no use. Theirs are talentless, purposeless screams. My sing screaming brings Bea to the surface and she is plum cute as ever. Wirey hair every which way, snout long and pointy with a nose so big and smooshy you just want to boop it.

“Good fine morning Miss Bea. Have you been well through the storm?”

“Petra Marla Oona. Is that you? You don’t have your usual odor, what have you been up to?”

I exchanged the necessary pleasantries with Miss Bea, she becomes cranky if I stay too long so I get to the point.

“Something broke into my house two nights ago. They took my coot feet.”

Miss Bea doesn’t skip a horse’s heartbeat with her analysis, “I think the South Knight is jerking you around. That’s my first thought and my instincts never let me down.”

I tense up at the name South Knight. Miss Bea, the perceptive little cunt, picks up on this.

“You look a little worried, Marla. Anything the matter? I can tell your anus is tighter than before. Trying your best to keep your innards from becoming outers?”

Miss Bea has become a terrible show off of late. Too many hikers in her lair. She needs to be taken down a peg or two.

“Do you like that I send hikers your way Miss Bea?”

“Of course I do. I’m helping you, aren’t I?”

“Let’s keep it civil.” I kick Miss Bea in that bulbous snout of hers to keep her in place and leave the immaculate circular hole on the soppy moor to make a plan for visiting South Knight.

I yell back as I’m leaving, “Remember, I’ll stomp on your babies if they make tunnels near my land.”

Miss Bea doesn’t say anything, but I know she’s heard me.

Making plans requires a clear head and I have a tool for that. Something I’ve cultivated over the years. Hard fought, hard won. These things are different for everyone. Mine is named Shifty Barry.

I’ll never pass up a chance for a good ploughing from my sweet Shifty Barry. Getting right banged from behind in safe hands really does untangle the cables of the brain.

I exchange the moorland and rubber boots for nylons and a slinky dress. I get in my pickup and head for Shifty Barry’s. The coot feet don’t matter to me much right now. Instead, the nagging, ever present thought is that Southy has one up on me. That gnawing feeling is worse than any good memory.

Shifty Barry is sturdy and stout with a good head of hair that seems to live an independent existence from its owner, set atop his head like a crown of silken springs. It must be said Shifty Berry isn’t shifty at all. But sometimes he can give a look that makes you wonder if he’s here on this plane with you or somewhere inside your brain picking at the pieces, looking for answers to the big questions, like what should I have for lunch or who will be on The Graham Norton Show this week.

Shifty Barry gives me his full attention the minute I walk through the door to his spotless cabin. He’ll gaze lovingly at me, smooth skinned Shifty Barry, tightly packed muscled Shifty Barry body. He’ll watch as I lay sunbathing in his yard by the deep dark, almost black lake.

All this after the ploughing though. The ploughing must come first. It’s not summer right now though so no sunbathing this time. But after the dress gets peeled off and the nylons get a hole ripped into the crotch so they can stay on during the ploughing we retreat to his sauna where we lay apart. We lay apart so I have room to grow twenty feet tall and fifty feet wide. We lay apart so I can expand and contract my lungs and stomach and suck in the hot, wet, orange essential oiled air. Suck in the universe and all its dirt and dust and hairy creatures. We lay apart and he looks at me with soft eyes before he drags me over to him, pulling me from my hips to eat and suck me clean off the bone.

I think about how I’ll approach the Southy situation and Shifty Barry is looking into my mind, eating his way through the knotty, calcified nerves. Digging out the truncated pathways that I’ve worked so hard to block and keep closed. Ruts and tracks that I’ve forged to shoot currents back and forth, only to let one thought through. One thought. Shifty Barry has seen too much and wants to make new paths. I don’t want his new paths. I ask Shifty Barry to find my dress and give me a few dollars for a new pair of nylons. I sink myself one last time into Shifty Barry’s gaze and leave the way I came.

The South Knight’s home is tricky. One must always have their boundaries up and firmly in place. You’ll get sucked in otherwise, like the peatbog. South Knight has a persuasive streak, a pusher of things. Food, wine, clothes, dreams. All big and leaves you wanting. Another drink? Don’t go home. Stay the night. The empire is yours if you’ll only share another bite with me. One can become a gluttonous fool if one hangs around too long. A fool with a bad temper and short attention span.

