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@absensia
#ABSENSIA. EST. SPRING 2017 ORIGINAL HORROR / CRIME CHARACTER. CARRD. PINTEREST.
WRITTEN BY IVY ( 29, SHE/HER, CANADIAN, GMT-7 ). PLEASE READ RULES AND CHARACTER INFO BEFORE FOLLOWING. THIS BLOG IS PLOT-ORIENTATED; THE MAJORITY OF REPLIES ARE MULTI - PARA TO NOVELLA LENGTH. TAGS, METAS, AND ADDITIONAL INFORMATION BELOW CUT. PLEASE EXPECT LOW, VERY SLOW, AND SPORADIC ACTIVITY.
hi! I'm in the process of archiving and moving this blog. new blog is here. slowly setting up pages and getting things rolling over there; I will be moving the few asks I've left and continuing a handful of my drafts over there! and I will put up another notice once this blog is fully archived <3
this is completely self-indulgent and a product of spending all day over my multi, but Char's absolutely aware of who Elizabeth Harmon is and whether this is in the historical or modern context, has absolutely read up on her career and studied her games.. specifically (!) for Beth's attack-centric style of play; further, in a world and time where these two co-exist, they have certainly crossed paths at tournaments, some where Char would be playing and some where she's just there to spectate.. in either case, Beth has noticed the annoyingly cheerful blonde, the only one seemingly having an actual good time, breezing through her games in her own bracket, while everyone else is sombrely stressing through their games, the smiley blonde that comes to stand with the other people watching her games ...and despite the pleasant, almost encouraging (??) smile on her face, unsettles her as well as her opponent.. the blonde that she's figured out is way underrated and has managed to draw players who should've (on paper) beat her over the board without a sweat.. the strange, sunshiney blonde who she has had one exchange with that amounted to Beth taking a compliment from Char badly, trying to shake her off by saying all she cares about is winning, and Char replying with no hesitation yet all the intensity, "no shit. do whatever it takes. and don't settle for the fucking small wins either. might as well lose and go home early if that's the case. anyways, you wanna play some speed chess?" and then not winning as much money off Char as she thought she would because Char managed to talk almost ( ! ) nonstop while playing game after solid game of bullet..
the stories come at night shot on 35mm
david is here to kiss charlotte <3
it begins with a call home, something she doesn’t always do, even if she did happen to be missing his voice. what follows is a voicemail left, bereft of anything useful — like what time she’ll be at the house or whether she needs him to call back. instead, there is only her voice, softened by the static that pervades all technological lines connecting Charlotte to the rest of the world, telling him that it is, in fact, her calling and she’ll see him when she sees him. it’s a picture made from the more harmless of the obvious, hoping to hide what would otherwise also be plain yet in the painful sort of way. she calls ahead to get something of a head start on her detective and yet the ironic way it goes is this: he still sees her before she sees him. she, who has left herself vulnerable still ( always, perhaps ) to the unexpected. hers, being a nature inclined to move faster than a pattern can form.. now pressed up and intertwined strangely with his, one that she thinks could never allow him to be outpaced,
no matter what, no matter who; Charlotte should’ve seen this coming. / @hystare
amongst the flood of travellers pouring out of the dimly lit mouth of the greyhound terminal, wearied by the liminality of a too - long bus ride packed shoulder to shoulder with indifferent strangers, she appears like a bright spot of sun gliding along the murky surface of water. the uncanny creature emerges from the spaces between here and there with steps lively, not sluggish; her face refreshed, marred not by a single line of strain, free to showcase in its unabashed entirety of her pleasurable surprise at spotting him off to the side — and the quick realization that he was already looking at her. the body follows the head, whipped into a slight dizziness from her double - take. “ you’re not here waiting for me, are you? ”
there’s no static now; her voice cuts through the cold air cleanly, a warmth enveloped in the quieter word of a monosyllabic greeting once she reaches him. the chill loses more of its bite when she slips her hand into his, finding herself drawn closer. his kiss hushes the last lingering thoughts of how this was going to be a harsh winter altogether, leaving her to calmly search his face for the story of his day when they pull back, but hardly away. “ you’re between cases. ” it’s not a question, but there’s a tilt to her smile that suggests she’d like to hear about it — this in-between time.
