October 15th, 2012
The Rhino and the Pelican meet outside a chic pastry shop on the lower West Side of Manhattan. The pelican spent all morning tying and retying the bowtie he was beyond anxious to meet Rhino. She was a woman of exotic locations, rich foods and chic people. Metropolitan. Pelican had spent some time in the city, but he was never known for being from a rural town, a small population. He and his family would travel to the same place every year. Back and forth, never deterring from a path of normalcy. 

Finally, here in the big city he was free. He saw so many glorious sights. The giraffes walking through the fashion district, the eagles in the business district, in their ill fitted suits and their square toed shoes. 
Down to the highline where tourists would crowd to look at the locals. Penguins walking so slow with their digital cameras and their uggs. You would think they would understand about the soaking water on that fake suede.  Being here in the city made Pelican glad he had met his friends, Badger, and Coon. They all with their eclectic tasks, their tweed jackets their beat up sneakers. They’d all walk the streets getting inspired by the sights and sounds. Occasionally Pelican would take them back out to the country, show them the spots where he grew up, the migration patterns of his parents. They would drink rich drinks, and have rich discussions. Occasionally, like all generations They’d question their existence, their future. The dangers they had. They started reading Sartre, and Marx, Socrates, they questioned religion. Went to the park and took pictures of all the people. That’s where he’d met Rhino. She’d been wearing a pair of shiny shimmery flats and a bow.  In that moment he was dazzled by her interest in the things around her. She’d heard them discussing Simone de Beauvoir and his stand on the mysteries of femininity. She had stopped and joined in, and he’d asked her out, wondering perhaps if she’s like to go out. He was nervous but perhaps everything would work out. 

The Rhino and the Pelican meet outside a chic pastry shop on the lower West Side of Manhattan. The pelican spent all morning tying and retying the bowtie he was beyond anxious to meet Rhino. She was a woman of exotic locations, rich foods and chic people. Metropolitan. Pelican had spent some time in the city, but he was never known for being from a rural town, a small population. He and his family would travel to the same place every year. Back and forth, never deterring from a path of normalcy. 

Finally, here in the big city he was free. He saw so many glorious sights. The giraffes walking through the fashion district, the eagles in the business district, in their ill fitted suits and their square toed shoes. 
Down to the highline where tourists would crowd to look at the locals. Penguins walking so slow with their digital cameras and their uggs. You would think they would understand about the soaking water on that fake suede. 

Being here in the city made Pelican glad he had met his friends, Badger, and Coon. They all with their eclectic tasks, their tweed jackets their beat up sneakers. They’d all walk the streets getting inspired by the sights and sounds. Occasionally Pelican would take them back out to the country, show them the spots where he grew up, the migration patterns of his parents. They would drink rich drinks, and have rich discussions.

Occasionally, like all generations They’d question their existence, their future. The dangers they had. They started reading Sartre, and Marx, Socrates, they questioned religion. Went to the park and took pictures of all the people. That’s where he’d met Rhino. She’d been wearing a pair of shiny shimmery flats and a bow.  In that moment he was dazzled by her interest in the things around her. She’d heard them discussing Simone de Beauvoir and his stand on the mysteries of femininity. She had stopped and joined in, and he’d asked her out, wondering perhaps if she’s like to go out.

He was nervous but perhaps everything would work out. 

149 notes
my writing fiction animal prose writing words by me mine
October 12th, 2012

We sat, facing each other, on the almost dangerously worn roof of my apartment building. We had been staring out the window when you asked “Do you ever go out on that part of the roof.” Actually, come to think of it, you didn’t ask. You never asked for anything. You and your dark hair, sharp thick eyebrows. The consistent 5 o’clock shadow that you maintained with a casual elegance, which I knew was a product of a pair of clippers your mother had gotten you on your 22nd birthday.

You asked me if I was cold. I lied and told you I wasn’t. I wasn’t really. The Black Keys blared from the speakers we had strategically placed in my windows. I couldn’t help but sway back and forth. You kept telling me about an astronomy class you had taken and how two guys in the class always showed up high. They would stare and point up at the sky, never getting any of the technical terms right. 

