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none of us are gonna make it out of this town alive | a fanmix for Mystic Falls, where nothing bad ever happens, except when it does.

01. it’s there I read on a hillside gravestone, ‘you will never leave Harlan alive’ / 02. nothing’s going away just 'cause you’re closing your eyes / 03. get up in the morning, put my dreams away / 04. little girl, little girl, where’d you sleep last night, not even your mother knows / 05. there’s nothing left for me in this town / 06. I see bad times today / 07. she’s the dying heart of this ragged old town / 08. monsters, them monsters, I’ll sleep when they’re dead / 09. I trip to feel alive, and die to forget / 10.  I feel it all around, I’m surrounded by ghosts / 11. hush you little baby, don’t you say a word, here comes the devil, all dressed up like a mockingbird / 12. they’re staring with blood in their mouths, mama they won’t let me out / 13. stranded in this spooky town / 14. Heaven’s gates are closed I’m here forever it seems / 15. I wake with good intentions, but the day it always lasts too long / 16. in the city where I grew up kids are dying now / 17. I found something in the woods somewhere / 18. oh this town, kills you when you’re young / 19. roots and lies, roots and lies, our family tree is old / 20. I was living in a devil town, I didn’t know it was a devil town / 21. the killing moon, will come too soon / 22. it’s like the darkness is the light / 23. if you want to get out alive, run for your life / 24. {vocalizing}

[ L I S T E N ]

MAN i love anything and everything gothic americana like think about southwestern gothic with flickering motel lights and thieves and snakes hiding in sunset deserts, but also new england gothic with deep dark woods and bodies sunk into the bottom of freezing lakes, and appalachian gothic with dirty-feet tangle-haired children and small crumbling houses and the wind whistling eerily, and even midwest gothic with lonely tractors rusting away in the sunlight and endless plains and plains of vast nothingness as far as the eye can see, florida gothic (old bones sunk into the swamp), wisconsin gothic (the town’s been snowed in for weeks now, who knows what’s happening up there), california gothic (they don’t call ‘em ghost towns for nothing), colorado gothic (something’s living up in those mountains and it only comes out at night) and of course southern gothic to rule them all, a landscape of witchery, poverty, hellfire and damnation

Deep South gothic
  • You take a seat at the restaurant. A waitress brings you a sweet tea. You don’t look at what’s floating in the sweet tea. You never look at what’s floating in the sweet tea. You take a sip and ignore the taste of copper.
  • An old woman sits on her porch. You don’t know her name. In fact, you cannot remember ever seeing her leave the porch. She calls you “darlin’” and you cannot resist her call. Southern hospitality is famous.
  • The children whisper curses, and all of them end in “bless their heart”.
  • You drive past a cotton field. The stark whiteness of it unnerves you. You aren’t sure if those are cotton bolls. They shiver in the wind and blink at your passing. You grip the steering wheel and don’t look again.
  • The mayor has been mayor since 1893. No one has run against him in five generations. Sometimes people mention opposition candidates, but you never remember their names. The things that float to the top of the retention pond are unrecognizable as human.
  • Taxpayers protest fiercely at the cost of filling potholes. Instead, they are patched. They are not patched with concrete. You can hear the squish of fluid every time your tires move over one.
  • There has always been a Baptist church on the corner of Main and Central. Who are you to insinuate that there has not always been a Baptist church on the corner of Main and Central? You see lights on in the old church at the corner of Main and Central late a night, and you do not speak of them to anyone.
  • There are no rich people in the tri-country area, but all of the poor people have the idea that the rich should not be taxed. 
  • Small children seems to disappear when people don’t lock their doors at night. But the neighborhood is too nice for locked doors. Southern hospitality is famous.
  • A family moves in from the North. The next day they all spontaneously combust on a trip to Kroger. “It’s not that hot,” someone says. “Yankees, I ask ya.”

Okay but surrealism aside all of these Southern Gothic posts are literally how the South is and I’m cackling. 

We’ve got creepy ass 24/7 diners that say open but you can’t find the staff for half an hour. 

There’s a haunted house and a murder/ghost story in every town. 

There’s always a fishing hole no one goes to because of a tragedy living in the waters. 

The woods are dark and hunting season is the only time you enter them. So many ghost stories. Haunted everything. 

