Mid-West Mythos Part Two

Mid-West Mythos

When the night writhes

Statues of clay

For thousands of years, these statues rested under the lake til the great drought brought them out. Pre-human statues kilned in forest fires. Gilled amphibian humanoid beings.Of course, shortly after being discovered the Smithsonian Institute came from nowhere, like Men in black to gather up these ancient statues and take them somewhere to be smashed into dust. The only remaining statues are owned by private citazens who are protecting pre-pre history until and later more tolorant time comes.

Sticker farm

The childhood farm grew green tall and lush. Lizards and turtles and frogs filled the pond. But then the wealthy nearby county damned the river to keep it to themselves. The land grew dryer. Many lifeforms died or moved on. No more lizards, goodbye frogs. But thorns, stickers cockleburs, basically about anything that can stab you but is not a cactus grew all over the farm. These stickers had extractable chemicals so a truck's flatbed full can net a farmer a couple hundred bucks. A hell of a price to pay for toiling to gather tens of thousands of these nasty items. Sticker farm, barely making enough to feed the fam and pay the taxes. Burning stickers for warmth in the cold of winter. I still remember dozens of broken off sticker tips burning with mild toxic throbs under my skin. Cold, cold sticker farm, eating grasshopper meats. Melting buckets of snow to get water when the pipes freeze.

Other uses for Silos

One of the local passages of adulthood is the silo night. On your birthday you must find a silo and sleep all night in it. If you can't sleep you still must not leave it until the sun rises. People who know what your doing are likely to try to find you and spook you out. Various illegal acts, like stashing/dealing drugs, rape, even murder are hidden from view inside a late-night silo. Human bones are sometimes found there.

That certain pasture

Certain spots are folds on the map. Places where the actual amount of space there is bendible. This pasture can go on for miles when things line up right. I used to walk in a local farmer's pasture. One of those bigger then the map says places. It also had a profound, drug-like effect on my mind while I wandered there. You can get lost in this pasture for days, to finally escape, half-starved and wild-eyed. Mind never quite as stable as it had once been.

Cold walk for an empty box

A young country boy is riding the yellow bus back home. Outside it is bitter cold, screaming angry wind. At the corner of his home street, a mile from his place he sees a medium sized box in the ditch. His head fills up with dreams of what wonderful thing is inside. He just knows this is no empty box, inside is something awesome. Something someone lost out of the back of their flatbed truck probably. So he tells his younger, more innocent cousin all about it. How they can get the treasure that will only be slowly ruined it is laying in a ditch too long.

Strangers are in the field

A nightmare I have been having for years. Strangers in the field. With torches held high. Dressed in bizarre Halloween like costumes. Aggressive hoots and howls as they get closer.

Kid scores a demon lover

Little Harry Hart! So cute, but so pre-horny. His big brother found they're dad's stash of porn mags. Adults fucking, sexy Women! So he did a magic ritual. He had to improvise, he didn't know magic well. But after watching his sexy neighbor lady masturbate naked, with a dildo, he had to be "bad". He had to have it off with real flesh. He rubbed his baby cock until it stood up. So defiant and puny. He snuck out of his home with the flashlight from the living room in his hand. His other hand held his favorite porno mags from his dad's collection. He went to the grove of thick trees behind the farm. A creek runs through it. He whirls about with his eyes closed. He takes off all of his clothes. Somehow his pants come off last, after his untorn undies are hanging in a tree with the rest of his outfit, his pants are still on. They are shucked and flung onto the garment branch. He stares at each himself while fondling himself slowly. Closing his eyes, making the internal image of her move, pose. The pages begin to ripple, to shudder. To form together and expand. Expand with a beautiful naked Woman, boldly thrusting her vagina forwards. Harry was able to put his erect nipple of a penis into her and work it around spastically. Childhood is such an innocent time.

Winter

So damned cold! Harsh winds scream with breath made out of snow. The wind blasts through cracks in the door to put out a candle when the power lines break from heavy layers of ice coating them. The ground is a layer cake, snow on ice, ice on snow. Little peaks of ice and swirling wind shuffled snow make the view from the window that of a fairy kingdom. So cold that getting into bed is like dipping naked into ice water. So cold that getting out of bed is like having your bones tightened till they hurt by an ice cold metal fist.

