r/WritingPrompts • u/katpoker666 Moderator • 1d ago
Off Topic [OT] Fun Trope Friday: Evil Landscape & Gothic Horror!
Welcome to Fun Trope Friday, our feature that mashes up tropes and genres!
How’s it work? Glad you asked. :)
Every week we will have a new spotlight trope.
Each week, there will be a new genre assigned to write a story about the trope.
You can then either use or subvert the trope and/or genre in a 750-word max story or poem (unless otherwise specified).
To qualify for ranking, you will need to provide ONE actionable feedback. More are welcome of course!
Three winners will be selected each week based on votes, so remember to read your fellow authors’ works and DM me your votes for the top three.
Next up… IP
It’s October. The time of falling leaves, jack o’lanterns, and candy. And blood… so much blood. This month will be focusing on all things horror with maybe a treat or two to sweeten the pot. Please note this theme is only loosely applied.
"The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls." — Edgar Allan Poe
Trope: Evil Landscape — The trope is where a cemetery, temple, forest, etc. is considered holy... to the forces of evil. Whether it was the site of great and terrible crimes, incredible bloodshed, unholy rituals to malevolent beings or other atrocious acts, the very ground itself and any surrounding lands are now cursed. Exact results vary, but the most common are that evil is stronger, good is weaker and things buried here don't stay down for long.
Genre: Gothic Horror — Gothic horror is one of the oldest of the horror genres. Darker, edgier and on the Romanticism end of Romanticism vs. Enlightenment (in fact, it quite literally emerged alongside the Romantic movement in the late 18th century as a reaction against the values of the Enlightenment), it tends to play on both the thrill and the fear of the unknown and places a great importance on atmosphere. It's usually heavily symbolic, sometimes even dreamlike.
Skill / Constraint - optional: Smelling salts are required.
So, have at it. Lean into the trope heavily or spin it on its head. The choice is yours!
Have a great idea for a future topic to discuss or just want to give feedback? FTF is a fun feature, so it’s all about what you want—so please let me know! Please share in the comments or DM me on Discord or Reddit!
Last Week’s Winners
PLEASE remember to give feedback—this affects your ranking. PLEASE also remember to DM me your votes for the top five stories via Discord or Reddit—both katpoker666. This is a change from the top three of the past. In weeks where we get over 15 stories, we will do a top five ranking. Weeks with less than 15 stories will show only our top three winners. If you have any questions, please DM me as well.
Some fabulous stories this week and great crit at campfire and on the post! We had 11 stories, so we’re back to three winners. Congrats to:
Want to read your words aloud? Join the upcoming FTF Campfire
The next FTF campfire will be Thursday, October 22nd from 6-8pm ET. It will be in the Discord Main Voice Lounge. Click on the events tab and mark ‘Interested’ to be kept up to date. No signup or prep needed and you don’t have to have written anything! So join in the fun—and shenanigans! 😊
Ground rules:
- Stories must incorporate both the trope and the genre
- Leave one story or poem between 100 and 750 words as a top-level comment unless otherwise specified. Use wordcounter.net to check your word count.
- Deadline: 11:59 PM EDT next Thursday. Please note stories submitted after the 6:00 PM EST campfire start may not be critted.
- No stories that have been written for another prompt or feature here on WP—please note after consultation with some of our delightful writers, new serials are now welcomed here
- No previously written content
- Any stories not meeting these rules will be disqualified from rankings
- Does your story not fit the Fun Trope Friday rules? You can post your story as a [PI] with your work when the FTF post is 3 days old!
- Please keep crit about the stories. Any crit deemed too distracting may be deleted. This is a time to focus on our wonderful authors.
- Vote by next Friday at 11:59 AM EDT to help your favorites rise to the top of the ranks (DM me at katpoker666 on Discord or Reddit)!
Thanks for joining in the fun!