The mountains are alive with the sound of screaming. 

Devil’s tramping grounds, hollers, woods, stones, you name it, we got it. 

The old people may be racist and bigoted, but they have skin-crawling tales of caution and they’re all true. 

Everyone knows someone who’s drowned. 

We’ve all got a weird cousin who left the family and never came back. No one knows the circumstances of their disappearance but they were always an “odd duck.” 

Community is a foreign concept to many until autumn. People come in droves from the mountain valleys and hollers bearing crafts and baked goods for sale. Apple butter can be smelled from half a mile away and the sound of fiddles fill the air. You will not see these people again until next autumn. 

There are cemeteries everywhere, but the ones unloved are left for a reason. 

Do not step on the graves, but behind them. If you step on them, apologize to avoid haunting. 

Old oak trees = do not fuck with the tree. 

100% Facts, I’m not even joking. 

In the Deep South, God is a cotton king,
Trussed up in plantation whites and powdered over smooth
with a little bit of talcum from Momma’s compact.
He’s the Georgia dust that gets on everything, in everything,
Caking the soles of bare feet
sifting through cracks in church pews,
and catching in your lover’s eyelashes.

In the Deep South, the Devil is a beautiful boy
who swears and cheats at billiards on Sunday.
He is the one who reaches up your skirt,
pulls out the prayers your were saving for someday
and lights them on fire with his tongue.
He will sing hymns while feasting on your forfeit heart,
call you blessed while peeling away dignity like stockings,
then drag you out in front of the church to be stoned.

In the Deep South, the Holy Spirit is an old woman
with hands brown and gnarled as the nuts she boils
and a voice soft and dark as the Appalachian sky.
She is the swamp kingdom matriarch children are sent to
when sins need to be wished away like warts,
the presence of whom straightens the spines of wayward souls
and coaxes a “Yes Ma’am” from the devil’s own.

In the Deep South, Jesus is a mixed-race child
with drops of destiny mingled into his blood
and the names of the saints tattooed along his spine.
He has his mother’s bearing, one that wears suffering nobly,
and baleful eyes that speak of the sins of his forefathers.
The word of God flutters from his mouth like butterflies
with bodies baptized in tears and wings dipped in steel.

In the Deep South, angels drink too much.
They sashay and guffaw and forget to return calls.
They tell white lies and agonize over what to wear.
In the Deep South, angels look very much like you and I,
and they cling to each other with dustbowl desperation
and replenish their failing reserves of grace with ritual
in the hopes of remembering what they once were,
what wonders they once were capable of performing.

—  Hossana Americana by S.T. Gibson
“There are two qualities that make fiction. One is the sense of mystery and the other is the sense of manners. You get the manners from the texture of existence that surrounds you. The great advantage of being a Southern writer is that we don’t have to go anywhere to look for manners; bad or good, we’ve got them in abundance. We in the South live in a society that is rich in contradiction, rich in irony, rich in contrast, and particularly rich in its speech”                                                  
                               -Flannery O'Connor

N O V E L S / N O V E L L A S

S H O R T  S T O R I E S

P O E T R Y

literature meme [1/3 genres]

“While the South is hardly Christ-centered, it is most certainly Christ-haunted.” - Flannery O'Connor

‘Common themes in Southern Gothic literature include deeply flawed, disturbing or eccentric characters who may or may not dabble in hoodoo, ambivalent gender roles and decayed or derelict settings, grotesque situations, and other sinister events relating to or coming from poverty, alienation, crime and violence.’

MYSTERY INCORPORATED (For the keep out signs always ignored, for the suburban air that rots like the benevolence of Coolsville’s citizens, for exorcising ghouls and unmasking the fakes. ) — a suburban gothic playlist for the meddling kids and their stupid dog.

i. bela lugosi’s dead  - nouvelle vague, ii. shadow of a shadow - the casket girls, iii. gravedweller  - the wytches, iv. youth knows no pain - lykke li, v. friends - band of skulls, vi. deadbeat - a place to bury strangers, vii. free the skull - moon duo, viii. a question isn’t answered - temples, ix. haunt you - the pack a.d., x. attack of the ghost riders - the raveonettes, xi. wolf like me - tv on the radio