A Final Reminder and Inspiration Post for Issue VIII: Seances in the Forest

Dear Supporters of The Typewriter,

Seances in the Forest is one of our most on-season themes since The Typewriter’s conception, and yet, we haven’t had nearly as many submissions. Seances in the Forest is our issue for spooky season, and it will be released on the 15th of October, right before Halloween. Many of us, this writer included, may set down the torch, forgo the diligent novel-writing just this once, in favor of something spookier, something just a bit more spine-tingling, just for this season. And should you be a part of this population, we encourage you to submit to this issue! Seances in the Forest will be a haunting issue, and we are working on our most frightening formatting yet as we speak. Or, as this editor speaks.

As you know, The Typewriter’s aim is not to critique and critique the work of young, emerging storytellers. We want only to help you, those young, emerging storytellers, to get your voice out there, to spread your work, to have it heard by others. You have something important to say, we all do!

All we ask at The Typewriter is that you submit it! See what happens! Take the plunge and, we promise, the reward will be immensely worth it.

So, for our last blog post before Issue VIII closes, we will provide you with the most spooky, terrifying inspiratory paragraphs possible. Consider this a list of possible prompts we are offering for you to take, leave, love, or scorn:

You wake from a sound sleep, a crick in your neck. You must have been sleeping strangely. You try to roll out your joints, only to find yourself hung, upside down, bound in spiderwebbing, in a cave. You gasp. Your heart rate expediates. Then, you try to calm yourself down. A slow smile spreads across your face. This must be a dream, you think. Why, of course it is, you think, as the giant spider emerges from a corner of the cave, its frame taller than any basketball player you’ve ever seen and its belly larger than any basketball court you’ve ever seen, its eight eyes shining in the dim, its pincers rubbing together hungrily.

You are walking home, the treeline is covered with mist. You are still a ways away, having declined to take that smelly, sweaty, jam-packed bus for the umpteenth time, and deciding instead to get some fresh air and walk the 3.2 miles to your house. What. A. Mistake. The air is not fresh, it is biting, chilling, and everything in between. You wear no gloves, and you are shivering so hard, you’re afraid the hood of your sweatshirt is going to fall from your face and allow you to be blasted by the arctic winds. You can barely see ten paces in front of you, the fog is so thick. Funny, it hadn’t been that murky five seconds ago. You stop and turn around. You should know where you are. You walk this street nearly everyday. But somehow, the familiar setting, all its shops and cars and forest line, have disappeared. Into the mist. That is why, when a dark, shadowy figure emerges from the mist, you have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

That strange place between dreams and reality is where you find yourself. You glance at the clock. 4 in the morning. 3 hours until you have to get up. You grown and roll over, trying to situate yourself in the dark. The sun has not yet risen, and you cannot sleep with even the faintest glimmer of light, so you see nothing, and essentially feel nothing, as the darkness slithers around you and engulfs you. You cannot fall back asleep. You are not sure if you are dreaming. Your head feels cloudy, you cannot make out a thing, and you only want to go back to sleep. You roll over again, your eyes still open, searching, as an ever-busy mind does, for something they can make out in the darkness. You squint. Is that a pile of clothes? In the space by your dresser? Then why is it moving? And why is it coming nearer? And why does it have gigantic, balloon-sized shoes and a red, round nose?