𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘶𝘱,

𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘮 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

[handspike]

𝐚  𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢-𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐡  𝐛𝐲  𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐨. 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐝. & 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬. & 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬.

[handspike]

CON WEEEEEEEEKENDS BACK 2 BACK !!!! Activity will resume at some point from me but for now Summerween has been popping off for me and I miss you and I love you and I am doing spooky things 👻❤️ thinking of you!!! Can’t wait to write and be creative again. Please take care of yourselves my loves!🤗

[kaisources]

꒷꒦꒷꒦༉‧🕯️‧₊˚.THE DARKNESS SEEMED TO BREATHE . . a collection of HORROR ROLEPLAY SENTENCE STARTERS based on horror films. genre: horror, thriller, mystery, crime.

The city is full of beautiful surprises.

I dreamt you killed me.

Are the police after me?

Let's see who was killed today.

How do I know this isn't the usual swindle?

I don't know what's happened to me. I've got to get away.

Why do you buy my paintings?

I don't feel very well. I must get some air.

It was an air raid during the war.

Only death could be quieter than this.

Listen, I don't exist to make profits. I'm not a stockbroker.

You can't kill me with that. Come to bed.

Hey, what're you doing? Leave me alone!

Didn't you hear anything?

When I cleaned up today they weren't there!

It's over 25 years since I last stepped inside that villa.

Do you believe in spirits?

I believe in spirits, there's no question in my mind.

I suppose you heard the girl died near the wall of the villa.

Stop, you're making me dizzy.

What's the matter with you? Are you crazy or something?

Why do you have to behave like this?

Why did you cry out just then?

Look out, look out! The roof is falling!

I felt as if someone were pulling me down!

It was as if it wanted to hurt me deliberately.

I don't like the house, and the house obviously doesn't like me.

I find that your wit, as usual, is tasteless.

May I ask just why you're so interested in the house's story?

Don't listen to that! They don't know the truth about her.

We have a very gifted medium in the town, you should to them!

Why don't you come with me tonight?

Spirit, don't you want me in your house?

You want me all to yourself, don't you? Is that why you tried to kill [name]?

If some madman is going around putting flowers under your walls, I couldn't care less.

Your questions reminded me of an old story. A doomed love story.

Nobody, nobody would ever believe me.

You didn't care? Why not?

Come in, come in. What do you want to know?

Don't go. Please, don't go.

You'll kill it like that. Better dead and red.

Have you gone crazy? What are you doing?

Why did you run off the other day?

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't want to.

I wouldn't like the people in the village to know about it.

No, I don't. I only know she was killed here.

This house was abandoned.

I'm going to tell you something that I've never told anyone.

What are you looking for?

I don't know who I'm fighting. I can't find an explanation!

What is there to explain?

A girl who died here in this house. Now she haunts this house.

I suppose you are the normal one.

What do you do with yourself here all day, since you're obviously not doing much work?

Who are you betraying me with?

Everything I do and am annoys you, doesn't it?

We have guests tonight. They're all quite mad.

Why do these things keep happening?

It's like, someone in the house doesn't want me here.

It's your imagination, [name]. There's no one else in this house but me.

You're going to call the spirit?

Please stay. You mustn't leave now. At least stay for the séance.

Sometimes the spirit shows its presence by playing on it.

Bring your chair and sit around the table, please.

It's modeling clay, in case the spirit wishes to leave an imprint.

During a séance, anything can happen.

I want you all to put your hands on the table. Let your fingers touch, forming a chain.

Oh, my god, the ghost!

There's something very unusual in the air tonight.

Before we make contact, one word of warning. Do not ask personal questions or mention the subject death.

From now on, nobody breaks the circle.

Give us a sign of your presence.

Spirit, give us a sign!

How did you die? Who killed you?

Turn on the light quickly! Something's fallen on the table!

Break the chain. Turn on the light, please!

It's an omen of some kind.

Is there anything you wish to tell us?

Stop it, all of you! I know what you're doing!

Do you think I'm so stupid I'd believe this?

The spirit wants to leave.

Who is that? My chair's shaking!

Someone tried to strangle me! Get out of here!

