So I’m going to be part of this Kickstarter run by my good friend and fellow writer Jason Myers. It’s called Big Trouble in Little Canton: Supernatural Hijinks in Ohio and will be a multi-year serial novel-type-thing involving horror and the supernatural in, well, Ohio. Which doesn’t come up often in Horror, as far as I can recall. Click on the name above if you want to support the project and/or just see what it’s about.
For my part in the project I will be penning four postcards, each postcard containing a flash fiction piece detailing a location in Ohio (said location being the other side of the postcard). For fun, and to warm up to the idea of horrifying Ohio, I’ve been writing little micro-fictions about Ohio and will be doing so until the Kickstarter ends. This is a record of that experiment.
One of the artists involved is Megan Mars, whose work I really, really adore, simply because it is so adorable (as you can see from the example below). You can find her Etsy store here and her Facebook page here.
If you’ve been on long car trips, you know the truth: 18-wheelers are everywhere. And while it’s true that most of them are transporting goods from one state to another, that’s not the only reason they are on the road. All of those empty 18-wheelers with windows so high up and dark you can’t see through them — whether just the tractors alone or towing along an empty flatbed, hole-punched tanker, or a refrigerator truck with the doors hanging off the hinges like the flabby jowls of an ancient drunk — they aren’t going back to the factory to restock. No, they’re going to Ohio.
Ravenna, Ohio, in particular, is the home of the 18-wheeler Graveyard. You’ve heard rumors about such a place, a wide-open field so big every NFL team could play a game at the same time, where every 18-wheeler that’s ever lived has gone to rest their weary wheels. There are the stories of treasure hunters who search for the dead and dying semis in order to strip the chrome from their exhaust pipes, and how these treasure hunters never returned.
Ravenna, Ohio, is the home of the 18-wheeler Graveyard, but where exactly is this fabled place? North, South, East, or West, no resident will ever tell. Well, there was Jim Gristle, who was supposed to have told once, but his tongue was torn out and his hands crushed with the force of several tons of steel and now, at the passing of any car, he turns white and shakes and burbles and who of you out there envy him his fate?
So when you see a passing 18-wheeler clearly on the decline, speeding Ohio-ward, simply nod your head and, if you wish, mime pulling an air horn and maybe you’ll hear one of the last cries of that noble, dying beast. But let it go. Don’t follow it. Please, out of respect and for your own safety, let it die in peace.