Mississippi Blue

by Brittany Johnson

His descent was not unexpected, nor was it slow and gradual. His rapid decline and ultimate destruction of his self-control happened in that night of June 19th. But Mark was an excellent liar while on the sauce, he slipped and smiled his way past anything, facade impenetrable while the monster slithered beneath his skin and flashed behind his eyes.

and a dimple you could fit a nickel in.

Mark did what many in his position do: gave himself to the higher power and became an addict of Christ.

Mark also believed wholeheartedly that the men who took his daughter were the ones who rallied at least once a week, preaching their Christian values and condemning his.

The absence of communication and physicality made her believe it was her fault.

Those were the last words Mark Hastings ever said to his wife.

Oh shiiiit

He watched the bush vigorously with his bug eyes bulging to the point of nearly rotating outward. (Most had trouble looking at him straight on—always following his wandering eyes, they just couldn't ever decide which one to follow.)

Very unique character detail.

boy was of The Blue. The boy himself did not know.

The Blue is capitilized here and in many other places. The reverence of this place makes it feel like it has an otherworldly presence or power.

Because at night, Kennedy Chelsea Sr. and his friends gathered, donning white hoods and lighting torches. They cleansed their town of impurities.

Wow, did not expect to read about the kkk in this stpry. Bold choice!

"Detective Waterson." Carolina extended her hand, firmly grasping Kennedy's, looking at him hard. Kennedy's gaze shifted from Carolina to DuBois as he rocked back in his heels, crossing his sunburnt arms. Carolina continued, "Seems your wife didn't mention it to you then." "Oh, I just didn't want to—" Kennedy spoke right over his wife, brows lifted, lips tight. "You—you're a detective? Shman, world really is goin' to shit, ain't it?" "She's a Junior Detective, sir. I'm lead on this investigation."

This scene made me kick up my level on the stairmaster

Kennedy's father had taught him everything he needed to know about what he was becoming; how to live with that parasite in the bloodstream and accept the monster hiding behind the purple shadows of pain.

These "premonitions" were not staggering or life-altering, they were more like of a mild case of hiccups throughout Beety's day. Some made a difference, most not at all.

I love this variation of clairvoyanty!

"You sure? Can I get you some coffee? I gotta fresh pot right here." It was not a fresh pot.

I have also told this lie xD

All the messes he had to clean up before the cops started knocking on his door again. Familiar rage swelled within Kennedy, prickling inside of him, jabbing at all those bloated buttons, all the pustules filled with his darkest fears.

Kennedy slammed the side door shut, startling Gayle. Soapy water splashed onto her apron.

She was focusing on the fine details of a hem, watching the thread move as she eased her foot on the pedal, fingers thimble-protected. Carefully, she fed the fabric under the presser foot, each stitch executed flawlessly.

As the daughter of a seamstress, the accuracy of these terms makes me happy :)

Beety's eyes grew large and twinkled when he spoke of New York, her mind could hardly comprehend it, but her heart thundered for a place like that. A life like that.

Her neck tingled. Milford looked into her eyes with his sightless own as though they belonged to someone else. Something else, Beety thought. Like blue clouds swirling with grotesque mystique, they stared upon her. Beety did not breathe, did not even dare to think about breathing, her attention fixed on the boy standing in her living room.

preternatural

Well, that’s fucking terrifying

Absolutely believable character

Closer and closer, like a photo reel flashing before her eyes, the barn came alive, wobbling miserably onto feet, tumbling after her, its creaking wood singing to her in dreadful mellifluous whispers. She could feel the sound slithering up from her toes, wrapping around her neck, so familiar, calling her name.

It was easy, even with the booze and duress, for him to slip into his well-lubed character.

Reminds me when one of my parents would call when i was shit-faced xD

He shifted, and his jacket pulled up. BLANK watched his backside in the reflection of the mirror opposite of her, the little glint of his pistol winking at her.

At 5'6" he stood an inch shorter than his wife (he used a box for their wedding photo).

Such a small detail but i love this

I don’t think I’ve ever related more with a character 😭😭😭 my heart goes out to her.

beggarticks and laid them on the mound. Beety

The feelings that rose with Carolina's presence were ones he'd thought lost, like appendages blown off in the war, buried in the trenches.

somehow above, somehow below.

Soon, the barn as it was in 1946 bled through and reigned supreme in her mind.

She felt the guilt, the grief, it brimmed and bristled and then the anger boiled, pools and pools that seemed depthless, all inside her.

The barn became more focused, releasing its ’46 image and now transforming into the dilapidated, fetid hag it was.

Several slats in the roof were missing now, and created a disco ball effect, streaks

Fuck this is beautiful imagery

Hybrid noises, loops of spliced calls and nuances, vaguely familiar and uncanny, something that shouldn’t have existed, shouldn’t have been heard at all.

Such an original monster!

cyclone,

I fucking love the use of this particuar natural disaster here.

And not the good toast, either. Not the golden brown, crispy, crunchy Jesus Christ of bread. No, she’d be scorched earth, blackened, rock-hard Devil toast.

Good character voice

Skin of the ones it brought here, Seth thought.

Reminds me of Ko the face stealer from ATLA

Carolina withdrew and slapped him across the cheek. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Thank fuck

Seth acted fast, grabbing up the typewriter on the desk,

wrenching it over his head and bringing it down on top of DuBois with a short, guttural shout.

The fucking poetic nature of this is IMMENSE

The river hit her face like cement, coursing viciously up her nose, eyes open wide. She struggled and fought in Seth’s grip, her hands reaching to him. The Blue would not let her go. At the moment of her departure, it pulled Seth’s empty body back in, head first, as if an invisible man stood behind him, making him swallow that water in whole gulps. They laid together, floating bodies atop the Mississippi, in an eddy where they swirled, bumping into each other ceaselessly in the October cold.

The boy was an open wound, wallowing, with the travails of his past chasing after him like hounds.

but the ghosts came, ghosts with heads pointing into the sky. They pulled Phillip from his sissy, awakening fully in the brutal arms of one of those ghosts with holes for eyes and holes for a mouth, empty black holes, dark as the night.

limping along with a man dying from his own poisonous heart.

wrung around Kennedy’s neck like a noose.