Visiting South Knight is like stepping into a world unholy. Passing through the modest wooden gate a pack or Irish Wolfhounds, all kind and shaggy, greet me. Never jumping or barking, never pawing or slobbering all over your legs. A stately cottage of stonework, brick and slate. Bedraggled with all the potential for misery, yet somehow homely and warm with some unknowable form of eternal optimism and hope that keeps it light, airy and romantic. Feminine energy permeates the walls. Only one adult male resides here, and he is South Knight. He’s softened since I knew him. Time, I suppose does that. Once the urge to put themselves in every hole they see subsides, some form of kindness starts to seep in. He still doesn’t see the colours I can see though. No amount of waning fuckery will ever give him that.

Inside, the daughters in staggering numbers parade around in their day dresses, holding books and sewing needles and whisks and puppies. As I said, unholy. Among the daughters there is a servant woman. She never complains, but her body does. Her nerve endings scream and send sharp needles through her. Into her shoulders, her hips, her knees. Her feet, her wrists, her arms. She moves but just barely. She is stiff and stifled. She is a monster. A spinster. She is forty! Can you imagine? Personally, I would have chucked her to the wolves at thirty-five, before she started to show signs of jowls, but South Knight proclaims to be a righteous man and wouldn’t dream of discriminating. Though I know him better. I knew him before this group of daughters, and I know him now. If he were so good why doesn’t he make his own meals, slaughter his own calves. Wash his own bed sheets and mend his own skirts.

I meet Gerty at the back servant’s entrance. She and the chickens are communing. She’s always been good like that.

“Hello Miss Gerty. It’s good to see you again.” I say, approaching cautiously.

Gerty is cradling chicken feed in her apron, all organs and crushed bones. The folded-up fabric sags under the weight of blood and flesh. Sturdy Gerty doesn’t waver in her duties. Where others might have dropped the feed and run for their master to alert them of imminent strife, Miss Sturdy Gerty gives me a wry smile and a warm, if not fake, greeting.

“If it isn’t Madam Oona brought back from the living. I never, ever expected to see you again.”

“If I had a choice, I wouldn’t ever have wanted to see this place, or you again either.”

“Well lucky us then,” Gerty puts her hands in the bloody feed. The hens and cocks continue to peck and scratch. I go through the servant’s entrance, leaving Gerty to her work.

I remember inside, but South Knight’s new wife has redecorated and remodeled so it’s the same, but different. A wall down here, a new window there. The new wife likes rundown things as much as Southy, so I'm sure they get on. It doesn't take Southy long to come up from his den. He surely smelt me when I first entered the gates. I could hear his cough before I saw him, a great phlegmy, hawking up a lung morning routine cough. Dislodging decades of souls he’s crushed with nitpicking and impotent indecision. Those poor creatures who didn’t have the strength to just get up and walk out the door. It’s so easy to not come back. Send a text one year saying happy new year and then just fall off the map. Save yourself, I will say to whoever passes me in the hallways. But I've come back, haven't I? Yes, I have. Those damn coot feet. Sentimentality will be the end and the beginning of me.

“You’ve grown!” Southy booms in his artificial kindly voice. I’m fourteen again and I’ve recently gotten my butter tart sized breasts. Tiny things they are. But to Southy they are as exciting as coconut cream pies. He pretends he’s not looking, but I can feel his eyes. I want to cover up, but I have nothing else to wear. Southy gives me an awkward hug. I’m as open as I’ll ever be in my life right now, hugging this person. It’s not a warm, loving embrace. No calm, no serotonin going through me. It’s tense, not a full embrace. Fight, flight, freeze. Which will my body choose?

“Come. Sit. The girls have laid the table for dinner. We suspected you may arrive. A drink? Celebrate the big girl coming home.” Southy shoos the only son out of a chair and takes his seat.

I comply. My defenses are secure, I will concede for a time.

“I’ll take champagne.” I say as I sit a few chairs away from Southy. I don’t need his hot spittle hitting me as he pontificates.

I’m given a cheap white. It tastes like sweet piss. All the daughters are drinking it.

“We never see you anymore. I get so lonely you know. You should call more often.” Southy says, pitying himself. “Go get me a glass for my beer,” Southy orders the only son.

