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Written for this.
Newcastle Gothic
- The road-signs point to The North. Only ever to The North. As more and more flash by, The North stops being a place and becomes more of a...presence. As you approach, a faceless angel the colour of rust and dried blood looms on the horizon, staring sightlessly down from its perch.
- The world is grey. The buildings, the streets, the sky, the water - everything is grey. And when the sea fret slithers up the Tyne to settle inland, and the air tastes of salt and seaweed, you think you might drown here.
- The mines are closed. The shipyards are closed. The old men who worked in them mutter into their pint glasses and cast narrow-eyed looks to the grey sky. They sit and rot and rust and wither and their low grumblings slip into dreams. The mines are closed. The shipyards are closed. But you dream of steel all the same and wake with black dust ground into your skin.
- The language rises and falls like whalesong - queer and eldritch. Barely English. It slips into your brain and pulls at ancestral memory; dark as the core of the earth and as dangerous as the tides that dragged you here. Sea and coal and sweat.
- There is a castle here. You've never seen it. You don't know where to look for it. You don't need to. You can feel it. The castle has seen you, and it waits for you at the heart of its labyrinth.
- There is a second castle. This one, you know; this one, you all know. St James' Park towers on the top of the hill, demanding pilgrimage. An army clad in black and white ride hope and hippocampi into its concrete halls; their roars fill the sky like thunder.
- You do not mention the plague pit. No one mentions the plague pit, and yet you know of it, and that knowledge twists in your brain and your gut as a hen party shrieks and staggers too close.
- The Quayside is a maze of narrow, twisted streets filled with red neon and howling. You slide through the crowds and avert your gaze from a young woman vomiting red into a gutter. The city demands its sacrifice.
- The fair situates itself over the old gallows, where witches were hanged. The grey sky darkens and the rain begins. It is summer. Rain drips from your hair and your nose, soaks into your skin. You listen to the screams.
- Those from the Outside look on in wonder as you pass. Bundled in scarves and coats to protect them from the wind and the bone-deep chill that rises from the river, they don't understand that the cold means nothing. You are Viking, you are Selkie, you are Geordie, and the cold has no dominion. They shiver. They do not understand.
- You can never leave. Not really. The North is a presence and it's been latched onto your soul from the day you were born. You go, you run as far as you can, but there is a day - there is always a day - when the sea in your blood pulls you to your door. "Am gannin yem" you say when people ask, queer and eldritch, with a voice that rises and falls like whalesong; eerie and incomprehensible.
- The road-signs point to The North. Only ever to The North. As more and more flash by, The North stops being a place and becomes more of a...presence. As you approach, a faceless angel the colour of rust and dried blood looms on the horizon, staring sightlessly down from its perch.
- The world is grey. The buildings, the streets, the sky, the water - everything is grey. And when the sea fret slithers up the Tyne to settle inland, and the air tastes of salt and seaweed, you think you might drown here.
- The mines are closed. The shipyards are closed. The old men who worked in them mutter into their pint glasses and cast narrow-eyed looks to the grey sky. They sit and rot and rust and wither and their low grumblings slip into dreams. The mines are closed. The shipyards are closed. But you dream of steel all the same and wake with black dust ground into your skin.
- The language rises and falls like whalesong - queer and eldritch. Barely English. It slips into your brain and pulls at ancestral memory; dark as the core of the earth and as dangerous as the tides that dragged you here. Sea and coal and sweat.
- There is a castle here. You've never seen it. You don't know where to look for it. You don't need to. You can feel it. The castle has seen you, and it waits for you at the heart of its labyrinth.
- There is a second castle. This one, you know; this one, you all know. St James' Park towers on the top of the hill, demanding pilgrimage. An army clad in black and white ride hope and hippocampi into its concrete halls; their roars fill the sky like thunder.
- You do not mention the plague pit. No one mentions the plague pit, and yet you know of it, and that knowledge twists in your brain and your gut as a hen party shrieks and staggers too close.
- The Quayside is a maze of narrow, twisted streets filled with red neon and howling. You slide through the crowds and avert your gaze from a young woman vomiting red into a gutter. The city demands its sacrifice.
- The fair situates itself over the old gallows, where witches were hanged. The grey sky darkens and the rain begins. It is summer. Rain drips from your hair and your nose, soaks into your skin. You listen to the screams.
- Those from the Outside look on in wonder as you pass. Bundled in scarves and coats to protect them from the wind and the bone-deep chill that rises from the river, they don't understand that the cold means nothing. You are Viking, you are Selkie, you are Geordie, and the cold has no dominion. They shiver. They do not understand.
