*𝒖𝒏𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔.

nora reed, 26. ghostwriter & life-long golden native.

[norareed]

*𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕.

dossier.

musings.

visage.

[zagz]

odd and off putting girl october

[norareed]

*𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒕​.

   if there’s a polite way to say fuck off,  this is it.    well,  this and not calling the number left on kitchen bench as rose had so hoped.  nora has mastered it,  and rosario cannot help a rumbling laughter.  their time apart has proved somewhat useful,  though rose will not say out loud what she thinks of.   someone’s grown a backbone.  at least where she’s concerned.    it suits her.    “  you’re 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒆,  are you? “   does nora seriously expect—–    alright.  if that’s the way she wants to play,  lets play.    “  okay,  see you around!  “    and then she drives off.   no,  really.  she does.  exposed to the actual weirdos who pull over next to lone women,  and,  you know,  the weather.   not for long,  though.  rose does a loop,  rounds back to the bright raincoat,  having proved her point—- hopefully.       “  you sure you don’t want a ride? “

nora never fails to find new, exciting ways to embarrass herself.  and as of late, irritatingly so, rose was often there to bear witness to it.  she doesn’t believe in karma, but it’s starting to feel like cosmic bad luck.   “ you--- are unbelievable! ”   it doesn’t sound like a compliment.  nora’s prepared to put up some further, mild resistance, but her heart jumps into her throat when rose speeds off without her.   “ rose!? wait! ”   she cries out, too little too late: her image in the rear view providing a comical and visible show of regret.  she can’t really be leaving her here, can she?  can she?!  no, of course not.   nora should’ve known.   “ fine! fine! ”   the writer concedes, freezing cold fingers hurriedly finding the handle before rose decides to teach her another lesson.  nora half tumbles into the car, the water slicked to her bright yellow raincoat making a disaster of rose’s interior.   “ hilarious, rose. really. ”   the sharpness in her tone suggests she might think otherwise, but it’s malice is unconvincing between chattering teeth.

[norareed]

*𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒕​.​

    at first,    rose laughs at the idiot in the rain.    the one who appears, first, like a speck of something.   it’s a something that won’t be moved by the demand of her windshield wipers.  oh,  and it’s yellow.  a persistent yellow,  who begs to be mocked.   so yes,  she’s laughing.   and then she’s stopping.  and then she’s slowing.  now rose is the fool,  rolling down her window and hollering as if she can possibly be heard under a roaring weather,               “   NORA !   YOU TOTAL LOON,  GET IN ! “

this is what nora gets for chickening out of driving.  she has a car, but saves herself the undue stress of using it whenever she can ---  opting (rather) to test the limits of golden’s subpar public transit infrastructure.  nora misses her stop, then the next, then the next:  her hopes hold up for the rain to turn to drizzle, and allow herself a dryer walk home.  but luck (evidently and as of late) has not been on nora’s side.   “ --- what?! rose?! ”   the poor, drenched writer had been expecting a murder to pop out of the slowing car.  this was worse, arguably.   “ how are... what are you doing here?! i --- no! i am just fine, thank you very much! ”

[norareed]

*𝒔𝒚𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒚𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒏.

𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑.  |   @norareed

  when she runs,  she doesn’t run at night—   &. this doesn’t surprise you!  she detours through a cemetery though…   that might.   and if i told you it’s where her daughter is buried?   the reader has left the chat,  probably.   although,  it isn’t like anybody knows.   the gravestone is hard to read 𝐈𝐕𝐘 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔𝐄𝐋𝐒,  dust-covered in warmer months,  snow swallowed in the rest.  besides,  sid throws none more than a kiss to the air when she passes it.  yeah,  she’s got the time to stop and chat.   no.   she won’t.   not to a headstone,  at least.  but nora reed isn’t that.   she exists at peace here,  seemingly so with stretched legs,  paper-back in hand.  all of this and surrounded by graves; is she a little too content?   who’s to say?   certainly not sid in her tank and yoga pants  ( which make her ass look incredible, in case you were wondering ),   hair stuck to sweaty forehead  ( not so incredible,  but we don’t talk about it ).         “  good book?  “  questions from behind,  followed by sid’s boisterous laughter when nora is,   on impact,  startled.

nora doesn’t believe in ghosts.  as a result?  she doesn’t let herself be haunted.  a graveyard is no daunting task for the woman dissolves to nauseous anxiety over phone calls.  quite the opposite, in fact.  nora looks at home here.  and of course she does --- she’s visiting her sister, after all.  there’s no need to take off shoes inside this house, but nora is barefoot on the grass:  enjoying the last bearable remnants of summer heat.  soon the ground will be covered in frost, and it’ll be snow she’s brushing off elena’s grave, rather than dust.  nora must remember to bring a blanket, next time.  but oh, she can’t think about that now!  she’s just getting to the good part!  her blue gaze clings to each word with fevered intent, heart already racing as the killer takes a step forward.  of course she’s readying horror, what else did you expect?  and suddenly, her fear launches off the page.    nora yelps (dramatically).   “ jesus!!! wh- sid?! ”   she clutches her chest, doubling over where she sits to catch her breath.  but make no mistake, her finger still manages to slide between the pages and save her place.  she’s giggling, evidently with no clear concept of how inappropriate that is (given their setting).  nora doesn’t assign judgment to sid either, and her strange choice of route.  “ you scared me half to death! ... good place for it, i guess. ”   she pauses, and after a beat:   “ ... what are you doing here? ”   nora inquires, nothing in her tone but curiosity.

[heavensickness]

Me in the morning: minding my own business, preparing coffee for myself in the kitchen

Little Richard Siken in my head: Every morning the same big and little words, all spelling out desire, all spelling out “You will be alone always and then you will die.”

Me: ok

[marthajefferson]

“One wants to tell a story, like Scheherezade, in order not to die. It’s one of the oldest urges in mankind. It’s a way of stalling death.”

— Carlos Fuentes (via lovedly)

[hirxeth]

[dankmemeuniversity]

[dizzyallaround]

i only relate to women who scream in their car

[thoughtkick]

“But when I think of you, it’s as if you’ve gone away to sea on a ship—out in a foreign brightness where there are no paths, only stars and sky.”

— Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

[lexii-con]

[weltenwellen]

Carol Rifka Brunt, Tell the Wolves I’m Home

[derangedrhythms]

Her life was circumspect, rigid, and extremely private, because she found very little in the world outside to tempt her into mingling with its people.

Shirley Jackson, from 'The Bird's Nest'

[lexii-con]

[dykg-moved-deactivated20231129]

ok im normal now (lying)

[fearlastyear]