Southy directs his attention back my way, “You know women are such trouble, wouldn’t you say. They are so smart, so smart at your age, smarter and even bigger than boys. If I were an alien, come down to this planet for the first time I’d say women are the dominant sex of the human species. When they are your age. But as they grow, they...no not that one.” The son is by the China hutch holding a beer stein. Southy tuts and looks at me as if to say, must I explain everything.

“No, the pint glass. Do you see which bottle I’m holding?” He holds his beer bottle up for all to see, he chuckles as if this is funny. Southy looks at me again wanting me to agree, like the son is a fool for not knowing which glass Southy wants at this given time. The son brings a pint glass over.

“See here we go. Now we’re good.” Southy wipes his hands together.

The son moves to the far end of the table, he sits beside Gerty, hoping to shrink so he won’t be noticed. Hoping to shrink to avoid further scrutiny or requests from Southy. In his contracted state the son comments on Gerty’s hair clip, “Why are you wearing that one? It looks so sissy. Sissy baby, you’re a sissy baby.”

The smile Gerty has drops, she stops chatting with the girls around her and takes the clip out. She hears the sister next to her prattling away. Gerty gets annoyed and slaps her sister across the face. That sister slaps the next, that sister slaps the one beside her. Down the line the slaps go, daughter after daughter, sister after sister. They get to the end of the table where Southy sits watching all this fun. The daughter closest to him does not transfer the slap to his puffy, booze-bloated face where it should be planted, where that energy should end up, deposited from where it started. No. That daughter slaps the one who slapped her, and it goes down the line, the opposite direction. Slap, slap, slap, back it goes until it gets to Gerty once more. She holds that pain for a moment. That red hot pain. She picks up the steak knife beside her plate and plunges it into the son’s chest. The young boy registers the shock. Southy is delighted by this chaos, thinking it’s a great lark. The son slumps in his chair. He’s dying. The lark is over.

“Gerty?! Look at what you’ve done!” Southy’s laugh has turned angry. He is stern. “My only son!” His only male punching bag. “My only son, murdered.” Southy looks distraught. He looks at me, “See. Women, only taking. Only wanting drama.” Southy is vindicated by Gerty’s actions.

“Gerty, go to your room. No supper tonight.”

Gerty accepts the punishment and leaves. I know who I will ask for help from tonight. Hair clip girl. Gerty. Old spinster Gerty has claimed herself and will be riding this murderous rage, this high, for a few days. She will do anything right now.

Southy takes the silence in the room as invitation to continue preaching, “As they grow, the girls they lose their ambition, they lose their intelligence. They only care about their looks and money. Men’s money. Just look around you. You see?” Southy gestures at the creatures at the table. “Women contribute nothing. They have it so easy and they still whine about it.”

“My feet.” I speak.

“What about your feet?” Southy looks at my feet, “You need new shoes? You came back just to have me buy you shoes again!?” Southy laughs at his shitty joke.

“My coot feet. My cherished Belgian souvenirs. I want them back.” I clearly say.

“Tut, tut my beautiful. I think you have that wrong. They are my feet.” Southy says.

I hold my resolve, “I shot that coot. I took its feet. They are mine.”

“Ooooh. You shot the coot!” Southy looks around the table for allies. Everyone is looking down. It’s quiet. No one wants to meet Southy’s eyes.

Southy continues, “I took you to that shabby gothic cesspit. Whatever you got while there, is mine.” Southy smashes his fist on the table.

“I got herpes there. Must have been yours then.” A few of the daughter’s chuckle. I smile at the son, slouched and dying in his chair. He smiles back.

Southy looks at the son, “I need the stein, why would you get me a pint glass for this beer?”

The boy continues to sag in his chair, blood seeping from the steak knife wound. He looks to the China hutch.

Southy turns his attention back to me, pretending his temper is under control, “You should stay the night. I never see you anymore. Do you have a phone?"

“I have a phone.” I say.

“Are your fingers broken? Can you not dial my number once in a while?”

“I’ll stay the night. Sounds like great fun.” I yield again.

Southy is overjoyed. Hands up in the air, arms wide, large sad belly out, “Here we go,” he shouts.

“No need for the stein son. We’re having whiskey tonight.”