You told me how you wished you had a girl to wrap up in a blanket in a field and share the constellations with. A girl just for you. One that didn’t take away too much of your soul, mostly because you didn’t have a lot of it to give.

I knew that I wasn’t the girl for you, and that you had more soul than most of the men I had ever met. You were in a stage of fucking for aesthetics. You know, where you went for the women that looked good on your arm, but at the end of the night you were giving and receiving empty promises in a beautiful shell. Pleasures were foreign. Mostly because you didn’t think you deserved them. 

I knew you needed time to muck through a lot of self deprivation before you realized what you deserved, and where it was. But, I knew that it wasn’t me, and never would be. No matter how close you held me, or the words you tried to say. 

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

171 notes
fiction writing mine words by me creative writing
September 24th, 2012

The fox studied the landscape. Much of what had once been open fields, now was polluted with houses. Not like the farmer’s houses or chicken coups. Instead these seem unsound, like a half dead tree during a thunderstorm; weak and ready to collapse at the slightest pressure.

The bird sat on the low branches of the bald maple tree. It was winter, and what was once fields and fields of white snow, now seemed dominated by nest after nest, formed oddly. Not anchored down to withstand a heavy winter storm.

The deer, stood back in the forest, or what was left. They looked out into weaving roads and drives up to huge machines standing still outside homes. The machines that seemed everywhere moving this way and that, rushing by like a strong wind, or dangerous currents of the rivers. 

Katharine Keegan Fiction April 2012

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

29 notes
fiction writing
July 1st, 2012

Your collarbones collected secrets long held close to your heart in the drawn out lonely nights you thought of me. Your fingers would dip and drop into the recess, soft skin harsh, hard bone horrible secrets. Haunted notes hit the air like the steady high notes in black and white films. Your mouth parted in memory, your eyes deep in nostalgic remembering. 

History for you and I, was like a scary story told around smokey sticks burning in a campfire. Our beginning like the bitter bite into not ripe fruit. Our middle like the jagged edges of rocks split by force. Our end a rattling, raspy smokers cough. 

Perhaps you licked your lips, wetting the surface where your lies bloom. Grown deep with in that organ, the one with the agonizing beat to the music, only beautiful when played by the right hands. 

Now we mourn the awareness that burst when we touched, tattooing our feelings for future lovers. Nothing compares. Not to the way you played over my ribs like the keys on a old and well loved piano. Not the taste of your breath, sweetened like honey, across my lips. Not the eyes that met me with unspoken desire, spoken through our figures. 

Smothered I was, suffocate I did. 

-Kat Keegan

July 1st, 2012

Fiction Writing: Write a song after listening to Bad Ritual by Timber Timbre.

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

112 notes
Fiction writing words by me written mine personal
March 18th, 2012
I never thought the day you moved in to the apartment across from mine that you would eventually become the center of my life. I mean, I am nosey so I watched as they moved in surprisingly classy furniture, no lazy-boys or big screens. You had taste. You were simplistic. The third morning together we stayed at your place, so when I couldn’t find my tea in your cabinets, I grabbed your shirt off the floor, rolling up the sleeves. That’s another thing I immediately was attracted to about you. You were big, burly, manly, but classy and put together. I rolled the sleeves up over the sun you had sketched on my inner wrist with markers from the previous night.  Then I went out the door and across to my place, all covered with ivy. I got my favorite plain mug and a fresh lemon and some honey I squeezed the lemon into the mug, as well as some honey. It was as I was coming back, licking some of the honey on the rim of the cup, you snuck up and snapped the photo. 

I never thought the day you moved in to the apartment across from mine that you would eventually become the center of my life. I mean, I am nosey so I watched as they moved in surprisingly classy furniture, no lazy-boys or big screens. You had taste. You were simplistic.

The third morning together we stayed at your place, so when I couldn’t find my tea in your cabinets, I grabbed your shirt off the floor, rolling up the sleeves. That’s another thing I immediately was attracted to about you. You were big, burly, manly, but classy and put together. I rolled the sleeves up over the sun you had sketched on my inner wrist with markers from the previous night. 

