☥ 5th. {text} cut the stem and you'll see how you feel

[quiesquietis]

There was a pale house once in which lived two little, little pale girls, who were sisters, sisters and twins. Fragile as glass baubles. They ate each other's tongues in the basement, one, two, three, four little bites; a tongue is a tough thing to chew, although easy to swallow. No one has heard from either of them since

Comments

[byweavinglives]

Lost slot lots.

Or slot lost lots?

[quiesquietis]

Oh, a slot lost quite a lot, which is a funny thing all on its own, how much a slot can let slip. And there are so many slots lost, although most people have only one or two to lose.

Miss Saya. We seem to be in a state.

[byweavinglives]

I'm not lost at all. I'm warm in the garage. I'm not a slot, though.

[quiesquietis]

I think I misspoke, but all for the better. It was hardly important.

I have my cigarettes, so it could be worse. I could be dead. Or pregnant. All kinds of terrible labyrinthine consequences come to mind besides being chilly.

[schisming]

Tasteless joke, that.

Where did your maze begin? Mine - ours, should have been - is doing no favors for my opinion of free rent.

[quiesquietis]

Tasteless joke? Dr. Argento, I presume you know you've only perpetuated the original tastelessness of what was less a joke and more a little fairytale.

Mine opened from my bedroom door, which as you can imagine was distressing in the absence of windows, vents, cracks, etc. as alternate exits, and now there doesn't seem to be any exit at all. Better not to dwell. At least in here, obviously, though dwelling elsewhere is also out of the question. Why should this maze belong to more than one of you?

[schisming]

Perpetuating tastelessness is one of my strengths, or so I've chosen to interpret what I've been told.

['Strength' might not have been the word used.]

But I suppose we have the Nile in common, that other doctor and myself. Never mind, I've been trying to establish commonality of location, if such a thing is possible. The passageways change, I think--I'm reasonably sure, and the only commonality seems to be that we're all lost. If there's a metaphor at work it's hideous.

Ah--have you met the other young man with whom I arrived? Sage, he's --[restrain yourself, Elliot] quiet, very gentle. Smaller than me, with light hair and dark eyes, I--if you're familiar you'll remember. We were ostensibly occupying the same space - ergo, 'our', - but I haven't seen him. I was hoping you might have done.

[quiesquietis]

I hope there's no metaphor at work, that'd be terrible tastelessness all on its own.

I'm truly sorry, but I haven't seen him. [Text can't quite convey the delicate sympathy Elliot's little description evokes in Charlotte, but she wishes it would.] If I do see him--oh, I don't know. I don't know what we're supposed to do.

[makes_you_tick]

Silence on your mind...?

Hide and seek, huh? That's going to be a very long game.

[quiesquietis]

On the tip of my tongue, more like.

Is there anything but time? Besides its ending, of course, but I still here that tick-tick-tick. Don't you?

[makes_you_tick]

Hilarious.

Oh, there's always the tick. But for once, the time is gone. Faded away. I don't understand.

[quiesquietis]

I >try.

I think it's us who have faded. Photographic negatives in the dark. Or does that seem too much.

[team_sociopath]

What kind of story is that?

[quiesquietis]

The macabre kind?

[team_sociopath]

Today's not messed up enough without creepy stories?

[quiesquietis]

I apologize if I distressed you, I'm not quite myself.