Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Something is always forever now, witch is fine by me.

Something is always forever now, witch is fine by me.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

Coming back home after so long made me feel completely out of place, to the point even—to the point where I thought the airport clerks and personnel were giving me a suspicious eye.

Coming back home after so long made me feel completely out of place, to the point even—to the point where I thought the airport clerks and personnel were giving me a suspicious eye.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

Tuesday, August 19, 2014
'Shut the Windows in Strawberry Staircase'

Photograph: Jaret Ferratusco
Model: Floofie

Thank you.

'Shut the Windows in Strawberry Staircase'

Photograph: Jaret Ferratusco
Model: Floofie

Thank you.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

Saturday, August 16, 2014
Beneath your tongue was hidden a special key whereby the entire puzzle might be solved. I traced my fingers across the contours of your face slowly and methodically, slipping middle and ring finger beneath your tongue in an instant unseen, at once claiming the key into the shadows of my hand. I held it on the inside of the two clasped fingers so the audience would not see, know of, or suspect it. And when the lights came up a notch, I lowered my hand to your neck, over the collarbone, hovering over the middle of your bare chest, at which point I slipped in the key and it opened your sternum like a wardrobe. I pulled the rib cage open wide so that your pale but bright heart was prominent, spotlighted from the amphitheater lamps. The audience cheered at the open nest of organs as blood trickled down between your legs. Our performance was rewarded with a full-house standing ovation as the curtains fell. I closed your chest back up, wiped away the blood trails with an alcohol napkin, and we made our way to the front of the stage through a slip in the curtains to gave a bow to the audience. We returned backstage so that we could be paid for our performance by the theater manager, who’d become sick sometime during the performance, forcing her to miss the end of it. "Heard you showed somebody’s heart," she said. "Mine," you said. "Really?" she asked. "Oh yes," I said. "It’s a magic trick." The manager paid us in full and we celebrated at a hotel off the interstate, with conjoined rooms and a pizza, and we watched television together until around midnight, then retired to our respective beds with a pact to get up before 8am for once so we could head on to the next town a bit earlier. There a museum there we’d been wanting to visit for a long, long time.

A photograph by Jaret Ferratusco.

Beneath your tongue was hidden a special key whereby the entire puzzle might be solved. I traced my fingers across the contours of your face slowly and methodically, slipping middle and ring finger beneath your tongue in an instant unseen, at once claiming the key into the shadows of my hand. I held it on the inside of the two clasped fingers so the audience would not see, know of, or suspect it. And when the lights came up a notch, I lowered my hand to your neck, over the collarbone, hovering over the middle of your bare chest, at which point I slipped in the key and it opened your sternum like a wardrobe. I pulled the rib cage open wide so that your pale but bright heart was prominent, spotlighted from the amphitheater lamps. The audience cheered at the open nest of organs as blood trickled down between your legs. Our performance was rewarded with a full-house standing ovation as the curtains fell. I closed your chest back up, wiped away the blood trails with an alcohol napkin, and we made our way to the front of the stage through a slip in the curtains to gave a bow to the audience. We returned backstage so that we could be paid for our performance by the theater manager, who’d become sick sometime during the performance, forcing her to miss the end of it. "Heard you showed somebody’s heart," she said. "Mine," you said. "Really?" she asked. "Oh yes," I said. "It’s a magic trick." The manager paid us in full and we celebrated at a hotel off the interstate, with conjoined rooms and a pizza, and we watched television together until around midnight, then retired to our respective beds with a pact to get up before 8am for once so we could head on to the next town a bit earlier. There a museum there we’d been wanting to visit for a long, long time.

A photograph by Jaret Ferratusco.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

Friday, August 15, 2014
“Don’t talk,” she cut in, shoving me down a step. She was right, we had to do this no matter what. Through the broken slats of the painted window on the door we could see enough of a smoky semblance of the lobby to figure out what was what. In the corner—a vaguely shifting shadow—was the crying dog. It yelped but I don’t think so much in anger or terror as in pain. 

Photography by Jaret Ferratusco.
Featuring Miss Elanious.

Thank you.

“Don’t talk,” she cut in, shoving me down a step. She was right, we had to do this no matter what. Through the broken slats of the painted window on the door we could see enough of a smoky semblance of the lobby to figure out what was what. In the corner—a vaguely shifting shadow—was the crying dog. It yelped but I don’t think so much in anger or terror as in pain.

Photography by Jaret Ferratusco.
Featuring Miss Elanious.

Thank you.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

Thursday, August 14, 2014
The Neighbors of Strawberry Staircase

A photograph by Jaret Ferratusco.
Featuring Lindsley Marsh.

Thank you.

The Neighbors of Strawberry Staircase

A photograph by Jaret Ferratusco.
Featuring Lindsley Marsh.

Thank you.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

Wednesday, August 13, 2014
The only other person you’d see would be an old lady who haunts various rooms in the building. She’ll be at somebody’s desk, shuffling papers, marking across a notepad, something like that, just working. She’s often accompanied by an unseen chorus of children who will be singing along to whatever song happens to be stuck in your head at the time.

Photography by Jaret Ferratusco.
Featuring Twila Jean.

Thank you.

The only other person you’d see would be an old lady who haunts various rooms in the building. She’ll be at somebody’s desk, shuffling papers, marking across a notepad, something like that, just working. She’s often accompanied by an unseen chorus of children who will be singing along to whatever song happens to be stuck in your head at the time.

Photography by Jaret Ferratusco.
Featuring Twila Jean
.

Thank you.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

Sunday, August 10, 2014
"I remember all the pressures you felt having to suddenly run the Box Office alone on opening weekend when the boss was sick. I would have stayed with you and double-teamed it but they needed me in Concessions, which was pressure too but not anything like what you were up against. The worst I could do was burn the popcorn three times in a row or ring up the pretzels wrong." - Jaret Ferratusco, Diary Entries Polara.

"I remember all the pressures you felt having to suddenly run the Box Office alone on opening weekend when the boss was sick. I would have stayed with you and double-teamed it but they needed me in Concessions, which was pressure too but not anything like what you were up against. The worst I could do was burn the popcorn three times in a row or ring up the pretzels wrong." - Jaret Ferratusco, Diary Entries Polara.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

I know what your skin tastes like after you get out of the hospital, it tastes like sterilization and gauze, but still like you.

I know what your skin tastes like after you get out of the hospital, it tastes like sterilization and gauze, but still like you.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

Wednesday, August 6, 2014
I Picked This Flower For You

Photography by Jaret Ferratusco. Featuring the likes of Choke and Rant.

Thank you.

I Picked This Flower For You

Photography by Jaret Ferratusco. Featuring the likes of Choke and Rant.

Thank you.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)