| pay. |
[15 Jan 2015|12:07am] |
[ starke . calisto ]
The floors of Varonian's temple at the Cavalcade were a dark, cherry stain, so deep and so black that a man could feel the hum of a thousand heartbeats beneath his bare feet, an echoing stampede radiating from Va'ronian's bonfire. When it had first been built, smoothly sanded cedar had been the material of choice-- for scent and for longevity. And even though the scent of cedar still tinged the air with its companion cassia, kyphi, myrrh,
there was something more human in those floorboards
( oily in the grooves of the nailheads. ) |
|
| under her collar. |
[15 Jan 2015|12:03am] |
[ stille . abha ]
"Abha, table four!"
"Yes!"
"Abha, table twenty!"
Shepherding food back and forth, Abha's feet pounded as she shuffled around the restaurant, fresh fried fish mingling with her sweat. It didn't win dates, but her calloused feet and dark circles weren't helping much either. Her stomach growled in hunger but churned in nausea in the heady smell of the restaurant. She paced, scurrying like a little rat with plates and baskets stacked with greasy food and overflowing glasses of beer and water. She had worked long enough to avoid messes and ramifications from her boss, the way she juggled her orders like a circus performer.
( Abha, someone's here to see you! ) |
|
| Pettiness |
[12 Jan 2015|07:31pm] |
[vincent, calisto, julian]
Vincent didn't find himself in public often. Within the confines of Death's Door he was more or less safe. The depraved and degenerate souls that frequented the whorehouse often just as twisted as he was. Just not as sick. His mind gave him few reprieves from its plague but those fleeting lucid moments were something precious. He needed to enjoy them out in the open air.
He had been literate in his youth, before his brain became diseased. He couldn't form the text into letters into words anymore, but he liked to wander the library and pretend. Of course he couldn't just be allowed to pet the books and stroke the pages without the usual gaggle of hecklers. If the youths would have been quiet he could have endured it, but their jeers ( weren't in inside voices. )
|
| dear mother |
[10 Jan 2015|10:10pm] |
[calisto solo]
An old, weathered, leatherbound book. Its face is marred with crumbling scars. Its pages are yellowed, dog-eared and bent, fraying at the edges. Well-loved pages coated in ( scribbles and smudges. )
|
| death by ass suffocation. |
[06 Jan 2015|04:34am] |
[ thorin • blanca ]
|
| her open door. |
[03 Jan 2015|01:29pm] |
[ stille . habushu ]
[ fuckin' smut ]
|
| On Survival & Selfishness. |
[02 Jan 2015|01:51pm] |
[toska, luut]
He came to her as the tide came called by the moon. The sun sank betwixt the jagged tops of skyscrapers sprung up from the wreckage of Descoria like a streak of sanguine slowly dripping across the domed arc of sky. Its fading light changed from blue to lavender while the whites of the clouds dotted across that swathe morphed into evening’s golden orange. The linings of those meteorological ministrations had shone as a mercurial fire to the west, sharp and bright like a freshly born blade that had yet to cool, slicing slivers of the atmosphere along their languid march into the night as they dutifully paid mind to the whims of a darker sky. Midnight colors settled across the dome of their planetary bell jar in a splash of stars; an innumerable collection of cosmic eyes staring upon the pitiful creatures planted well below their burning, blinking brightness.
( He came to her as a fog comes creeping across moorlands. ) |
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