Appalachain Gothic - Blog Posts

As far as animals to be afraid of, deer rank pretty low. From afar, a deer is harmless certainly. Docile, wide eyes, silent staring before they bound away. But if you’ve ever been up close, that likely means you’ve found one trapped. Wounded maybe. Only then will you realize what fear does to a prey animal. If you wander too near, the acrid smell of desperation and deadly will to live is pungent in each flare of its nostrils. Then all of a sudden that deer seems much bigger, and fiercer, and you really ought to back away, but your brain works slower than its instincts, and you’re about to discover that hooves are like rocks and like knives, and those legs are longer and your head is closer than you would ever like. And for a split second, you, apex predator, will understand prey-fear.

moodboard for a story im writing

Poem — this was a poem I wrote for an assignment. The task was to write a personal version of George Ella Lyon’s poem, Where I’m From. I used some of her formatting, but tried to make it more of my own. This poem is primarily focused on my childhood spent in Appalachia, which many people close to me don’t know about because I’ve been embarrassed of my heritage for a long time. If you have any questions about it, please ask!!

Up the Long Dirt Road, Where I’m From

I am from pine-covered hills and threadbare boots, from fiddles and azaleas. Where rivers run rich with brook trout and minnows, little legs surrounded by pebbles and broken glass. I am from whiskey pacifiers and sweet apple dumplings, from venison suppers and red plaid tablecloths. I’m from Mama’s bitter coffee that shaped my tongue and trickles through my veins.

I am from Pew Bibles and weighted Stoles, from god-fearing chopped blonde curls. Where road signs preach and billboards shame, wooden posts breaking under their pressure. I am from Little Liberty and train tracks, from graffiti crosses and neon slurs. I’m from the carpenter’s wood that carved my limbs and left splinters in my palms.

I am from lingering marijuana, from bonfire perfume and Jack Daniel’s breath. Where pans shatter homes and diesel growls at children, sore bare feet running alone in the night and robins stopping to greet them. I am from beer can targets and stick beatings, from moldy bean bags and rotted food. I’m from bedtime war stories and shoe box memories that left scars on my ears and scrapes on my skull.

In a cabin by the pond, just up a makeshift road, is a hidden tongue and an embarrassing voice. The sound of intelligent ignorance and a banjo’s cries, flatfoot stomps and disappearing laughter. Where I’m from, we learn to be silently stupid and camouflaged by the trees.

looking light in the face through the jaws of death