‘On Halloween Strange Sights Are Seen’ – About a Short film by Tea & Morphine

Folk Horror Tea & Morphine 1.jpg

Folk Horror Tea & Morphine 2.jpg
On 31st October, this Halloween, ‘Tea & Morphine’ will take us on an unusually eerie walk through a small Hertfordshire allotment. In this seven minute video short the viewer is taken on a surreal journey that transforms an everyday allotment into a world of mystery and intrigue as we are introduced to the many weird and wonderfully handcrafted characters who reside among the plots there.

Along the way we encounter sinister sunflowers, pumpkin laden tables and a whole host of quirky scarecrows and oddly imagined effigies, set to the atmospherically whimsical music of The Parlour Trick, the film takes the traditionally English pastime and spins a darkly twisted tale of the unseen going’s on when the inhabitants are left alone to their own devices. With no rigid plot or narrative it is left to the viewer to imagine the storyline as the procession moves dreamily through this surreal landscape.

‘Tricksters and Threats’. Also known as: Scarecrows, Wurzels, Tatter-Men, Mommets, Bugbears ~ Tatty-Bogles cannot help but frighten, as they shamble down country roads with their arms outstretched as if crucified – yet inspiring terror may not be their prime motive, as they simply want to stretch their legs after a long day of solitude standing. The fear generated in human observers may be either amusing or regrettable to them, or it may even go unregistered. It is by their very name and nature to frighten, for they are the Scarecrows erected in fields by farmers to try and protect their crops from the hungry beaks of birds.

https://i1.wp.com/www.batcow.co.uk/strangelands/images/sl%20images/55%20tatty-bogles+.JPG

The reasons for their nocturnal animation is somewhat of a mystery, for perhaps not all will rise and leave their plot, but some seem more inclined to come to life at night. Perhaps this is of their own volition or maybe there is some external enchantment at work. It could be that the magic of Witches or perhaps Fay beings animate these rag-bag effigies in order to cause mischief or perform other tasks. Otherwise a Scarecrow could provide an ideal host for a wandering spirit or Demon that possesses no true form of its own. Such strange and shapeless souls are the Brollochan. These uncanny wanderers may visibly consist of at best a mouth and pair of eyes but they can grant mobility to any inanimate object they enter. Should a Tatty-Bogle be thus possessed by a Brollochan, this would be revealed as “Thyself” and “Myself” are said to be the only words it can utter.

Extract on the folklore of scarecrows from – ‘Strange Lands ~ Supernatural Creatures of the Celtic Otherworld’ by Andrew L. Paciorek.

Folk Horror Tea & Morphine 7.jpg

http://theparlourtrick.com
Music is by The Parlour Trick; a song chosen from ‘A Blessed Unrest’ known “The Halloween album of the year” ~ Douglas Wolk (Rolling Stone, Pitchfork, TIME) Meredith Yayanos; Voice, strings, theremin, percussion & Dan Cantrell; Accordion, bass accordion, pump organ, celeste, glockenspiel, percussion.
https://theparlourtrick.bandcamp.com

‘On Halloween Strange Sights Are Seen’ is being shown Wednesday 31st October 2018 on the Tea & Morphine Facebook Page

https://www.facebook.com/teaandmorphine/
Images © 2018 Tea & Morphine

Folk Horror Tea & Morphine 4

 

Advertisements

Joachim Darke ~ Devil Hunter

688757._SX360_QL80_TTD_

A world in turmoil, struggling towards some form of enlightenment but where the beliefs and powers of former years still linger and seek to reassert themselves …

This is the world of Joachim Darke … Puritan,  fugitive, wanderer … demon hunter …

A world brought to you by the dark poetic writing of Bob Curran and the atmospheric inks of David Dale.

Issue 1 brings the outcast Darke into the communion of the undead.

Available now from here

30% Discount on Wyrd Harvest Press books

2.jpg

30% off All Wyrd Harvest Press Books

Just use code SAVENOW30 at checkout at – http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/andypaciorek

Offer Ends October 12th at 23:59

100% of all profits from books bought in this online store are donated to The Wildlife Trusts nature conservation projects

FHR Edinburgh: The Final Reveal

Untitled-2.jpg

To complete the great line-up at The Unseelie Court event at Edinburgh Summerhall, Folk Horror Revival are very proud to present ~

Headling our night of music are PYE CORNER AUDIO.
Pye Corner Audio is a British electronic music project by Martin Jenkins. Originally self-released, Vols 1 – 2 and Vols 3 – 4 of the Black Mill Tapes were released by Type records as TYPE107 and TYPE118. Sleep Games was released on Ghost Box.