- You can never leave. Not really. The North is a presence and it's been latched onto your soul from the day you were born. You go, you run as far as you can, but there is a day - there is always a day - when the sea in your blood pulls you to your door. "Am gannin yem" you say when people ask, queer and eldritch, with a voice that rises and falls like whalesong; eerie and incomprehensible.
no subject
Date: 2017-01-08 09:21 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2017-01-08 09:41 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2017-01-08 11:39 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2017-01-08 11:55 pm (UTC)From:…a Tumblr-based literary genre which applies facets of the traditional Southern Gothic genre to other distinct geographical regions. Posts in the genre often are written in the second person, in the format of a bulleted list that details several dark, depressing, moody or creepy aspects of the regional For this challenge, you can either write a regional gothic post in the usual format (described above) or write a story in the Southern Gothic tradition - but set somewhere other than the American South."
Now that I've done the list, I'm thinking of doing a short story for it, but I'm wary of it turning into 'Shadow over Innsmouth for miners'.
no subject
Date: 2017-01-09 12:00 am (UTC)From:You've got a lot of cool ideas for a short story, it looks like. Is there a fandom you'd let loose on Newcastle, or go with original stuff?
no subject
Date: 2017-01-09 12:06 am (UTC)From:I'd also really like to see one for the places in LotR. Mirkwood Gothic? Hobbiton Gothic? Imagine the possibilities!
I have this random headcanon that Theodore Nott from Harry Potter is from here, but I was thinking of going original for this one. Eep!
no subject
Date: 2017-01-09 12:38 am (UTC)From:Oooh. Heh, Mirkwood kind of *is* Greenwood the Great Gothic. Hobbiton Gothic would be terrifying. You're right, these should definitely exist.
....
Laketown Gothic
-Barrels come down the river, always empty. What were they filled with? When did you send them upriver? The elves who deliver them just smile at you. Lamplight makes the elves shine strangely.
-Sometimes there are fires reflected in the water. You don't look up. You never look up, and especially not towards the mountain.
no subject
Date: 2017-01-10 11:09 pm (UTC)From:...
Hobbiton Gothic
- The Brandywine gurgles through the little valleys. You tread carefully along the stony bank, watching where you put your feet. You do not look at the water. You do not listen too closely. You heard the cries for help before, and you know that you can't swim.
- "There's not been dragons in these parts for years" they say, and they chuckle merrily at your concern. There haven't been dragons in the Shire for years, and yet the rafters of the old smials gleam white.
- You always give presents on your birthday. Always. You don't know why, but the very idea of forgetting makes you feel like there are fingers round your neck - choking and squeezing. You always give presents on your birthday.
no subject
Date: 2017-01-12 04:34 pm (UTC)From:SO PERFECT YES THIS
Tiny dragon-killing hobbits so much yes.
Lothlorien Gothic
-The Lord-and-Lady watch from the high seat, janus-like in gold and silver. They know what you do, what you think, what will happen. You are glad to have them watch over you. You will always be glad.
(there should be one about the effects of Nenya, too, but it's just not gelling properly yet)
no subject
Date: 2017-01-08 10:13 pm (UTC)From:And I didn't know you were so close, I live near Edinburgh. :)
no subject
Date: 2017-01-08 10:42 pm (UTC)From:Oh wow, that is really close. I had no idea either!
no subject
Date: 2017-01-09 02:06 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2017-01-10 10:52 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2017-01-09 06:23 pm (UTC)From:(I'm from Chicago; my bff is from London and I read this to them and they said "I mean, that's about what I imagine XD" )
no subject
Date: 2017-01-10 10:51 pm (UTC)From:(Bwahaha, aye, we're weird up north - there's parts of this that aren't entirely as fictional as they should be, but that's part of the exercise, right? Lol)
no subject
Date: 2017-04-20 10:20 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2017-04-20 09:43 pm (UTC)From:It's a very literal city name, which kind of suits the people in a way. Not that the castle's new anymore (aside from the roof). New castle up on (the bank of the) Tyne (trans. "river" in local Celtish dialect).
no subject
Date: 2017-04-26 11:36 am (UTC)From:It was the greyness, the river, the bridges and THE NORTH! ;-)
One of the very last shows of Top Gear Live in Februar 2015.
I spent one of my best vacation days ever on that lovely spot at the Tynemouth (the place overlooking the two lighthouses.) Yes, I realise it's not Newcastle itself but stilL!
In Newcastle itself I liked the riverfront, and the really, really old houses. Didn't know "Tyne" just meant river.
I also never realised before that either Newcastle is up that far North or Hadrian's wall was that far South.
I SO wanted to see it! But, alas, the "Hadrian's wall" museum was closed on saturdays during winter and also in winter the daytrips out to the countryside don't run. Arghh! Hence me spending that day at Tynemouth. At least there was a lovely castle.
I did recognise the impunity to cold. It was less than 20°C out (without windchill) and while it was sunny, there was LOTS of wind and the occasional dribble.
ON my way back to the Metro station at around 4pm, there were some lads, obviously dressed for the beach - including bathing shorts and flip-flops - on their way towards that. When I reached the Metro Station it hailed for about ten minutes ( I was happy to be under a roof). My thoughts were with those optimistic youngsters but then they were NOrtherners so they were probably fine. I just remember this so vividly because it wasn't just rain but HAIL.
That is my story of my experience of Northeners impunity to the weather ;-)
And my adventures in your home city.