When a person riddled with impotence drinks, they present as such common, depressed, sad creatures. Pitiful. Often angry. Often, they like to blame. They talk of grand futures that will never happen. They’re incapable. They will never change. I give serious credit to the ones who manage to break the bonds created by their surroundings, those who do change. But they are rare gems. If that is you, you are a gem. Hold that. You are so powerful. Southy is no rare gem. He’s as common as nutrient-depleted dirt in America’s heartland.

After dinner the daughters file off to the reading room to mend stockings and crochet and do needlepoint. The file off to play games on tablets, tell each other tales of escape and gossip about this new arrival who’s getting Southy’s goat. I stay with Southy and his now dead son, still slouched in the chair. I humor Southy and his idea of what a man of the house is. Decreeing from the head of the table and sipping cheap wine and downing whiskey after whiskey speaking ill of the world and falling deeper and deeper into a sad, mangled hole.

I humor Southy by drinking a finger of his bargain basement whiskey and get to the point.

“I’m not leaving here without my coot feet.”

Southy takes a deep breath, shifts his stiff unused body in his chair, failing to get comfortable. Downs his current whiskey, pours another, expecting that it will quiet his pain.

“I guess you’re never going to leave me again.”

I go to bed early leaving Southy to drink with his dead son.

I knock on the door where I know the daughters sleep. I slept in this room once. Single beds in rows like an orphanage. The one I want, Gerty, is awake. I can see her heart aglow from where I stand at the threshold. Her burning, angry, ambitious heart.

We sit on Gerty’s bed. I’m not worried about waking the others who have finished their activities for the night and are sound asleep. If I do wake them, I want them to hear me.

“Do you want him dead?” Gerty asks me.

“I just want my coot feet. Do you want to get out of here?”

“More than anything.” Gerty was here when I was. She had been there before me.

“Can you help me get what I need?” I ask.

“If I can come with you when you go, I’ll get your feet. They’re surely in his study. He keeps the key in the cookie jar. He thinks we don’t know, but we’re the ones in the kitchen all day. As if we wouldn’t notice.”

We tiptoe through the house, a small candle lighting away. We step over one of the Irish wolfhounds enjoying the warmth of the dying drawing room fire. Southy is bent over in his armchair. Drunk, passed out. To rid the daughters of their tormentor all Gerty and I would have to do is impale Southy with that steak knife that sent his son. But that’s not what we’re here for.

In the kitchen we find the key among the ginger cookies. Into the study we go. On Southy’s desk the lobed feet sit, dried out and leathery. Gerty picks them up and pockets them.

“I’ll give them to you when we’re out.” she says.

I agree. We leave the room unlocked. Door wide open.

In the morning the daughters are all busy in the airy country kitchen, preparing breakfast. One is whisking eggs, another kneading dough, another frying bacon, and yet another peeling apples. A see of lot of ambitious faces in this workroom.

Gerty and I sit at the long, nicked harvest table, watching the daughter’s routine. The routine they did yesterday and the day before that. The routine they’ll do every day into the future until they figure they can just walk out the door and never come back. We hear Southy coughing up a lung in another room. I will say goodbye before I leave. I won’t skulk away with my tail between my legs.

“You must stay for breakfast!” Southy decrees from the door behind us.

We all of us are at the table again, same as the night before. Only the son is now missing. One of the daughters must have cleared his body away but hadn’t gotten to the bloodstains yet. The daughters keep their heads down, they keep their mouths shut. They don’t eat, they don’t talk.

“I know you want to take my head over this, oh daughter of mine. Drawing you back here like this.” Southy says.

“Not anymore.” I say, “It didn’t work for me the first time, so why would I do it again?”

“I was surprised when it grew back, I tell you. My head that is.” Southy says with genuine surprise.

“A shame.” I say, I fork some runny, salty scrambled eggs into my mouth.

“Gerty is coming with me.” I declare as I stir milk into my coffee.

Southy spreads peanut butter on a piece of bread, tops it with fatty, floppy bacon. He fakes happiness at this news. “Oh, I see. Please take her. You see how many of these girls I must provide for.” Southy gestures around the table with his knife, dripping oily peanut spread as he does.

“You’d be doing me a favour. You know, I have my eyes set on a new group of daughters. Did I tell you? Oh, beautiful black girls they are. They look just like beasts out of Africa. No, I mean it. Features just like apes. Fascinating. I see you making a face at me. But it’s true.”

I want to slice Southy’s throat. But I know it won’t do any good. He’ll come back worse, worse as ever.