Submerged rhythms and ectoplasmic electronics haunt the disused dance halls and concrete derelicts of Belbury.
It’s possible to detect echoes of John Carpenter, Italo-horror soundtracks and a kind of post rave meltdown in Martin Jenkins’ submerged disco and spectral electronics.

t1pdbyyc35kezrxopy03
gbx017-sleep-games750pix

Completing our catalogue of talks at the day event is Murdo Eason of The Fife Psychogeographical Collective, who will be talking on Embedded in the Landscape: Psychogeography, Folk Horror and the Everyday.
https://fifepsychogeography.com/

b7

Intoducing the event are Folk Horror Revival’s own Darren Charles and Andy Paciorek who have previously brought their take on the folk horror phenomenon to the stages of Cambridge University and The British Museum

folk horror revival @ British Museum

Author extraodinaire Chris Lambert will be our MC for the day, and will be launching The Wyrd Calendar. Maybe there will be some tales of The Black Meadow.
http://blackmeadowtales.blogspot.co.uk/

folk horror revival @ British Museum

See Also –
FHR- Edinburgh Event – First Reveal
FHR- Edinburgh Event – Second Reveal

FHR Edinburgh Event – Third Reveal

FHR Edinburgh Event – Fourth Reveal

Tickets available now from here

 

BM photos by Graeme Cunningham

The Snow Witch by Matt Wingett: Book Review

SnowWitchwoocommerceimg

The Snow Witch is both a haunted and haunting book. Though not a ghost story as such, it is swarming with ghosts – the ghosts of the past, the ghosts of winter, breath ghosts. From the bleak frosty shore to the black, black sea, Wingett tells the tale of a lonely, insular refugee from the east of Europe who finds herself in the cold season days of a British seaside town. There she encounters strange kindness but also becomes the victim of a harrowing experience.

The tale is infused with humanity at its rawest, its nastiness but also its generosity. Like a favourite author of mine – Ray Bradbury, Wingett skilfully paints a scene in words with painterly strokes; in my mind when reading I could see the twinkling of the model village lights in the darkness of the drawn in evenings and feel the bite of frost upon my fingers. I found myself immersed with the events playing out in my mind like images upon a cinema screen; for me that is the mark of a skilled writer. Also adept and engaging are the characterisations of the figures prevelant in the narrative – from the enigmatic otherworldliness of Donzita, the enduring grief of Celia, the shy awkwardness of Eddy, the wilful desperation of Vee and the low, selfish cruelty of Riley.

At times The Snow Witch is raw, unafraid to confront the unkindness of life but it also shines the beacon of hope and illuminates magic and maintains its air of cold, ethereal beauty throughout.

The Snow Witch is available to pre-order from here and here

Review by Andy Paciorek

She is Time

She is Time …

A giantess

A dwarf

A bear

A bird

Mother sister daughter all

Originator and child born

Wondrous

Awful

Tender

Harsh

Caressing – “You still have Time my love, my beloved one.”

“No Time left – Hurry you wicked child!”

I have avoided her presence.

I have acknowledged it too.

Youth or innocence or stupidity

Wisdom or just older and old age coming and then …

“I wasn’t really so ugly after all.”

Day after day and hour after hour of self criticism.

Now looking back

I beg you, “Let me make myself again!”

Help me form from clay instead of skin containing organs blood and bone.

Help me become an uncontaminated version of me

Instead of influence bombarding and impinging from all directions.

But Time will do what she wants and leaves me to learn.

Gives me precious gifts as well as throwaway baubles that will remain until infinity – Signs of me that were.

The passing of –

Who I am

Who we all are

What we learn

How to be.

Make the most of it.

Don’t waste time or do waste some time

Sometimes –

From time to time stop and

Feel and appreciate every moment of … but …

Best laid plans.

The past rises up in black and white or technicolour shards.

Puzzle together

Manufacture memory

Did it happen?

All a part of you.

Primordial – before time, before building began

Past, present, future – all times.

Hauntings, soaked and seeped into the walls the floors, the earth.

The words, the sighs, the emotions, the pleasures, the pains.

Mine mingle into the sediment of all others who came before me and those that will come.

Haunting me from the future as well as the past.

Thoughts, realities, fantasies, plans and ambitions unrealized, regretted, yearned for –

Unique and mine a part of everything that was and is.

Foolish, brave, meek, timid, strong.

All of these cycling

Who and what potential there was and is to be …

In the past in the present, in the future, in the “non” time

Just the “am” just “is” just “be” time

Would you live differently?

Reincarnation, what animal will you be?

Heaven, hell, purgatory?

Please let me –

Reclaim my self from time reclaim my fresh plump and tighter skin,

Like a lizard let me shed my tarnished and webbed self.

You are cruel but I understand.

My face, my body, my thought, is witness to evermore.

My life with others, everything I saw, everything I wanted, tasted, everything experienced – everything even wickedness.

Where in the ridges of lives does she settle?

