[gm-archived]

 (     ♡  on a brief lil’ hiatus until i get my other characters all sorted out. luv u     )

[chaordiic]

         Arizona is a dusty corpse, in a dry and shallow grave; and corpses, they rot, it’s just what they do, stinking, liquifying, returning to the earth. The sunlight sears through the dust-bowl, and Owen watches the old, beaten road below him from an overpass, half-collapsed, empty cars squeezing together across the narrow path like sardines in a can; he finds shade under the long, undamaged wing of a crashed Boeing 777-300ER. There are bodies in the seats, trapped against their seatbelts; business class, terribly burned, their skin black and flaking in the heat. Four, in total. They have no eyes, the heat had dried them into prunes, but they can smell him, and their charred fingers claw at the air, searching, hungry, always hungry.  Owen turns away from the road, and begins the task of inserting a six-inch blade into their cervical vertebrae—-  base of their skull, sliding between the dead muscle and flesh like warm butter, less than a finger’s length to sever the spine. There is no struggle. In, out. Mercy.

  Owen is wiping his knife against the denim of his pant leg, when the sound of screaming punctures the graveyard-silence. He climbs out of the Boeing’s skeletal hull, eyes searching the road below. Owen untucks the sling of his hunting rifle from his shoulder, and balances the weapon in his hands, peering through the scope. 

  A young man. Lanky. Vaguely malnourished. Broken ankle. There are five of them, their rotted skin melting off their bones, their eyeballs dried up, but they are resilient, these fuckers. Five of them. Owen wonders if the boy is worth the bullets. 

  ——of course he is. Owen climbs down the overpass afterwards, when the dead are properly dead, bullets hitting their skulls with a squelching  sshhkkh;  he offers the boy some water, and he accepts it, grateful, sniveling, tears rolling over the dirt on his cheeks. His name is Joe, and he drains Owen’s waterskin, promising to refill it to the brim as soon as they make the trek to a town nearby—–  a community.

  It’s barely even a town. There are a few buildings that could pass for establishments, and Owen is welcomed to the bar; every pair of eyes in this backwater boondock stares, lingering by their windows and doors like vultures. He is acutely uncomfortable. Begins to regret agreeing to follow the boy, who had needed help to walk. 

  The bartender has been absentmindedly wiping a spot on the counter for five minutes, now. Circular motions, with a soiled rag. He pulls his waterskin onto the bar, and keeps his head low,  “Water. Fill it up, if you can spare it. I’ve got a few things I can trade for it..”  

@gravemother. / southwestern hospitality. 

[gm-archived]

          {    sundays have been dear to her heart ever since that old, loose-leafed day planner brushed up in the sand next to the phone booth. it’s the day you ask for forgiveness, for help—because he’s listening! sundays are the days god listens most. that’s what she’s been told by a late friend. that friend could no longer be a member of their community, of course. because they were inexplicably insane. she can’t remember their name now...has it even been that long? or is it her “piss-poor” memory again? either way, the boss—her husband—doesn’t like her speaking about them anymore. and so she doesn’t. yes, in some cases even catalina can hold her tongue. if she wants to be a good girl.    } you’d be surprised how many people find themselves cooped up in ed’s tavern any hour of the day. the crops, though a tad dehydrated—who isn’t—are in order, and the wall’s finally fixed up. on slow days like these, you might just find yourself trying to drown that unquenchable grief with terribly strong mystery gin. there’s only two rules; don’t ask what’s in it, and don’t get caught loitering for too long. the last thing you’d want to be deemed is dead-weight around here. her entering the bar brings the late afternoon sun in, her light as if some sort of heavenly grace bathed and christened each crack of grime in the dreary place, if only for a moment. a holy moment. a few mean mugs cock their necks like birds of prey to a field mouse, but their eyes don’t linger. because they know the routine. they know the drill. the doors swing closed behind the girl and the atmosphere returns dismal and bleak. but the poorly boarded windows and the lamp, flickering a mighty unflattering jaundice yellow above the bartender (shadows rendering his face even more twisted up and ugly, if possible), do the absolute best they can. the electricity is acting up again and that’s joe’s job. he may be lanky as old hell and look virtually useless, but he sure knows a thing or two about wires. word has it he’s sick. oh, no! poor joe! bullet holes in the postered-walls make like tiny search lights and she walks through them. her heels have about three inches to them, another inch and she’d be nearly six-foot. they’re glittering, a blue that peaks out beneath the long rivulets of her white cotton sunday dress. she's past each of the familiar bodies at the bar, finding herself a tight little space between the stranger and another stool. her thigh brushes up against his knee as she brings herself to lean over the counter, tip-toed and calling for the bartender, a few sweat-dampened strands of dark hair sticking to her flushed neck. she’s unaware of any deals that may have been made prior to her arrival, and if he hadn’t realized he was the odd one out yet, he surely will now.  every sunday she asks ed to make an announcement. every sunday ed denies her. her voice, soft, with a vaguely hoarse undertone sounds out a gentle “ed, ed—”, and she beckons him forward. but the man won’t budge. instead, he’ll sneer, tucking an emptied water jug beneath the counter. “yuh’ get the same answer every time.” “oh, ed—you’ve never come to sunday prayer!” there’s something a bit off about her—a bit juvenile. about the way she talks. about her aura. “yeah, 'coz it’s a buncha’ horse shit. don’t nobody wanna listen to yer’ yammerin’, lady.” and with that, she returns to her feet. she’ll turn to the stranger now, savouring a moment to fully size him up. his hair, down the bridge of his nose, his chest, his lap. there’s the slightest tremble to her hand as fidgets with a teeny detail of her attire, a stray piece of lace that has come free at the neckline of her gown, lain softly against an ample bosom. there’s dirt under her nails and if one of the other hanging lamps were working, maybe you’d see that her chest is sun-burnt. her eyes find their way back to his, flittering between the two of them. she looks at him with such a sadness. such worry. she’s searching for something we’re not sure of. a crease forms between her brow. 

