Hear the metronome beat of his heart, tock, tock, tick-tock, as he turns in place. And turns. And turns. His spot is a knot on the oak beyond, and the pinwheel whirl of him never loses sight of it. He’s fixed it in his mind: dented, immovable, secret. And it is the mind of him that spins on, even as his body fails him and he falls, trips and wobbles—and falls.

He is alone, as he is always alone. There is no one to gasp at the sound.

He pushes himself up with economy, without grace. Two of the bones in his left wrist scrape against each other uncomfortably, and a ragged crescent of thumbnail has all but abandoned him. He rips it clean and squeezes it between his right forefinger and thumb. The keratin is cloudy, marred with two divots that speak of some vitamin deficiency or another. Mycroft would know.

(Mycroft probably does know.)

Sherlock peels one shoe free and winces at the mortal sting of the blister flowering on his instep. Leg cocked, curled into himself, he wields his thumbnail blade with no less reverence than he would a scalpel. The blister burbles and dies with a tubercular exhalation, weeps until it lays flat as a lung.

Sherlock smiles. It is his eighteenth birthday.


And inside the house, Mycroft begins to scream.

(Reblogged from minhyunghelenachoi)


195/365: Stoker 2013

they are two halves of the same
whole. And just as there
is no true unadulterated
no true unmitigated
Sorrow, There is never a
in all
their parallel lives
when they wear the same expression
on their




(Reblogged from du-gen-deactivated20131004)


Part 1

There is more than one faceless old woman who lives in your home. Of course there is. 

How can you tell? you ask. If they have no faces? you say. They could all be the same faceless old woman, you insist, just in a different dress or sweater or overalls and old, old shoes.

Silly girl.

Breathe deep, and deeper, and learn her scent. Listen to her skirts against the tile, her rings on the radiator. Listen to her speak. Listen to her breathe, and yawn, and sing you to sleep, each note emanating from the featureless form where her face should be.

And when was the last time you looked in the mirror?

(Source: cervvo)

(Reblogged from lambandserpent)


Foggy Day, Oxford, England

photo by kamshots

Where I am, white bicycles mean death. They’ll appear overnight—locked, chained, and paper white—on the sidewalk right next to the spot where last week, or last month, or last year, a cyclist was struck by a careless car, and died there in the road.

Sometimes as I walk I touch my hand to streetlamps. I nod to every dog, play hopscotch on the flagstones, leave a trail of muffin crumbs. I count the white bicycles.

There are a lot of white bicycles.

(Reblogged from crownedinwood)


There are, of course, many reasons why I turned out the way I did, but growing up in a house with a damn wishing well probably had at least some small thing to do with it.

(Reblogged from thatjessjohnson)

Put your MP3 player on shuffle, and then write down the first line of each of the first twenty songs. Post the “poem” that results.

Here, here:
I thought I heard the old man say, “Leave her, Johnny.
Leave her.”

They say the whale swallowed Jonah out in the deep blue sea.

(What power art thou who from below
Hast made me rise unwillingly and slow?)

Woke up this morning at 11:11. The land
is the mother of a tender crop—that’s M-O—
So sexy, Danny Diamond; she was a star.
My love, my life, my band, my wife.

Come all, ye young whaler men bound after sperm.

There was a lady in the north. I ne’er could find her marrow.
Roll me on your frozen fields. Break my bones to watch them heal.

Now listen, honey, while I say,
You could have a great career.
Grand pianos crash down together, stupid girls.
Stupid girls, speak plain, he said, but didn’t see: when Joseph was an old man,
An old man was he.

Looks like I’ve fucked up again—
I’ve found a new baby.

the heater in my cabin’s bedroom is broken, so this is my study buddy for the evening. i shall call it “calcifer.”


"The Company of Wolves," a short story by Angela Carter.

Read by, well, me.

You see, nympheline was ill and forlorn and so I decided to read her a story to pass the time. It simply took a bit more time than anticipated, resulting in this little audiobook package. Far be it for me to do anything the easy way; I only hope it’s able to do what was intended.

Running time: 30:37

Ways to listen: The above embedded Soundcloud file and, for the next few days anyway, an iTunes-compatible audiobook version complete with cover art can be downloaded here on Google Drive.

* * I recommend headphones for the full experience. * *

Legal things: I own none of the rights to the content herein. This is a personal project not intended for profit of any kind, except perhaps my own creative enrichment and, hopefully, making a friend smile.

(Reblogged from thatjessjohnson)

From Shelley Jackson’s “The Swan Brothers.”


Montage of Bernini’s face Ecstasy of St Theresa

A detail of the face is shown twice, from a different angle, juxtaposed.

via tesla.liketelevision.com

She is five, and alone, and she falls on her knees and thanks God.

The water runs nothing like clear, but it is the best for forty miles, tainted with only occasional flecks of black ash and sulfurous ribbons. She is told, for she cannot read, that hell exists just so, all flame and fuel and rotten eggs. But the incandescence of the tingling bubbles outweighs their scent, and if hell burns folk alive, well, so does sacrifice. She will drink where she is told, dipping deep the bucket and smiling at the silty sight of her own face there.

They mime silly expressions at each other, call each other ludicrous names of their own cryptozoological inventions, trade cold, smoky kisses. She smiles, and her face smiles back. Of course it does. She is five, and she does not know enough to hate herself, and herself loves her back as only innocence can.


She is nine, and troubled, and God does not answer.