Then I went out the door and across to my place, all covered with ivy. I got my favorite plain mug and a fresh lemon and some honey I squeezed the lemon into the mug, as well as some honey. It was as I was coming back, licking some of the honey on the rim of the cup, you snuck up and snapped the photo. 

600 notes
writing fiction words by me
March 18th, 2012

We sat on the broken couch in your small dark apartment. The television provided more light than the desk lap that your roommate had moved onto the side table. It’s college, I don’t blame you for having the kind of furniture that is passed by as it sits abandoned in alleys.

After an hour or two, my voice unused, I complained about the soreness that had seeped from the cushions to my lower spine. You grimaced and agreed. “It has terrible back support.” You stood. I looked up at you.

“Come.”

You didn’t hold out your hand, instead you just went weaving around the bikes balanced against the wall in the hall into the small room that was yours.

I sighed, stood, went to the fridge and grabbed my mason jar filled with wine. I unscrewed the lid, standing on the dirty tiled floor, my shoes still on. I took a swig, the dry liquid bursting in my mouth. Spun the lid back into place and made my way after you.

I opened the door to find you had plugged in and placed a heating blanket onto your bed. You now sat on your floor, putting a vinyl onto the platter of the turntable.

Your room was a haven in the house. You kept it clean, but not too clean. Your records and books immaculately kept.

The sweet sounds of The Middle East came on. You knew I loved them, evidence by the multiple times I played them on the car rides. Those car rides. The ones that led to the late night errand runs, then to movies. The dinners at my place. Beers on the roof. The hike up to the look out. I learned your favorite bands, and you learned mine.

I sighed. I sat on the edge of your bed and removed my shoes. You turned, still sitting on the floor, bracing yourself on your palms behind your back, your long limbs stretched out before you.You looked at my feet. I flexed my toes.

Instead of moving to lay on your bed, I lay down on the oriental rug you had placed over the wall to wall shag carpet. A gift from your grandfather, you had told me the first time I had complimented it.

As the song wound down I reached out to you with a slow move of my arm and wrist. You moved to lay down next to me, grabbing two pillows to prop our heads off the ground. Next your hand slowly made contact with my elbow, your fingers traced over to the soft and fragile inner part of my forearm. Then, you laced your fingers through mine. A simple gesture.

I breathed in and felt all the sparks collect between our palms.

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

108 notes
fiction writing words by me
November 24th, 2011
It was a horribly long day that had fused with a horribly long evening. The night hours too were horrendous. The early morning sun rose and greeted us both. We moved our limbs slowly, as if we dared to move against some unseen force. I wanted to tell you how much I love you. I wanted to shout it, but I was terrified. My sentiments have never been as clear as I wanted them. To me it seemed like there was always something. A flaw in the moment I could tell you. Tell you that I could swim in a sea of love with you. Things like that, touching a part of you that my hands couldn’t. When we finally had half risen, you sat on the edge of the bed, a mess of blankets behind you. Me trying not to cringe at the cold floor on my bare feet. You looked at me. Do you remember the day we met? you ask me. I stop, air seems to choke in my chest. yes. I said. Your hands rested on your knees. Your rough and long fingers beckoned me. Teased me forward. I was moving without knowing it. Then your fingers were on the backs on my knees, my thighs. brushing the bottom of my night gown. I let my hands slowly slide around your neck. testing the texture of skin on skin. Slow so my fingerprints stamped your skin. I felt an unmeasurable amount of love rolling in waves across your body. What was the most vivid thing from our meeting? you said into my stomach. I wanted, I swallowed then continued, I wanted to touch you. It was like everything about you was just so, right, I wanted to make sure that it felt right skin to skin. I swallowed again. Your breath was intoxicating against the cloth to my skin. Everyday with you I learn. I learn each day what it feels like to be really alive. And if that doesn’t keep me moving, if that doesn’t keep me happy when the days are unbearable, then I don’t know what does. I can let go of everything the moment I touch you. 

