kat. twenty. student. english major, history minor. nomad. diplomat brat. film lover. literary nerd. slash shipper. fan of a hoard of tv shows such as, supernatural, suits, merlin, the walking dead, community, new girl, downton abbey, the office, being human, the good wife, and so many more.

”quentin, i give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire; it's rather excruciatingly apt that you will use it to gain the reducto absurdum of all human experience which can fit your individual needs no better than it fitted [grandfather's] or his father's. i give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it. because no battle is ever won he said. they are not even fought. the field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools." -- the sound and the fury, william faulkner

"i can never read all the books i want; i can never be all the people i want and live all the lives i want. i can never train myself in all the skills i want. and why do i want? i want to live and feel all the shades, tones, and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. and i am horribly limited." -- sylvia plath

sample of some writing i did: 

He twirled the stick between his nimble fingers, before poking the dog with it. Her tongue hung out, just almost reaching the puddle of wtaer. Her fur was matted down, the rain and the blood drowning her. He watched the way her body relented to the force behind the stick, tilting his head to get a better glimpse of her wide, milky eyes.

He wanted to touch her, but his suit was new and dinner was in thirty minutes. The stench of rot clung to her body. He couldn’t risk getting it under his fingernails — the soap at home was unfragranced. There would be nothing to cover his shame if he gave in.

His phone rang in his pocket, but he ignored it.

He wanted to take her home with him — not instide the house but to the garden in his backyard. He could watch her there. Police her. Maybe even touch her once: feel her sharp teeth and run his fingers over the divide in her skull! Maybe he could catch a glimpse of her brains — the gray, useless matter wasting away.

But the garden wasn’t his and he might crush the petunia’s if he were to trapise through the flowers daily. His feet would muck up the soil, pulling up roots and crushing stems that were meant to stand tall. She would yell. His cheeks always burnt and his ears hurt afterwards. Guilt would gnaw at his innards until he soothed his shame with wet, hot tears. He didn’t like that.

His phone rang once more as he nudged her again, this time exposing her inner ear to his intrusive gaze. He didn’t want to answer his phone — he hadn’t wiped it down yet. The screen was smudged, there were fingerprints along the edge. It was dirty.

But the phone rang again, incessantly. He knew who it was. Who it always was. His fingers itched to drop the stick and plunge his hands into the stick, dark, moist wound.

Only he had to get home. Dinner would be soon. She was making his favorite — they were celebrating. She was pregnant.

He was going to be a father.



  1. cinematicnomad posted this