Over at Chicago Review of Books, I pick Kelly Schirmann’s Popular Music as one of the best poetry books of 2016 (the best book, poetry or otherwise, I read all year, for the record). It’s an incredible and surprising collection of poetry and essays, and you can read my praise (read: plea for you to read the book I can’t stop thinking about) at CHIRB.
Also worth noting and celebrating, the inclusion of Abigail Zimmer’s child in a winter house brighteningandJohn McCarthy’s Ghost County. This is the second year-end nod for Abigail, who took home the 2016 Chicago Review of Books Award for Best Poetry earlier this month. I interviewed John earlier this year to talk about Ghost County, his debut collection and the only book this year I finished in one sitting.
Congrats to all the amazing books that made the cut at CHIRB. What a year!
our lush forests turn gnarled and decayed, their elderly trunks contorting into terrifying scowls.
the wildflower patches wither and dissipate. their cheerful spots of color alongside our roads transform into a grim reminder that we are not in control of other lives around us. we have yet to find out who the warning is for.
the welcome sign out front casts eerie shadows onto the ground when struck with the sickly headlights of passing vehicles. the beveled lettering that declare our town’s name is more wary than welcoming. perhaps it is a warning. we have yet to know.
the wolves only make their existence known at nightfall, yet never show their faces. the only evidence of them is their haunting howls, leaping and twirling their twisted dance up towards the cold, cold moon.
the corn harbor none at all times, yet glowing eyes stare out from between their stalks. the eyes belong to no one. the eyes belong to everyone. we know nothing. we shall not know anything.
the air is still at night. stiff. uneasy. not even the wind dares to blow. she knows they want silence at night. not even she dares to defy the universe’s unshakable power. the town does not inhale a single breath until the sun peeks out from above the horizon at morning.
roads seem to appear from the ground after sunset. they seem typical to unknowing eyes, but keener ones notice their lack of street signs guarding their entrance. those street signs mean safety. stories circulate through the grapevine about passerby traveling along those roads and never seeing the sun again. we aren’t sure if they’re true. we’re just sure that we don’t know this town as well as we thought we did.
you’re not sure when the scary thoughts began. you just know that they manifested from the ink of a dark night and carry the energy of a withering forest in autumn. they hound you, grow in size when unattended. you don’t mind much; you have more to write about if you ever really do.
the green in your header disgusts you. it reminds you of gloomy swamps oozing with matter, of the gunk in your sink that you swear comes to life when the house is still at night. still, you leave it be. you are afraid of what your identity will become if you change it.
your profile picture hasn’t been changed since you set it when you first made your account. it was originally a picture your cousin took of you outside of your house. you thought it to be goofy when you first chose it, but every so often you zoom in on it just to make sure the camera didn’t hide anything malicious behind you. sometimes right before you glance away you swear you see figures lurking in the sickly orange light in the background. you dismiss it as overthinking and continue on.
your phone never sleeps. someone is liking your post every few minutes, another is sharing it to their mass of followers. your own following grows to a monstrous size, despite not being active for god knows how long. it intimidates you. it keeps you up at night. it is thirsty for more, demanding for you to spill the contents of your horrific brain onto the cracked and ugly pavement. yet, for some reason, you continue to welcome the waves of attention crashing over you without satisfying their hunger.
you try to keep your mind clear of frustrations felt towards your blog. the ones that crank the horror machine handle will get their feelings hurt if they overhear. after all, they tell the stories. they’ve seen it all, they are capable of anything. you wouldn’t want to know what they would do to you if you ridiculed them.
you still don’t understand why you force yourself to write such gruesome, terrifying things. your own words force your eyelids open throughout the night, keeps your ears honed sharp and alert for every single noise your house makes. just to let off steam, you reassure yourself every time, pulling your covers up to cover the length of your body. who are you comforting: the demons inside your head, or yourself?
what is your purpose?
you do not know.
you may not ever know.
all you know are the words within this blog and the twisted wonderland you bring to life for it.
the question should have never been about who we had to hide from. the answer was always in the back of our throats, on the very tips of our tongues. we could never go out at night, never stray too far from the yard during sunset.the way the air stuck to the walls, to our bodies– there were no crickets during summer nights. the eyes that watched us were anything but holy. there was no divinity in those fields.
Midwestern Gothic is driving 45 minutes home from one of your weekly football games. You pass through multiple towns with less than 200 people. Most of the houses barely count as houses, some, paint peeling, and others already collapsing in on themselves. You drive by one and do a double take. There’s a group of toilets in the yard, purposefully arranged in a perfect circle. For some reason. A mile farther and you’re back between the corn and soybean fields. A sign looms in the darkness assuring you that Hell Is Real. Your mother snaps at you to ‘quit gawking’ and help her watch for deer. This is home.
Sentences that can work for a variety of situations, but inspired by the atmosphere of small town horror stories.
“I haven’t seen your face around here. Who are you?” “You can’t go in there. No one is allowed in there.” “We don’t take kindly to trespassers.” “If they catch you here, you’re dead.” “Nobody likes outsiders around here.” “There’s some things you just don’t ask questions about.” “Why is everyone giving me nasty stares?” “Whatever you do, don’t go wandering around after dark.” “Hi, where can I find the gas station? I need to get out of here.” “The people around here are really weird, aren’t they?” “You’re not welcome.” “Things were fine until people like you started showing up.” “This is the last stop for miles. You won’t find another motel.” “You can stay the night, but I suggest you leave before the sun comes up.” “I’ll show you where you’ll sleep. If you need anything, learn to live without it.” “So is everyone here in some kind of cult?” “I get an eerie feeling just walking around this place.” “Sometimes when you see something you can’t explain, you just have to turn your head and ignore it.” “My neighbor got abducted by aliens once. That’s why he twitches.” “You probably shouldn’t drink the tap water.” “My car stalled out of town. Can I get a ride?” “I feel like some weird shit’s going on that no one talks about.” “Will someone please just explain what the hell is up with this place?” “God, I hate towns like these. It’s like being on another planet.” “You can drive to the next town, but it’s about two hours to get there.” “Why are there so many abandoned buildings?” “So why do you live here? You don’t seem like the other weirdos.” “This town’s got to have some good ghost stories, right?” “We haven’t had a visitor in a really long time.” “This town wasn’t even on the map.” “Do me a favor and be gone by morning.” “When you leave, please take me with you.”
