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Teacup Fairy Gardens

Originally posted on My OBT:
If you (like me) are craving a fun crafts project right now, but don’t have a ton of space, I have a great solution for you! These are teacup fairy gardens, and everyone has room for at least one of them! Some are made of real plants, some are artificial, but all are really sweet and tiny. If you’re feeling adventurous, you could grab an old teacup and make your own, with miniatures you have hanging around. If you need miniature pieces, Etsy is full of beautiful items. And if you aren’t feeling crafty, you also might consider one of the pre-made gardens for sale. You can check out everyone’s creative teacup fairy gardens on Instagram.

Maintaining A Creative Output During The Holidays

Originally posted on K.M. Allan:
The holidays are a time for relaxing and taking a break, even Stephen King doesn’t write on Christmas day! But writers like to make ourselves feel guilty if we aren’t penning down words, even when it’s time for a well-earned break, so here are some tips for maintaining a creative output during the holidays. Make A To-Do List Even Santa makes a list at Christmas. You don’t need to check yours twice, but at least have something to look at that’ll keep you on track. There are a million things to think of and do this time of year, so list writing tasks and non-writing tasks, work out a plan for getting them all achieved, and then tick off each task. It’ll keep you motivated, organized, and get things done. That might sound like a lot for one little list to do, but hey, it’s Christmas, the season of miracles. Balance Things Avoid an all-or-nothing approach. Trying to do all writing or all other things usually doesn’t work and…

The Dark Apostle

Originally posted on Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver:
Rising from the coals And shadows of flames, Dressed in deep void With eyes like portals To the dense bramble Of your obscure lives, I am your companion. There is passion in your fear that This blood fire is your last sunset. You smolder in my breath, and I thrive on your muffled screams. I hold you down as you writhe in agony, Locked under my gaze. My breath is odious; My face, repugnant. My laughter, the cackling of fire. You recoil, gasping for prayer, But little do you know, I am the answer you seek, For so long you have hidden Inside this clay façade. Living for self in idle pleasure, Slumbering like the dead in this carcass With no clear path to truth Beyond mindless habit and desire. Open your eyes! Can you not see! You rebuke this Demon, but I am the Harbinger sent to alarm and awaken. Look at the Foe who will crack open your heart! If you don’t do it, I must smash…

Disaster and Calamity: Loss

Looking for a spooky fix this October? Check out Nicholas Efstathiou‘s immersive site chronicling the strange occurrences in the fictional town of Cross, Massachusetts. Each piece is paired with an eerie vintage photograph. Cross, Massachusetts Disease and disaster are never easy to overcome. Invariably, we lose something of ourselves. In 1912, this was driven home when a strange illness afflicted residents of Elm Street and only Elm Street. Seven people came down with the disease. Rather, seven young men between the ages of 18 and 23. The young men lived in a pair of boarding houses, each across the street from the other. On Saturday, the men woke up, prepared to go to work, and ate their morning meals. They were, by all accounts, hale and hearty at seven in the morning. By 7:30, all were struck low, screaming and clawing at their faces. Of the seven men, only one of them, Alexander Keel, survived the experience. While his unfortunate co-victims died screaming in agony, Alexander took the drastic step of cutting his entire face …

Snow White-Allister Nelson

Originally posted on Heretics, Lovers, and Madmen:
The elven knight went riding with banners alizarin as berries in snow, his face wan, lovesick longing.   Haunting his dreams was a snow-laden lass, fair as a dying rose, iced into clarity by shattered glass.   In twos, in threes, went the Faerie Court, bells on toes, Gabriel’s Hounds baying in the wasted harrow, to humble hut the elf knight goes.   “Oh but who art thou, fair visitor?” said the peasant girl, her hair gray gold, her eyes pale, lips a frostbite plum.   The elven knight let his bridle down, and from his pockets he’s taken an oath ring, and on bended knee he’s gone.   She was poverty-light, bird bones, high small breasts, and she said “Twas better bread you gave me, fair elf.”   “I have no use for gold, to grow cold and old with the dead in fairy mounds.”   “I have no use for silver, no use for jewels, you cannot eat stone outside the fairy realms.”   “I have…

How to Save Your Mailbox From this Horror Movie Trope

Whether they’re foreshadowing a possession or heralding the arrival of the anti-Christ, insect hordes are usually a sign that something bad is going to happen in a horror movie. But what do you do if you find a real life one in your mailbox? That was the situation I faced when I went to grab my after work a few weeks ago. Everything seemed normal when I reached in, but when I pulled out my mail I realized it was covered in ants, and a clump of what I assume were either eggs or larve. I dropped the handful of envelopes on the pavement, and looked up to see an army of small ants franticly scurrying over every inch of the mailbox, the post, the surrounding ground, and spilling onto the street. I picked up my mail and retreated to the driveway, where I had to bang each envelope on the cement to get the ants off, and opened each one, shaking ants out of the contents. Retrieving some Raid from my garage, I doused the inside of the mailbox, killing …

When the dark

Originally posted on Jane Dougherty Writes:
For the dverse prompt. When the dark is as hot and still as light, and the moon melts a sliver of drifting ice, the stars quiver a mirage in the night, when no birds sing at dawn, the dew already drunk by heat-parched air, and the cracks in the broken earth yawn wider, when sun beats hammer blows in the midday silence out of the drum-taut sky, and flowers wilt and nothing grows, crisped brown, prematurely autumned, we slow and sigh and long for sleep, to dream of fountains and waterfalling and pearls that glow full fathom five. Will this long night end, earth’s kilter restrung, or will the keening of the owl be the last song sung?