Scarce Animals

There are a number of strange beasts that roam the MidWest. It is rare for anyone to see them. For anyone to even see the tracks they leave. One of these creatures are the pollitors. These are large insects that resemble weaponized grasshoppers. But they are actually a kind of aggressive spider. They stay underground for years until their numbers are staggering and then they go on a feeding frenzy. A hundred thousand of them can strike a small area and pretty much strip it of animal and plant life. Then they go back underground, for up to twenty-seven years before the next outbreak. Author of HOW TO CATCH AND COOK CRYPTOZOOLOGICAL ANIMALS, Andrew McFing says in his book that roasted Pollitors taste like condensed farts of a grossly fat Man who gorges himself with crisp greasy bacon and nothing else.

The Peeping Tom Shaman

A large quantity of vodka gets our local shaman going. Dance around drink, blackout and he is ready to go. Outdoors, across other people's yards. Looking in windows. He always knows where the action is. His cock leads him to it like a divining rod. The first window, backyard. Climbing over the privacy fence, falling with a thud to the grass. Our shaman picks himself up to weave to the window. Sister Missy McClerk is sucking a young Man's cock. Dude has no pubic hair, shaved clean. She has such a pretty face when she sucks cock. Shaman watches till the money shot spurts onto her face. She smiles like an angel and our wizard is going over the fence, falling with a thud to the other side and weaving away down the alley. That was really hot n sticky! When the act is completed, our beloved local healer makes his way back home for another mixed drink, sometimes drinking silently in the dark to cool off.

Bring back the prairie wolves

In order to fight the One world religion, the top warlord Christian Preachers declared war on all the others. The only way to prevent a tyrannical Satan controlled world is by stopping it from falling under the power of one, and only one religion. Hence the freedom plan, kill or convert all non-Christians and make Christian rules rise above all. In order to prevent the One World Religion from happening. And by comic oversight, preventing the Second coming of Christ.

Scarecrow cookies

One morning I awoke to the sweet smell of fresh cookies. I could tell by the smell they were still soft on the inside. Gingerbread magic filled the air. I was a year from indoctrination into the soul-sucking school machine. I got up and I was so excited I forgot to check for severed hands under the bed that may pull under it to the dark rape room beneath the basement. But I was lucky, no hands lurked below to pluck me.

The Thralls of Fall are on us

Heritage pumpkins are the rage this year. Turns out there are endless shapes and hues of these pumpkins that are not normally available in the grower's seed packs. Til now. Greenface is my favorite. A bitter, pumpkin that smells like a continual fart. You cannot eat this unless you are both tough, and on the last stages of starvation. But it's shape is that of an in pain twisted human face! Subtle differences make each pumpkin different. They are a big hit during the Harvest season.

The leaves turning orange, gold, and red as they fall, swirling to the ground in an ancient dance. We as kids used to gather up as many of them as our limited attention span allowed and haul to our bend and wizened Grandma. She would coat them in layers of sweet lacquer around them cookies, in many colorful dyes. Bake them and bring out beautiful sugar-leaves, so crisp and with just the right degree of burning belly.

A breeding ground to change their train

Automobile outlaws lived behind the counter and A Great Alarm holdest fast my dreams. Nervous times, tension beams. I forgot to cum in the depths of fornication, of the night "Strange clothed in white, He that overcometh seven stars which deliver a pro-Beyoncé insight". The west is yeah There's danger, I might reach we know and each other groping him hear and how he spews. So petty from the end! Engine runs on burden. But maybe it's turning. Turn over in a golden dawn. Death and hatred Taylor Swift at watch, she watches your cock right through the cloth. The churches; To Scrape and behold. get every bit of God off of them and carry it home. Minutes while muffled, that the shame of the faithful and true hours was rented I will come up plot destruction. Down with the King, down with the Kingdom, up with the sound, up with the swingdom. Vain of the pain And things sacrificed unto of fools Confusion cease to exist in clouds of wasted dissolution.

Haybarn temple in dust tones

Love and song burning internet connection. Power up the phone by rubbing our genitals together. Mullberry treason of her towns, past burial catch cold soda him packed and chilled in his burial mound. The greenish moon, reflected on a dime. reigneth over the tree. The last tree of a lonely grove it be. A good weep and mourn for rotting creation, live to wilt, in rancid devastation. The dusty people having tall houses, I thought the relentless sun is and displaced for twenty-seven centuries. I wonder what became of me, I wonder what became of mead. The Inner Hate moist and all. and tracked back go forth like a sumptuous feast. And on the couch of liquor and death, I drink my last breath.

Faded hopes in the dirty room

Giving up hope never did me any good. Neither did having any fucking hope for that matter. It's all downhill from here. Only being too lazy to do anything as tramatic as suicide keeps me here at all.