sibilantmacabre: (As you understand it.)
So I suppose all the kids are here now. Let's make this place just like old times. See, I've even got the music to match.

Pretty sure there are no new faces here, but just in case I decide to jihad some communities on here like ye olden daze and meet some new friends, let's have a 'Getting to Know Me' post. I've pulled the 'devoutly Muslim humanitarian who faints at the sight of blood' one enough times, so here's a legitimate (uhhh) introduction to the world of Cat:

- My posts generally consist of 'I'm sad; do some lines and watch this video of some third-world execution.'

- Half-assed historian with a penchant for medieval studies (primarily around the fall of Constantinople), but I try to be well-versed in other eras for the sake of getting trashed and vomiting dissertations to people who don't give a shit while sloshing my drink on said people's shoes and struggling to stand. Tangentially, I'm obsessed with Byzantine iconography, and decorate my home accordingly. It's a cesspool of vintage Vincent Price movie posters juxtaposed with matryoshka dolls of various saints.

- Even more half-assed belly dancer. I'm currently attempting to learn the hardest choreography I've ever been presented with (to 'Sweet Dreams' by Eurythmics. More on that later. That song and I have history), and having an existential crisis because I never formally learned technical shit like rakshinas and ghwazees, and therefore whether I can consider myself a real dancer. feelsbadman.jpg

- Passionate about linguistics and foreign languages. I formally studied German and Russian for years, pursuing a minor in the former, and I continue to do so on my own time. When I need to relax, I do German grammar and vocabulary quizzes online, to simultaneously distract myself from shit and feel like I'm doing something semi-productive. I picked up a smattering of Arabic from an ex, and can shoddily translate some Latin (thanks, high school). but my knowledge of languages is rather limited to the Romance and Balto-Slavic. My favourite curses are Futu-ţi morţii mă-tii or Zum Teufel geh ich.

- I love me some metal, campy horror rock, and mopey goth music. The best shows I've ever seen have been Behemoth, when Nergal spat blood on me during the Resurrection Waltz from Hellraiser, and Wednesday 13. Top five bands on a whim are Cruelty-era Cradle of Filth, Psyclon Nine, Creature Feature, Wednesday 13, and Rob Zombie. I also know the lyrics to more rap songs than I am willing to admit.

- I have eleven piercings, though there have been more in the past, and two tattoos. To be amended to three in exactly one week. Necronomicon sigil on left forearm, Order of the Dragon seal on the right.

- The 'You're a witch?!?' scene from The Craft is my everyday life. The paranormal and I are...well acquainted. Shout-out to the homies who walk around my apartment at night and stand over me while I'm in bed.

- Yes, I smoke, and no, that is NOT the reason my voice sounds like this. My old boss at the sex shop once described my voice as 'like aged whiskey.'

- My life philosophy can be boiled down to 'Don't be a dick; can't we all just get high and watch Tales From the Crypt.' The rude and inept deserve to be publicly executed, and Dorian Gray is my ~spirit animal~.

- No, I'm big on public execution and such. Never bring this up when I've been drinking.

- Fun fact: I really love to cook. I enjoy experimenting with foreign recipes and methods and foisting shock therapy on my guests' boring American palates.

- For years, I've secretly dreamed ofbeing a drag king and doing a routine to 'Sexy Back.' I think I'd make a dapper long-haired Victorian gent.

- My heaven is lighting too many candles and settling in with cosmic horror books and a bouquet of opiates. At the risk of sounding like some /b/tard, if you're curious about my religious (lol) leanings, kindly refer to Event Horizon. You'll know.

- #isthiswhyimnotmarried
sibilantmacabre: (Showtime.)
This is what happens when a female, whose crux of personal pride is her claim to a Macbook and a webcam, with an incredibly rudimentary knowledge of literature - what would be expected from a Macbook owner - (potentially triggering word ahead) submits to her college's estrogen-dominated Lit Mag, is received glowingly by the Womyn (plural this time, you sexist scum) of the Sisterhood (a very exclusive sorority) from the Herstory department, and is stuffed full of enough unwarranted confidence to take it a step further.

In accordance, this is a more interactive review, with lots of fun and educational sights and sounds for those of you too lazy or dumb to read.



Hopefully M. Night Shyamalan will direct the movie.

/roll credits

sibilantmacabre: (Dream Lady.)
Examine please the writhing tapestries of choice violence implicit in every scratching and syllable. Smell the beast-blood trickling into each wound, spelling out new ways to violate sweet innocence.