there’s not a shred of fear in her. despite the size of his arms. despite his unfamiliar face. 

“...won’t you come?”

[novice-heartbreaker-deactivated]

[daisygraves]

the abandoned sacred heart of jesus church May 2018 NL, Canada flickr ♡ instagram

[thosefour]

“gotta make time to do things you like these days. practice ‘yer craft, y’know?“ “…that’s what you’re callin’ it.”  “yeah, that’s you—that’s me—that’s ‘yer mutt.”  “why does she look depressed?”  “because you’re her owner.”  “oh, fuck off.”

[rhetthammersmithhorror]

[thosefour]

I M P O R T A N T   U P D A T E !!! i have made some adjustments to felix and changed his verse up. to those i’ve been plotting with … we will have to work somethin’ else out !!! my apologies.  also …  BIG NEWS EVERYONE !!! introducing … 

*crazy drum sounds, cymbals clashing off beat*

T H E   K I D  !!! 

 … read about how he came to be here & here.   ; - )

also, catalina is his missing ass wife !!!

[gm-archived]

(     ♡    i don’t have a lot of followers        & i don’t know if anyone will see this —       but if you  l i k e  this thing . . .   i'll write a special little starter just for you              with tender love ‘n care !!  )

[aliciavikandering]

Monica Bellucci, 1991. Photo by Frederic Meylan

[gm-archived]

       (  ♡  and from this day forward . . .  

   catalina’s face will be m.onica b.elluci’s face !!! 

— because LOOK at her !!! ok that is all.  )

[gm-archived]

prcphetforprofit:

… Well, shit.

“M… My apologies–” stare kept stern on lil’ MISS! dolly as he took another long drink of the not-whiskey he’d been served when he’d asked for whiskey. “Pretty lil’ lass-” Just briefly, a look to the VERY unhelpful bartender behind the scenes; he knew. Was really ready to let him hang out to dry like that– would NOT be forgotten when Jonas didn’t leave the tip he already had no intentions of leaving!!

“My sister’s the one good with kiddos, I’m an oaf,” lies. Sam hates all kids, might like a dolly that keeps its trap shut,… no. That’s the not-whiskey talking. “She’s a lovely lil’ lady like her mo–” afraid of another misstep via assumption, he bit his lip nearly hard enough to bust it. “She’s got your eyes.”

This was not an apple cart he wanted to upset… watched curiously as she treated it kinda like he’d seen little babies treated… even though she’s playing with a dolly: it’s obvious some motherly instinct is pulling through for the toy… Wait: was JOHNNY real? did people ENTERTAIN this?

Was that REALLY any better than when he thought the doll had claimed her eyes?

Who is he? He knew that one, spot on as a script- on cue: “Jonas, Miss” nodding, finally shifting attention to her instead of her… Sofia… “Reverend, Jonas Nightingale… my congregation was passin’ through, thought I’d halt for a pit stop.” And a smile, as always, somehow managing to share his spiel despite the drink; really, he could probably recite it in his sleep… “I’ve met Sofia, now, what’s your name?”

