It’s Friday and you know what that means! It’s time to gather your fingerling gems and head down to the A N S W E R S P I T! Every gem you lick and drop down into the pit is one more day The Greenish Lady will sleep down there in the dark, blanketed in jewels, every moistened gem facet a plummeting kiss to her cheek. While she dreams, our children grow and the village prospers. May none of us live to see Her wake!

1. The afterlife can not be described by words… only by touch. Surrender to the touch of the recently deceased. A cold palm against your cheek. You will know.
2. Coffins are not for containment. They are keys. They open the doors.
3. Where language fails, the self dilutes like salt in water.
4. A kicky red lipstick can reinvigorate your look! Match colors to scarves to really kick it up a notch!
5. The silence in graveyards is a pause in conversations, for your benefit. Move on.

RULES FOR DATING MY DAUGHTER
1) You must venture into the dark woods, unarmed.
2) Gather a pile of stiff dry leaves and shape them into human form
3) Whisper into the ear of this thing-that-shakes-in-breezes an offer of dinner or a movie, animating my daughter of detritus into consciousness, you wizard of crumbling foliage, you romeo of loam
4) Leave me out of it, weirdo

It’s Tuesday and we all know what that means! Time to gather the family and go down into the caverns as we do every week, drowning our worthless eyes in darkness, slipping into deep cold pools and gnashing cave fish with our brittle needle-like teeth. Fun for all! Except the fish! A pleasant day spent floating in the subterranean void, false stars of exertion exploding in our vision against the backdrop of the invisible cave walls, listening to the hum of the earth that will one day swallow us again.

Clowns enter a building by the highway furtively, a neon XXX in in the window. They’re renting videos of men & women getting pied in the face over and over again. So many pies.

A clown leaves the peepshow booth, then another, then another, a crowd of them, more than could have fit inside.

Behind the building, a floppy-shoed & tired tramp approaches a clown in her car, engine running. The tramp leans in the car window, takes a proffered $20, then pretends to sniff a false flower on the driver’s lapel. The flower squirts in the tramp’s eye. It’s a living.

One player is “IT” and must touch all other players. Other players, when touched, are to freeze in place until the game is done, or until another player touches them.

The player who is IT may use cloning technology, traps, summon supernatural aid, or use psychological tricks in the pursuit of other players.

A player tagged by a clone of IT or by an otherdimensional shadowsister freezes for 1 minute only. Only a tag by IT results in a complete freeze.

If all the bees die off, an alternate agricultural model must be employed before play can resume

If you roll up to the party and everyone’s wearing robes and holding knives except you… you just miiiiight be a human sacrifice!

If you’re the ONLY one lying on a table, while the walls between this world and some unknown colorless space dissolve together above your bound form… you just miiiiight be a human sacrifice!

If you’re looking at the heart that used to be INSIDE your chest a-pumpin’ in the hands of a priest you thought could NEVER punch through a human ribcage, well friend…

— Georph Otherworthy, cult comedian

So glad kids aren’t being taught cursive anymore. Half the grimoires one can purchase in the Half-Green Market are nigh-unreadable, thanks to the lazy looped handwriting of mages and aetherpokers, running all their letters together EVEN BEFORE they get ghastslime, candle wax and cat hair on ’em.

Teach every junior candlewick bender and spirit knitter to PRINT, please, thank you, and we’ll happily spend fewer days haunted by accidentally-summoned eye-wights because we read some cursive J as a G.

It’s Saturday and we all know what that means! Time to get the kids into the carriage, wheel on down to the Shallows where we can visit the Boneless, shaking in their pools, singing their bubbling songs. Take a souvenir bone home with you… they don’t need ’em or want ’em anymore! They’re mostly salt and water and happiness, the Boneless are! Tickle ’em with sticks! A weekend delight!

It’s Friday and you know what that means! Our ancestors are waiting for us in the salt marsh, calling us by our childhood nicknames, their limbs replaced with vines (for hugging)! Can’t you hear them calling? Unlock these doors! You must let us out! If we can’t spend a Friday in the marsh, then who will they sing to next? Who will replace us in their mossy hearts?