𝙸, 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙶𝚄𝙴,

IND. SELECTIVE OC. WRITTEN BY ELL.

[nobodiesgovernor-blog]

            the sky having darkened  &  wisps of painted clouds cover the sun’s golden ray  .   distant thunder roars  ,  shaking the ground neath rick’s leather boots  .  there’s signs of rain  /  drops fall sporadically only to vanish inside dirt  .  none  ,  however  ,  have yet to soak the curls of rick’s hair or skin  .  a rarity for rainstorms to prevail past twenty minutes or so  /  CURSED with drought  /  nature taunts in every dot of water  .  trees stand eerily stagnant as no wind graced the tops of their leaves nor the leaves left abandoned on the road’s side  . still  ,  there is purpose in his stride  .  nothing left casual  —-  except a run-down pickup truck a few miles back  .  destination is no stranger  .  the path is quite memorable  ,  despite each minute drawing on to the time of night  . 

a last option / quietly swallowing his pride as rick paces the cabin  .  surely  ,  if his friend had wit he’d have left by now  .  still  ,  the shack seems inhabited  &  with two knocks at the shackled door  ,  rick waits  /  to be accepted  /  to be turned away  .  hopefully  ,  to be recognized  .   

@incarter

[incarter-blog]

it was a good thing       that ira didn’t have wit.  he hadn’t even let the prospect of shifting from his decrepit cabin enter his thoughts ;    merely continued to move forward,  senseless to the quality of his life around him ;    he had near given up.    comfortable in his mossy,  damp haven,  why would he leave ?     perhaps it was sewn into the stagnant wood,  this underlining feeling of comfort.

i am keeping myself safe,   he allows himself to subscribe to,  and in a way,  he is ;    the dead don’t wander here.     those that do have a difficult time catching his scent when it’s so en-cloaked in the earthiness.

the knocks alert him.    the smallest of moments,   his hand instinctively flies to the hilt of his gun.    he isn’t even inside the house,   but hidden in the bush to it’s right,   attaching another string of partly rusted barbed wire across a window,   to which he now drops.   he steps round,   bootsteps near silent in the undergrowth.   until ...

‘      ...    rick ?        ’      there’s a steady,   growing smile to the corner of his lips.    inkeeping with his demeanour,   he attempts to push it down.

‘      -------    well well.      haven’t seen you in a while.     ’        his tone is almost accusatory.

[aarontveit]

Better Off Single || 2016

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captainrevisited:

          he doesn’t mean to laugh. not really. he means to merely smile, but he can’t help the staccato sound that slips past his lips. not exactly beating around the bush, this one. 

          “now why would a doctor need a handgun, i wonder?” he asks, though the question is rhetorical. this interaction grew stranger with each passing moment. he was accustomed to many things. this managed to be just askew from all of them. body language carefully metered, accent a sodding mess. 

          “perhaps you’re confused. you certainly sound confused.”

‘     . . .    don’t be a smartass.     ’

distinct level of warning there.       he isn’t bothered so much about the guy,   nor about what he’s saying,   but he hates being messed about.   something stinks here.

‘     look,   you have an idea of what i’m talking about or not ?    ’      behind the jet black sunglasses are a pair of now concerned eyes.    he would like this to be some kind of joke,   if possible.   a poorly timed one.

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me, spending money: god i hate having no money

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IN THE BACK        of his mind, he can’t help but feel as though something’s amiss.  it’s already obvious that what’s about to happen isn’t exactly orthodox, and it isn’t like the wasteful idea of doing the right thing has stopped him before, but it just felt ... progressive.  he felt as though he were taking leaps and bounds into science that ought, really, to be left undiscovered.  but somebody had to get their hands dirty out there.  at least it was someone who either vaguely understood what they were doing,  or were too far gone to stop it anyway.

it’s a particularly cold night.  there’s a bitter frost in the new york air, one that casts gaunt shadows over places of goodness, causes breath to feign as smoke. it’s a good time to do this, since most people  ( who have the right senses )  are indoors by fires or space heaters.  a pump of electricity runs through him from the adrenaline alone, fuelled by the cold.

equally as cold as the night is the handgun in his bag.  promised like a bride,  clean as death.  he’d even polished the thing in anticipation of the sale going smoothly.  ira takes a deep breath, floods his lungs,  goes to his pocket for his second cigarette in the last ten minutes.  she’s late.