“Why did you take the coot feet? Really.” I ask. I sip my coffee. I hate that I like it. I don’t want any good memories from this pastoral place.

“Ah, you’ve changed your tune. The coot feet, not my coot feet. I see you’re making progress.” He bites into his sandwich, shaking and dribbling. Through a full mouth, half chewing, half talking he continues, “I missed you. I wanted you back. The house can’t run right without you. Stay. It’s wonderful here. I’ll take care of you.”

Before I can tell Southy to slice into his nut sack, Gerty has lobbed his head clean off. I suppose she didn’t want to wait any more. I don’t blame her. Southy doesn’t deserve any more of us.

“Well done, Gerty! I'll show you where I buried the first head.” I say.

Gerty nods with resolve, the axe she used on Southy poised in her hands.

Gerty and I stand at the foot of Southy’s first grave. His skeleton exposed as best as the daughters could do. Eighteen of them, all with dirty shovels, stand around the fresh hole they’ve dug up at our request. Southy’s first skull stares up at us. Gerty holds Southy’s second head in her hands while another daughter drags Southy’s decapitated body towards the waiting group.

“I’m not sure this will keep him down.” I say to Gerty.

“I wasn’t in the mood to wait around for another chance. Maybe this time it will work.” Gerty says and throws Southy’s head in the grave and climbs in herself.

“Pass me that shovel.” She asks one of her sisters who accommodates. Gerty jams the shovel head into Southy’s mouth.

A group of sisters rolls the headless body into the hole. Gerty starts tossing the bones of first Southy out. All but the skull. One of the Irish wolfhounds takes a femur and trots off, happy with its find. Each daughter takes a bone, a keepsake perhaps, if they still hold some Stockholm syndrome love for this smelly fart of a man. Others, to do their own witchcraft with.

Gerty positions the body belly down. She makes sure to keep the shovel-eating head at the feet and the old skull jaw down on Southy’s flatulent ass.

“What’s all this for?” I ask.

“I heard once that the head at the feet will keep it from reattaching. Belly down means he can’t climb up, but will claw further down. Shovel in the mouth to keep those wretched opinions to himself, even in hell. And skull on the ass, I’m not sure if that’s a thing. But if it is, now he can eat shit.”

I nod in approval as Gerty climbs out in quick order. I hold her hand to give her some leverage. The daughters take this as a sign to start filling the grave and each prays silently that this time the burial will stick.

The next morning comes, and the daughters continue as they always did. The chicken eat their scratch, the pigs get slaughtered, the well gets drunk from, the wood is chopped and fires lit. A few daughters say goodbye to me as they head off to market with woven baskets to sell and provisions to purchase.

Gerty and I take our leave.

It’s quiet at home. Less feet moving about. The trolls mind their business in the bushes. I place my Eurasian coot feet back in the cabinet where they belong. My animal room is complete once again. I ask Gerty to fix the broken door and lock that Southy busted.

I ask my son to get me a glass for my whiskey.

#short story #horror #english countryside #taxidermy #fiction #graham norton show

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chlorimes · 6 months

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I love in a way I love butterflies.

I don't love humanely, mainly because it wasn't something taught in a home that resembled a grandoise vitrine. A picture-perfect family within that is to be reached but never to be touched, all for others to be witnessed and admired but never to be known deeper.

In this display case—I am present to be pretty, poised, and elegant. However, the sights within had never matched what appeared on the outside.

If others simply saw a feather of a bird, I saw the remaining evidence of the existence of a Huia. Birds who were hunted merely because of a passing craze, now a mere haze.

When others used ivory to create pieces for their own greed, I saw the imagery of Elephants shot and hunted for their tusks. Parts natural to themselves and a display of their magnificence, trampled and cut for momentarily enjoyment.

I bear witness to these atrocities and hold the burden of knowing.

I love others, in a way I love butterflies.

In a deeper consciousness, I am aware, that in this twisted way, I love.

I am no hypocrite, for I admit that I hold the same greed as others.

The signs when I present this love appear when I cut open myself for others to see. When the scalpel runs from my throat down to my stomach, carving the words: 'lo and behold, I.

When I let my blood drip down to the marble floor, offering myself to butterflies for them to be fed. As their fill matters more than when my final breath would be heaved.