CONTINUED FROM HERE / @delicategods
all in all, this was the best possible outcome out of a slew of other not - so - bad, non - disastrous, nigh favourable outcomes. still, it meant several jammed finger - joints, a hand that would scream out in its pain in being newly stone come morning, tears welling plain and practically fresh in their taste. . . for there was nothing to flavour the thin, iridescent sap: no fear, no heartbreak, no madness. just the blooming, booming bruise that busied itself pressing, in every possible direction, into the soft flesh around her eye - sockets. oh, and the trickle of blood that would not, could not ( ! ) quit its winding of a delicate thread about the vessel’s lower face, from nostril to a marred cupid’s bow, off the smooth cliff - edge of the jaw, into the hollow at the base of the throat, then slow - slow - slow.. below - below - below.
“ it was a case of mistaken identity. ” it was not unfathomable to the agent that the house could hear her, understand her when she spoke aloud, words sounded in the musty air; what she had yet to solve was how it talked back. “ guy thought I was some chick that stood him up, cut him off— whatever, they had a couple dates. I told him he had the wrong girl, he said he didn’t, I said fine, it was me and I’m leaving now, he pulled my hair, and here we are. ” from between motes of dust, charlotte drew out a paper napkin, a star printed onto the thinness of it, the ink unyielding to the blood she hoped to sop up. “ no one died. no cops either. home free and your peace is safe, you’re welcome. what d'ya think? ”
charlotte, who is eldritch enough to never have seen or wanted to see the Void as either a parental or god - like figure.. and charlotte, who is still human enough to think she can build a rapport — a relationship— with the Void that'll stand on reason..
Should I Stay Or Should I Go — The Clash (The Story of The Clash, 1988)
sometimes char finds herself in random jobs for whatever reasons that really suit her: ex. line cook, photographer, bartender, sports agent, electrician, investigative reporter... and these are conducive to plots where char needs to appear well - established in a job or be blending in seamlessly without question or any overt sense of uncanniness or wrongness...
and sometimes char finds herself in random jobs that really do not suit her: ex. librarian, data analyst, any healthcare professional that isn't a paramedic, teacher or professor, business executive, politician... and these are conducive to plots where it is okay or wanted for things to appear overtly odd, tense, and / or comedic. . .
‘ m'spoiled. ’ eyes are etched in a downcast, as if rolling them in any other direction would crumble the statue he had become beneath her. his material of something less shiny: a copper turned green. too familiar? he's not much about the smoke and mirrors that is: liberty and justice for all! doesn't give a fuck about it, personally. not with the indignation that he has rolled into his bones about things deemed too complicated to solve. liberty and justice for all? yeah, for all that's still left. still. david finds himself in an inner tangent. a useless one. and it's ironic how he misses charlotte's own roaring debate with one of his own. but they come together, weirdly in sync. ‘ ..don't think i'd get away with it if i did. ’ disarmingly true, the detective plucks the book out of charlotte's hands when she hoists it up high enough. he's careful to slot a finger between the pages, snapping it shut otherwise. the pages slap! and david holds it far beyond her peripheral. poof, gone..
it's dangerous, wandering around charlotte's mind. something so captivating: like a pandora's box of its own in the simple sense that david won't pry it open or sneak a look where he's not asked to. he's learned he likes the mystery of charlotte. knowing how to untangle her blonde threads, strand by strand, kills the illusion doesn't it? and it's strangely comfortable in his position. not knowing.
fingers of a freer hand expand over her hairline. he makes it disappear before surrendering to the waves of blonde. ‘ i could call off. ’ he suddenly sounds so.. normal. ‘ you wanna do somethin'? ’
no. it rung out like a bell in her head, clear and inarguable. he wouldn’t get away with it. she’s seen what happens to those who are needed but not wanted. it’ll take force, some strategizing, and a bit of bright - eyed initiative to break from the gravitational pull of the usual routine, but this they could do. re - entry wouldn’t be so clean; aflamed and wind - whipped, there wouldn't be a single soothing word offered upon landing, only a calamity of complaints for the disaster left to rise in his absence. odd, isn’t it? a slippery, cold, and thin voice whispered. the way a body becomes entangled.. almost integral to a reality. from where does order come, and chaos too, if there is not the necessary body there to create it? but so what? it was all connected, load - bearing pillars made from their vessel bodies, but it was impermanent too. so fuck it, was her hard - headed rebuttal against the rising ruckus. the apparent natural order could survive their few days of rest.