Which cracks does she fall into?

Pressed under foot

Like leaves that begin to change colour, dry and wither while others remain under ice and snow, amber till spring when they will die, become part of what came before.

In the dew of the grass

The web of the spider

The speck of dust motes that float.

Day after day

Cycles of nature bring joy and sadness too, the end or fading of memories

Time so tied into every cell and twinge and hurt and joy.

Make way for her!

You can scurry out of the way and hide, for now, don’t think of her passing.

Hide your eyes!

Recoil from her!

But better to move toward her and welcome the shadow she throws down over you.

She is an unavoidable presence enveloping you with her wings.

A large bird is time with a wing span covering all and felt everywhere

Manufactured in factories

Forged in metal

Grown from the soil

Born from a tender nest and fed and nurtured

Created from mystery – the beginning of everything.

She takes from me without my consent

Wild and powerful and strong Time.

I feel her shadow.

She is near.

She will take me

When she is ready.

she is time copy 2

​Words and Picture (C) Carmit Kordov

Carmit is an administrator of the Folk Horror Revival Facebook group. Her poetry has appeared in Corpse Roads , a Wyrd Harvest Press book.

Please visit Carmit Kordov Words and Pictures for more poetry, photography, writing and cultural content that veers towards Magic Realism.

Dark: A Poem by Carmit Kordov

Dark

Come see Dark, the Master Manipulator!

He promises your rebirth.

Garish painted mouth stretching from ear to ear,

grinning beckoning.

Not for children this attraction.

Leave them with the carousel or the stuffed toys at the shooting range.

Let them keep their innocence – for now.

Eat a piece of cotton candy, you will need the sweetness on your tongue

to disguise the bitterness that will surely develop.

He is no circus clown

with red nose, balloons and pratfalls.

A trickster

A buffoon

Dark sees right through you.

You think you are strong enough?

Then come in and experience

your weakness

your fear

what delights or repels you.

He picks on you, plays silly.

Takes all he wants and spits out what he doesn’t.

Makes you tell your secrets

plays the game

The joker sees.

He is cunning

He is foolish.

He is a god.

He has been created from the earth itself.

Even his scent is musty, vegetative and wet.

No rules for him, no convention he is a disobeyer.

He is spirit –

Accesses your wounds, licks them, pokes at them with his rough tongue.

Accesses your desires and brings them to the surface of your skin like raised hackles.

Prodding and pushing and pricking of your conscience.

He takes all of you, mixes you up, shakes up your pretentions.

You can raise you hands to protect your face but he will bore a hole in your brain.

Takes you to places you never thought you wanted to go but now are willingly led.

Takes all your inhibitions, your begging and pleading, and laughs in your face.

Impells you to raise up your hands in confession, “It was me!”

He holds you under the water – will you drown innocent or float a witch?

As your confessor, he will discover what promises you kept and those you didn’t.

He takes you to the limit and beyond even the darkest corners.

So prepare and annoint yourself.

Make your decision.

You know what it will be.

Words and Picture (c) Carmit Kordov

This poem is one of a collection that will appear in a forthcoming book of Carnival themed poems and accompanying photographs by Carmit Kordov.

Please visit Carmit Kordov Words and Pictures for more poetry, photography, writing and other cultural content that veers towards Magic Realism.

Carmit Kordov is an administrator of the Folk Horror Revival Facebook group. Her poetry has appeared in Corpse Roads, a Wyrd Harvest Press book.

Story: A Poem by Carmit Kordov

Story

Yearning for the old language of my blood, bone, skin.

Searching for my stone, my soil

stained with grief

splintered with joy.

Echoes, wistful, reverberate a desire in me.

Layers of my past, senses, corrupt my present

force me toward a hard and piercing future.

But mollify too with soft promises.

I mourn the tanned, weathered experiences, pieces of myself.

I strain to hold them tight around me like protection against wind.

I seek out rivers, streams and ponds

forge through elemental forests

rejoice in the leaves’ breath harsh and tender

brush against walls, stone, foundations dense with histories

push along through familiar unfamiliar streets.

Forced to make choices, take paths one way only.

The present infiltrates, shoves and urges me forward

cuts into viscous layers of the past.

Here I am: child, girl, woman.

I am the storyteller.

I demand the past bind itself to me and keep with me in the present.

I am the story

I will not disappear.

Words and Picture (C) Carmit Kordov

Please visit Carmit Kordov Words and Pictures (https://www.facebook.com/carmitkordovwordsandpictures/ ) for more poetry, photography, writing and cultural content that veers towards Magic Realism.

This poem appeared in Corpse Roads (https://folkhorrorrevival.com/folk-horror-revival-corpse-roads/), a Wyrd Harvest Press book (https://folkhorrorrevival.com/wyrd-harvest-press/).