Doors

[In a jagged, toothy script.]

A virtuoso of who, between teacup yellow'd teeth and grimace. I ask you not how or why or what or where. It is a when; could it be otherwise? Yes, but you do not know that.

[Posted Anonymously.]

[Public]

[The sketches start midday, the day after the sand storms end. Little vignettes of corners on the street, filled with sand and dust. Piled up against a mailbox, sloping along the angles of stairways. A broom propped against a wall, a pile of dirt half-cleared from a doorway. A cigarette butt extinguished in the sand. Footprints in the dust. Each sketch has a swipe or two of colored pencil, and the later sketches have warmer colors to match the glow of the sun as it sets.]


[Ella D.]

[In the middle of the afternoon, in between the other sketches, but locked only to her. Wide swipes of colored pencil that make up waves of blonde hair, the soft line of her jaw and neck. At the bottom is the hint of a smaller head, equally blonde hair atop it, resting on the smooth curve of a shoulder. There are no faces, hidden by angles and hair, but it's obvious enough who it's supposed to be.]

[After a long hiatus, the jagged zigzag of the Cat's so-called penmanship returns. The ink is thick and dark.]

The whispers do so deny me the pleasure of rapport, true as they are in their cruelty. Waxing and waning, saturnine, lunary and catamenial—quicksilver, the Moon changeth her nature. I must ask once and again. Twice and again. As it refers to preference, which is ideal, as a generalisation of the monstrous, generated of the putrefaction of the earth, the fork or the spoon?

[A week after this, in the middle of Ella's daughter being missing. Night creeping into morning. The drawing is charcoal, wide swipes of grey that form a rumpled bed with delicate lines picking out a dark-haired woman, her naked back to the viewer as she sleeps. Down in the corner, in light pencil:]

She doesn't care either. But I didn't expect her to.

[Posted Anon, as always, but in a hand that's familiar from other entries on the journals.]

This is Luke from Seattle?

[Anonymously, as always.

Late evening, the sketches start, and take up an entire page. A series of headless marionettes dance across the page, from corner to corner, strings tied around their limbs at points, binding them together. They're posed like ballet dancers, graceful lines that indicate movement, even against their bindings. The background is eventually shaded in the brown of paper bags and cardboard.]

[As Hatter]

[His handwriting is a little hard to read, letters joined together like fairy lights.]

Interesting interesting. A journal that talks back. It's a shame it can't be punished for saying things it shouldn't. What to do, what to do.

[Later in the day after this, once he's back through the door and home. Posted anonymous!]

Looking for a kid that likes to cry in hotels.

Should I be worried that this book seems to be dripping blood?

[Public]

[After a glass or two of whiskey.] Dont seem right, the whole world reminding folks of things they dont feel like remembering.

[As Knave of Hearts]

And wheresoever is the Queen?

On a whim: [As Lin A.]
How does a mouse differ from a morning?

[Locked to Thea W]
So, when do I get my refund?

[Locked to Shailee T]
Okay, Shai. I admit it. I made a mistake.

[The same day as this, though several hours later. After he steps out of his office for something, upon his return there is a tea tray on his desk. The (hopefully familiar) pot has an ill-crocheted cozy over it to keep the tea warm, and the lid's handle is cracked right off. It matches the rest of the teaset though, painted in tiny blue flowers, empty cup delicate (with chipped handle) and waiting to be filled both with tea and his preferred additions (if any, they are also set carefully on the tray). There are several small dishes (all covered by a single, unfolded napkin) that hold a small scone (still warm at the very very center), as well as two small bowls - currant jam and clotted cream. She has not provided him with any sort of knife or spreader. And there is no note.]

[Public]

While I appreciate the hotel-warming present in the form of a free tablet, even I might find it a bit of a stretch to think I've attracted a secret admirer in the twelve and a half hours I've been here. Not to mention the fact that the presence of strangers babbling about marigolds and enchanted forests and Christmas presents leaves a bit to be desired in the way of sanity and coherence. Is this, like, a support forum for the mentally deficient? Because that's really going to detract from my enjoyment of the tablet, even if it did come with Temple Run 2 installed.


Finally, minor detail, there seems to be a man in my head. Is this something that can be fixed with a liberal dosage of Xanax?

Rutledge, 3rd June 18—

Marigold at the end of the row is tearing its petals repeatedly. Becoming tiresome. Writing script for laudanum.

[as Harriet M.]

Well goodness me!

Goodness. Look at all of this. Finally. Where is the one with the ticktock, I am certainly late. All this time, and he only just lets me pass. And I am well past tea time, am I not?

Now where was I? Oh yes, the sugarbowl! I heard one had cracked, and lucky us, I have another. Of course I do. Now where did I put it? Somewhere here or there, I'm certain. Do I need to set the table again? Will I be having guests?

[The entry comes again in the late night/early morning, with no name, but the same style of drawing that has shown up before. It's a picture of a cat, not Cat from Wonderland, but a simple cat. A kitten, actually, curled around itself, looking like it's cradled by an expanse of bedsheets and soft comforters. It's a kitten that might be familiar to some that lived in Seattle years ago. The drawing was actually meant to go in a different sketchbook, but he grabbed the closest thing to hand, which happened to be the journal.]

So about how long do y'all spend through the door? How y'all manage jobs and life things with someone else's life going on?

[Public]
Feed your head?
I said no such thing.
What nonsense.
Whatever does it even mean?

[Amazingly enough, he figures out how to post anonymously even though it's his first time looking through the book. The drawing starts at around 4am, and continues slowly, details being laid in with care. It's hard to tell what it is at first, but it eventually starts to solidify into a view of the Strip, seen from many stories up. It begins as pencil, eventually adding pen and then bits of color for the neon. It finally stops a little after 6am, just the drawing, no words or signature.]