1
u/Worldly_Lab_7061 4h ago
Lost Prayers in a Sinner's Swamp
"Many are the afflictions of the just, but out of them all will the Lord deliver them."
The catechist, Étienne Donato Bello, a freeman of color, repeats the psalm under his breath. No familiar comfort comes from the recitation.
Coming to consciousness in the middle of the swamp, miles away from the safety of his home in New Orleans sends pinpricks of panic racing up his spine.
Above him, more than trees leer as he stumbles–blind, deaf and dumb to what’s to come.
His feet sink deeper into the loose earth with each step, the dead, humid air of the swamp clinging to his skin. His thin nightshirt and banyan serve as poor shields from the infernal buzzing mosquitos eating at him.
Stomach curdling, he covers his nose to no avail. Even then, the overpowering scent of damp earth saturated in the most rotten, godforsaken odor seeps through.
Trees tall enough to scrape blue from the sky surround him on all sides, creating a maze of root, wood, and greenery in the shallow, pitch-black, stagnant water. The light of the moon does not reflect in these shallow waters; the black consumes it.
He squints as sweat leaks into his eyes, distorting his sight. His hands are too occupied– scratching, slapping and swatting–to wipe his eyes.
A new voice joins the chorus of the swamp, sound sweet as a prayer for a lost home to Étienne. The voice of his mother, before he’d been sold away from her. He halts his laborious trek home, allowing himself to sink down to his ankles, relishing the sound of a voice the child still inside him remembers.
“Blessed are those who have regard for the weak; the Lord delivers them in times of trouble,” he murmurs, very sure his good works must be responsible for this God-sent reprieve from the humid hell which he had found himself.
There is a change in the air once the psalm leaves his lips. The voice of his mother is gone; in her place are the echoes of the bitter and betrayed.
Why do you repeat words you don't believe, turning them into chains, when you yourself are free?
Étienne spins on his heel, desperate to confront his accuser as the discomforting truth burns in his chest. Feet too deep to move without great effort, he resigns himself to scream back at the unseen jury of dead sinners.
“I will not be judged by the derelict dead, only by the one and only Father on high!”
Every word brings him an unpleasant chill, the kind that seeps into the bone, making them ache.
Bitter whispers continue to fill his ears, unrelenting.
How can you deny?
Deny the men to whom you preach salvation while offering none?
The suffering wrought from a lust for freedom and love for no one.
Deceiver.
Bastard.
Judas.
The last accusation ignites the fire of his pride, giving him the strength to tear his shoes from the slippery grip of the mud.
“You name me a betrayer? I reject the name. I am the salvation. It is by my hand that many of my kin have come to know the glory of God!” he yells into the dead air, set in the righteousness of his speech.
Strips the minds of the bound.
A holy man of no moral ground.
His foot catches on a root that appears in front of it, sending him to the ground. In defiance, he proclaims to the sky,
“My faith granted me freedom, not fear of the hereafter.”
The phantoms titter at his assertion.
Freedom?
What freedom is in your possession?
A man of no wealth, but many a transgression.
Struggling against the inevitable, Étienne tries to banish the spirits once more. "Begone demon, enchant me not, for I am not so fickle in my faith as those who came before."
Your sin is greater.
No longer may you hide behind one of the creators.
Those words linger with him but then an inferno of pain consumes his chest, traveling up his throat.
Burn with your sins.
His mouth remains closed, intensifying his horror when a thick, bitter, viscous liquid coats his tongue and the back of his throat.
Consume the poison honey of your sermons.
Last, he feels something bubble up from his stomach as he sinks deeper and deeper into the muck. It comes up with the force of a racehorse, bursting through his mouth, killing him in a shower of bloody bile and mud.
WC: 748
Critiques, comments and feedback are welcomed and encouraged!
3
u/MaxStickies r/StickiesStories 18h ago
Dereliction, Desecration
Out in the midst of nothing, there sits a ruined wooden church. Spikes of moonlight shine down from the collapsing roof onto rows of rotting pews, and fallen candelabras. An old organ groans, blown by wind whistling through the eaves.
