tragady

[tragady]

water  traces  the  bridge  of  his  nose,   dripping  down  onto  his  shoe.     what  leaks  from  startled  flesh,   and  onto  your  own.     marbled  cheeks   /   river-wrung  lungs.     he  swallows,   albeit  thickly,   and  remembers  there’s  still  air  to  breathe.     his  hand  splays  across  their  shoulder,   all  of  his  focus  levelled  on  the  locked  door.     the  frantic  wails  that  he  can  hear,   and  silent  hands  he  can’t.     in  his  brown  eyes,   there  is  an  almost,   for  which  he  will  not  give  words.     ‘   quiet.   ’     a  low  timbre,   barely  a  rumble  from  his  mouth.     hidden  like  the  thunder  waving  past  a  screaming  crowd.     if  those  things  no  longer  respect  the  daylight,   why  would  he,   in  this  moment,   still  rely  on  a  charm?     there’s  a  pulse  in  his  throat,   where  breath  fights  to  stay  in  his  lungs,   to  skirt  around  his  death-misted  form.     deadening  itself  to  prepare  a  dying  thing.     he  listens,   and  he  waits.     ‘   we  only  have  our  fists.     stay  quiet,   or  find  others.   ’

open to: everyone and anyone; so glad you're alright ( 0 / 3 ) location: he doesn't know. a convenience store maybe?

just where the hell did this storm come from? is his first thought. the second is, including all the monster that peak their head out and welcome the terrain that is darkness. just like everyone else, he's scrambling and trying his best to acquire some sort of shelter. well, not without helping people along the way. the rain definitely doesn't make the town easy to traverse, dirt turning into mud and the grass slick and easy to slip onto. there's one person he takes attention to. it's so natural the way he leads with a hand on their back to push and don't look behind, while he spots a cracked door to help heard them both inside. " a - are you alright?! " he doesn't even check over their shoulders, shutting the door with a fervor and even locking it by instinct. " that was... holy shit. what just happened? ... they weren't supposed to — "

[tragady]

hidden  at  a  bundle  of  the  seam,   his  heartbeat  thumps  beneath  a  crusting  gash.     it  makes  his  gait  sway  like  a  moon-lit  swing.     there’s  a  single,   hair-thin  trickle  from  his  brow  down  to  his  eyelid.     his  smile  betrays  neither  of  these,   barely  noticing  its  lost  blood.     ‘   nope.     nothing  at  all.   ’     an  idly  cracked  neck,   watching  the  previous  patient  leave.     he  sits  on  their  warmed  spot,   like  he  was  invited.     ‘   how’d   you   fare,   hmm?     hate  to  drop  your  noggin  down  the  drain  like   ( … )   well,   like  everything  else.   ’

location: township infirmary who: open to all

"All set," Gwen said with a strained smile, tying the cloth tight over the gash. "Keep it covered and clean and then come back in a week or so, just to make sure it's healing nicely." If they were here in a week. The thought was dark but tomorrow wasn't a guarantee anymore and now - with the sudden storm and creatures appearing during the day - well, who knew what the fuck was happening. Her head shot up at the creak of the door and instantly got to her feet. "Has something else happened?"

[tragady]

a  long  moment  lingers,   there,   in  the  glass  sheen  of  her  eye.     its  sharp  darkness  forgotten,   softened  by  a  new  prospect.     for  quarter  of  a  clock,   the  silence  holds  her  tongue.     both  elbows  lean  onto  the  counter.     ‘   so  i  could  decide  for  you?     if  i  really  wanted.   ’     the  smile  is  slow,   a  beat  later  than  it  should’ve  bloomed  like  she  missed  her  cue.     accidental  or  intentional?     that,   she  will  leave  for  him  to  decide.     her  head  cants  to  the  side.     ‘   would  you  let  me?     that  kind  of  trust   ( … )   it’s  just  what  we  need,   isn’t  it?   ’

LOCATION : benny's diner .

VIBE : clueless npc .