But I remember that what I know of love is an equivalent exchange. I can not love butterflies if I simply offer all of my being. If I lose myself now, then who shall love them again?

I am aware of their frailty, so I handle them with care and caution.

I hold out my bloodied hands, offering them my being, showing my sincerity. I let them feed on the liquid that is part of myself before I encage them in glass that is my home.

Butterflies never last in enclosure, but only in death can I fully express these affections binding them and I, together.

I don't have much time when their bodies quickly become brittle upon demise. So with exercised caution and effort, I repeat the pattern I've grown accustomed to: dry, press, and relax before their corpse is mounted.

Still, I never forget to admire their beauty amidst the process.

The same bloodied hands are now clean and back to its dexterity, the scent of chemicals clinging onto the gloves and clothing I wear.

I hold them by their thorax and put an insect pin through the middle of the body, right between the wings.

I pin them all the way through to prevent the wings from forcing itself backwards.

I gently force their wings down with the forceps, and once they're placed on the board, I fold the wings down using strips of paper and pins.

I placed the antennae and abdomen in their right positions and made the needed adjustments before placing strips of paper over the wings to prevent them from curling during the drying time.

After it’s dry, I carefully remove the pins and strips of paper.

Finally, I place the preservation in the frame, admiring all the love I gave and the love I received from this existence.

And there I hang this precious creation, with others who had experienced my process of love and affection, on the wall of my personal display.

Because I love others, similarly in a way, I love butterflies.

#chlowrites #i love others in a way i love butterflies #love as a way expressed through taxidermy #subtle imagery of gore #oh to love and be loved with greed #though this is mostly me creating my own analogy #essay #literary fiction #creative writing #creative nonfiction

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neonpajamas · 9 months

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Partial Particles

Piece me back together, said the puzzle to the taxidermy deer. We can't, said the stuffed owl to the scattered puzzle. No one asked you, replied the deer. The unmentioned animals, all they did was shoosh.

#poem #poetry #creative writing #short story #prose poem #microfiction #story #flash fiction #fiction #taxidermy #deer

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yandere-writer-momo · 2 months

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Thinking about a Yandere Demon Lord. This is Part 1.

Yandere Head Canons:

Defying Destiny

Yandere Demon Lord x Isekai Saintess Reader x Yandere Hero

TW: Voyeurism, stalking, Somniaphilia, dacryphillia, dark content, etc

Part 2

You were surprised to be alive after your cold fiancé pushed you into oncoming traffic when you got into an argument with him… all you had wanted was for him to show you that he loved you, but instead he killed you. Yet your life didn’t end… no. Far from it.

Rather than waking up in the supposed after life, you woke up in the Rerenth Kingdom. A fantasy kingdom in a magical world plagued with problems written in fiction novels. And the emperor explained to you, no, demanded that you to take on your role as Saintess to save them from the Demon King.

The demon king was now your enemy. Defeating him was the only way for you to go home… but did you even want to do that? In your last life and in this one, you were merely another unhappy pawn. The silk robes and dazzling abilities did nothing to shield you from the harsh reality of what your life has become once more… would you ever truly be free? Would you ever truly be happy?

The servants often spoke of the monstrous Demon King who controlled the forces of darkness that sought to destroy the light. A demonic entity none of the people in this kingdom had ever truly seen with their own eyes, but they believed him to be out there… how else were they to explain the supernatural happenings that plagued their kingdom? This entire ordeal made little sense to you since you hadn’t seen many disputes between humans and demons unless they were over territory. Vast majority of the time, it was humans that ventured into the demonic lands anyways. Was this perhaps some propaganda tactic? You didn’t know and you didn’t question it, you simply wanted to retire to a peaceful life.

It took a few weeks for you to be able to control your new holy power, but you were able to now harness it for barriers and for healing. Abilities that would be useless without a hero… a fact that the citizens soon realized so they began to devise another plan. To summon a hero!

Another few weeks passed by and they successfully summoned a valiant hero by the name of Reinhardt. His chiseled face was constantly covered by the taxidermied lion mask that adorned his face. The man was massive and intimidating, yet you couldn’t help but feel there was something familiar about him. You couldn’t place a finger on who he could possibly be since you didn’t know anyone else with an imposing stature like his but that gut feeling never left you.

