Tag Archives: mythical creature

Don’t Blink ©️

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You probably heard the stories.

A thing out in the dark.

Three legs, no welcome, wrong shape. No thank you.

They called me the Enfield Horror.

Hell of a nickname.

Sounds like a punk band that never sold a single record but still haunts the jukebox in a bar that burned down before you were born.

I don’t correct them.

Names are for people who fit into systems—phones, payrolls, gravestones. I’m not in your system. I’m the burn in your tape. The blur in the corner of your Polaroid that shouldn’t be there—but always is.

You don’t see me. You remember me.

I move like a whisper with a limp. Like a jazz note in the wrong key that still makes the whole thing sound right. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to remind you that you never really understood what was lurking behind all that asphalt and indoor lighting.

I pass through your town—not out of hunger, not even out of curiosity.

Call it instinct. Call it a rhythm I’m wired to.

I don’t knock. I don’t howl.

I just am.

And when I move, birds pause. Not out of fear. Out of respect.

They remember what you’ve forgotten.

I’ve seen your kind build towers and forget why they were afraid of the woods.

I watched you pave over the bones of things older than your gods.

And then cry out when something with no name steps out of the brush and doesn’t blink.

But me?

I don’t judge. I’m not here to preach.

I’m the pause between your thoughts.

The stutter in your story.

The proof that some patterns don’t want to be completed.

You call me horror.

That’s fine.

But deep down, you’re not afraid of me.

You’re afraid of what I prove:

That the world isn’t finished.

That reality has holes.

And some of them walk.

Elegy for a Goat ©️

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I wake just after dusk, throat dry like the desert wind, heart beating slow and deliberate—like a drum echoing across the empty canyons of time. I am not a man. I’m not quite a beast. I am… an idea. A whisper they tell around campfires when the tequila’s nearly gone and the fear starts to taste sweet.

They call me Chupacabra. They don’t know what that means. Not really.

I crawl out from under an abandoned trailer on the edge of nowhere—rusted, forgotten, beautiful in its ruin. The moon greets me like an old lover, cold and luminous. I crack my neck. I smile. I vanish into the mesquite and shadow.

I’ve got a thirst. Not just for blood—but for something pure. Something that pulses.

Goats tonight. Maybe. But I’m hoping for a taste of memory.

See, I don’t hunt like some rabid thing. I glide. I observe. There’s an art to it. The ranch down the hill is humming with tension. The animals are uneasy. The boy’s been drawing me in the dirt with a stick. Maybe he dreams me. Maybe I’m his imaginary friend. Or his warning.

The goat sees me. Doesn’t run. They never do. I whisper to her—soft, apologetic, like a gentleman at the gallows.

“Forgive me, darlin’. But you knew this was comin’.”

One bite. No pain. No mess. Just… relief. The soul surrenders. The blood sings. And for a moment, I remember… something human. A church bell. Laughter. The smell of peaches in a Georgia orchard.

Then it’s gone.

I disappear before the sun creeps back across the horizon like a nosy neighbor. Back to the dust. Back to the dreams of the fearful.

Tomorrow?

Tomorrow I might let them catch a glimpse. Just a flicker in the trees. A shadow on the fencepost. Enough to make ’em wonder if the legends are true.

Because I am the truth behind the legend.

And baby—I’m still very much alive.

The Call of the Wild: Why Bigfoot is More Than Just a Legend ©️

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You ever get the feeling that something’s out there, watching you? Not in a creepy, horror-movie kind of way, but something older, wiser—just beyond the tree line, standing still, blending into the great mystery of the world?

That’s Bigfoot.

Now, skeptics will tell you he’s just a campfire story, a blurry smudge in some grainy old film, or worse—just a bear with bad posture. But those folks? They’ve never sat alone in the deep woods, listening to the silence, until that silence is broken by something too big, too heavy, and too knowing to be just another creature.

Bigfoot isn’t just a monster—he’s an idea, a challenge, a reminder that not everything has been explained. And honestly? That’s a good thing.

The Evidence: Footprints, Sightings, and the One That Got Away

People have been seeing Bigfoot since long before white settlers started chopping down forests and putting up strip malls. Indigenous tribes have stories going back centuries about giant, hairy men of the woods, sometimes protectors, sometimes tricksters, always just out of reach.

And the reports? Oh, they’re there. More than 10,000 sightings in North America alone. Experienced hunters, law enforcement officers, even scientists—people who know the difference between a bear and something else—they’ve seen him.

Then there’s the physical evidence:

👣 Gigantic footprints, so deep in the soil that no man could fake them.

🎥 The Patterson-Gimlin film, still debated to this day—an ape? A hoax? Or the closest we’ve come to proof?

🦴 Unclassified hair samples, too coarse for humans, too distinct for any known animal.

Could all of this be fake? Maybe. But if you dismiss everything unexplained, you’re left with a world a lot less interesting.

The Wild Still Holds Secrets

Science has a nasty habit of thinking it has everything figured out, but history says otherwise.

• The giant squid was a myth until they pulled one out of the ocean in 2004.

• The coelacanth, a prehistoric fish thought extinct for 66 million years? Turns out it was just hanging out in deep waters the whole time.

• Entire species are discovered every year in remote forests, in the depths of the ocean, in places human feet rarely tread.

And yet, we’re supposed to believe nothing as big as Bigfoot could still be out there?

Bigfoot is a Mirror—What We See in Him Says More About Us

Here’s the thing: even if Bigfoot doesn’t exist the way we want him to, he still matters.

• He’s the last frontier, a symbol that there’s still wilderness, still mystery, still places we haven’t tamed.

• He’s the guardian of the deep woods, a figure that reminds us of what we’ve lost in our rush for cities, screens, and artificial light.

• He’s the trickster, the whisper in the dark that makes us question what we think we know.

Maybe that’s why people don’t just want to believe in Bigfoot—they need to.

So, Does Bigfoot Exist?

Well, that depends. Do you need a skeleton on a lab table, a hair sample cataloged in some government database, a Netflix documentary with a season finale?

Or do you just need a reason to look up from your phone, step into the woods, and listen?

Because maybe Bigfoot isn’t just a thing we find—maybe he’s a thing that finds us, when we’re ready to see him.