Seth (deshret) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2008-10-08 03:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | nyx, set |
Who: Set and OPEN
Where: A small convenience store, somewhere in NYC.
When: Tuesday night
Rating: TBA
The kind of night that sneaks up on you when you’ve got your back turned, and slips the day away from around you, so slowly that you don’t realise it’s happening until it’s happened. The sort of night that doesn’t seem quite dark enough, because the whole day before it had been unnaturally dark itself. A night where the thin clouds seem to brush against the tops of buildings like smoke; where everything is monotonous and brown and slippery, where the lights hurt your eyes, and where the rain seems invisible, until you step out into it, and find yourself soaked to the bone in less time than it takes to sneeze. In short, it was a gloomy and wet end to a gloomy and wet day: it felt wet and it smelt wet and it looked wet. In fact, if you were to look up ‘wet’ in the Concise Oxford English Dictionary (or any dictionary that contains words, for that matter), you most definitely would not find ‘this night’ as a definition, but you would want to whip out an HB pencil at that precise moment and scribble it in yourself. And then, if you were feeling particularly passionate, you would write an aggressive letter to the publisher, suggesting quite vigorously that ‘this night’ be added to the next edition. Yes. It really was that wet.
Set did not own any HB pencils, and nor did he own a dictionary, and nor did he, apparently, check the weather before venturing out of doors. This was clear from the fact that a plastic bag was pulled over his head and, as he pattered down the sidewalk at an impressive speed, little strings of colourful swear words blurted out from between his lips. He may have spent a few thousand years as a god of storms, but, if he were to be entirely honest with himself, he did not like water all that much.
A convenience store, whose name seemed suddenly appropriate, loomed ahead of him, and he darted along the sidewalk and slipped inside. It was the sort of place that plays tunes that are considered aural torture (and weapons of mass destruction thinly veiled as music) by many, and seems to be open at such an hour only to serve the needs of homeless people, vampires, serial killers, and people who are hiding from the rain, none of whom are actually interesting in purchasing anything. The door slammed behind him. The stench of floor cleaner stung his nostrils. The cashier did not even look up.
Set blinked into the corn-yellow lighting. A puddle had formed around his feet. He took the plastic bag off his head. ‘Hiding’ was not the word he would have used.