Mar. 21st, 2020

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It's World Poetry Day. Take a look at some of the poems inspired by Eerie Indiana, write one of your own, talk about what the characters would perform at the World o' Stuff's Open Mic Night...
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They were the earliest stories many of us ever heard, and sometimes you didn't realise 'til later how incredibly horrific a lot of them were. It's the 21st of the month, so it's time to think about the type of fairytales the people of Eerie tell their children? This month's theme is:

THE BEAR ON THE HAY WAGON
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Marshall eyed the platter of meatballs on the counter in front of him. The meatballs, each one the size of his fist and gory with a rich tomato-based sauce, eyed him back. As he stared, one of the eyes slid down the curved plane of glistening patty and landed with a splat on the paper doily beneath it.

"Did you stick plastic googly eyes all over these?" he asked.

Simon nodded.

"Harley wanted to go with a Lovecraftian theme for his birthday this year," he said. "Janet's going to save one of the specials from the Baitshop for me to collect later, so that's the tentacles taken care of. This is the 'observed by incomprehensible beings from beyond our reality' aspect."

"Simon," said Marshall, gently. "I think this might be a choking hazard."

"For you and me," said Simon, using a tea-towel to wipe flour off his bare forearms and pointing to a shiny, pinkish bitemark that ran from his wrist to his elbow. "Not for Harley, though."

Marshall looked at it for a long moment, considering.

"Is it me, or does he have more teeth than last time?" he asked.

"He does," said Simon. "And still growing new ones."

Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Janet

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The door above Grandma's Kitchen chimed. Six identical pairs of eyes, set in six identical faces, turned towards it, six identical, ersatz smiles fixed in place.

"Marshall Teller," said one of the presumed-Grandmas. "We don't normally see you in here."

"Aren't you afraid of baked goods?" added another, indistinguishable from the first.

"It's not fear," said Marshall. "It's rational concern."

He moved to the glass-fronted counter, behind which sticky confections oozed with sugary delight.

"I'm here about the Tostwich," he added, more quietly.

The six old ladies exchanged six identical knowing looks.

"Is that so?" said one, who could have been any.

Marshall nodded.

"I've heard it can tell you your future," he said. "Assuming your future is short enough to fit on a couple of slices of bread."

"The Tostwich is a very effective communicator," said one of the Grandmas, a little defensively. "A brief precis doesn't necessarily mean a brief lifespan."

"I'd like to try it," said Marshall, setting a handful of coins down by the register. "One ham, cheese and tomato toastie, please. On brown bread, with mustard and the knowledge of how I die."

"Probably from nosing around other people's Tostwiches," one of the Grandmas muttered.

Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

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Outside, the downpour continued. The windows ran with water and the sidewalks were awash where the gutters overflowed. Inside, every available surface was covered in laundry, spread out to dry over chair backs and curtain rails, hung on drawer pulls and door knobs. The heating was on, and everything smelled of soap powder and the rain.

"Syndi," said Marshall, touching the still-damp hem of his favourite Giants sweatshirt for the third time that morning. "Best sister. Favourite sister."

"Only sister," Syndi reminded him.

"You know how tornados are kind of like tumble dryers?"

He dodged the airborne pair of boxers.

Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Ongoing Verse: Weather

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The Teller's living room was crowded, but quiet. Edgar clasped Marilyn's hand in both of his, while she held Simon tight with the other. Harley pressed close against his brother's legs. Melanie and Janet crammed together on the arm of the sofa, Devon wrapped so tight around them that he was barely visible. Marshall stood beside the radio, staring at it as if he could pressure it into delivering up better news. Syndi leaned against the wall, notebook forgotten in her hand, while Tod McNulty chewed black-painted nails down to a chipped ruin beside her.

The radio hiccupped with static, it's messages garbled and distorted by outside interference. Still, through the pop and hiss of the fading signal, some things could be heard.

Quarantine. Shut downs. A plea to a frightened populace to remain indoors. Looting. Stockpiling. Riots at the Eerie Mall. Shortages. The sky falling. A man arrested for breaking containment. Something else arrested for breaking containment. A house reduced to rubble by the falling sky.

The Shuckers Bowl-a-thon Hall of Fame Inductees. Euclid Daganfort, again declining to accept the honour. Mrs. Walter-Funke, brimming with pride as her husband's name was called.

Edgar Teller.

The room erupted with cheers.

Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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Ongoing Verse: Euclid

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

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Someone had painted a giant blue-and-white cow on the side of the garbage truck. It rumbled and hissed as it moved down the street, the sounds of a large vehicle in motion completely drowning out the tinny tinkle of a stolen ice-cream van song.

It pulled up to the curb outside the Teller home, completely blocking out the midday sun streaming in through the living room window. Marshall scowled.

Outside, three Garbagemen in blood-splattered Eerie Dairy uniforms emerged from the cab. They'd daubed rough red crosses across the front of their scavenged jackets, but whatever they'd used had dried to flaky brown.

"Pathetic," said Marshall, and got up to lock the door.

Ongoing Verse: Milkman

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