This is a blog of books, poems, scraps of writings, and anything else I find interesting. If you by any chance want to see just what I've written, search 'outofmyhead' in the bar below!
16 years of life, (decisions made and regretted), and a lover of literature the entire way. Not sure where I'm headed, but it must include writing. This blog is just about trying to be more open about my scribblings, and to see what people think. Talk back to me!
Had the oddest thing about Andrew Harrigan been his penchant for the hearse, his mind might have been on other matters. Needless to say he was rather fond of it – four soldierly horses drew forward the timeless ebony frame; the perfumed verses of everlasting life yearned paradisiacal paradoxes over the lingering souls of angst-ridden newcomers; the death-hush sound of the cast-iron wheels driving over the stolid and unassuming brickwork corners of Manhattan – all of which were on his mind constantly as the cavalier cicerone to death itself pioneered his casket by pioneering another’s. The latter thought especially, for in his mind God was in the brick and mortar, The Holy Spirit chilled the Autumn air and in the crisp and dewy mid-morning ecstasy this City teeming with life observed the Son of Man in the most cosmopolitan of manner, for even the talk of the town was more marvelous than the daytime conversations of an ordinary American. Although the condescending atmosphere hit his nostrils, the pungency of his homeland came with it and Gaelic airs of nostalgia and sweet contempt glittered on his tongue. The tartness and complacency of the New York ephemera wound its way through the senses, but even those could not deter the travel of the atmosphere in Andrew’s veins, and onwards went his penchant for the girl.
It was a dark-brunette like her that could keep eyes off of the City’s brick and mortar. And Andrew regretfully looked straight ahead, his duties to the nemesis of the human condition outweighing the visual pleasure looking on with him. Wherever he turned, it seemed, there was an angle of life everyone else seemed to ignore; not that of death, but of beauty. A condition that, likewise, followed him into every graveyard, a condition flowing from the scarlet eyes and the showered sparks of tempered steel bridges. And not even a lust or a passion, but a tranquil acknowledgment of the world around him would suffice to see in the country’s industrial brainchild the attractiveness of the human soul. The hearse would stop at the junction of Broadway and 143rd, and Andrew would sit at the intersection between life and death, as the auburn leaves of Central Park gave way to the chimney smokes of The Bronx.
Beauty sat in the passenger’s seat of his carriage, and for once he was unsure of whether he was visited by life or by death. Both congregated to his doorstep on a regular basis, petting the muzzles of the dead’s equine bellwethers, holding the hands of the mourning in the timeless velvet box whose lines were blurred between image and reality. There was something about the City of New York that could hold countless representatives of the Life and Death paradigm Andrew traversed constantly, but never before had he set eyes upon an amalgam, a crack in the hourglass that followed the path of eternal gyration. Pallid and stone, her countenance would reveal nothing of itself anymore than the fit of her crossed legs and the faded rose on her boutonniere, and for the fourth time that day Andrew caught himself trafficking something abstract from the morning excitements on the cobblestone roads.
The muck and mire of his urban fantasy was what had attracted so many hopeful newcomers to the bullishness of Broadway; but looking at another pretty face, he came back to reality. Tired of watching the old city streets, he studied a girl that could love just like them.
It was customary for Andrew to whistle soft albeit haunting dirges under his breath, and just as customary to keep them continuous. Under the chapped lips of the decaying Autumn spell, glamorous tunes with vacant lyrics travelled at the leisure of the horses’ stubborn pace, and so rarely did that pace turn on itself or stop in its entirety, that not accessing the liquid emotions from under his lips was just as alien as the girl herself. But when a just as haunting “what is that woeful melody I’m listening to?” was distantly received between the ebony box and the stretch of fragile air between him, Andrew stopped. And with him the horses.
“I beg your pardon?” He was doubtlessly an Irishman, an accent that was true to the whiskey he tasted in the atmosphere as true to the God in the atmosphere as well.
“You- you were whistling something a minute before.” She was without question an Englishwoman, and her voice caught on nothing but the gravy she would eat to on Thanksgiving day, a warmth that might as easily soften the agony in a gut as well as bring another. “And I quite liked what I was listening to.”
Assuring the horses that a rift in the elegy was not a rift in the requiem, he turned back, knowing that the Clydesdale charioteers could finish the route without him. And he smiled, the warmth from his gut finding its way to the parch of his mouth. This was the first time he had looked at the stray passenger squarely, and the shroud of mystery he allowed himself even when she boarded was now gone, its own deceit pallid. “I never learned its name; my ol’ dear used to sing it to me, and even though it tells you to drink and be merry I never understood why it was.”
“Why what was?” She saw the searching in his eyes and moved closer, as talking from the other side of the box was a strain on her vocal chords she did not want to endure.
