Her breathing stopped, became ragged, and stopped again as I hunted her in the pitch-dark room. Her presence was rigid, but flighty—like an animal caught in the headlights of a car. She was a rabbit, her heart beating wildly as I calmly stepped closer to the bedroom closet I was certain housed her. Adrenalin poured through my veins—my own heart beginning to beat faster and faster as I reached for the knob on the closet door. Darkness, once creeping quietly through me, now began to boil up and flow through my every extremity—my fingers tingled with it. Quickly, I turned the knob and popped the closet door open, the anticipation of an ear-shattering scream replaced by the broken silence of someone skittering across the floor.
Broken and bleeding, she crawled out from under the bed—her left leg dragging behind her, useless and heavy, slowing her down. I strode easily across the room, my shiny black dress shoes squeaking with every heavy step. She looked up at me, terror and defiance clouding her once-gleaming hazel eyes. She didn’t speak, didn’t scream, even when I grabbed her by the mass of her curly brown hair and dragged her, slowly, across the shiny oak floor of the estate, down the stairs, and out into the darkest night I have ever witnessed.
* * *
The Price estate expanded out into the vast darkness of the starless night—leaving nothing exposed, no witnesses to my dark descent down into the depths of the grounds. Lena struggled, her hair tightly wound around my fist as I dragged her body behind me. She tossed and pulled—throwing herself against the wet grass and grasping at the ground—trying to gain purchase on anything that would grant her hold enough to keep me from pulling her further from the house and closer to the dark line of trees in the distance, but as hard as she tried, she could not escape my firm clutch upon her hair, and it soon became too tiresome to drag her kicking body the great distance from the house to the woods. I stopped for a moment, releasing my hold on her and watched as she began to scramble away. The darkness rushed to my hands, creeping over the cold, hard wood of the shovel that perched upon my shoulder. Lazily, I crept toward her, realizing how futile her effort to escape would prove to be against my strength and speed. I gained on her quickly, my shovel raised and ready for the blow. She looked up with pleading eyes—assuming, I am certain, that my love for her must allow for some kind of mercy. I pulled back on the shovel and swung low, her scream sliding through her parted lips like razorblades, catching her on the back of her head and knocking her unconscious. I wrapped her hair around my fingers once again—the silky strands a warm glove against the chill of the night—and continued to drag her now-limp body toward the forest line.
Finally, my feet sore and blistered, my tuxedo ripped and muddy, I reached the shadowy cover of the apple orchard. Once colorful and blooming in the prime of the Price empire, the orchard had withered and died under my care. Now it would become privy to my darkest deed, the cold limbs of the withered branches now the welcoming arms of my fate.
(This is an excerpt from Dark Descent, the book I am currently writing. This content is my original work, and I own all rights. 10/05/2012)
“I’ve won a few acting awards, but as with all art, it’s an endless journey.”
“What do you mean?”
“You never get to the bottom of an art. There’s always another layer of depth. Whether that be painting, or acting, or photography. Ten different people could photograph that tree right there, and there would be a different spirit beneath each of those photographs.”
“I think I’ll put that as your caption.”
“Oh c’mon. That’s nothing new. Everyone knows that.”
“Maybe so. But ten different people could explain that, and it’d be different every time.”
A little excerpt from the book that I’m currently working on writing. I’m excited about it!
-Caitlin A. Bragg
Asked by Anonymous
It’s funny, I’ve never really seen it that way. I get discouraged all of the time. I guess the thing is, I just can’t picture my life being “normal”—at least not to the Iowa standard”. I’m sure you asked this question a while ago, I haven’t been on tumblr in forever, and I’m also sure that it was before I moved to New York and then came home 2 weeks later. THAT was the biggest discouragement. No one has really said anything negative to me about it since my little sister asked me “But what about your dreams?”, because I think that they’re all a little scared to. They think something bad happened to me while I was in New York, but the truth is, I just knew it wasn’t the right place for me right now. To answer my little sister’s question: I haven’t given up on my dreams, but they have changed. At the moment, I’m feeling rather lost. I’m trying to get back on my feet after a major life change—and I’m not talking about moving to New York, I’m talking about moving away from the path that got me to New York. I spent 5 years of my life planning on moving to the city, but it took only a few days for me to realize that it wasn’t actually what I needed, no matter how much I wanted it to be.