Reinhardt would often glance you up and down when he thought you weren’t looking. His green eyes would bore into yours until you felt as if you’d be set ablaze. He was terrifying to you. Especially now that you were on a journey with him to defeat the demon king… along with a fox beastwoman fighter and an elven mage who had joined your party due to the emperor’s order. The Emperor didn’t see you to be enough aid to the hero on this important quest.

Both adventurers were quite rude to you at first since you had no offensive abilities. They often fawned over the hero who blatantly ignored their affections to instead watch over you like a hawk. A fact the two women didn’t really enjoy, but they accepted it as the weeks melted into months. And you still didn’t know their names since they never told you (and Reinhardt never spoke).

The three of them often fought and killed monsters and demons while you protected the supplies and healed their injuries. It upset you that your party ambushed them since the enemies usually were unarmed. Majority of the time, it was a one-sided slaughter. An endless bloodbath that you had no power to stop.

You often lied to your peers about monsters hiding, unaware that your small act of kindness would lead to a snowball effect in the future. You had now caught the eye of an entity much stronger than you and the hero’s party… all because you were merciful. You were kind and sweet. A true saintess.

Your softness had made your peers joke about you being a cry baby. The elven mage and beastwoman often jabbed their elbows into your side to joke about the tears you’d cry because they thought you were scared. The dense women never realized your tears were for the innocent monsters they slaughtered on a day to day basis too. You were never scared of the demons or monsters, you were scared of them.

Yet Reinhardt nipped the subtle bullying in the bud by shoving the other two adventures away from you with his strong arms. He always made sure you were safe before he offered his body for healing… which he’d just make gesture at you with his hands rather than speak. It seemed he was fond of you, a fondness you didn’t understand since he never spoke to you.

Reinhardt would often pick you up without asking you and tuck you into the crook of his large arm. It bothered you that he never took off his mask, but he had quite an attractive jawline with the slightest bit of stubble. There was not a doubt in your mind that Reinhardt was likely an attractive man, but that didn’t matter. Since he was creepy.

Reinhardt never uttered a word to you but would always dutifully stand by your side (or carry you like some sort of damsel). He often reminded you of your ex fiancé with his stoic demeanor and his bewitching green eyes. And the staring. You swore you felt bare under his gaze even if you had multiple layers on.

And it wasn’t just his eyes you felt on you, you swore there was someone else watching you in the shadows and the possibility of you having another stalker made your skin crawl. Had you finally gone insane from having Reinhardt be around you 24/7? Or was there something sinister amiss?

Maybe that’s why Reinhardt so dutifully clung to you? Whether his protection was out of obligation or simply because he lusted for you, his presence did little to ease the extra set of eyes. In fact, he made it worse.

Wherever you were, Reinhardt was never far. He was with you when you bathed to stand guard. He was carrying you if you couldn’t keep up with him and the rest of the hero’s party. Reinhardt even began to stay in your tent with you…

He didn’t utter a word when he watched over you whenever you had nightmares. Reinhardt never woke you up from the horrific dreams of the man with pitch black hair and sharp talons pulling you into his lap and having his way with you. No, Reinhardt instead dragged his tongue down your tear stricken face in delight.

Reinhardt knew his actions were wrong, but he couldn’t help but fawn over your helpless form. You were so weak without his protection… you were a lamb sent to a slaughter that luckily had a herding dog with you. You should be grateful Reinhardt had such an intense interest in you, otherwise you could have perished earlier on at the goblin camps. Or those other two party members would have likely broken a few of your bones from rough housing. You were a frail bird that needed to be locked up at all times and Reinhardt was willing to be the one to do that! He would keep you safe, even if it took you years to understand even an ounce of his magnitude of feelings for you. He was a patient man!

It wasn’t uncommon for you to wake up in your tent with Reindhart’s imposing form standing over you ominously. You’d cry every single time, but he’d make no move to comfort you. Only stare.

Over the last four weeks, you begin to receive little trinkets in your tent on the daily. Delicacies that Reinhardt would immediately pitch once he saw them, but it filled you with anxiety that he was not the one slipping you those gifts… who on earth could be gifting you such pretty rocks and wild flowers?

You were flattered, just the tiniest bit, by the small, temporary gifts. They were much more welcomed than the iron grip of Reinhardt’s arms. Even though the sender made you anxious, it was nice to know that someone took you into consideration. It was a small action that filled you with hope. Perhaps you would be saved from this fate?

