(no subject)
I haven't written in how long what now? oh fuuuuck it's been a while orz
HEY LOOKIT A FRINGE DRABBLE DABBLE:
- - - - -
Flickering on the splintered edge of your consciousness-
Darting from the corner of your peripherals into your blind spot-
You whip your head around and you see him. You hear him. With your ears wide shut and your eyes numb and deaf to the rest of the world.
Olivia
It’s always a raspy echo of a whisper (it makes you think of dead leaves scraping the sidewalk pavement, tiny whirlpools at suburbia’s feet.) And so he bids you a private goodnight with your name. A bitter gift, because you don’t sleep a wink even when you dare to give in to slumber. (Did you detect a tint of urgency in his voice last night? Or maybe you’re just hearing things within the things you’re just hearing. It’s a vicious cycle Escher would be proud of.) It’s been like this for a while now. Your phone rings and waits. Rings and waits. Rings and waits. It’s a steady pulse. It’s a patient haunting (footsteps of a stalking tiger, unrelenting but always at a distance.) It makes you wonder if he’s taking advantage of his eternity.
He’s as elusive as smoke, half of it is your fault because you don’t dare to touch him (lest he slips through the cracks again.) You tolerate this because you know you can. You’re not convinced you’re clinically insane just yet. There’s too much coincidence too much connection. Spider threads are all trailing back to one man.
(Does he say your name the same way each time he calls you? Residual supernatural traces set on repeat, a concentrated manifestation of the deceased onto a fixed target.)
Tonight you picked up after the third ring. Youblurtout-
John.
A pause. A beat. (A breath.)
The line goes dead.
- - - - -
is this post-a-ble?
N/N.
RIP MY WRITING APPART IF YOU WANT PLEASE. BEAT THIS FIC UP WITH STICKS IN A DARK ALLEY. RIP OUT ITS THROAT, EAT ITS EYES, STEAL ITS SHOES. THANKS. :c
HEY LOOKIT A FRINGE DRABBLE DABBLE:
- - - - -
Flickering on the splintered edge of your consciousness-
Darting from the corner of your peripherals into your blind spot-
You whip your head around and you see him. You hear him. With your ears wide shut and your eyes numb and deaf to the rest of the world.
Olivia
It’s always a raspy echo of a whisper (it makes you think of dead leaves scraping the sidewalk pavement, tiny whirlpools at suburbia’s feet.) And so he bids you a private goodnight with your name. A bitter gift, because you don’t sleep a wink even when you dare to give in to slumber. (Did you detect a tint of urgency in his voice last night? Or maybe you’re just hearing things within the things you’re just hearing. It’s a vicious cycle Escher would be proud of.) It’s been like this for a while now. Your phone rings and waits. Rings and waits. Rings and waits. It’s a steady pulse. It’s a patient haunting (footsteps of a stalking tiger, unrelenting but always at a distance.) It makes you wonder if he’s taking advantage of his eternity.
He’s as elusive as smoke, half of it is your fault because you don’t dare to touch him (lest he slips through the cracks again.) You tolerate this because you know you can. You’re not convinced you’re clinically insane just yet. There’s too much coincidence too much connection. Spider threads are all trailing back to one man.
(Does he say your name the same way each time he calls you? Residual supernatural traces set on repeat, a concentrated manifestation of the deceased onto a fixed target.)
Tonight you picked up after the third ring. Youblurtout-
John.
A pause. A beat. (A breath.)
The line goes dead.
- - - - -
is this post-a-ble?
N/N.
RIP MY WRITING APPART IF YOU WANT PLEASE. BEAT THIS FIC UP WITH STICKS IN A DARK ALLEY. RIP OUT ITS THROAT, EAT ITS EYES, STEAL ITS SHOES. THANKS. :c