scratchedlines:

She woke up like every morning that greeted her the past few months: tired, filthy and uncaring. The orange glow that should bring warmth never penetrated the cold shell she had reerected since his passing. Mourning became rage became sadness, and finally numbness. She welcomed it, embraced it…

scratchedlines:

The Cat with Hands

That was so fuck’n awesome

scratchedlines:

Each breath replaces the one before, so naturally, that you don’t even give it a second thought. Yet here they sat in a fogged up car, desperate to get the fresh air that lay just beyond their windows. Yet, what threatened just on the other side was a barrage of water, biding its time to get in….

scratchedlines:

She’d been sitting in the rain for hours on that low wall, staring down at the jar in her hands. It was a simple brown thing, large enough for a hand to fit into, but she cradled it to her chest as if it were the last thing left in the world. He dared not to ask her of its contents, giving her the…

pyritic:

Another night, another fight about absolutely nothing. Bed sheets too hot, stealing all the covers, sleep talking, sleep kicking, snoring, et cetera. If there was an excuse to argue, they’d used it. Getting to sleep was becoming more of a hassle each night, and loss of sleep took its toll on their…

gaksdesigns:

The ‘Peel Wall Lamp’ designed by YOY/Naoki Ono and Yuuki Yammamoto

mizmongoose:

“I think you’re most pretty when you cry,” he said, curling one tear-soaked strand of hair behind her ear. Classic. “It says nothing for how you actually look, mind you, but it’s good to see you feeling something. It’s good to see and know that there is more to you than just snark and cynicism…

I can’t think of the words. The fact I’m reblogging says enough.

The stages of writing

mizmongoose:

When I have a lovely first sentence/idea

Trying to make the rest of the piece even half as good.

After it’s posted.

Why stop at “writing”?

mizmongoose:

“Did it hurt?” I ask, pressing my long-treasured present of a knife to his neck, one large blue vein taunting me to go to town and bathe in the vermillion. It’s taking all I can not to laugh in his face and give in to my anger, the taste of bile dancing and gurgling slowly at…

An old favourite. Blaming my morbid fascination.

mizmongoose:

This pretty much sums up “HimandHer” in a nutshell.

Berserk! I was so pleased when I saw this! Despite my irregularity, something was very wrong with me when I didn’t immediately reblog.