      ---------------------------------                   but speak the devil,   AND THEY SHALL ENTER !    almost moments after he’d flicked open the lighter,  there’s a distant,  but distinct,  clop of heels,  striking the concrete with prowess.   ( or fear. )   he peers up,  tips up the cap of his hat,  concentrates.   yes,  that’s gotta be her.     pushing over the nerves in his stomach,  he waits until she closes in,  observing how she walks;  hurried,   suspicious.   he doesn’t blame her.  a clear cough as he puffs out smoke.   when she’s close enough for him to see that her coral red lipstick has slightly smudged from the day,  he stands.   keeps the bag in hand.

without speaking,  she takes out a oxblood leather wallet and hands out a thick stack of cash.   holds it at arms length.     in a tense moment,  ira almost laughing,  he takes it,  takes his time counting it,  and hands her the bag.

‘    thanks,  ’      she mutters,  though her voice is marred by the chill as she wraps one arm around her waist for warmth.  there’s also something menacing in how she grips the bag.

‘   . . .   pleasure.   ’      all one word.

the clop of heels fires up as she trots away,  eager to get out the cold.  he attempts to ignore the burning desire he has to know what her purpose is with a handgun, but lacks the detective to be able to tell from just how she looks.  he’ll have to get better at that if he wants to indulge in people’s personal lives.  but by then he makes a quick mental note:    well,  that was easy.    his pocket heavier, he turns on his heel to get back to the jeep.

‘   ------   hey,  it’s me.     IT’S DONE.    she got it.    yeah.    okay.   call you tomorrow.   ’

ira sighs with relief.    he entertains the prospect of how simple that had been as he starts the engine.    attempts once more to ignore the voice in the back of his mind that cries out for  MORE.

[nobodiesgovernor-ar]

              if we start tomorrow ,  right now  ,  with everythin’ we’ve beat everythin’ we’ve  ENDURED everythin’ we’ve RISEN above, everythin’ we’ve BECOME ,  if we start tomorrow right now no matter what comes next we’ve won  .  WE’VE ALREADY WON  .    (  independent  &  selective rick grimes of amc’s the walking dead  .  nsfw  .  heavily television show based  .  triggers present  .  spoiler free  .  est feb 7th, 2014  .  adored by morgan . )  

[notlikethemoviess]

Peaky Blinders (2017)

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greet

[socio--flower]

Kill yourself

Kill me yourself you fucking pussy

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@irritablefacade  liked.

‘            hey,   buddy,    you happen to have a lighter ?   mine’s bust.       ’             a tightly rolled cigarette between his finger.     probably ought to crush it under is boot, all the good it does him.

[incarter-blog]

ira carter   --   various (2/?)

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drop us a like for a one liner. xo

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(  you’re given a slip.  the card reads, )               𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃 𝙰 𝚆𝙴𝙰𝙿𝙾𝙽 ?           𝙳𝙾𝙽’𝚃 𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃 𝚃𝙾 𝚆𝙰𝙸𝚃 𝙸𝙽 𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙴 ?             𝙲𝙰𝙽’𝚃 𝙰𝙽𝚂𝚆𝙴𝚁 𝙶𝚄𝙽 𝚂𝚃𝙾𝚁𝙴 𝚀𝚄𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂 𝙵𝙾𝚁               ‘ 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙾𝙽𝙰𝙻 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚂𝙾𝙽𝚂 ’   ?               say no more !   this is a no bullshit business on the rise  &  open to new customers.     simply contact   ‘ carter ’   at    (  a phone number  )     &   ask for the menu,  then wait your turn.       alternatively,   log your interest using a  TOR  browser online at   (  there’s a website  )   &  we’ll contact you.      happy browsing   &  safe travels.    should this information reach a member of the authorities,  please consider your personal safety before investigating.     signed,   carter.   //     INCARTER.    INDEPENDENT OC.    CREATED BY ELL.   (  originally kryetar.  )

[wnq-quotes]

I want to be able to trust, not live in perpetual self-defense.

Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 3: 1939-1944

Read more on wordsnquotes

(via wordsnquotes)

[incarter-blog]

32

32       .         things you said that I wouldn’t understand.

                                            THERE’S A     stern,     paternal frost in the air,   gripping the world around them.     a crisp white layer of snow having blanketed the ground,   graced the barren branches,   their footsteps near crunch,   two hollow pairs of sound together in the icy silence;     the promise of a fire at their fingertips.     but for now,      it had to wait.      breaths hanging smokey in the air,       they speak quietly to each other as they go,     savouring the moment of peace as it lasted.