Hooks rend. New blasphemies configurate upon the inside of my eyelids; tales worked in blood and bone and flesh and semen, traced in spittle; a dash of bile here, a slice of kidney there.

Gather round damned children, and together we shall lament and celebrate the configuration that made us what we are, today and forever.

So: do you writhe and shiver in the pangs of darling agnonies undreamable, wriggling and gasping and giggling, anticipating the tumescent thrill of another's damnation?


Then I'll begin... )

(Wordsworth, Neil Gaiman & Dave McKean.)
sibilantmacabre: (Bathory.)
Some of you may have the misfortune of having been around long enough to remember this masterpiece.

Round 2. )

But I got derailed by Night Train while watching Night of Death! and The House That Dripped Blood last night, and I hate everyone anyway, so you don't have to take my word for it.
sibilantmacabre: (Showtime.)

Regrettably, this nasty narrative cannot be claimed as an original composition; see CreepyPasta for unwanted details.

I would just like to amend this sinister sensation with the fact that I bought housewarez. COOL STORIES ABOUND:

sibilantmacabre: (Default)
I covet your fear, your desire, your joy, your anguish, all that constitutes a life. I long to drink you in, to imbibe your essence and let it flicker through my veins like blue fire, swooning intoxicated with you racing inside me. The lingering tannins of your phobias astringent in my cheeks, the rich syrup of your darkest memories heavy on my tongue. I yearn to plunge into your skin, bathing in the lurid light of your consciousness, writhing languidly in your dreams like amniotic fluid, rocked to purring, calculating near-oblivion by your heartbeat. Your eyelids will flutter as I swim about, curling through and stroking every painful memory until it throbs to life; but I’ll whisper to your mind to sleep, trusting, submissive, pathetic, in keeping with your entire life. I'll stretch my talons and smooth the black edges of your nightmares until you barely notice I'm there, then clench my fingers and rip.

Obedience to the point of death,
Falling down through increasing
Into the deathlike region
Of ooze and slime and decay.
These are the fruits and symptoms of
The abasement of the World,
The assumption of humanity and the simultaneous occultation of Divinity.

(With apologies to Deathspell Omega.)
sibilantmacabre: (Kostnice.)
Last night I dreamt that I was leading a mass of people around a building resembling a cross between my high school and a mansion. A man rounded a corner in front of us, attempting to stop me and asking to see '(my) army' (who I assume constituted the group behind me). He bowed to me for some reason, asking mercy if I recall, and when he was on his knees with his head to the floor before me, I took out a dagger and split his back open from coccyx to neck. The skin parted immaculately, and as he lay there quivering and whimpering softly, I called him pathetic and stepped in the wound, burying the heels of my boots in muscle and blood and leading the rest of my army forward over his broken form.

Your whimpers feed the flame
The scent of fear
And searing flesh
I will meet you with war.

The great thing about the internet is that no matter what, there will always be a congregation of people you will never meet clamoring to simultaneously worship you and one-up you for the title of most fucked up.

For it isn't the end that makes passion rise
And it isn't the during that raises the chalice of tears.
sibilantmacabre: (Default)

Holy shit, guys. Holy. Shit.

This is the real weepy and like, tragic part of the story, O my brothers and only friends )
sibilantmacabre: (Nightmare.)
Happy birthday, you crazy bastard.

"We shall see that at which dogs howl in the dark, and that at which cats prick up their ears after midnight."

"The process of delving into the black abyss is to me the keenest form of fascination."

"Now all my tales are based on the fundamental premise that common human laws and interests and emotions have no validity or significance in the vast cosmos-at-large."

"I never ask a man what his business is, for it never interests me. What I ask him about are his thoughts and dreams."