   ( has he become nervous because of her? is she being too much? this won’t cross her mind for a split second. no—not with all that mystery gin making her insides fuzzy! )

the corner of her ruby-red lips twitches into a teeny smile when she catches the man cut himself off mid-sentence. his comment about her eyes renders her bashful. she lowers her lashes. coy. ...he’s a man of god! surely she should soften her tone.  when it's her cue to introduce herself, she’s quick to set her sofia on the beer-stained counter. a motherly gesture. i mean, who doesn’t bring their baby to the bar? she couldn’t leave the poor thing home all alone! as if she doesn’t have a school of ugly, crack-faced babies at home.  that would make her a bad mother. she’s a good mother! she’s good!

a creak from the ripped, artificial leather bar stool sounds beneath her as she fixes herself. straightens her back all proper and gives her head a little toss to flick long, dark tresses over her shoulder. she juts her hand out for a shake. the glass in her other hand is idle, tilting, just a millimeter away from pouring its contents right out onto her white nightgown. the doll on the counter tips over. all dead-like and what not. makes you wonder just how much she really cares about the thing.

“catalina merino—” fast, almost rehearsed. her eyes are lit up like the sun, their brilliance burning holes into his with some sort of misplaced hope.  “the lord doesn’t mind if you drink, reverend jonas?”

[magnificentruin-deactivated2015]

[gm-archived]

prcphetforprofit:

His sister had said this stop was a bad idea. It wasn’t even on the map, really, but they hadn’t been on the right path since the wrong turn taken a solid few hours ago… He really should listen to Sam more, not that he’d ever admit it out loud, but…

….. oh; oh God…. the pretty ones were always fuckin’ crazy, that’s what he gets.

This is it. Is this karma? Maybe that ice slippin’ on down his spine is the Holy Spirit finally catching up with him, Jonas shivered– about damn time, really, he’d only been at this for how long now? Twenty or so some-odd years? why is the doll looking at him like that?

What’s in this whiskey- wait, is this even whiskey?

“Well, I’d have ta’ say,” he’s played along with weirder shit before, Hell, what’s a broad with a baby doll compared to the crap he’s pulled… “I can certainly see some resemblance, yea–” better to play along with these sorta things: truly crazy people hardly knew they were actually just that. Or, maybe he was lucky, and she was just drunk… or maybe he was crazy…

… Jonas had already gone this far along, though: “Johnny, huh? Where’d he get a name like that?” Like he would a ‘real’ infant, he shot the doll a smile, had to disguise his cringe by taking another drink. “God Almighty, handsome lil… guy…”

    ( and it's definitely not whiskey. jonas is gonna have one hot date with the toilet later. wonder if he'll enjoy his lunch the second time around? ha-ha! ) the bartender (if you can even call him that) has this nasty smirk on his ugly mug as he works his too-big hand into a whiskey glass with a dirty old rag. and there’s this short, mocking-kinda chuckle that comes from him. one that says quit while you’re ahead, dummy. it’s as if this stranger’s called her baby ugly—the way her expression falls flat.  “n—o...this isn’t johnny...johnny’s a boy!” thick lashes flutter a moment in disbelief, she scoffs. cranes her neck and plants her lips right against the doll’s face anywhere they’ll land. a stain of red lipstick leaves an impression on its glass eye. vision now muddied, the left eye ‘blinks’ as she pulls away. 

“little johnny lives over by the church...this is sofia. she’s one-and-a-half.” emphasis on the she. how dare he. it’s clearly a girl! it’s bald as fuck. she’s bouncing the thing on her knee as if it's sentient, stroking little circles into her back...but she’s still suspicious. so she shoots him a suspicious look. dark eyes narrowed. “...who are you?” almost said more like an accusation than a question. here we go.

[gm-archived]

  ( oh—you’ve caught her at the bar. and lucky you!!! she’s not crying. for once. )      SHE’S GOT a drink in hand and a baby doll held tight against her chest, its porcelain face buried deep into her bosom. doesn’t know what ed’s fixed her up to drink this time. alcohol of actual quality is hard to come by, these days. most who wander into this divey, run-down joint will drink whatever numbs them. “little johnny says we have the same eyes,” she coos, rolling a shoulder forward and looking down at her baby with a mother’s loving admiration.

   she turns the doll so it’s facing the other.  “—what do you think?”

[gm-archived]

   i have burned & burned, but is it burning if there’s no one there to see?

xo.

[dirt-cake-doll]

[antigonick]

—she became with all that power sweeping savagely in and inevitably withdrawing, hypnotised, and the two senses of that vastness and this tininess flowering within it made her feel that was bound hand and foot and unable to move by the intensity of her feelings which reduced her own body, her own life, and the lives of all the people in the world, for ever, to nothingness.

Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse (via antigonick)