Go home! Everyone, go home! She doesn't want you here!

[musesgonnamuse]

Send “📚” and I will flip to a random page in a book and use the first line of dialogue I see as a starter.

[handspike]

@briggsmade [ cont. from here. ]

it's   frightening   to   see   the   drop. 

It's   not   so   cold,   still   he's   shivering.   There's   a   draft   if   they   stand   under   one   of   the   vents.   But   she's   brought   out   two   blankets   for   him   to   wrap   around   himself.   She's   in   shorts,   cushioned   beside   the   plush,   her   mouth   twisting.   She   could   lie   and   say   she's   cold.   Instead,   “the   heater's   broken.”

It   was   sweltering.   This   is   not   a   side   effect.   This   is   a   direct   cause.   There   was   only   one   way   to   subdue   the   insistent   stirrings.   She   did   not   possess   the   antidote. 

“Do   you   need   a   sweater?”   She   could   shed   the   one   she   was   wearing,   remain   in   tank   top.   He   perspires   in   spite   of   his   shivers.   She   wrings   her   wrists   a   little   helplessly.   Her   own   hands   are   warm.   She's   usually   the   one   that's   freezing.

“Maybe   we   could   go   for   a   walk.”   Fresh   air   could   waft   like   newfound   sensation,   a   reminder   of   being   grounded   and   human,   “it's   nicer   outside.”

[godresembled]

"You sound like the kind of ghost I'd like to meet," she says quietly, surprising herself a little bit. A ghost that just observed and knew the secrets of what came after would have the best conversations, she just knew it. But, life being what it is, all she could ever seem to find was bad guys in masks or using projectors. "But with that many ghosts in the world, some must want to be seen and heard. I just have to figure out where they are."

[handspike]

There  was  one  dead  channeled  through  her,  and  if  Reggie  knew  anything  about  being  apart  of  the  living,  phantoms  were  desperate  to  claw  their  way  back.  Eager  to  be  seen.  She  wraps  her  arms  around  herself.  Is  it  cold  in  here,  or  it  just  the  thought  crawling  up  her  spine?  “Correction,  you  wouldn't  want  to  meet  any  ghost,”  her  voice  is  a  breathy  sort  of  quiet,  but  her  cheeks  redden  at  the  thought,  “what  kind  of  ghosts  are  you  looking  for?”  Dangerous  ones,  quiet  ones,  they  were  everywhere,  everywhere.  She  cocks  her  head  to  the  side,  like  she's  mulling  over  a  secret  she  shouldn't  share.  But  she  does,  anyway.  “Ghosts  you  want  to  cast  out…  or  ghosts  you'd  like  to  keep?”

[jay-dee]

[pcssenger]

it  kind  of  pisses  him  off  how  easy  she  makes  it  seem.  he  thinks  maybe  he's  envious  of  her  sometimes,  bitter  and  bristled  by  the  ease  with  which  reggie  takes  in  the  world.  it  makes  him  feel  bad,  picking  at  old  wounds  like  they  might  heal  right  this  time.  he'd  peel  back  a  layer,  the  skin  of  a  clementine,  and  there  would  just  be  her  grin.  he'd  tear  himself  bloody  on  barbed  wire  to  see  it.  could  still  make  out  the  curve  of  it  in  lowlight,  the  perfect  crescent.  when  was  the  last  time  he'd  seen  the  moon?

he  feels  like  he's  been  dunked  in  ice  water  and  brought  back  up  to  the  surface,  baptism  in  beer.  he  hates  the  taste,  bathwater  swill,  but  loves  the  feeling.  he  reckons  this  is  what  he  deserved  growing  up.  the  sun  at  your  back  and  potential  everywhere  you  look.  real  friends  and  real  dumb  decisions  with  nothing  but  feet  to  tarmac  to  make  it  happen.

it's  not  a  perfect  hand.  skin  torn  around  the  cuticles  and  tips  of  fingers  calloused  from  yard  work  and  years  of  monkey  bars,  hot  coffee  spills,  too  many  stories  to  count.  but  he's  got  all  five  fingers  and  they  fill  the  space  between  reggie's. 