And his smile deepened. “Why she sang for me songs only the dead could hear.” Maybe it was the appeal to irony, or maybe it was the pretty face that brought it about, but Andrew too found odium in the distances between. Quickly traversing the space between the two compartments, the driver made footsteps as light as his heart, on a jump he could have made hundreds of times but found it necessary to do just the once. And, although she was a frail-framed skeleton, there was no discomfort as the boards beneath their feet responded to the unfamiliar weight above them. An awkward tragedy not yet hauled from the curtains, but a comfortable one nonetheless.
“Is- is it okay for you to be back here?” And although Andrew never saw the regret dilate her eyes, he knew at some point afterward that there must have been so.
“The horses know the city just as well-”
“No, I mean with the funeral director – or whatever sick bastard it is coordinating these affairs for the petty wages we’re all earning these days.”
Andrew shrugged a hearty shrug, whistling once more the tune as the horses proved their knowledge of the old city streets. Unsure of how to use their hands save cupped upon their knees, and unsure of what to say despite that the eyes she just caught were probably open to anything, she motioned to the casket, still stuttering.
“He- he was my g-grandfather. You must think it frightfully sad that I’m the only person who even cares that he’s gone, but that’s what happens when they chain you to the incandescent lightposts of the 19th century revolution, you know? No- no I don’t suppose you would-“
“Oh no I understand. I became an industrial chew toy before my first communion, watching my mother harlot for witless politicians while my disowning father made sour news abroad in a country I still consider my only home.”
“And where do you consider your temporary home?”
“You’re riding in it!” Her laugh sucked in the island gale and let go on the Hudson’s waves, but only the echoes would smile with her. the weight of his sincerity followed with them, and there was little to say after that. Though it was little to say when the cumbersome Broadway stage followed her like a second home, her black box was a lot more substantial than his was. The actress made note of that loneliness in him, unable to break old habits even in the midst of an unordinary situation, and looked around at what was comfortable for only the oddest.
“And what about the people? Do they treat this place like home?”
“I can’t count how many faces climbed in this hearse since I was sixteen but I can assure you the deceased were almost always more important than the passengers.”
She smirked. “And what about now?” It seemed like she was asking an entirely different question, but asking it satisfied her nonetheless. And even though she never got a response, she was satisfied with the answer.
The consistent sound of the grinding iron wheels came to a halt and with it the funeral progression, and Andrew was forced to step out with a laconic “pardon,” admonishing the strangeness that possessed the horses in that mid-morning haze. He was not there to see the frustration on her face; he was not present to ask about the shows she performed in or the bruises on her neck; he was never focused enough to ask for a name, and resorting to the newspaper to get an answer was bad enough under the stress he would be put under. But the procession always took priority – the notion in Andrew Harrigan that something must go on far outweighed the notion he got from the girl. The later-to-be-known-as Violet Newcastle worked noiselessly under the hearse driver’s peculiar precedence, but the echoes stained the velvet interior in a way that the blood never could.
And on his dirge went, charming the horses into an immutable, intransigent pace like docile prodigies of the shadow of death. The carriage continued its eastbound journey as Andrew climbed back into the passenger’s seat, but all his return yielded was a box as empty as its vagrant ghosts. Standing on its edge and looking out at the sea of commoners in suits and ties and wavering airs of potpourri, not a single face or body compared to the seemingly immobile girl. In utter confusion, he closed the back doors of the trolley, and they brought with a seal vagabond winds that stirred the itinerant ghouls, and with them the leaves at his wavering boot-steps. The wandering foliage of the city streets skittered across the carpet and celebrated the wooden box, and knowing of no other place to hide except in the city of six feet, he hastened towards the city’s gates lest the village row of mansions and tenements should approach before he knows where she had gone.
And in the near future, his curiosity gave way to depression.
And reality was a salty shore for a bleeding beach, but the sandcastle scars would never really close until the finer grains fell in place. The crimson colors of crying mothers’ eyes collected quietly on the ashen silk where her pulse used to be, where a Tunisian dagger rest in place. They say that the souls of the dead exit through their body’s wounds, but the sanguinary waves from beneath her chest spoke a damnation Andrew would have to live in, and the first wave came with the close of the dark mahogany door. It seemed like a waste of a perfectly good headstone to bury her in the ground with a name unlike her own, and Oliver Hanes (the man he was supposed to be driving) might be frigid in another man’s closet or nonexistent altogether.
But that was what she wanted, it seemed. Anonymity that was covered with dirt and lied about in the papers (such charlatan atrocities running the news would not have a hard time of doing so, Andrew would find). And as the equine Charon’s did their job like the practitioners of the gates of Hell were meant to do, Andrew did the same. But the blood effusing from the lips of her dagger didn’t subside until long after the wound made itself known to every man responsible for the death of Violet Newcastle.
You could still be what you want to,
What you said you were, when I met you….
I think that if voldemort really wanted to kill harry potter the night the spell didn’t work on him he could’ve just picked him up and thrown him out a window given the fact that he was a one year old infant
7 8 9//Den-Mate cover
This is the first song I recorded with my new mic! I hope you like it! Please give it a listen :)