Shame you didn’t understand just how much those tiny gifts upset the hero. Your eyes should only be on him. Your entire purpose should revolve around him. Reinhardt wanted to find the individual who sent you these gifts so he could rip them limb from limb. You belonged to him and he would show you that you had no way of escaping him. You were going to be his bride! Whether you liked it or not, the hero had chosen you as his destined one!

Recently, you’d wake up to him laying beside you in your tent with his large arms wrapped around you. His Roman nose buried into the crook of your neck. This was far worse than him lingering in your tent since he had become so physical.

And your peers did nothing about his harassment of you. To them, it was cute that the hero was so ‘enamored’ with the Saintess! You’ve even heard whispers of how the emperor will no doubt arrange a marriage between the two of you once the four of you eliminated the demon king. It terrified you even more because you knew you’d have little say in the matter… your life was spiraling out of your own control once more. This time, into the arms of some brute with attachment issues. You didn’t want to marry another emotionally constipated man! You wanted to have freedom!

You often cried yourself to sleep which only made Reinhardt even more overbearing. He now would press kisses to your cheeks and cuddle his body into yours. Even in your dreams, you couldn’t escape this massive man. If only you could be saved…

And when you drifted off into an unnaturally heavy sleep, your barriers deactivated. An action that allowed the Demon King to finally slip into your party’s camp and take what he wanted. You.

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200story · 2 years

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Taxidermy

Sharp teeth of a snarling cougar, a tray full of glass eyes, animal skins hanging from hooks. Phillip looked nervously over his shoulder to see Liza offering an encouraging smile. Then the door shut, and Phillip alone with Isaac, his girlfriend’s father. “I could spend hours working out here,” the older man was explaining. “I find it very thought provoking, especially about politics.” Liza had…

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#300 words #fiction #flash fiction #microfiction #politics #short story #strained relationships #taxidermy

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ofmdjanuaury · 10 months

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Welcome to OFMD AU-gust! Check out the prompts and start creating 💙

Rules and text version under the cut!

RULES:

Any OFMD fan creations count! Fic, art, dioramas, bakes…

You can do one day or all of them, and use as many prompts from the day as you want!

Tag everything #OFMDAU-GUST

Every time you post something, try and comment on someone else’s, too!

You can post any prompt any day AFTER that prompt’s official day! So you can post Improv fics any day after 8/1, but you can’t post theatre fics till 8/31.

HAVE FUN!

Text version of the prompts:

1. Mechanic | Mail Carrier | Improv

2. Fantasy | Solarpunk | Fiber Arts

3. School Staff | Art Model | Taxidermy

4. Social Media | Tentacles | Identity Theft

5. Music/Band | Specific TV Show | Jumanji

6. Journalism | Specific Movie | Planetarium

7. Phone Operator | Rennaissance | Y2K

8. Sports | Ancient | Pacific Rim

9. Medicine | Aquarium/Zoo | Makeup Artist

10. Celebrity | D&D | Gig Worker

11. Science Fiction | Superheroes | Birdwatching

12. Coffee Shop/Bakery | Magical Girl (gn) | Influencer

13. Restaurant | Medieval | Eldritch Horror/Cryptid

14. Science | Place-Based | Weed Guy (gn)

15. Porn Star | Specific Book | Natural Disaster

16. Crime/Mob | Specific Cartoon | Drag/Burlesque

17. Farm/Rural | Time Travel | Polar Explorer

18. Small Business | Apocalypse | Stargate

19. Writer | 19th Century | Escape Room

20. Law | Nightclub | Professional Cuddler

21. Rebels | Zombie | Desert Island

22. Bar | Ghost Hunters | LARP

23. Transit | Daemon | Community Meeting

24. Archeology | Aliens | Paint and Sip

25. Epistolary | Public Access TV | Gas Station

26. Neighbors | Heist | Reality TV Hosts

27. Noir | Grocery Store | Blacksmith

28. Disney | Olympics | Sentinel/Guide

29. Boats | Non-Anglophone Place | Lumberjack

30. Canon-Divergent | Gardening | Kink Club

31. Theatre | Free Space | Someone Else's Universe

(Thanks to yerbamansa for reminding the mod to be accessible!!)

#ofmd #ofmd au-gust #fic challenges #fandom challenges #our flag means death

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