eh. (lioness) wrote in nybynightic, @ 2020-06-06 13:17:00 |
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Entry tags: | activity type: log/thread, character: elly martin |
WHO: Elly & OPEN (feel free to dibs) or narrative, if no one bites.
WHEN: June 6th.
WHERE: Brooklyn.
WHAT: Outside on the steps, thinking & smoking.
WARNINGS: TBD
There was a thing. A something. It soughed in, curved like whispery, low-hanging mist. It entered the aphotic inlet of her silent terrain, that charmingly disheveled lair of hers, with its uncharacteristically lacy, sequined bed-pieces and antiquated, gilded articles of delicate furniture. The hoary hutch is a pearlescent white, chipped, peeling at some places. Weather-riven, it's a harsh fragment of another life. In the corner, a mangy melancholia-blue chaise threaded in lustered gold, winking. These were hoarded souvenirs, better laid to rest in some antebellum museum, but slumbering here in her boudoir. Her permanent decor. But back to it, this feeling. It was glowing up the nightly haunted stairs, this sensation. Invisible, unnerving. Quiet as silk. It made her alert from a state of ecstatically motionless contemplation, bare as a tiger in her nest. Soon, up and prowling for clothes. Something wasn’t right.
Splinter-thin, she’s poised outside on the stairs after an indolent shift of wardrobe. Seated comfortably, as if this wasted concrete were an opulent throne. She didn’t want to feel enclosed, not after she’d had that feeling, which she still wasn’t able to label, leaving her unsurprisingly a little pissed the fuck off. Perfectly blended with the unanimous sidereal of the gloaming, she’s just a stirring in a thick band of nightlong shadows. Skull and bones and silhouette, a skein of smoke leaping out of her mouth in a crawling tuft. She’s weary lately, diluted, rereading ‘The conspiracy against the human race’, of which she’s not a part, but recalls with livid contrast now and then. The memory of her final bloodbeat like a flutter in her ear that can be heard just before the sun seres this maze of people and muck. This anonymous jungle that teems with more and more strange life each day is growing on her. The buildings are not as charming as the precious southern warning of Romeo spikes, endless arches of galleries, but…
She’s distracted, or so it would seem. Can she remember the last time that she saw the burning wheel of the sun? Rheumy, like a cataract eye veiled by clouds the kind of muted red you’d only see on the coarse backs of neon-gazed coyotes, patrolling filmy outskirts in Louisiana? It’s always the moon, has been forever. The moon and the moon and the moon and the moon through gnarled branches like anemic, arthritic elbows, are all she's seen it seems, all her life. The moon dreamy pallor'd through a thick windowpane, the moon overhead in the harlots shining hour. She twitches her eyes up, toward an approach that's interloped these finely cartwheeling thoughts.
“Might wanna work on bein sneakier,” she suggests.