the surprise of his steal cut the voices to complete silence, and she — gladly returned to him, a soft yelp popped over her lips like pink strawberry gum. no weight shifted, no alteration made. still, the combing of his fingers through her hair moved her towards something new. storm - cloud greys settled comfortably in the blue of his gaze and nothing was left to clutter the mind any longer. thinking out loud, “ always. just you and me? ” in how quick she worked through the options, there wasn't time for her gaze to take on even a mildly contemplative shine, never mind a dreamy haze that would’ve been wholly unlike and unsuited to her. she blinked, once, twice.. “ we could take a drive outta town. there’s this apple orchard— and we could catch the sunrise and, oh, there’s a fireworks contest. ” it’s not missed how normal this sounded even to her mundane ear. “ would be better than just playing house. . . since i’m apparently stealing you away. ”
these pages i made to sketch my typeface before digital
The House That Screamed (La Residencia, 1969), dir. Narciso Ibáñez Serrador
ON THE MACHINATIONS OF CHAOS AS A CREATOR — OR, HOW THE VESSEL EXISTS IN A FLUX OF GENERATION, DEGENERATION, & REGENERATION.
“Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos; the materials must, in the first place, be afforded: it can give form to dark, shapeless substances, but cannot bring into being the substance itself.”
— Mary Shelley, from the introduction to Frankenstein
“It turns out that an eerie type of chaos can lurk just behind a facade of order — and yet, deep inside the chaos lurks an even eerier type of order.”
— Douglas Hofstadter, Metamagical Themas: Questing for the Essence of Mind and Pattern
"Chaos mixes the orbits in state space in precisely the same way as a baker mixes bread dough by kneading it. One can imagine what happens to nearby trajectories on a chaotic attractor by placing a drop of blue food coloring in the dough. The kneading is a combination of [...] rolling out the dough [...] and folding the dough over. At first the blob of food coloring simply gets longer, but eventually it is folded, and after considerable time the blob is stretched and refolded many times. On close inspection the dough consists of many layers of alternating blue and white. After only twenty steps the [thickness of the initial blog] has shrunk to the molecular level. The blue dye is thoroughly mixed with the dough. Chaos works the same way..."
— James Crutchfield et al., "Chaos," ( Scientific American, vol. 255, Dec 1986 )
"Here the principle of alterity finds its most awe-inspiring application. This so - called evil observed in chaos, however, possesses no independent existence; it subsists only in proportion as it participates of good. For matter and an infinite variety of forms, how ever poorly or well commingled, are necessary for the creation of the mutable world. This chaos, therefore, while it is sharply distinguished from the organized beauties of the cosmos, is in no sense preternatural to nature. It is a necessary material in Nature's workshop. And the accidental evil of chaos, according with the eternal processes of Nature as a whole, may be called good."
— Walter Clyde Curry, "Milton's Chaos and Old Night," ( The Journal of English and Germanic Philology, vol. 46, Jan 1947 )
"The graves [...] mimed the most ancient religious symbol of all: diminishing circles indicating a spiral leading down, not to a point, but to infinity; order from chaos or chaos from order, depending on which way your mind worked."
— Stephen King, Pet Sematary
PARAMORE Madison Square Garden (May 30, 2023)
@absensia : that's not what you told me back then.
❝ well . . . back then everythin' was different. i was different. ❞ referring to his younger self like those times were mere ephemera — it's contradictory, plenty of that person is still there, they've just overstayed their welcome. he's still biting at his nails, for starters, ⅋ he's still wearing the same uniform — faded jeans, band tees, ratty sneakers. ❝ jeez , i never picked ya' for the petty type. ❞
❝ now, tell me. somethin' botherin' you ? i can help. it's not gonna' be like last time. ❞ 𝚂𝙼𝙰𝚂𝙷-𝙲𝚄𝚃 𝚃𝙾 : wes — early 20's, somewhere downtown. blood pooling in wes' eyesockets... his pupils rolling back.... THEN 𝙱𝙰𝙲𝙺 𝚃𝙾 𝙿𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃. ❝ i can give you a readin' if you want. ❞
not like last time, he said. last time. memory rarely served her well and it rarely served her right, but it did help when the truth of it was this: she had never seen anything like it before back then and years later, she still hadn’t ever seen anything like it since. . . except in her nightly communions with the abyss that roiled like a miniature sea inside her cranium. the turning of the eyes, blood - tears staining the skin, and voices that did not belong to this world. not in this age, anyways. not at this level of reality, the known one.. the perceivable one. the one with tart lemon - flavoured fro - yo's, like the one that Charlotte had scooped into a spoonful now to dragged down over her tongue. for her, this was a contemplative gesture.