" oh no , i uh - i don't make the decisions 'round here " he's saying , before pointing his index finger towards himself and shrugging . " i kinda just go where the people tell me . " GOD DAMN sid and his tendency to keep talking and make a bad situation worse , an awkward situation UNBEARABLE . " like princess diana , yeah ? " sid pauses . " she was the princess of england , for a while there . before the paps , and probably the queen , got her . " he explains , in case SOMEHOW ( idiot man ) they'd been at oblitus for longer than when a KEY PIECE of history had happened .

[tragady]

her  eyes  trace  every  nook  in  the  room,   and  the  door  locks  with  a  pinch  of  her  fingers.     she  thumbs  away  a  sniffle  as  she  creeps  down  behind  the  girl.     if  they’re  quiet  enough,   no  one  would  know  they’re  here.     no  one.     there  would  be  no  banging  door,   no  need  to  restrain  another  frightened  body.     simply  pattering  rain  and  leaves  bristling:   weeping  sky  and  its  crackling  cough.     a  comfort,   really,   after  such  an  annoyance.     their  incessant  screeching,   desperate  calls  for  a  deity  that’s  already  provided  its  answer.     her  voice  is  still  low,   sore  from  disuse.     ‘   do  you  have  somewhere  for  a  fire?   ’     her  pants  stick  to  her  hip  like  an  un-coddled  child.     without  her  careful  hand,   they  would  rip.     her  gaze  lingers  on  some  corners,   trying  to  follow  a  quiet  scent.     something  like   hunger   wedged  within  her  teeth,   but  not  for  something  as  simple  as  food.     ‘   somewhere  to  warm  our  hands  while  we  eat?   ’

"God, you're soaking wet-" Brows furrowed and she's trying to ignore the people outside. The screaming, closing her eyes and swallowing the lump in her throat. "There's extra clothes back here-" Granted, she'd taken them from the second chance thrift. It was all part of the job, make the body's of their dead look like themselves. Maybe it was for them, maybe it was selfish- to give their loved ones left in town some sense of normalcy. What would you consider that? How many people were left outside? She couldn't count- there was too many to try. "It's quiet down here." Her chest tightens. "No windows." She knew all too well, too many nights spent restless, working. Even now, insomnia clawed at her insides. The crowds still making her uneasy. The panic. She wouldn't sleep tonight either.

[tragady]

‘   oh  yeah?     this  is  the  good  stuff?   ’     there’s  a  rained  edge  to  his  tone:   puddles  of  blued  leisure  in  his  laxed  posture.     in  a  blank  moment,   he’d  laugh.     for  now,   he  has  to  live.     and  a  warm  bottle  in  his  sweaty  hand  suits  that.     like  turning  yourself  inside  out,   feeling  your  own  blood  in  your  skin-bound  fingertips.     his  voice  is  coarse,   smoked  in  age.     ‘   think  i’d  prefer  a   wet  bag  of  piss,   with  a  dash  of   ( … )   sewage  water.     but  i’m  all  outta  piss.     so  this’ll  just  have  do,   huh?   ’     the  grin  is  not  shy,   not  even  when  it  rounds  to  the  clamouring  heat  behind  that  window.     twenty  paces  in  front  of  them,   up  to  his  left.     out  of  sight   /   toothed  mind.     it  only  widens  his  mirth.     but  she  flickers,   like  a  bothered  wire,   and  he  decides  to  extend  his  latent  gaiety.     how  to  enjoy  the  chorus  of  a  thunderous  rainstorm.     ‘   gimme  a  song,   cherry  pop.     gimme  a  round  of  karaoke.   ’

STATUS : open LOCATION : the motel

" WELL . SINCE WE'RE GONNA BE STUCK here for a while," the words are punctuated by the pop of a cork and a pointed arch of cherry's brow . she points the neck of the bottle to them . " can i interest you in some peace of mind ?" the sounds of screaming outside the motel kind of sours the proposal, but cherry simply clenches her jaw and moves to turn up the radio in hopes to drown it out . she tries to remind herself that they were locked in here now, that nothing was getting in or out . the thought makes her shoulders loosen, if only slightly . " now, said peace of mind might be temporary but it should last us until morning at least ." she shakes the bottle pointedly, jaw shifting . " this is the good stuff ."