"Searchers after horror haunt strange, far places."
sibilantmacabre: (Hitchhiker.)
"'When I was younger, I used to ice-skate,' he said, speaking slowly. I blinked. I thought he was deliberately, and rather discourteously, changing the subject, and I reached for the ignition keys. But Ramsey continued. 'I learned to skate quite well,' he said. 'I was never particularly adept at sports or games but in ice-skating I seemed to be more talented than most. I enjoyed it enormously. I learned to figure-skate, to cut designs across the ice. People used to watch me, admiring my abilities. But there was one strange thing. I wouldn't skate when it was dark. All the young people used to go to the rink at night, but the very thought gave me a chill. I had a vague dread - a fear even - of what lay beneath the ice at night. I visualized it - saw it in cross-section, as it were. There I was, cutting my smooth figures across the flat, predictable surface of the ice, and beneath that level there was the dark body of unfrozen water. The ice and water were related and yet they were not the same. I fashioned my designs at one plane while beneath me lay uncharted depths and inconceivable forms. So it is with life - with the human mind. We live our allotted years and carve out patterns upon a solitary level of existence, content and satisfied perhaps, and then something happens which opens a window, just for an instant, through the surface and allows us to glimpse the deeper, darker dimensions with which we share existence. We peer through this hole, we see cowled shapes and malformed concepts bloated in the waters and we shudder and look away until the ice freezes over once more and our world is smooth and flat again. Our world is as we know it, as we wish it, and we skate off and leave our pitiful little etching under our runners. And yet, from time to time, those broken areas of open waters appear to disrupt our placid world. Most men shun the glimpse, ignore the depths, pretend the ice is solid. But not all men. In the minds of a few, the hole does not freeze over quickly enough, they stare too long through the break - long enough for something to rise and crawl from that hole and take possession of the upper levels...'

'Madness?' I said.

'Who knows? Not sanity, surely. But madness belongs to our surface ice. After all, it is we who have defined it. It is our minds which have hardened into ice. What may come up from below, from those regions we have not labelled and named because we have not conceived of them...'"

sibilantmacabre: (Ring Mirror.)
"He paused and listened - 'There was no voice, nor any that answered;' - but as the wrinkled and torn canvas fell to the floor, its undulations gave the portrait the appearance of smiling. Melmoth felt horror indescribable at this transient and imaginary resuscitation of the figure. He caught it up, rushed into the next room, tore, cut, and hacked it in every direction, and eagerly watched the fragments that burned like tinder in the turf fire which had been lit in his room. As Melmoth saw the last blaze, he threw himself into bed, in hope of a deep and intense sleep. He had done what was required of him, and felt exhausted both in mind and body; but his slumber was not so sound as he had hoped for. The sullen light of the turf fire, burning but never blazing, disturbed him every moment. He turned and turned, but still there was the same red light glaring on, but not illuminating, the dusky furniture of the apartment. The wind was high that night, and as the creaking door swung on its hinges, every noise seemed like the sound of a hand struggling with the lock, or of a foot pausing on the threshold. But (for Melmoth never could decide) was it in a dream or not, that he saw the figure of his ancestor appear at the door? - hesitatingly as he saw him at first on the night of his uncle's death, - saw him enter the room, approach his bed, and heard him whisper, "You have burned me, then; but those are flames I can survive. I am alive, - I am beside you." Melmoth started, sprung from his bed, - it was broad daylight. He looked round, - there was no human being in the room but himself. He felt a slight pain in the wrist of his left arm. He looked at it, it was black and blue, as from the recent gripe of a strong hand."

Into the fire she swallowed their hate.
sibilantmacabre: (Nightmare.)
"That cross you wear around your neck - is it only a decoration, or are you a true Christian believer?"

"Yes, I believe; truly."

"Then I want you to remove it at once, and never to wear it within this castle again. Do you know how a falcon is trained, my dear? Her eyes are sewn shut. Blinded temporarily she suffers the whims of her God patiently, until her will is submerged, and she learns to serve, as your God taught and blinded you with crosses."

"You had me take off my cross because it offended-!"

"It offended no one. No; it simply appears to me to be discourteous to wear the symbol of a deity long dead. My ancestors tried to find open the door that separates us from our Creator."

"But you need no doors to find God! If you believe..."

"Believe? If you believe you are gullible. Can you look around this world and believe in the goodness of a god who rules it? Famine, Pestilence, War, Disease and Death! They rule this world."

"There is also love and life and hope!"

"Very little hope, I assure you. No. If a god of love and life ever did exist...he is long since dead. Someone...or something...rules in his place."

(Thanks, as usual, to [ profile] mi5anthr0pe for the picture.)
sibilantmacabre: (Nightmare.)
Take - An old castle, half of it ruinous.
A long gallery, with a great many doors, some secret ones.
Three murdered bodies, quite fresh.
As many skeletons, in chests and presses.
An old woman hanging by the neck with her throat cut
Assassins and desperadoes 'quant suff.'
Noise, whispers and groans, threescore at least.

Mix them together, in the form of three volumes to be taken at any of the watering places, before going to bed.

- Terrorist Novel Writing, anonymous, 1798

sibilantmacabre: (Kostnice.)

Moving Night )

The Hollow Man )

The Dripping (excerpt) )

Cemetery Dance )

Party Time )