Monday, July 28, 2014
July 2014 Editorial: On Satellite Hill there was a tiny shoebox with all of our secret letters inside of it, placed into the hollow of a tree there. Not a lot of people climbed the hill too often because there wasn’t much to see up there except for some old dead trees that were likely to fall over if you’d try climbing one. Neither of us weighed much back then because of how malnourished we were, and being just little kids anyway, we paid no mind to our safety and would have picnics up in the treetops on the hill. Nothing bad ever happened and nobody fell. We wrote secret letters to each other and stashed them inside the shoebox in the hollow. One time there was a snowstorm that lasted a long time, it seemed, so we couldn’t climb the hill at all for it was much too slippery. So we had picnics together in our respective basements instead, writing secret letters we’d keep in a small plastic tea kettle from a toy set. At the end of the storm we climbed the hill to add our basement letters to the box in the hollow, but the tree was gone. The whole tree was gone, in its place a hollow in the earth from where the trunk had been ripped out. In fact many of the trees on the hill were missing and it looked barren out there. We searched the surrounding hillsides amidst fallen, piled-up snow-crumbled wreckage, but could not find our tree. By the time we got older we’d moved on to postcards because I lived at the south end of town and your family had moved somewhere much more northern. Now, as adults, we talk on the telephone a lot on weekends and holidays. When I think back at how long we’ve known each other, it amazes me. Lots of people kill their friendships long before they fully get a chance to bloom, you know?

- Jaret Ferratusco.

July 2014 Editorial: On Satellite Hill there was a tiny shoebox with all of our secret letters inside of it, placed into the hollow of a tree there. Not a lot of people climbed the hill too often because there wasn’t much to see up there except for some old dead trees that were likely to fall over if you’d try climbing one. Neither of us weighed much back then because of how malnourished we were, and being just little kids anyway, we paid no mind to our safety and would have picnics up in the treetops on the hill. Nothing bad ever happened and nobody fell. We wrote secret letters to each other and stashed them inside the shoebox in the hollow. One time there was a snowstorm that lasted a long time, it seemed, so we couldn’t climb the hill at all for it was much too slippery. So we had picnics together in our respective basements instead, writing secret letters we’d keep in a small plastic tea kettle from a toy set. At the end of the storm we climbed the hill to add our basement letters to the box in the hollow, but the tree was gone. The whole tree was gone, in its place a hollow in the earth from where the trunk had been ripped out. In fact many of the trees on the hill were missing and it looked barren out there. We searched the surrounding hillsides amidst fallen, piled-up snow-crumbled wreckage, but could not find our tree. By the time we got older we’d moved on to postcards because I lived at the south end of town and your family had moved somewhere much more northern. Now, as adults, we talk on the telephone a lot on weekends and holidays. When I think back at how long we’ve known each other, it amazes me. Lots of people kill their friendships long before they fully get a chance to bloom, you know?

- Jaret Ferratusco.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

Saturday, July 26, 2014
You could hear your name called vaguely from somewhere in the house, so you walked downstairs. Your first instinct is not to go to the front door but to the closet. There comes a faint sound from behind the door and you opened it, but because of the shadows you couldn’t see much more than a few feet in. It was so cold in the closet, and so dark, that it reminded you of a chasm buried beneath the sea, where nobody has been before. It feels like the void in the closet could be substantial. You’re about to close the door but you hear someone calling your name from inside those shadows somewhere. It’s a familiar voice to you, but you can’t place it. It’s always sounding familiar, never like a stranger, but you can’t place it. And it’s nothing out of the ordinary, just something you wish would go away.

Photography by Jaret Ferratusco.
Featuring Miss Elanious.

Thank you.

You could hear your name called vaguely from somewhere in the house, so you walked downstairs. Your first instinct is not to go to the front door but to the closet. There comes a faint sound from behind the door and you opened it, but because of the shadows you couldn’t see much more than a few feet in. It was so cold in the closet, and so dark, that it reminded you of a chasm buried beneath the sea, where nobody has been before. It feels like the void in the closet could be substantial. You’re about to close the door but you hear someone calling your name from inside those shadows somewhere. It’s a familiar voice to you, but you can’t place it. It’s always sounding familiar, never like a stranger, but you can’t place it. And it’s nothing out of the ordinary, just something you wish would go away.

Photography by Jaret Ferratusco.
Featuring Miss Elanious.

