Update: here's what I've learned about alligator
Elements: water/earth
Alignment: passive/receptive
Topics: Protection, Strength, decision making, calm, meditative, stealth, Prosperity
Offerings: Nuts, raw meat**, green, algae water.
**please practice mundane safety before spiritual activities
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Southern Gothic
It sits low and heavy in my stomach. The dread. It gnaws at me like a lethargic mist gathering over a murky swamp.
It’s been this way for a while now.
The gators circling, hunger in their predatory eyes, ready to death-roll me at any moment.
Around me, in the darkening twilight, the cicadas sing their hymns to the smothering heat, like a preacher sermonizing to his congregation in an old, white-washed chapel. The old steeple and cross rise above the trees over yonder.
The graveyard around the old church has been swallowed by the swamp, and God’s favorite haunt will soon follow unless the rest of the wood rots away first. They promise that you will find answers to your questions about eternity here. Just know that those may be the last answers you ever find.
In the post-antebellum south, deep down where the waters threaten to flood and drown, lies the city that is sinking two inches a year and will one day go under. A place where things have changed yet still stayed the same. Here she lies, the Great Deep South, where those born on the bayou are as intricately tangled as the kudzu vines.
And the bayou, slipping into night, comes alive with a haunting restlessness that rings deep in my bones. It is growth and decay, sin and forgiveness. You need to be careful where you wade in the flood waters, what lurks below with sharp teeth and moss-stained scales, will drag you to your death.
They told us it was the promised land, of southern hospitality and comfort, but these lands were once Klan Kountry. Jim Crow laws and lynchings- a passing haint that forgetfulness can’t seem to fade. The old plantation houses, deep in disrepair, are all fallen grandeur and secrets. Their inhabitants refuse to admit the sins of their forefathers upon those they enslaved.
The scars, the infection, and the curses yelled to the howling wind, still linger.
The snakes are climbing the trees, so you don’t turn your back, bite back the bitter sting of the Bible belt against your skin.
There’s a breeze but you can’t feel it. It’s too damn hot to feel anything but the suffocation. You count your blessings anyway. Some days you’re seized by unexplainable melancholy, probably remnants of the horrors that unfolded beneath your very feet.
It could be worse.
In the South, we hurl curses during the week and repent on Sunday. And “you should join a Bible study” is the offered thought, when you’re young and ‘lost’ or don’t know which way is up. But I think God left this place long ago, and no matter how loud you pray, he ain’t gonna hear.
Around here, every home houses a bible and a loaded gun. We paint our houses bright hues and our ceilings blue. The wasps won’t nest, and the ghosts get confused. But this whole place is filled with ghosts, every citizen a taphophile, every stone a grave marker.
Our tea may be sweet, but the history hangs heavy here; bitter and sharp. Don’t make the mistake of thinking history won’t hang on to you.
These small towns with idyllic facades, that seem frozen in time, stow-away a lush terror—a deep dark history fraught with murder, slavery, and the paranormal. Sun-aged skin and southern drawls hide dark, twisting stories that slither between attraction and repulsion like grotesque contradictions.
By: C.B. Winchester
https://cbwinchesterauthor.wordpress.com/2022/11/23/southern-gothic-2/
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