‘The Grasses of Hölkenstripen’

Erica Appleton is a recent MFA graduate of the College of Charleston. She has been featured in the winning circle for CofC's undergraduate creative writing contest with her short story, "Out in Her Garden" as well as CofC's 2022 graduate level creative writing contest with her short story "The Precipice". Her poem "To Be the Greenery" was published by Pensive in 2022. Her poem "Beautiful Abomination" was published with Stirring Lit in April, 2024. Her short poem collection "Before the Goldenrod" was published by Wayfarer Magazine in May 2024. She completed Chateau Orquevaux's August Art Residency 2024.

The Grasses of Hölkenstripen

WINNER OF THE SHORT FICTION CONTEST 2024

The grasses of Hölkenstripen were a rancid, fetid lot. Naught but an ocean of gray and brown, borne from a bog of lustless mud that puckered under the dry, sour heat of rainless sunshine. These grasses were once lush and green, fed by the virility of the savory mud, but that is no more. They became trampled on by the men that fled war in the eastern hills, and their fertile soil was laid to waste by their trail of bile.

On the distant horizon, a queen, ‘The Belladonna,’ they called her. This vile woman seemed to have mistaken her lack of adversity for an abundance of strength. That lack would end with me. Long have I watched over these grasses and long have I watched her petty squabbles in the east slowly turn their eyes to the city in the west, my home; Hölkenstripen. The city that had birthed me, the city that had scorned my magic, the city that taught me that love is power, and that all living things can know love. My love.

With eyes open, I walked into the tall, dying grasses and bore them my flesh so that they may cut it and feast. Cherubic droplets of my blood trailed down their leaves, bearing the silver reflection of the moon above. They reached the soil with the fervent kiss of a man lusting after virginity.

With my dance I taught the grasses that the hunger they had long felt was undue and I watched with delight as what was once dry, and brittle was born again, still slicked with the wetness of its mother. It remembered its virility, its verdant, venerable origin, and became ravenous to see its return – as did I.

Idle cuts against my skin became deep gashes as the grass felt its hunger sated for the first time since its seeds first made their way here from the lush Illutine Forest. It began carving out chunks of my body and eating them like an animal would. The soil pulsed like a heartbeat as it growled, becoming slicked with blood that flashed white with the moon’s light. I spun and they unraveled me, tugging the crimson sinew that once held me together like the seams of an old dress. It felt good to be loved in this way.

My dance continued until I was no more than bones spinning through a forest of red tongues licking me clean of my once mortal flesh. Even then, there was still much to be eaten. I threw the rest of myself to the soil, plunging my skeletal arms deep beneath. I carved a hole into my ribs and whipped them with the roots I tore from the darkness below, teaching the grasses that the work was not yet done. More roots followed, sucking out the marrow like newborn puppies from their mother's teat.

They wanted more. The work would never be done. They would feast until there was no more to feast upon. They craved flesh and flesh they would have by the coming of the sun when that hapless queen of the Hills of Taçad would march on the great city of Hölkenstripen that would know no gratitude for the wretch that saved them.

By sunrise, I was no longer a thing of body or meat – I was of grass. There, as our leaves dried out in the sun, we awaited the coming of the sun and the coming of an army whose rumbling we could hear from yonder hills. Our soil was wet with fresh blood. Our leaves were swords made of peridot; tall, strong, proud. Their marching was loud, but the wind made us like the shattering of a thousand stained glass windows. They could not hear our battle cry, our howling screams for their bodies. To them, we were merely a field of grass blowing in the wind. How unlike us they thought they were.

When the last foot finally found itself within our verdant jaws, we bit. Gnashing teeth ripped their armor from their squishy, blood-filled bodies. Red rain poured down as their weak bodies became fountains of blood. And we laughed as their swords shattered against our powerful arms. Within this heaving massacre, I found her; The Belladonna.
I rose above the slaughter as a specter of weaved leaves, gazing down on the small frail woman that was to be the supposed destroyer of my home. I touched her face with delicate fingers and drank her fear, her powerlessness. The screams of her army were drowned by the thunderous rustling of my leaves, and her tiny voice could not hope to overtake them. But the sweat on her face spoke for her. It tasted of regret, anger, fear, and sorrow. The sorrow of knowing the end of her life was to come soon. When my fingers tasted of her insides, they gnawed on her organs until they busted within her – pouring out what they contained into her still stiff skin. The once great queen became filled up with herself like a heavy glass of wine, and we drank mirthlessly of her.
When the work was done, all was silent. The blood of the eastern queen’s army empowered us to do nothing but sway delicately in the wind, that which we had done before for hundreds of years. This time, however, we were green and filled with life and vigor. We were to a thing be feared and our land was marked for its danger and treachery to those that may find themselves trekking too deep into the hills.

Slowly, and over many seasons of winter’s bitter kisses, we dried and returned to dust. But even then, we were nothing but a stain upon the soil, as are all things that are loved.

INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR

Vera Tenney

Vera Tenney was born in 2001 in Oviedo, Florida. She prefers to write prose but has dabbled in a variety of other artistic ventures such as acting, ornamental horticulture, gemology, singing, and drag. She is a new author, having only one self-published piece of literature, her debut novel “The Verdillion,” to Amazon KDP in January of 2024, and has no traditionally published work currently. She studies creative writing at the University of Central Florida and intends to use her writing career to work almost exclusively on her anthological fantasy series “Taçad.”

Why are you a 'Breakout Creative'?

I consider myself a breakout creative in that I’m still young and have a very small body of published work. This was actually the first time I’d ever submitted anything for publication aside from my novel earlier this year, which hardly counts, since self-publishing an eBook on Amazon is really only marginally different than doing so on Wattpad. I just get to rub a couple more pennies together every time someone reads it. I’m very appreciative of this opportunity.

What made you want to be a writer? Did you have any muses or guides along your way?

Actually, as a kid, the end-goal was to be an actress. Even before I realized that I was a woman, I knew it was far fiercer to be an actress than an actor; it just rolled off the tongue better. I dabbled in acting here and there, but I realized that all the roles I wanted to play hadn’t been written yet, so I set out to write them. Ironically, I have no plans to return to pursue a career in acting anymore, and much prefer the creative autonomy of writing.

As for muses, I spent about the entirety of my adolescence completely obsessed with Björk and desperately hope that some of her rubbed off on me. More recently, I’ve been doing a lot of research on jewelry and gemology for a novel I’m working on – I thoroughly enjoyed reading Seven Thousand Years of Jewelry by Hugh Tait.

How would you describe your unique style and what do you think influences it?

I always say that everything I write is about hunger, which I think is because I’ve always been hungry. I don’t think that I have gone a single day of my life without fantasizing about some overly ambitious goal – usually delusions of fame – and these fantasies have a consuming quality to them that makes me feel terribly starved. As a result, almost everything I create seeks to either satiate or convey that hunger, among other things, of course.

If you had any advice for writers just getting started, what would you say?

I wish I could remember who said this – I don’t think it was me – but I heard once that you should study everything except what you intend to create. It’s an idea I often return to when looking for places to find inspiration. As artists, we’re often taught to study the works of those closest to ourselves, which is certainly true, but I think some attention should be paid in the interest of ensuring that you aren’t getting too bogged down by that approach. If you want to write a romance novel, read a bit of romance here and there of course, but if that’s all you do, you’ll find it hard to write anything except what has already been written.

Where can we find more of your work?

My first (only, for now) novel, The Verdillion is available on Amazon as an eBook! It is a fantasy novel set in the same original universe as The Grasses of Hölkenstripen.