It was a horribly long day that had fused with a horribly long evening. The night hours too were horrendous. The early morning sun rose and greeted us both. We moved our limbs slowly, as if we dared to move against some unseen force. I wanted to tell you how much I love you. I wanted to shout it, but I was terrified. My sentiments have never been as clear as I wanted them. To me it seemed like there was always something. A flaw in the moment I could tell you. Tell you that I could swim in a sea of love with you. Things like that, touching a part of you that my hands couldn’t. When we finally had half risen, you sat on the edge of the bed, a mess of blankets behind you. Me trying not to cringe at the cold floor on my bare feet. You looked at me. Do you remember the day we met? you ask me. I stop, air seems to choke in my chest. yes. I said. Your hands rested on your knees. Your rough and long fingers beckoned me. Teased me forward. I was moving without knowing it. Then your fingers were on the backs on my knees, my thighs. brushing the bottom of my night gown. I let my hands slowly slide around your neck. testing the texture of skin on skin. Slow so my fingerprints stamped your skin. I felt an unmeasurable amount of love rolling in waves across your body. What was the most vivid thing from our meeting? you said into my stomach. I wanted, I swallowed then continued, I wanted to touch you. It was like everything about you was just so, right, I wanted to make sure that it felt right skin to skin. I swallowed again. Your breath was intoxicating against the cloth to my skin. Everyday with you I learn. I learn each day what it feels like to be really alive. And if that doesn’t keep me moving, if that doesn’t keep me happy when the days are unbearable, then I don’t know what does. I can let go of everything the moment I touch you. 

349 notes
fiction words by me
October 26th, 2011

“What’s your favorite part of my body?” 

It was an October night when they lay in bed. She’d just changed the sheets from the lighter, high thread count to a flannel. The flannel one’s he had brought the day they moved in. “Flannel?” she had laughed “you only have flannel sheets for all year long?” He had dropped the sheets and grabbed her around the waist thowing her over his shoulder spinning her around the new and box filled apartment.

He was silent. Then he rolled over in bed and pulled the sheets away from her body. She was wearing the tops to his pajamas. 

“Is there a limit?” He grinned, crookedly. “Or may I start from your toes and work my way up?”

She chuckled at him, and pulled the flannel sheet back over her legs. “You may pick 3 parts.” She spoke in a voice surer than her own. 

“In a particular order?” he asked. He was grinning wide and goofily.

“Would you just answer the question!” She sounded embarassed for asking it.

He looked at her for a moment, and she was tempted to hide her face under the covers.

“I will answer under the condition you answer it too. Your three favorite parts of my body. I say one, you say one. Deal?”

“Deal.” She sat up a little on the pillow and flattened the flannel along the sides of her thighs. She looked at him, widening her eyes and smirking. Indicating he should start.

” Alright bossy woman, Freckle on your left hip. Or the general left hip area.”

 ” Your shoulder blades.”

“In between your eyebrows, like right now, when you crease it slightly.”

She raised a hand to it, and he caught her fingers and kissed them and made Pepe la Pew noises. She laughed, and shook her head.

“You foolishly funny man. Your right third rib. Last one, now.”

“Your bottom lip.”

 ”Your lips.”

“Both? I mean, I am partial to your bottom.”

She bit her lip, darting her tongue out to dampen it.

“That! Right there, men have been conquered by such beauty.”

She did hide under the covers that time. Only to dive at him and press her cold  toes against his legs. He yelped.

After a wrestling match they lay legs entwined. Her fingers tickled his side. His trailed the bone of her hip.

“Do you think Pepe La Pew ever found a lady skunk?” He asked.

“I hope so.” She replied.  

(Source: thatkindofwomand)