Thank you.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

Thursday, July 24, 2014
Midnight is a thousand years away, but when I go there I see you sometimes and that’s not such a terrible thing. I found this picture of us from when we were at an amusement park, that time I almost fell out from one of the funny cars. Your hair was perfect. So was your dress. You always put yourself together, even on a roller coaster you kept yourself together. That was crazy. I miss you so much.

Photography by Jaret Ferratusco.
Featuring Miss Elanious.

Thank you.

Midnight is a thousand years away, but when I go there I see you sometimes and that’s not such a terrible thing. I found this picture of us from when we were at an amusement park, that time I almost fell out from one of the funny cars. Your hair was perfect. So was your dress. You always put yourself together, even on a roller coaster you kept yourself together. That was crazy. I miss you so much.

Photography by Jaret Ferratusco.
Featuring Miss Elanious.

Thank you.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

Tuesday, July 22, 2014 Monday, July 21, 2014
She dressed up in a gown her grandmother once wore to a local dance, shown and known in a framed picture kept on top of the piano. During the estate sale, someone made away with that framed portrait before it could be salvaged. Luckily, however, she still has ownership of the dress, but she’s nevertheless attempting to track down that picture and buy it back. It’s in a glass-face, stained walnut frame; in the picture, in faded black & white, her grandmother’s a young and vibrant lady, quite literally swept off her feet on the dance floor by a handsome shipping clerk with very nice hair who in time would ask for her hand in marriage.

Photography by Jaret Ferratusco.
Featuring Miss Elanious.

Thank you.

She dressed up in a gown her grandmother once wore to a local dance, shown and known in a framed picture kept on top of the piano. During the estate sale, someone made away with that framed portrait before it could be salvaged. Luckily, however, she still has ownership of the dress, but she’s nevertheless attempting to track down that picture and buy it back. It’s in a glass-face, stained walnut frame; in the picture, in faded black & white, her grandmother’s a young and vibrant lady, quite literally swept off her feet on the dance floor by a handsome shipping clerk with very nice hair who in time would ask for her hand in marriage.

Photography by Jaret Ferratusco.
Featuring Miss Elanious.

Thank you.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

'The Daughters Have Switched Bedrooms For The Time Being'

- a photograph by Jaret Ferratusco
- w/ Carolyn Jean & Cait Lion

Thank you.

'The Daughters Have Switched Bedrooms For The Time Being'

- a photograph by Jaret Ferratusco
- w/ Carolyn Jean & Cait Lion

Thank you.

corpseonpumpkin:

At the base of the tree there was a welcome mat of fresh pine needles. A rickety spiral staircase of bark encircled the trunk, leading upward into its branches and a colonnade of oak pillars hidden within the hemisphere of its unbreathing and undying foliage. A committee of insects who were previously reported missing arrived in single file, climbing up the spiral staircase and into the shadows of a womb in the tree’s hollow apex. It was there that I first met you. We both had trouble seeing in the dim light of the womb.
Model: PALESAENTPhotography: CORPSE ON PUMPKIN

woah

corpseonpumpkin:

At the base of the tree there was a welcome mat of fresh pine needles. A rickety spiral staircase of bark encircled the trunk, leading upward into its branches and a colonnade of oak pillars hidden within the hemisphere of its unbreathing and undying foliage. A committee of insects who were previously reported missing arrived in single file, climbing up the spiral staircase and into the shadows of a womb in the tree’s hollow apex. It was there that I first met you. We both had trouble seeing in the dim light of the womb.

Model: PALESAENT

Photography: CORPSE ON PUMPKIN

woah

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

Sunday, July 20, 2014 Thursday, July 17, 2014

corpseonpumpkin:

Wilted flowers from the Dining Hall.

Saturday, July 12, 2014
corpseonpumpkin:

During the hummingbird’s autopsy it was revealed to us that our wife was dead. That she had fallen to her death from the summit of the hill. We set down our instruments and held our faces in our hands, crying in the morgue. A small group of historians were there taking notes on an altar. Our sobs were recorded for a playback in the elevators, to debut in cycles during her funeral, which is set for the 8th of Pellborough Marse. We bleached our calendars so they would appear clear and entirely open.

corpseonpumpkin:

During the hummingbird’s autopsy it was revealed to us that our wife was dead. That she had fallen to her death from the summit of the hill. We set down our instruments and held our faces in our hands, crying in the morgue. A small group of historians were there taking notes on an altar. Our sobs were recorded for a playback in the elevators, to debut in cycles during her funeral, which is set for the 8th of Pellborough Marse. We bleached our calendars so they would appear clear and entirely open.