Autumn Gothic

You walk into a coffeeshop. The barista asks what you would like. “Pumpkin Spice Latte,” you say. You shake your head. You wanted a mocha, a chai, a shot of espresso. You open your mouth again. “Pumpkin Spice Latte,” you tell her.

Someone hands you a flyer for a hayride. You throw it away. Several blocks later, you are handed another by the same person. This continues all day. The person never recognizes you.

You go apple picking. There are apples on the trees. There are apples on the ground. No matter how many you pick, the number of apples does not change in either place.

A jack o’ lantern appears on your front step. You do not remember carving it, but it is marked with your initials near the bottom.

You are wearing orange. You are always wearing orange. You do not know where this orange sweater came from, as you cannot remember buying any. The next day, you wear orange.

The leaves cover everything. They are all over the streets, the cars, the sidewalks. They stick to your shoes. The trees do not appear to be losing any leaves. You don’t know if you’re walking on leaves at all. You peel something sticky and red from the bottom of your shoe.

Happy Halloween! someone tells you. It is September first. This continues until the end of November.

The parks are full of children jumping into piles of dead leaves. They are always jumping. The leaves are always piled. You think you must have done this in your own childhood, but you cannot recall. You walk quickly by with your head down to avoid eye contact with any of the children.

There is a full moon tonight. There is a full moon every night. You shuffle down the street a little faster, ignoring the thrill of glee that surges through you as you hear a distant howl.

Cemeteries now offer nightly haunted tours. You go and trail behind the informative guide as she tells you details about the various deceased entombed here. When the tour ends, you return to the front gate to find a tour guide, who apologizes for being late. He asks if you are ready for your tour.

You hear news reports about mysterious swarms of bats that are about at night. You are not sure where you have been, but you wake each morning to find yourself hanging upside-down from your ceiling fan.

The traffic is horrible. Oh, you think. There must be a home game. The next day, the traffic is horrible. Oh, you think. There must be a home game. 

You pass a girl wearing leggings and a plaid shirt. You pass her again a few minutes later. Eventually, you arrive at class. Every girl is wearing leggings and a plaid shirt. You look down at your outfit. You are, too.

The stores are full of Halloween costumes and Christmas decorations. You can no longer tell if it is September or December. You roam the aisles endlessly, looking for a way out. Time has lost meaning.

Everywhere you go, you feel someone is watching you. You look over your shoulder but see no one. You are walking home alone one day when you turn around. That is when you see him. Shia LaBeouf.

Curly Hair Gothic

bloggers: Basia & Connor

You condition every day. You condition more times than you can count.

“My hair has a mind of its own,” you say. People laugh. They think you are joking. You are not joking. Your hair laughs, too.

You cannot remember the last time you washed your hair. It might have been the last full moon. For some reason, you can’t recall.

Someone asks if you have a brush. The word seems familiar, like a distant memory, but you can’t quite remember what it means.

“Comb? You mean, looking for seashells on the beach?”

You pull your hair up and reach into your bag for a bobby pin. You swear you bought a full pack yesterday, but somehow they have all disappeared.

This is not unusual to you.

You buy another pack.

You have to buy another one tomorrow.

You try every product that exists. None of them work. You think you’ve found one that works, but then it is discontinued. You are no longer sure it even existed to begin with.

Someone tells you your hair looks great today. Your hair grows ten sizes. “Thank you,” you say, stiffly. Your hair prickles the back of your neck. You force a smile. “I love my hair.”

There is always frizz. You have forgotten what it is like to live without frizz. The weather, the day, the year all change, but the frizz remains. There is always frizz.

You pull a hair off of a friend’s jacket. It is yours. It is always yours. All of your friends are covered in layers of your hair. It has always been this way.

You pull clumps of your own hair out of the shower drain, yet every day, you seem to have more hair than the day before.

You purchase every anti-frizz product at every drugstore. You can never find them after you pay for them.

Someone with straight hair tells you they wish they had your hair. “No,” you intone, while your hair rustles and grows menacingly. “You don’t.”

You finally manage to straighten your hair. It has taken hours. You cannot remember doing anything else. Perhaps you never have. You step outside. It is as if you never straightened your hair at all. Perhaps you never did.

Everyone you see with curly hair has better hair than yours. When you spot each other, you look at each other and say only, “Hair envy,” before moving on.

You ask everyone how they manage their curls. Everyone answers differently. Everyone says the same thing. You cannot recall asking anyone, but you know with certainty you have asked everyone.