226 notes
writing unedited fiction
July 11th, 2011
Zoom
68 notes
personal writing words fiction
June 13th, 2011
“I hate sleeping traditionally.” She said tapping her toe on the leg of the bar stool she was sitting on.  He turned his head sideways and quirked an eyebrow. One thick dark brow.  “You know,” she said, running her fingers lightly through the dark messy locks nearest her face. ” Feet at the bottom, head at the top.” she pointed at her toes and head as she said it. He grinned. “I usually just get in and fall asleep.” “No, no, no.” She said beaming back, it was intensifying each word she spoke. Dimples in her cheeks, eyes glowing. “You are doing it all wrong.” She sat up a little straighter, then leaned in.”What color are your sheets?” “White.” He said leaning against the bar. Taking a sip from the tumbler. “Mine are gold. It’s good they are white.” she said sipping her ale from a sweating glass. “Why?” he looked befuddled putting the glass aside. She followed tracing one finger through the dampness on the glass after she’d set it down. “White is tender,” she paused “it’s unsoiled, guiltless it’s… a bare canvas to paint your body strokes against.” Her hand fluttered at that last description. His heart fluttered. “Pretty words.”  He said. Six months later he found himself thumbing through his moleskin notebook at first light while she lay asleep anomalous, just like she had confessed to him on their first meeting, in his guiltless bed.  “a bare canvas to paint your body strokes against” was written in scratchy hurried hand. He’d excused himself to write it down and come back for her number. Even now she was bewitching, and as winsome as that first night. He set aside the moleskin in the drawer and pulled out his camera, heedful not to wake her he stood on the bed and snapped a photo as she lay right arm above her head, and bare left shoulder to the elements. One moment captured to mark how her body painted brush strokes in his white sheeted bed, and through the eyes of his camera. 

“I hate sleeping traditionally.” She said tapping her toe on the leg of the bar stool she was sitting on. 

He turned his head sideways and quirked an eyebrow. One thick dark brow. 

“You know,” she said, running her fingers lightly through the dark messy locks nearest her face. ” Feet at the bottom, head at the top.” she pointed at her toes and head as she said it. 

He grinned. “I usually just get in and fall asleep.”

“No, no, no.” She said beaming back, it was intensifying each word she spoke. Dimples in her cheeks, eyes glowing. “You are doing it all wrong.” She sat up a little straighter, then leaned in.”What color are your sheets?”

“White.” He said leaning against the bar. Taking a sip from the tumbler.

“Mine are gold. It’s good they are white.” she said sipping her ale from a sweating glass.

“Why?” he looked befuddled putting the glass aside. She followed tracing one finger through the dampness on the glass after she’d set it down.

“White is tender,” she paused “it’s unsoiled, guiltless it’s… a bare canvas to paint your body strokes against.” Her hand fluttered at that last description. His heart fluttered.

“Pretty words.”  He said.

Six months later he found himself thumbing through his moleskin notebook at first light while she lay asleep anomalous, just like she had confessed to him on their first meeting, in his guiltless bed. 

“a bare canvas to paint your body strokes against” was written in scratchy hurried hand. He’d excused himself to write it down and come back for her number. Even now she was bewitching, and as winsome as that first night. He set aside the moleskin in the drawer and pulled out his camera, heedful not to wake her he stood on the bed and snapped a photo as she lay right arm above her head, and bare left shoulder to the elements. One moment captured to mark how her body painted brush strokes in his white sheeted bed, and through the eyes of his camera. 

229 notes
writing words fiction
April 20th, 2011

One night beneath the new years moon, a fox came upon a large tree in the middle of a valley, and in the tree he noticed a small bird perched on a lower branch staring out into the sky.

“Hello bird, may i ask what you are staring at?” The fox called up to the bird.

The bird, a bit startled, extending its wings gave a frightened chirp and hopped to the side. “Oh, hello there fox, you startled me.” The bird situated herself, and stared quizzically at the fox. “What of you fox, how do your travels bring you to this tree in this valley?”

“I am a lone fox.” Fox said puffing out his chest and tail, and standing taller. “I like to think that i am actually part wolf, because I can stray from a pack.”

“I see.” Said the bird, understanding too well. “I was contemplating the horizon. It seems so definite, and yet no matter how far i fly, it always if off to the distance.” Her posture, seemed tired, as though she was defeated, and more than physically weakened.

“And this makes you stare in such a state?” Fox asked.

“Yes, because it has proven my worst fear.” Bird said, her beak hanging low.

“And what is this?” Fox asked, sitting down and staring with curiosity at the Bird.

“That a mate for me, a fellow bird who will love me, is always within sight, and yet no matter how much i move towards this love, the farther is seems away from me.” Bird sighed and looked down at the fox.