[tragady]

The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep * -    Peter Brook 

British,  1927–2009

Oil on canvas,  24 x 60 in.

Embellished 

[tragady]

                     CHARLES  WOOD         BEATING  SOUL  AND  BREATHING  BLOOD.

basics.

given  name.     charles  wood. nickname.     charlie,   chuck,   give  him  some.     call  him  anything  but  charles. age.     thirty-three   (   november  10,   1990   ). place  of  birth.     long  beach,   california. song.     mr  sandman  by  the  chordettes. orientation.     bisexual,   slight  preference  for  women.     probably  left  many  a  situationship  at  home  but  would’ve  still  called  himself  single. occupation.     the  wretched  butcher  for  a  glum  town. education.     passed  high  school:   held  no  love  for  his  studies. religion.     possibly  been  baptised  but,   otherwise,   holds  no  emotion  towards  any  branch  of  faith.     occupied  his  younger  brothers’  weekends  by  sending  them  to  sunday  school.

physical  characteristics.

height.     one-hundred  seventy-eight  centimetres,   five  foot  ten. eyes.     shy  of  a  deep  brown,   livened  in  the  light  when  he  flashes  his  teeth. hair.     jet  black.     can’t  gel  his  hair  properly  anymore;   absolutely  slicks  it  back  with  his  sweat  now. gender  identity.     cis  man   (   he   +   him   ). build.     broad  shoulders  and  long-legged. distinguishing  marks.     a  white  grin  dripping  red  from  his  bloodied  lip.     ever  the  charmer.

personality   &   behaviour.

hobbies.     the  demanding  kind,   especially  pertaining  to  his  hands:   fiddling  with  a  car  engine,   sculpting  wood,   scaling  stone  walls  and  chainlink  fences.     with  all  the  time  in  the  world,   these  hobbies  probably  bore  a  craftsman’s  hands.     a  big  gamer,   and  winner  against  his  brothers.     recently  began  hunting  before  arriving  in  the  town. likes.     shuffling  a  pack  of  cards,   watching  the  moon,   now,   and  the  path  it  lights  for  him  to  follow,   when  a  vein  pops,   a  crowded  bonfire,   cracking  full  beer  bottles  against  skinny  trees   –   for  target  practice,   of  course. dislikes.     the  songs  crickets  sing,   dry  mornings  peppered  by  an  animal’s  lightfoot,   true  silence,   a  bedroom  of  his  own,   freshly  cleaned  hands. quirks.     bites  his  bottom  lip  so  often   –   therein  will  lie  a  moment  of  genuine  emotion:   his  deep  sneer  and  lowered  chin   –   that  it  often  looks  swollen. strengths.     when  he’s  talkative  in  a  way  that  reads  as  friendly. weaknesses.     when  he’s  glib  like  a  hungry,   pink  cat. moral  alignment.     chaotic  evil. character  inspiration.     lalo  salamanca   (   better  call  saul   ),   feyd-rautha  harkonnen   (   dune   ),   billy  butcher   (   the  boys   ),   wade  wilson   /   deadpool   (   marvel   ),   spike  spiegel   (   cowboy  bebop   ),   tyler  durden   (   fight  club   ),   vaas  montenegro   (   far  cry  series   ),   mr  blonde   (   reservoir  dogs   ),   handsome  jack   (   borderlands  series   ).

background.