deep thoughts, buried deep. her considerations, whether miserly or wise, were hers alone. for now and possibly, forever. " sure, i'll take a reading. . . since you're offerin'. " here, a grin, teeth biting down on the spoon. brows lifted. " what do people usually wanna know? "
— ! prompt , / @absensia [ don’t worry about anything else. i’ll be right here with you. it’s okay. it’s okay. ]
exceptional, this is. death, dying. it's exceptional because it's real and it's happening—and all things that happen are happening for a reason. running wild, for one, is a big reason. an idea conjured up in concrete dreams that if the sun rose and the sky was blue: the world—the outside world—existed beyond metal walls and prisoners. finding meaning, amy would, in the most incredulous things turned ten years of nothing into ten years of nothing with a second less to drown in. running wild, wearing costumes, fighting off the invisible enemy—not the man with a heavy fist, now dead, a few feet away—but the enemy of time. the fact that time grants so many people the gift of mediocracy: failing relationships, basement mindsets, the westernization of things the belong to others. time is an enemy. time has always been an enemy.
—but not now.
now, time dangles above amy's eyes like an infant's mobile. and for a moment, just briefly, just for that second spared from prison itself: amy can see a shadowy figure and hear a distorted hum of a woman that is not like charlotte. not blonde, nor scrambling to stop what leaves amy's body in red hot pools: but raven-haired, like herself, rounder in the face—baby-faced. her mother was only a girl when she had amy anyways. just a stranger that looks exactly like her. except: softer, younger, but confident in her fate. confident that she'll experience the exceptional fate that is, this. death, dying. and the babe she rocks and pats and smooths and shushes will grow into a woman sharper, older, and insecure in her fate. amy—for all the years she's spent asking for this very moment—sits a bit awkward for someone that's allegedly pounded on death's door, begging for entry.
‘‘ yeah. —nah.. nah, s'okay. ’’ polite. even in death. amy wouldn't like to ruin this for anyone else, char most of all. so the bird will wince and turn, half-assed and dismissing of charlotte's blood-stained hands. bring her knees to a lazy draw, creasing the unflattering costume of a literal chicken—white polyester feathers turned red. amy sighs through rattling breaths, embarrassed by her final hand. ‘‘ —crazy.. goin' out l-like this. ’’
ironically, after all this time, after all the chasing and the hoping and the testing and the faking, it turned out that humanity. . . or some parts of it, anyways, but still more than Charlotte would’ve liked to have counted against her, were a little unbecoming on her. the false form couldn't abide; it hadn’t been made for much of this. in this case, the fear of a friend’s death, a friend’s dying. and she thought that perhaps, had she had more practice with friends dying, she could leave the fear squashed, suffocating under some rock until a time where she could look at it in mild amusement or find it was unnecessary after all; but that was bullshit and Charlotte knew it. avoidant thinking. another item to fit poorly on the vessel’s body. nope, this was it. the one friend and her one final death. so, she'd hunkered down and got to work, doing what she always did: insisting that everything will be fine even if her hands told a very different story, even knowing that when she said everything was okay and Amy repeated it, they did not mean the same thing.
under the surviving fluorescent lights of the hijacked, shot - up, emptied - out bus, her skin curdled where it wasn’t covered by her own chicken suit, slipping from bone in some places, tightening to gauntness in others, and Charlotte was almost glad for the blood that covered her now. she’d pressed in on the wound with an urgency that could almost be construed as eagerness, which then could've also been mistaken for enthusiasm of the sadistic kind if the swan didn’t know better. Charlotte didn’t have time to wonder if she did, for cauterization had been front and centre on the mind; the advantages and disadvantages of setting fire to her friend flashed and fizzled out in battle as quickly as it would’ve taken to strike a flame up. already a bad idea given she didn't know how much of the bullet was still inside, and now Charlotte had to watch as the swan half - heartedly spun away as soon as she was free to do so, likely trying to take the shard deeper in, welcoming ( ! ) it in no doubt. but she wasn’t gonna scold her or hold her down any longer. she let go her. she let her breathe.
the bleeding was slowed, though not stopped. and her hands were busy with patting herself down now, anyways, searching hurriedly though not unmethodically through her plastic brown feathers. her eyes stayed on Amy, a smile cracked open across her face, as she reminded her friend that, “ hey, the chicken suits were your idea. maybe don’t go with the chicken suit if you’re not ready to die in one, you know? where the fuck is my— phone. ” with restrained triumph, Charlotte pulled the small silver box from beneath her right wing, stuck her thumb in her mouth, sucked off the blood, and started dialling, figuring it was better to have spit rather than blood seeping into the circuit boards. the phone in one hand, the other gently nudging Amy’s leg and a nod of her chin at the seats in front made clear what she would say anyways as the line began to ring, “ elevate your legs. lie— lie down and elevate your fucking drumsticks, mother hen. don’t pass out. ”