The doors burst open, shaking the temple to its foundations. In strides a detective, fedora and all, followed by a woman in a thick grey coat. She rubs her tangled hair, glancing at the cobwebs.
“Yeah, okay, I think we’re trespassing,” she says. “I could be sleeping, Duerr, and you’ve got me here breaking the law?”
“Come on, Guerrero, you think I’d do that? Nobody owns this place.” He runs a finger along a cross, examining the dust.
“That’s impossible.”
“Seriously, no one.”
“Okay, how?”
Stepping up to the lectern, he flicks through a tattered Bible. “That’s why we’re here. Notice anything odd? Anything at all?”
She sighs, taking everything in, and frowns. “Well… there’s some good metal here. I’d have thought it’d be stolen?”
“Exactly! And this is still here, too.” He holds the book aloft. “You’d think the priest would take it, no?”
“So what are you saying?”
“This church has lain untouched by human hand for over one hundred years. Found out about it online, and most stories beside the wretched history were nonsense—you know, chupacabras, aliens, etcetera—but there were photos, of then and now. Completely the same!”
Guerrero tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. “So, you’ve seen ghosts, but you don’t believe in aliens?”
He shrugs. “I haven’t seen them yet.”
“Right… Anyway, this place is haunted or cursed, so this is your expertise. Why am I here?”
Gesturing her forward, he faces her before the organ, drawing a paper bag from his pocket. “Because you follow me around on each case, seeing little of what I do, and it frustrates the hell out of you.”
She nods, slowly. “True, though, still better than the average workday.”
“But what if you could do the same as me? See every ghost, talk to them, help them. Would you?”
“Without question.”
“Good.” From out of the bag, he pulls a jar full of powder. “Then, this might do the trick.”
“I’m not getting high, if that’s the only way.”
“What, the smelling salts? They aren’t for you.”
With a flick of the wrist, he sprays the organ’s pipes with fine dust, forcing Guerrero back. She wafts the cloud away, coughing, glaring at the detective’s outline in the haze. “Why the fuck would y—?!”
“You must be shocked for this to work, I think… if I’m right. All part of the process.”
“Duerr, I swear to God!”
“Look up, partner. Go on.”
Grumbling, she relents, and lift her eyes… her heart jumps a beat. Dust falls upon a shape shifting, shaking in thin air. It writhes in ways so unnatural, it takes minutes before she recognises it as a person, but then she spots the bound limbs and twisting torso. And the face, staring right at her, with a mouth hanging wide open.
The ghost screams. Dropping to her haunches, Guerrero covers her ears, and grits her teeth.
A hand brushes her shoulder, making her flinch, pull back. It begins to tug at her coat, gently at first until its grasps turn firm, knocking her to one knee.
“No!” she yells. “Let go of me!”
“Guerrero.”
“Duerr?!”
He drags her to her feet, gradually, until she stands on her own. She lets him lead her out of the sour fog into fresh air, and further still. Blinking, she takes in her surroundings, realising they’ve left the church many metres behind.
The detective, now leaning against his beaten up old car, offers her a tissue. “Best to wipe that stuff off your face.”
“Um… thank you.”
“Did you see him, though? Hear him?”
Her wrist shakes as she wipes around her eyes, knuckles clacking at her jaw. “Why the fuck did you show me that, Duerr?!”
“Because you had to be scared, just like I was the first time. I spared you the pain, replaced it with discomfort, but it should be fine. As long as you heard him?”
“Yes, I heard him! Oh god…”
Grasping her head, she slides down the car door.
“I am sorry,” the detective says. “I really am.”
“Duerr, I… best you stay away from me a while. This was too much.”
“But, Guerrero… Carina… look, I’m—”
“Drive me home, and leave. Work with someone else a while.”