“  okay,  ”  and  he's  laughing  too.  “  i  trust  you.  ”  he  means  it,  really.  tossed  into  the  wind  like  a  deep  breath  let  out  in  the  middle  of  winter.  he's  usually  clumsy  about  this,  bad  at  just  being.  but  what's  there  to  be  afraid  of?  he  can't  keep  kicking  himself  for  choosing  want  he  wants.  he'll  take  the  plunge. 

his  back  wheel  wobbles  and  squeezes  her  fingers  just  a  fraction  tighter.  “  you  ever  see  that  one  movie?  ”  there  he  is,  thinking  before  speaking  again.  pause.  rewind.  yup,  still  drunk.  “  i'm  will  ferrell  and  you're  napoleon  dynamite.  ”

[handspike]

“good,”   she   sounds   so   cool,   but   trust   is   hard-earned,   and   it   means   a   lot   to   her.   she   doesn't   drag   focus   to   it,   but   she   cherishes   the   way   he   says   the   word.   “i   trust   you   too.”

trust   is   given,   it   is   a   gift,   and   it   is   shared.   spoken   loosely   like   it's   not   a   loaded   gun   to   trust,   like   it's   not   so   carefree.   but   she   likes   how   she   fits   with   him.

she   knocks   her   head   back   and   really   lets   out   a   boisterous   giggle,   she   laughs   wholeheartedly,   with   her   entire   spirit,   it's   riotous   enough   to   almost   throw   her   off   balance,   but   she's   effortless   in   how   she   stabilizes.   joy   has   a   tendency   of   catching   her   off-guard,   but   reggie   skates   right   on   through   it.

“blades   of   glory?!”   the   glo-reeeeee   resonates   around   the   rink   -   the   music   is   surprisingly   slower   tempo   than   one   would   hope   for,   not   so   loud   she   can't   hear   him   speak.   “i   love   that   movie.”

and   her   face   is   flushed   at   the   thought,   overheated   from   the   laughter,   and   the   way   her   head   is   spinning   every   time   he   squeezes   her   hands. 

they   fit   together,   like   two   peas   in   a   pod.   even   their   hands   slot   together   nicely.   he   hasn't   swayed   again.   she   doesn't   draw   attention   to   it.   does   it   have   something   to   do   with   the   way   he   shifts   focus   from   looking   down,   to   looking   towards   her?

“we're   missing   the   olympic   medals,”   she   had   maybe   a   microscopic   iota   of   the   skating   talent   necessary   to   make   it   to   the   finish   line   for   something   like   that,   “the   matching   fits,”   all   sequins   and   razzle-dazzle,   “but   other   than   that,   we're   ready   to   go   pro,   randy.”

when   her   brain's   a   little   fuzzy,   clarity's   arrival   is   imminent.   there's   no   secondary   voice   offering   feedback   in   her   head,   it's   just   her   and   randy.

and   the   dj   with   the   early   2000s   playlist   on   deck.

“you   ever   hold   your   arms   out   and   spin   really   fast   when   you   were   a   kid?”   she   toes   his   skate   with   her   own.   it's   a   gentle   nudge,   a   gentle   spin,   but   she's   still   holding   tight   to   him,   “make   the   whole   world   a   kaleidoscope?”

the   whole   world   is   an   echo   of   blaring   colors.

“it's   even   cooler   when   you're   skating,”   it's   an   offer,   the   world's   their   oyster,   they   can   take   up   as   much   space   as   they   want,   spinning   and   spinning,   "

[darkerthrills]

REGGIE ( @handspike ) said " you know you can take me anywhere. " you look pretty sad for a girl so in love prompts | accepting

David adjusts his gloves, head tilted as a smirk spreads in his lovely face as he pushes off his bike and closes the distance between them.

" Oh, can I ? "

He offers her his hand, an offer, a threat. His eyes sparkle with taunting mirth as he gazes down at her. Waiting to see what she'll do, already pretty sure what the choice will be.

[handspike]

She's   seen   every   crevice   of   this   city.   But   there   are   still   nice   surprises.   She   hasn't   seen   under   the   overpass.   She   hasn't   seen   the   coast   at   this   time   of   night.