So how do I stay confident when my path seems to have changed so drastically? I think that when you want something badly enough, you fight through the fear, discouragement, and self-doubt and you go for what you want. Every day is a battle, but as I read somewhere today, you have to stop being so invested in the outcome, because that creates mental roadblocks. Take it one step at a time and enjoy the ride. Think about the hard stuff when it comes forward. Believe in yourself, take yourself seriously, and push through. In the meantime, enjoy life as it is, don’t constantly long for the future.
Asked by tumblrbot
When I’m in a bad mood, I love to sit down with a cup of coffee, listen to Adele, and read a great book—something that takes my mind off of things.
Waking from a half-remembered dream—shaken awake by the harsh reality of life. This cage holds me, but I long to fly. Far. Far away from the cold crushing fist of home—pulling me back and pinning me to the ground, gazing toward the sky and longing to take flight. Longing—for those days which quickly begin to fade—for that time when I was free and happy. Problems were overcome with grace and defiant independence—hope and future shone brightly against the backdrop of smiling friends—ready to be my bridge—supporting my efforts to climb high, fly away…and be free.
This place is heavy. Hopelessness is a drug delivered by plaid-clad hillbillies and religious fanatics pounding on the bars of the cage in which I am held. Life resumes its normal pace of dull sunny afternoons spent wasting away—half-remembered dreams buried by the wake-up call of once-hopeful goals turning sour in my mind—brimming with emotion—unexpressed.
The clock ticks. Days pass. Unnoticed—I begin to fade.
Shadows cast upon the wall bring light to new ideas. Trees sprout knowledge in the minds of an ignorant child—taking root in the belief that life is not what it seems. Someday, they’ll sprout wings and soar above us all—into the sun that shines too bright for us to grasp within our sight. One day the horizon will expand upon our narrow view, and we’ll all look around and see that we are not so different—we all walk with a superior stride, but when the sun that blinds casts shadows that brighten our minds—we will see that we are all the same.
Doctor Who…totally and completely the best show on television.
When I look into the mirror, I see the reflection of a girl I do not recognize—piercing green-gray eyes the only things that stand out among a face full of imperfection. Nose too big—pointed down, skin to quick to blush a crimson red, lips too small and a too-pale shade of pink. Past the double chin, down the neck to the chest where two small mole hills lie—imperfect and freckled with marks—reminders that the body is ever-growing. Over the mole hills and to the curves of the land—lumpy and too large to stuff into a size 2 casing. Through the landscape of the body to the stretching rivers, swollen to meeting, leading only to the plump ponds that are my feet. Hair, atop the crown, frizzy, but delightful until the sun shines and turns it a copper shade of red. This is what I see when I gaze upon myself, but this is not me. I am the sun that touches the skin—the rain that cools the earth. I am a mountain of energy, a volcano of fury—I am the ash that blankets the land, covering everything in gray—mellow and soft. I am not what I appear. I am the earth and the earth is me. Someday, someone will gaze into my soul and see that I am beautiful.
Walking down the sidewalks of New York City is like trying to make your way to the front row of a concert. Everyone is in a hurry and no one is willing to move. It takes a certain kind of authority and assuredness to walk in the city. It is not for the mall-walkers, Sunday drivers, or casual strollers. Walking in New York is a necessity—It feeds your soul and leaves it wanting more. It’s taken for granted by most, but I bask in it—I smell the pollution in the air and know I’m home. The sounds of 20 different languages fill my ears within the course of a single city block. The man on the corner sells flowers, bright as a rainbow, the sidewalk glimmers in the sunlight –the glass reflecting in the afternoon haze. If you listen closely you can hear the rhythm. The clack of the business woman’s heals, impractical to say the least, yet somehow never getting caught in a subway grate. The cars honk and the engines run, the wheels of a hotdog cart creak on the asphalt. I close my eyes and I feel the cool breeze coming down 5th avenue, momentarily bathing me in solitude. I am alone in New York City. I open my eyes and the hustle and bustle of the city starts again. Always moving, never slowing. Not for the Sunday drivers, casual strollers, or mall-walkers. Only for me.
All I see is time. All I see is time, in a landscape of destruction. Time to build—time to grow…time to heal the wounds that you’ve created. All there is, is time. All I have is time. All I am is time. Time is what you’ve given me. I see it in our growing children. I hear it in the ticking clock as I fall asleep at night. I smell it in Union Square—counting down on the metronome. Time is all I have—time is all there is. Well, you know what? I don’t want your time! I want now. I want here. I want you.
I found this picture on Flickr (credit to whomever actually took the photo, I won’t be using it of real, it’s just an idea picture) and it sparked a few ideas for the novel I’ve been working on. Someday I’d like for it to have a similar cover to this.