‘            it wasn’t worth remembering,        ’             the key way he starts his explanation,     as if dipping his toes in the bathtub to test the heat,     see if he could cope;      signs of discomfort already having begun to wrap hold of him as he had started peering off into the middle distance.      eyes having became cold,   glazed,       fiddling idly with a brass buckle on his knapsack.      then the index finger of his free hand picking off the dead skin on his thumbnail bed.              ‘        ———      i think i was just    …    waiting for somethin’ to happen.       ’            (   i’m talking like he’s supposed to know what i’m talking about.     )              ‘          somethin’ bigger than me to come and knock me out.     which made a lotta’ sense since i was hardly even there.        ’

was it fair to say he had found a place of    𝚝 𝚛 𝚞 𝚜 𝚝   in rick to confide it to him ?     potentially.     without a doubt.

‘          i don’t talk about it.     ever,    really.          not to sound …     full of it,   but not everyone’s gonna get it.     ’

he knows he isn’t making sense.      perhaps it would have been clearer had he have provided broader context,    but he still felt    …    defensive over it.      strangely attached,     like a child with a wet twig.        it didn’t wound him the same way anymore,     didn’t threaten him,     but in something close to respect for his past,      he almost couldn’t speak of it.       he’d buried it for a while.      it’s difficult digging that kind of thing up.       needless to say he flits around the edges of it.         as if fighting an internal battle;      a need for his privacy,     fighting tirelessly with his desperation for understanding.      (    unspoken  /  unacknowledged.  )

‘        …    i don’t really remember those years of my life at all.    ’

part of ira considers;    is he being cruel to be so vague?     he sees that rick wants to know,    so why does he deserve substanceless hints?

‘          —————-       anyway.     let’s talk about somethin’ else.     ’           deflects completely.      it’s amazing how a mere few sentences can denote a    𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎    of dissociation and fractures.

//   inbox meme.  ( x )

[incarter-blog]

[incarter-blog]

   *     𝚠 𝚛 𝚒 𝚝 𝚎 𝚛   𝚊 𝚎 𝚜 𝚝 𝚑 𝚎 𝚝 𝚒 𝚌 𝚜

.  JOHN KEATS            --------------------------             the lavender in sunsets, flowers in the rain, sunlight slipping through clouds, lazy summer afternoons, the heavy scent of musk, flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books, fireflies on a cool summer night, being wrapped in fresh bedsheets,  the ache of wanting what you can never have,  dripping sunlight like gold, loving someone so exquisite, soft lips and soft whispers, fingers through hair, names of lovers carved in trees,  broken glass,  the insistence of being perpetually dreamy

.  F. SCOTT FITZGERALD           --------------------------            mahogany wood, crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,  the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog,  empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room, pale bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,  cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,  a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered,  a bad thunderstorm occurring at the end of a beautiful day,  the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment, your favorite sweater, parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing,  the contrast of blood against snow,  a purple split lip oozing blood, black eyes fading to blue to pale skin, the butterflies of falling in love for the first time, the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries, the romanticization of self-destruction

.  FRANZ KAFKA           --------------------------            the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future, decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there, the way not even light can escape a black hole, the rich smell of old books,  ghosts filling lungs,  shattered bones, raindrops on the tongue,  rusting metal,  nostalgia that aches,  the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head

.  H.P. LOVECRAFT           --------------------------            the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,  pouring rain and mud,  a child’s fear of the dark,  thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never ending ocean,  the silence of three a.m.,   danse macabre by camille saint-saens playing on a record in an empty house, the possibility of aliens and the weird feeling it gives you that you can’t explain, unexplainable phenomena, strange lights in the sky in the dead of night, ouija boards and urban legends

.  JACK KEROUAC           --------------------------            the brisk pine air of being on a mountain, travels without a destination,  those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,  screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive, coffee shops late at night, car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark, naps spent in the sun, novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins,  the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders,  ignoring flaws and loving life, wind through hair,  depression as fog in the brain,  impossible ideals, a quiet sunrise,  walks alone,  when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe, dazzling people,  open lands stretching out into infinity,  falling in love with being alive

.  EDGAR ALLAN POE           --------------------------             the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog, hollow bones,  a preserved heart held in hands, twinkling stars above an old graveyard, the way everything turns to dust, silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom, self-inflicted flames,  perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,  death as bricks in the heart, lips barely brushing against each other,  glassy glazed eyes, biting into a lemon,   heart-shaped bruises, rotting flowers on a grave, dried blood and spilled liquor,  the hush of dusk when it begins raining,  the intimacy of a secret

tagged:      no one lmao tagging:      all of u x