How   violently   the   current   stirs.

Dwellers   of   the   dark   coexist.   She   smiles   bright.   She's   beaming.   There's   obstruction.   Not   the   real   touch.   Skin   on   skin.   Still   she   reaches   back.

He   already   knows   what   she's   going   to   say,   doesn't   he?

“Depends   where   you're   trying   to   go.”

She's   already   said   yes.

[id1eyouth]

A grin pulls at his mouth the second the side door swings open, relief hitting faster than the warmth spilling out from inside. Brodie gets a clap on the shoulder as they're ushered through neon light and bass that rattles straight through his chest.

The cold falls away almost instantly.

His eyes flick toward her as she speaks, taking in the spark in her face now that she's thawed out. Cute. Dangerous, probably.

"Basic?" he repeats, amused, leaning closer so she can hear him over the music. "I don't even know what you're talkin' about, but, uh, I think after surviving the baltic outside, you've earned a sparkler drink."

[handspike]

Definitely   dangerous.

The   smile   is   gleaming   as   her   hand   drifts   along   his   forearm,   the   music   is   loud,   and   she   can   feel   the   bass   in   her   jaw.   Perfect.

A   cotton   candy   sparkling   cocktail   is   a   specialty   on   the   menu   tonight.   She   is   far   too,   too   enthused   at   the   sight   of   the   pink   cloud   dissolving   atop   the   drink.   Her   tiers   are   a   rouge   darker   than   her   fuzzy   drink,   and   she   leaves   a   crimson   lipstick   print   on   the   glass,   a   signifier   its   hers.

“It's   very   sweet.   Tasty,”   she   loves   it,   so   she   takes   another   sip,   before   extending   the   glass   his   direction,   “you   wanna   try   it?”

[m0il]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThe Omen's eyes crawl over Reggie like damp caterpillars, leaving behind streaks of sticky curiosity. He smells her damp breath traveling through her nostrils to fill her lungs. A hunger strikes him. He has been delaying.

"You will." He says quietly, burrowing his gaze into her as if it has the power to put a hole into her forehead. He wants to feel the pliant tissue of her lungs in his hands before sinking his teeth into the wet organ. The taste of something dark. Something blackened by smog of a melancholy existence. Shay licks his lips and looks asunder.

"If you'd like to die soone', you just say the wo'd."

[handspike]

The   harbinger   predates   her   own   fate.   She   has   been   marked   by   death   since   the   beginning.   There   is   a   soul   upended   within   her.   It   has   already   been   sworn   off   and   sold.   What   tethers   her   to   this   vessel   but   the   body   itself?   Living   body,   living   flesh.

There's   a   spirit   waning   and   curious.   Her   head   tilts,   peering   back.   Will   she?   Will   she?   She's   already   rotten   form   within.   What   will   be   left   for   him   to   eat?   Someone   else's   scraps,   in   a   body   not   quite   her   own.

“What's   the   word?”   Is   there   a   word   for   death   that   brings   it   sooner?   Or   is   it   a   plea,   a   prayer?   She   walks   unattached   to   her   shadow.   Her   shadow   drapes   over   everything.   Second   self   in   her   wake.   Second   skin   waiting   to   be   shed.

“For   dying.   Is   there   a   word?”

[typebfriend]

@handspike sent: where's the cheese grater?

“the cheese grater?”

this shocks and offends jules deeply. it’s honestly.. not graceful, the way he grabs the block of cheddar and tosses it back in the fridge, likely to be forgotten about until he gets the munchies at 2 in the morning.

in its place, he pulls out the kraft singles.

“we use plastic cheese for grilled cheeses, reggie, c’mon. it’s the only stuff that melts down right.”

[handspike]

reggie   watches   the   block   of   cheese   disappear   into   the   fridge.   she   doesn't   even   get   to   protest.   it's   not   even   been   carefully   placed   back   into   the   ziploc   bag   she   tugged   it   out   of.   no   worries.   she   won't   remark   on   it.   she'll   simply   bag   it   up   later. 

digits   clamp   around   the   bag   of   plastic   cheese.   the   bread   is   wonder   bread.   it's   gonna   fall   apart   the   second   it   hits   the   pan,   but   she'll   improvise.