before  your  mother,   there  is  your  sister,   biting  your  shoulder  after  you   –   wide  and  itching;   greedy  down  to  your  fingertips   –   stole  another  fry  from  her  plate.     your  mother  isn’t  there,   in  your  mind’s  eye,   but  she  must  be,   ignoring  your  sister’s  indignant  cries.     but  not  your  reddening  cheek,   nor  the  deep  teeth-marks  now  dampening  your  washed  shirt.     the  cupboard  hinge  creaks,   the  sink  continues  to  drip,   and  your  mother  watches  a  salt-lipped  smile  cling  like  a  loose  scab.     there’s  a  pinched  cheek,   and  a  wet  temple.     a  gaunt  laugh.     this   is  how  she  pockmarks  your  memory.     how  you  mark  your  territory.     yes,   your  mother  was  there.     it  wasn’t  your  aunt,   or  their  mother,   or  a  neighbour.     or  a  kind  stranger  at  the  supermarket.     she  was  there.

after  you  and  your  sister,   there’s  a  flock  of  younger  brothers.     stretched  years  between  you  and  them;   your  hands  must  warm  their  blankets.     offer  their  toothless  mouths  your  food,   this  time.     your  mother  is  less  than  a  memory  now,   barely  a  footnote.     your  sister  knew  this  before  you  did.     she  accepts  a  dream  for  what  it  is,   and  then  provides  anew.     chips  the  colour  away  with  her  nail  until  their  beds  remember  what  mother  means  in  this  house.     how  it,   too,   yearns  for  that  woman’s  touch.     weeps  its  paint  off  the  old,   plaster  walls.     it  admits  something  that  you  never  will.     not  even  when  you  surrender  to  the  same  fate.

there  is  a  man  in  the  house.     out  on  the  patio.     in  the  garden,   amid  the  wilted  soil  and  yellow  grass,   leaning  against  the  old  tree.     just  as  crooked,   bending  into  the  neighbour’s  garden.     the  silhouette  of  a  man,   which  is  all  any  of  you  could  know,   without  you  in  the  house.     you  learn  to  provide   –   under  the  quiet,   harsh  press  of  your  sister’s  thumb   –   with  quick  work  cutting  meat  at  the  book-end  of  a  grocery  store.     uniformed,   yet  rowdy.     you’re  messy  when  you  skin  an  animal.     your  teeth  are  still  white,   like  the  milky  edges  of  your  eyes.     you  are  the  man,   and  now  you  are  the  silhouette  too.     your  mother’s  son,   your  father’s  legacy.     your  own  rotten  dream.

where  was  charles  when  he  saw  the  tree  and  the  murder  of  crows?     where  was  he  going?     was  he  travelling  alone?     how  did  he  feel?

he  was  returning  to  the  family  cabin  after  a  morning  hunt.     alone,   of  course,   like  any  older  brother  would  be.     and  the  empty  pit  in  his  chest  that  comes  with  it.     if  anything,   he  thinks  of  the  cold,   and  how  he  needs  a  new  jacket.

describe  charles’  first  day  in  town.     did  he  arrive  in  the  daytime?     was  he  warned  by  the  residents?     did  he  have  to  be  restrained?

roved  through  the  red-sunned  woods  for  a  while.     despite  knowing  the  trek  is  longer  than  it  should  be,   he  levels  his  hunting  rifle  at  the  first  person  that  crosses  his  path.     you’re  trespassing,   he  would  say,   this  is  my  land.     but  there,   he  learns  that  there  is  no  land.     or  how  all  that  remains  is  land.     the  news  doesn’t  disturb  him   –   not  in  the  way  the  villagers  might  expect   –   he  just  laughs  and  laughs.     forgets  that  there’s  a  rifle  in  his  hands.     sun-blistered  face,   again,   under  a  new  set  of  stars.

what  did  he  leave  behind?     what  was  his  life  like  on  the  outside?

he  leaves  a  family  that  was  rich  with  warmth.     the  sister  that  will  look  into  the  mirror  in  his  room,   and  see  her  mother’s  face.     the  butcher  will  only  notice  that  his  hand  shakes  more,   now  that  he  cuts  more  meat.     charles’  empty  heart  joins  him.

