OPEN | prompt two | LOVE

[wrens]

prompt two | L O V E And what you can never know from the beginning is how hard or how long you'll love something; how even when it is gone the love will chase you down, loping like dark flame through your blood. — Some lies are love. — Love blurs your vision; but after it recedes, you can see more clearly than ever. It's like the tide going out, revealing whatever's been thrown away and sunk: broken bottles, old gloves, rusting pop cans, nibbled fishbodies, bones. This is the kind of thing you see if you sit in the darkness with open eyes, not knowing the future. The ruin you've made.

 

start a thread.
leave a character request/verse in the subject line.
(otherwise leave blank and i'll choose who you get)
start the scene in your comment.
(otherwise leave open and i'll start)

OR

respond to a pre-existing thread.
(double-tags/cross-overs/aus welcome)

OR

respond to the image prompt as if it has come up in conversation.
or muse on the subject in general.
(á la mothdeath/dr-style)

Comments

[inheritances]

[ Inside the box there are three things. A drawing of a ribcage done on heavy bristol paper, the edges of it smeared with the traces of soft lead and Philippa's fingerprints. A note which reads, Dial 1. And a cell phone: humble, as is Francis' way, but not cheap. It had taken Philippa quite a while to choose and part of her hopes that that time is evident in her ultimate selection. The weight of it is comfortable, not cumbersome; the shape of it and the size seems to best sit on the palm of Francis' hand. The buttons are simple and elegant but not so tiny as to be difficult to use, and the technology is unsophisticated in the hopes of remaining straight-forward enough for him not to be overwhelmed. (She knows they only have the rotary phone in his apartment.) ]

[falsities]

[ For a long moment, Francis simply stares at the phone (thumbing the traces of lead at the edges of the drawing he's been given), its screen blinking at him in the darkness. (He knows the choice was a careful one.) A minute passes, maybe two, and he dials one.

It's only when the dial tone clicks to the end that he says anything. ]

H— hello?

[inheritances]

[ In addition to the time spent worrying over which phone to choose, there'd been he consideration of whether she should get him one in the first place. Perhaps it was too forward a gesture, too obvious an attempt to thrust herself into his life. With a phone he could speak to her whenever he wanted, could text her if he didn't feel like talking or if he didn't want to make noise with Sal sleeping or puttering about the apartment. A dozen dozen different possibilities had sprung into Philippa's mind then and then, beyond the spooling fantasies of what if there'd been a laugh — low and cruel, her mother's laugh mocking her from beyond her dreams.

(Oh, how the mighty fall, ma petite. And even worse, those not mighty at all.)

Phillipa's phone springs to life on her bedside table and so, Philippa does too. Snatching it up and pressing it hard to ear, so hard that her knuckles blanch slightly and she's surprised to realize she's been holding her breath. ]

Francis, hello—? Is that you?

[falsities]

[ There's a long pause before she receives any answer. (The sound is much clearer than anything Francis is used to. He wonders, suddenly, if when she'd called the old rotary phone, she'd ever been able to hear him half this well.) ]

It's me, [ comes the response, quiet and hesitant but still, detectable in just the faintest undertones, happy. Happy to hear her voice, and startled, as he always is, that she cares. That she does is still something that boggles him, although he won't complain. He's been given less cause to mull over his own inadequacies, too, now that Vic is over more often than not. The blossoming relationship between Vic and Sal is one that doesn't sit all that well with him, he won't deny, but there isn't any use in his speaking up. ]

Thanks.

[inheritances]

It's fine, I'm just— it's nice to hear from you. I was hoping you'd call. [ A breath (relief), one that carries clearly over the line, accompanied by the rustling of movement as Phillipa twists about on the bed and finally resettles herself amongst the pillows and duvets. When she does, she rests her face against the comforting cool of a cotton pillowcase, though her eyes remain lifted upwards, watching the light fliter in from the traffic beyond to paint odd shadows and shapes on the ceiling. Most of it is abstract and nonsensical, a study in negative and positive shapes, an exercise in shade and gesture. But every so often something more defined emerges, though Phillipa isn't sure how much of that is a trick of the eye compared to a trick of the mind. The face of her mother flickers across her thoughts and Phillipa blinks before covering her eyes with a hand, not wanting to invite that particular spectre to the party just yet.

Silence passes and then stretches. Tentatively she asks: ]

Is it alright?

[ Do you like it? ]