Jun. 3rd, 2020

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What have you been working on this week, Eerie fans? Now's the time to spread the word about any fannish treats you've got cooking: a line of dialogue from an upcoming fic, linework for your latest art piece, the yarn colours for a new toy. Let us know in the comments!
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Eerie is a town with issues. Whether it's shitty parenting, missing kids, the fact that the spectre of death haunts every pint of milk left on your doorstep or just an overly-amorous hominid pursuing a relationship with you against your will, the people in Eerie have problems, and they need help.

For this challenge, write a letter to an advice column from the POV of one of Eerie's beleaguered citizens, or the reply they might receive. Maybe you could write both, or maybe you could reply to someone else's cry for help.
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It's the year 2020, and to mark the occasion we'll be running weekly prompts based around Just Say No Fun, the episode that introduced everyone's least favourite optometrist.

Your prompt for this week is:

"Of course you know, this means war"
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The scaffolding ran across the windows like prison bars, and the summer sun shining through cast latticed shadows on the faded carpet.

The manticore lay across the top of the sofa, three-inch claws kneading muffins into cushions that were already torn and leaking. It eyed the griddled patches of dark with narrow yellow-iris'd eyes, and it's leonine face was set in a tooth-baring scowl.

Outside, a radio blared tinny renditions of Eerie-FM's version of a "top forty". Most of the songs were about corn or kitchenware, and all of them were about cults.

The manticore hissed, and prepared to strike.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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The hot spell had finally broken, and the cooling rain pounded down on parched earth and baking asphalt.

Marshall pushed open the old-fashioned sash windows, feeling the soft give of rotting wood under a lumpy coating of thick white gloss. The air was full of the smell of wet pavement and the susurration of falling water and he leaned out, breathing deep as heavy droplets quickly soaked his skin and hair.

"Looks like Wally managed to catch that frog after all," said Simon, who was performing much the same ritual at the other window. "Or get him a date, anyway."

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Weather

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There is a portrait of Sara Sue on the side of a derelict house on Chapins Avenue. It is the work of several hands, not all of them in possession of either skill or talent, and so the casual observer might not make the connection.

Marshall is not a casual observer. The fact that this is the house from which every remaining member of the Haverstock family mysteriously vanished overnight, leaving behind only their nanny-slash-housekeeper-slash-drill-sergeant, means he pays even more attention than usual.

Today there's a fresh layer of paint on the crumbling brickwork, and Sara Sue's grin is cruel.

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Pay Attention

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"Murder ballads," says Tod, and for a moment Marshall is picturing an army of knife-wielding ballerinas pulling off perfectly-executed grand jetes into the second-story windows of unsuspecting victims.

It's almost disappointing when Tod explains, no, it's just a story about killing set to song.

"The Eerie Library has a whole bunch of them on tape," Tod says, unzipping his backpack to show at least a dozen dusty, hand-labelled cassettes jumbled amongst his school books. "There's an entire sub-genre just about that one guy who haunts your toaster."

"Really?" Marshall asks, leaning forward.

Tod nods.

"They're not very kind," he confides.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Janet

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The damp patch on the kitchen ceiling was shiny with moisture, and the upstairs neighbours were singing again.

Marshall could hear the slap-slap-slap of wide, webbed feet on uncarpeted floors and underneath the lyrics, woven into the music, the choking gurgle of the man the sirens had lured up there.

He checked his watch and sighed. Six o'clock in the evening, nowhere near late enough to justify a knock on the door and a request to keep the noise down.

The radio sat between the haunted toaster and the spot where the microwave used to be. He turned it on.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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The old lady from Grandma's Kitchen wore a frilly mop cap, a matching nightgown, and fluffy slippers. She clutched a tartan blanket around her narrow shoulders and peered out at Tod from behind round wire-rimmed spectacles.

"Excuse me, young man," she croaked, eyes gleaming yellow-green and wicked behind plain glass lenses. "I wonder if you could help me."

Her nails were black and very sharp, shredding the comforter where she gripped it. Her teeth were long and white in a pointed, lupine face.

"My folks used to own a farm," said Tod. "I know how to swing an axe, 'Grandma'."


Ongoing Verse: Janet

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The lace curtains in the abandoned house up the street were moth-eaten, yellow with age where they weren't grey with dust, and wreathed around with a dozen years of cobwebs. The red lettering of the For Sale sign had long-since faded to washed-out pink, and it sagged on it's mildewed and rotting post.

Bertram Wilson did not get out of his car. He did not roll down the windows. He simply sat there, the engine running and the radio off, watching as the house where eternity had dwelled for so long succumbed to entropy.

After a while, he left again.


Ongoing Verse: The Children

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Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

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The Happy Brothers Mortuary company car was all-white, with a red cross decal on the rear window, smooth, gently rounded lines, and a set of bubble lights that marked it for exactly what it was - an ambulance from the 1950s, repurposed for the transport of corpses.

They'd found it inside a car-sized ForeverWare container at the back of an overcrowded storage container rented in their mother's name. The old-fashioned medical equipment inside had gone straight to Noel's Knick-Knack-Bric-a-Brac Emporium, but when some of it showed up in Doctor Eukenuba's exam room, the twins had decided against selling on the rest.


Ongoing Verse: The Children

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Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

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