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Locked to Leela
The bar was quite. Almost deathly so, though Asher would not think such a pun. It was a dark night. Tuesday's always were. No shows, no drinking. No nothing but the dancers practicing their routines, the management making changes and, in this case, Asher sitting at the bar, talking softly with a tiny blonde girl. -
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Learned a tough lesson this night.
Being in love and in pain loses one friends.
Goodnight all, I think I shall retire before the dawn. -
Oh my
golden_ruin's LJ stalker is twitchnosewitch!twitchnosewitch is stalking you because you are really good at bowling. They are also in jail for murder!
LJ Stalker Finder
From Go-Quiz.com -
(Untitled)
She dreams of the mark. Something in her remembers me, and something still in her needs me now ( Read more... ) -
(Untitled)
Things have changed once more it seems. Not sure how to handle the latest development. I'm... numb. And for now, that is a good thing.
For now.
Tomorrow is another moment, another story, another time. -
Locked to Leela
How many months since he had last felt the need to take this seat? To sit here in the museum he had once called home when he'd first come to Las Vegas, watching the crowds and yet seeing none of them.
Life was a constant circle, and he had returned to where it all began. -
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His room had become a cell of his own making. He didn't even know the girl wrapped around him. They came in shifts. A new one every couple of days. They comforted. The fed. They held him ( Read more... ) -
A park, midnight.
Curled up on a bench, staring out into the dark. A piece of paper in his hands, Asher had sought a quiet place to read the words Leela had sent him. The place isolated, no one around. Just the trees and a light breeze and the scent of night flowers. -
To sleep, perchance to dream.. Or perhaps to dream while waking
He tapped on the door lightly, waiting for Leela to answer. Standing prim, proper, his hands behind his back as Asher waited ( Read more... ) -
Goodbye says it all
Sitting at a table in the museum cafe, the table before Asher littered with crumpled balls of linen paper. In his hand is a Monte Blanc fountain pen, the nibbed end to paper once more. But he writes slowly, pausing often to try and think.
A frown on the side of his mouth that shows, that single orb of glacier blue narrowed, saddened.