Indiana Gothic

The Crossroads of America, they say, the place where all roads converge, they say, the hub of each journey, they say, the meeting place of souls, they say, the place where all things come to die, they say.

The woods still hang on in clumps, to places where the corn has tried to take over, like fingers poking through a net, trying desperately to hang on, to keep their grip. This place was wild once and it should still be wild, and the woods grab and pull and try to come back.

They call the places where people stay only temporarily ‘liminal spaces’, because you are only there while you are on the threshold of being somewhere or someone else. Usually they’re abandoned rest stops, old gas stations at night, dead fairy rings in the woods. You’ve never seen an entire state be a liminal space before. You wonder when you’ll be allowed to move on.

“Knee high by July” your companion says as you pass a field. “Waist high by August” they say, as you walk by the next field. “Neck high by September.” They say, at the next field. “Your height by October.” They say, as you pass the next field. You didn’t recognise any of these plants, in each field you passed. It’s not corn, that’s all you know.

“Fifth most boring city in the country?” The woman laughs. Behind her, a parade marches by, everything covered in colourful cloth and lights. “Well, we’ll show them we can have fun! We’ll show them all!” You do not respond. You stopped feeling ‘fun’ as soon as you stepped within city limits. You don’t feel anything anymore. You can’t even feel the smooth latex of the balloon animal the clown presses into your hands, his rictus grin plastered across his face.

1. dude my hair is hella rad

2. im becoming better at art all of the time!

3. i say words in amusing ways

4. i can dance with weapons

Be Prepared- The Lion King (of course, out of all the punk rock on my playlist)

alright thanks