[tragady]

                    TALIA  BALFOUR          THE  DARKNESS  HAS  ITS  HOLINESS.

basics.

given  name.     talia  balfour. nickname.     tally,   blondie,   give  her  some. age.     twenty-nine   (   january  29,   1995   ). place  of  birth.     manhattan,   new  york. song.     girl,   you’ll  be  a  woman  soon  by  urge  overkill. orientation.     bisexual,   give  her  psychosexual  nonsense  or  give  her  nothing.     only  a  couple  of  situationships  at  home  that  she  held  like  a  dog  holds  its  kill. occupation.     the  wicked  pharmacist  of  the  west. education.     an  over-achiever:   the  pharmacist  degree  under  her  belt,   eyeing  a  philosophy  degree  to  pass  the  time. religion.     second-generation  lapsed  catholic:   their  sunday  best  would  double  as  the  cook’s  apron.     or  the  duster  for  their  room’s  door  frame.

physical  characteristics.

height.     one-hundred  sixty-seven  centimetres,   five  foot  six. eyes.     dark  brown,   inky  in  the  shadows. hair.     sharp  blonde,   no  longer  perfectly  slicked  into  a  bun. gender  identity.     cis  woman   (   she   +   her   ). build.     not  much  curve  to  her  body:   small  chest  with  slightly  wider  hips. distinguishing  marks.     that  cold,   piercing  gaze  and  a  freckle  above  her  lip.     a  distinct  lack  of  blemishes.

personality   &   behaviour.

hobbies.     fencing,   chess,   gardening.     in  this  town,   she  fills  her  time  by  growing  her  own  mushrooms.     unsafe  to  eat,   doubling  as  failed  experiments,   along  with  her  relentless  pursuit  of  growing  medicinal  herbs.     enjoyed  sketching  or  painting  on  the  empty  pier,   at  any  time  of  day,   and  would  exclude  people  from  her  picture.     took  up  some  form  of  weaving  after  coming  to  the  town.     definitely  a  horse  girl  when  she  was  young. likes.     a  glass  of  red  wine  on  a  saturday  night,   flicking  fallen  leaves  at  her  cat,   the  mess  blood  leaves,   walking  outdoors   –   among  the  trees  specifically,   where  the  wind  whistles  instead  of  a  person’s  laboured  breath  out  in  the  cold. dislikes.     the  mess  hands  leave:   the  dry  kind  of  sticky  like  thirsty  roots,   music  trickling,   unbidden,   outside  of  its  allocated  room,   shadeless  heat  and  misty  rain. quirks.     her  eerie  facial  expressions:  unfurls  too  fast  and  flits  too  slow.      or  vice  versa,   any  mash  of  mechanics.     it’s  too  easy  to  see  her  facade’s  artifice. strengths.     no  ailment  will  go  untreated,   numbed  at  the  very  least. weaknesses.     even  when  it’s  one  she  pinches  into  your  body,   just  to  see  if  she  can  cure  it. moral  alignment.     neutral  evil. character  inspiration.     lee  harker   (   longlegs   ),   emma  frost   (   marvel   ),   sofia  falcone   (   the  penguin   ),   audrey  horne   (   twin  peaks   ),   lily   &   amanda   (   thoroughbreds   ),   little  sisters   (   bioshock   ),   mima  kirigoe   (   perfect  blue   ),   amma  crellin   (   sharp  objects   ),   eve   (   the  bible   ).

background.

you’re  not  a  miracle;   you’re  barely  a  statistic.     pink  fruit  from  a  round  womb.     grown  at  a  hill’s  crest,   a  strand  of  wet  grass  below  the  peach  tree,   overlooking  a  herd  of  sun-dried  cows.     no  one  would  notice  your  cotton  cradle.     no  one  but  the  stars.     and  your  mother’s  eyes  do  not  glisten  upon  watching  your  first  blink.     nor  your  first  day  at  school.     nor  your  first  ballet  recital.     without  a  picture,   you  wouldn’t  even  know  she  was  there.     you  forget  her  youth   ––   in  your  wet  baby-toothed  way   ––   for  there’s  nothing  to  chew  from  her.     bent  from  its  frame,   your  memory  holds  a  father’s  smile,   and  his  heavy  hand  upon  your  lithe  shoulder.