“Okay. I will.”
WC: 750
Crit and feedback are welcome.
This is one of my stories featuring Detective Duerr, so here are the others.
•
u/Visible-Ad8263 r/BLANKWEBSERIAL 10m ago edited 1m ago
THEIRS IS THE KINGDOM
Blessed are the poor...
The City does not measure the quality of his rags, or spit at the sores on his feet. He stumbles in, past yawning gates, delirious and alone. Roads mutter at his footsteps, and abandoned markets sate his weary soul.
He bites, and the juice dribbles down into the dust like blood. He drinks, and the wine stains his teeth with murder.
If you are hungry, you must eat. If you are weary, you must sleep. This is the way.He does not question the open door.
He is home.
---
Blessed are those who mourn...
The letter. Oh, the letter.
To have heard from him after so long.
She finds him just as she remembers, and sighs at his wolfish smile and the way he kisses every crease on her now weathered face.
You found me, my love. You found our new home.She nods.
The words no longer come as easily as they used to, and her breath catches at the hunger in his eyes. In this strange odd City, her heart finally settles.
He leads her inside, and closes the door.
The roses in her hands wither.
---
Blessed are the meek...
They say a King rode in,
His court a rictus of sin,
His riches laid, for knowledge paid,
He sought the Wisdom therein.
Conjoin, the City said,
So upon his final bed,
His Lords walked in, and with a grin
He stitched them head to head.
---
Blessed are those who hunger for righteousness...
They mutter their prayers, and the gods are silent. They collect alms, and the denizens grin, and offer generously; bloodied coin, severed ear, a fevered kiss—
Always, always, they try to find a way back out. They search, and they climb, and they crawl.
Always, a new god whispers in the lack.
The City is patient.
---
Blessed are the merciful...
They mill into his courtroom.
They sit in his pews and stare, and wait, and watch.
"Guilty, " he pronounces, now and always. "Death."
His sweat prickles as they howl and tide and bear the screaming supplicant into the darkness beyond the doors. His doors. Their doors.
He does not look at their faces as they mill back in. Their steps are bloody. The latest petitioner wails and whimpers, clawing and pulling at old markings in their irons.
They sit in his pews. And stare. And wait. And watch.
---
Blessed are the pure at heart...
Dear Diary
Mother and Father haven't stopped eating me whenever I sleep.
I asked them to stop, but they just smiled and told me good girls help their mommies and daddies.
They bought me a puppy last week. I was so happy. None of my friends come outside any more. Wendy used to wave at me from her bedroom window, but I think they finally finished eating her arm.
I miss my friends. And when I tried to hug Lucky last night, he ate the tip of my little finger.
I think I'm gonna crawl downstairs and ask Mother and Father one more time.
---
Blessed are the peacemakers...
They shower the Crusaders' March in garlands and wreathes.
There is dancing in the streets as summer sweet lasses tease soldiers off of their lathered horses, and into sopping taverns and shadowed alleys. There is song, and verse, and poetry as harp and minstrel tell of the War in the East, and the salvation of its heathens in a baptism of blood and steel.
A Feasting Day is declared.
And, in the chuckling light of the harvest moon, the crusaders lift their voice up into the night in a chorus of suffering as the true feast begins.
A final litany for an undeserving god.
---
Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness...
The monk, in his prison of mind and flesh, asks the dark his questions. And the dark answers.
Always.
His blood, his soul, his service, for a god that speaks! A god that listens!
And so, he spreads the good word, aching footstep by aching footstep, until the City sees fit to call him home.
---
Blessed are the reviled and the persecuted...
"Rejoice!" preached the blind man on the podium.
"There is a reward! For it is the Light of the World! It is the City on the Hill That Cannot Be Hidden."
"Find her, all ye weary masses! Find her, all who seek, but cannot find."
"Come home, my brothers and sisters. Come home!"
"We miss you."
__________________________________________
Word Count = 745