There are things she wants in this world that she knows she is not to have. Gold, myrrh: these are foremost amongst her mother’s desires. A husband: foremost amongst her sisters’. Sons: foremost amongst her father’s.

But she? She wants Ruth. Naomi. Mary Magdalene. She wants a companion, and more than that, and she knows she should not.

The water watches her, silent and unjudging. It calls her no names. It kisses her, still. She lies on her back under the burbling falls, skirts rucked up about her hips, and she lets the relentless cascade numb her in all the ways it knows how.


She is fourteen and ecstatic; for she has taken the water with her, and she will never been alone again.

She can see her everywhere: the rushing, happy spirit of her. In the quiet puddles that gather so often, in the candlelit eyes of her Sisters, on her glistening, wrinkled fingertips as she pulls them free from those same Sisters (and their eyes, now, squeezed tight, tears flowing, gasps flowing). She takes the name Benedetta Carlini for herself, and Splenditello for her riding, writhing, righteous spirit; and together they take the nunnery by storm.


She is eighteen, and exhausted, and still she cannot rest.

They are caught in the most ignominious fashion imaginable: mid-ecstasy, taking the Lord’s name in vain, the stigmata of Sister Tomasina’s monthlies over her lips, her hands, her aching wrists. Benedetta wipes herself as clean as she can while Tomasina wails rape on cue, but she still wears stripes of rust and red when the provost comes to question her.

She can see Splenditello gazing at her solemnly, even in the provost’s eyes, in the nuncio’s, as she acts every inch the abbess. Tomasina begs her, with her face to the floor and her fingers under the door, to speak out, as Splenditello shivers and flees from the tiny haven of Tomasina’s eyes. They cannot imprison them all, she insists. But Benedetta knows they can, knows they will. She shakes her head and lets her lover and her freedom go.

She lies; and then she tells the truth; and then it does not matter.


She is thirty-five, and alone.

She has been alone for a very, very long time.

(Reblogged from jahsonic)

Striding the rails. Photo by Jenya Mendelenko.


Chris Thile - Too Many Notes

Chris Thile, everybody. The king of novelty songs that are actually brilliant. 

(Reblogged from thosechangingtrees)
Played 979 times


Chris Thile’s encore song on the Bachtoberfest tour. Pretty decent quality, but there is a lot of laughter in the audience (with reason…).

This is adorable/brilliant/hilarious AND I LOVE IT AND SO WILL YOU! I don’t actually know the know the name but it’s great!

"All I can do is play songs on the mandolin,
So I’ll play you a song on the mandolin,
There’ll be too many notes but then again,
There ain’t too many folks who can play too many notes on the mandolin.”

I bet you’re wondering what’s in the case 
And just why it has come 
With us to dinner on our second date 
When we’re trying to have fun
Well, I may be taller than some
More handsome than some
Even darker than a select few
But it seems every goddamn eligible young man
Would give his left nut for you

All I can do is play songs on the mandolin
So I’ll play you a song on the mandolin
There’ll be too many notes, but then again
There ain’t too many folks can play too many notes on the mandolin

As you can see by the scattered applause
Some might say I’m a catch
I hope that I’ve at least given you pause
As we wait for the check
You may be sweeter than most
More gifted than most
And much hotter than all but a few
Just because even God ain’t the model of restraint
Showing you what He can do

Doesn’t mean you don’t need songs on the mandolin
So I’ll play you a song on the mandolin
There’ll be too many notes, but then again
There ain’t too many folks that can play too many notes on the mandolin

You may be calmer than me
More well rounded than me
As over me as I’m into you
But ain’t it a proven fact that opposites attract?
I can’t play it cool—you can!
I can’t play along—you could!
I can’t play it safe—you do!

But you can’t play yourself a song on the mandolin
I’ll play you a song on the mandolin
There’ll be too many notes, but then again
There ain’t too many folks can play too many notes 
There ain’t too many folks that can play too many notes 
There ain’t too many folks can play too many notes on the mandolin

(Reblogged from daughterrofeve)


We finally have the “Grace Note” banjo in hand. We made the trek over to @tntomcat & @msveravictoria’s house in Memphis last night, and brought this beauty home just in time for the “White Winter Tour.” Grace is excited to play it for the first time, and is honored to be an official spokesperson for #georgebanjos:)

a spell for to capture the call

1. begin with the grace, and end with the grace, and wish for the knowledge between. 

2. you are tight as a drum. you are loose as your lips. you are light as a feather you are stiff as a board you are a bird among angels you are an angel among men you are ashes and ashes and dust and dust and you will become—

3. and kill, first, the bird (the bird is within your ribs). place the pin where the sun don’t shine. pierce.

4. (it will hurt, but not as much as you deserve.)

4.5 there is no shame in your scream

5. second: your grave is your own secret. i’ll look away. but mark where you fall, for that is your first fret; and where your shadow falls, now, that is your second.

6. third: the well never ran dry. neither will you. they will gather for the pickings there, freeze their acquisitive claws into the high wires of your cheekbones, jar themselves still on the ice of your eyes. don’t spook them. (don’t die. it is not your time.)

7. die,

7.5. slowly.

8. (it will hurt, but not as much as you deserve.)

9. fade in: the stillness is your silence, and your silence could be strength. it could also be the memory of a limb in the late-night wind, the new-stump sorrow of loss.

10. play, and play, and bleed, and play.

(it will hurt)

(Reblogged from south-gothic)