Yjoctober2023 - Tumblr Posts
lotus: A normal day of practice is interrupted when strangers arrive. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. (horror oneshot, pre-crash, 2.5k words).
Tai and Shauna are facing off down the field when Van sees them. A group of people, seven or eight, watching them from the bleachers. Men and women. None of them family to anyone here, as far as Van knows. Blank-faced and silent. Watching. Van gulps. She tries to focus on their faces. Their features ripple and run like watery ink. Their eyes and noses blur from one face to another. Their mouths are gaping pits.
carrion choir. Van was supposed to die. She knows that. The dead know that. The Wilderness knows that.
Winter starts bad and gets worse. Van hallucinates.
(horror oneshot, rated M, 4.7k words, taivan. So, so much body horror.)
Written for yjoctober 2023. Prompt(s): 1. Horror element or trope from the show (hallucinations and madness) 8. came back wrong
You're dead. You're dead and you're still hungry. Your worm-riddled stomach dribbles acid from countless bite wounds, slowly eating itself. You chew on pine nettles, boot leather, your own hair. You shuffle through the cabin like one of Romero's zombies, rotting and starving all at once. You stare at your living friends with crawling envy, craving their heartbeats, their breath. Their warm, sweet, living flesh. Necrotic purple bruising spreads across your torso. You make sure it's always hidden. Your fingernails fall out, one by one. You bind your hands in more cloth. Strips of skin peel away from your arms and legs. You clumsily stitch them back together with Akilah's needle, swallowing your screams. You tell no one.
blossom within the skull. They’re not themselves anymore by the time they escape. They’re not even human anymore. (oneshot, 7k words, taivan and jackieshauna. A kinda-sorta Annihilation au. Written for yjoctober2023. Prompt 4: Yellowjackets reimagined as a different genre)
The children pulled themselves from fire and steel and into Its home, staring with wide scared eyes at the deer with vines spilling from an open wound in its flank, the owl with thorns and nettles poking out between its feathers, the corpse in the cabin with chanterelles erupting from its eyes, yarrow blooming from its gaping mouth.
The corpse, they called it, until they saw it breathe.
In the attic, under a bearskin rug, a journal. The pages molded beyond recognition, except the last.
If you are reading this you are already changing.