“Now, Bird, I believe we just found some irreversible bond between us. I too have realized that Love is an unreachable goal. However, pretty little bird, Love is unreachable because it is not meant to be reached. Like the horizon, the sunrise and the sunset, it is not meant to be captured, except in the hearts and minds in the bird, or fox in which you share the horizon with.”

Written January 2010- Kat Keegan

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

30 notes
writing fiction january 2010 personal
March 17th, 2011
Zoom I run in the puddles. I chase after dogs. I will chase you. I will fall and get mud on that yellow dress you said you loved.  I will get mud on my palms and on my shins. I will laugh, deep from my belly. I will smudge your nose with some dirt, then give you a quick peck on the lips, and run some more. 

I run in the puddles. I chase after dogs. I will chase you. I will fall and get mud on that yellow dress you said you loved.  I will get mud on my palms and on my shins. I will laugh, deep from my belly. I will smudge your nose with some dirt, then give you a quick peck on the lips, and run some more. 

Reblogged from .la douleur exquise.
246 notes
fiction
February 7th, 2011

“What does it mean?” She asked staring into the mirror.

“What do you mean?” I sat up a little straighter in the chair, embarrassed that my socks were a little wet from the slush and snow outside, I shifted my legs, looking to where she was stopped.

She had invited me over for tea, and after entering removing my coat and untying my boots I had settled into a chair. It wasn’t an uncomfortable chair, but not one I would later remember when sitting in an uncomfortable one. She had excused herself to get the tea, and was momentarily distracted by her reflection in one of the several mirrors around the apartment.

“I suppose in the grand scheme of things my meaning has nothing to do with it.” She responded, nodded her head at her reflection handed me my mug and sitting down opposite me in the most comfortable chair in the room. The mug was one we had chosen together several years previous, in all honesty I was surprised she had kept it.

This was the first time in 2 years we had been alone in the same room. The mug’s story began when we were at a farmer’s market in a small south eastern Pennsylvania town, a small older woman had a station wagon backed up to the table we had stopped at. Trinkets and household items neatly organized on a table cloth, and afgans in a giant basket next to the table.

I remember smiling at the woman. It was summer, I was wearing a pair of sandals that had been my one of my sole companions for the summer. I was also wearing a flowy skirt that my mother had just bought for me, a men’s button up shirt tucked into the skirt, and a belt I had found in bin in a goodwill. Just the right amount of bracelets on my wrist, and rings on my long fingers made me feel elegant in a bare minimum sort of way. Sunglasses shading my eyes,  I felt simple. Like the outfit could usher in just the right amount of personal comfort and style. I kept letting my fingers brush against the material of the skirt. I remember her laughing about one of my jokes and us stopping at the table. She picked up a mug with a fox face sketched into the side.

“This is perfect!” She exclaimed. Wearing a pair of salmon color pants, sandals and a tee shirt. Her dark hair was cropped short and she was smiling wide, mischievous.

I remember those times as I looked at the mug, and when she asks the life altering questions I remember the summer nights on the roof, and the winter nights on the couch debating the meaning life, sharing love and hate.

Then after that fall day where I confessed my warning, I remember the bag of groceries clutched in my hands. I remember my pleading look. Her distrust. It just wasn’t the same. Even now. It’s not the same. It won’t ever be. Because she was wrong, and I was just doing what I thought was right. I wouldn’t change it. Not for all the fox mugs, and perfect summer jaunts.

The fact that every single good time couldn’t make up for all the bad. She looked at me, sitting on the not so comfortable chair holding the fox mug, her in the comfortable one judging me even as she tried not. We talked. Without the sense of trust, without any real meaning. It was over. Any special friendship we had was over. This was the half hearted nod you give to a passerby when you want nothing to do with them.

I finished the tea. Got up. She took the mugs and was in the kitchen as I put on my coat and boots.

“Here.” She said. It was the fox mug.

“Thank you.” I said and left.

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

15 notes
personal writing creative non fiction fiction fiction
November 25th, 2010
44 notes
fiction even more writing
A website dedicated to the things that inspire a young woman with a good head on her shoulders, an overactive imagination and a constant question on her mind: what kind of woman is she?