the  eve  of  your  fourteenth  birthday,   your  mother  cups  your  jaw  in  both  hands.     splayed  fingers  brush  against  your  slow  pulse.     your  breath  dampens  her  skin.     you  feel  it,   now,   more  than  she  did.     her  warmth  spilled  across  your  neck  like  air-thickened  blood.     this  is  before  the  second  step-mother,   right  at  the  precipice  of  your  first.     watch  him  for  me,   your  mother  says,   watch  him  at  night  for  me.     for  me.     almost  too  easy,   your  mother  would  say.     a  simple  kiss  at  their  temple,   and  a  child  remembers  their  mother.     quiet  malice,   salted  to  taste,   by  your  father  forgetting  to  call  you  his  favourite  girl.     and  there,   the  axe  earns  its  first  swing.

flesh  is  sweet  and  bought  hostility  is  sweeter.     levied  by  her  parents,   held  like  a  serrated  knife.     where  love  should  be  milk-bathed  and  pat  dry,   your  definition  curdles  into  a  tight  smile.     rehearsed  in  the  dark  mirror  of  another’s  pupil.     by  your  twenties,   you  reach  a  third  step-mother.     and  yet,   there  is  only  one  that  you  call  father.     the  game  loses  its  fresh  scent   –   stale  like  wrinkled,   doughy  hands   –   and  your  teeth  grow  sturdy.     their  quiet  plea  for  your  return  wafts  close  to  your  ear,   like  the  sound  of  crashing  water  from  a  seashell  as  the  sea  rolls  against  your  feet.

where  was  talia  when  she  saw  the  tree  and  the  murder  of  crows?     where  was  she  going?     was  she  travelling  alone?     how  did  she  feel?

two  nights  before  thanksgiving:   she  needed  to  find  her  father’s  new  house.     a  mid-life  crisis  purchase,   no  doubt,   but  that  only  made  the  prospect  of  seeing  him  more  fun.     fawning  over  a  new  dark-wood  table.     she  was  on  the  highway,   probably  pulled  into  the  wrong  exit.     it  should’ve  been  a  quick  fix.     the  darkening  sky  barely  fazed  her.

describe  talia’s  first  night  in  town.     did  she  arrive  in  the  daytime?     was  she  warned  by  the  residents?     did  she  have  to  be  restrained?

when  late  afternoon  breaks  into  early  evening,   pruning  the  sun-yellow  yolk  back  into  its  moon-white  shell.     it  takes  one  loop  back  to  the  town  for  her  to  stop  the  car.     night  looms  overhead,   and  she  stares  at  the  endless  path  before  her.     she  would  be  deathly  silent  on  that  first  day.     somewhere  between  excited   –   about  the  idea  of  something  new,   a  challenge  for  her  to  observe  and  overcome   –   and  empty  like  a  cracked  china  doll.

what  did  she  leave  behind?     what  was  her  life  like  on  the  outside?

at  her  apartment,   her  cat  will  find  a  new  person.     the  aloe  vera  will  die,   and  the  soil  will  clog  someone’s  drain.     her  father  will  assume  she  joined  her  mother’s  thanksgiving;   her  mother  will  call  to  ask  if  she  arrived  safely.     at  the  ripe  age  of  sixty,   they  will  find  god  and  pray  over  an  empty  grave.

[tragady]

#TRAGADY:     STARS  RISE.   MOTHS  FLUTTER.   APPLES  SWEETEN  IN  THE  DARK.   PRIVATE  PORTRAYAL  OF  CORRUPTLY  DEVOTED  MUSES  FOR  FROMOBLITUSHQ.   AS  PENNED  AND  HATED  BY  KATY   (  THEY  /  THEM,  GMT   )

charles  wood.     intro.     study.     threads.     pinterest. talia  balfour.     intro.     study.     threads.     pinterest.

[tragady]

clean girl morning routine!

[tragady]

it's just a corpse just a mangle for the dogs. whatever was the thing of you was gone/ it didn't hurt. you were already dead/ no one even noticed

Dayspring by Anthony Oliveira