“didn't   take   you   as   the   sort   that   was   stingy   about   his   cheese.”

let   the   grilled   cheesing   commence.   the   stove's   already   simmering.   the   bread   sizzles   when   it   hits   the   pan.

“i   like   a   little   variation   in   my   grilled   cheese.   three   different   cheeses   minimum.”

[nowadayz]

ANNABELLE COMES HOME 2019, dir. Gary Dauberman

[strfckersinc]

NAOMI BLINKS, WATCHING AS THE GIRL EMERGES into her view. she is like a ghost, and the blonde wonders, vaguely, if she had drank too much altogether that night, that she was imagining someone stepping onto the playground, or maybe she was finally hitting that mental break everyone seemed to say was on the way.  she frowns.  the blonde stumbles up, boot nearly sliding off of the edge of the platformㅤㅤ ( ㅤㅤstill hanging onto the bottle for dear lifeㅤㅤ )ㅤㅤ. there are no words bubbling up to her lips, but she is still watching. she seems like such a soft, frail creatureㅤㅤ ━━ ㅤㅤshe had to be part of her imagination, right? she stands there for a few moments more, rolling a shoulder back and finally turning.  down a step,ㅤ across a bridge, ㅤand then a few more steps, and she was on the same level as the other woman, studying her, moving closer, watching her.  “ ‘bout a fifteen minute bus ride, ” she finally says, letting her gaze sweep over her fully. barefoot, in what seemed like pajamasㅤㅤ ━━ ㅤㅤ in stark contrast to naomi’s own boots and going-out clothes. there is confusion pulling on her features, palm running against the side of her face as if she was trying to wake herself up. this had to be something in her brain. the mental illness that she had ㅤㅤ( ㅤㅤattempted toㅤㅤ ) ㅤㅤrepress all of these years finally bubbling up and tugging her synapses apart. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ“ what are you doing out here? ”

[handspike]

sometimes   reggie   is   not   unlike   a   ghost.   wraithlike   in   her   tread,   sometimes   reggie   feels   transparent,   translucent,   hard   to   see.   she   can   be   invisible   if   she   likes.   but   she   doesn't   like   how   it   feels.   how   scary   it   is   to   lift   the   veil   and   trace   the   scarcity   of   what   exists   between   life   and   death.

the   only   separation   between   reality   and   its   end   is   a   long   dream.

some   people   tend   to   stare   at   her   the   same.   as   though   she   is   some   strange   peculiarity,   a   doll   in   a   shop   of   oddities.   misplaced,   behind   glass.   the   same   veil   between   life   and   death,   the   same   distant   dream,   separates   her   from   everyone   else.   always   behind   plane   of   glass,   always   something   keeping   her   separate.

reggie's   not   so   spooked   by   the   girl   nearing.   something   in   her   eyes   makes   reggie   wonder   if   she   is   the   dream.   a   trapped   specter   haunting   everyone   she   comes   into   contact   with.   something   about   her   was   a   curse,   wasn't   she?

“oh.”   realization   dawns.   she's   far   from   home.   the   soles   of   her   feet   feel   raw,   an   ache   pertinent   now   that   she   sits   for   the   first   time   tonight.

reggie   step,   step,   steps   back,   her   bottom   propping   up   the   seat   of   the   swing,   before   leaning   back,   trusting   the   flight   as   she   propels   forth,   and   swinging.   it's   a   jolt   of   freedom.   the   wind   making   her   long   black   mane   levitate   and   whip   behind   her,   before   wrapping   forth   around   her   neck.   back   and   forth   swinging.

“i   don't   really   know,”   her   voice   is   a   lilt   -   yet   it   carries   above   the   wind   like   the   chimes,   listless   and   floating,   “suppose   I   got   lost.”   It'd   been   a   very,   very   long   trek.   “I   sleepwalk   sometimes.   I   don't   remember   the   rest.”

the   chain   of   the   swing   squeaks   every   time   she   propels   herself,   “what   are   you   doing   here?”

[handspike]

@strfckersinc [ cont. from here. ]

the   voyager   has   stumbled   out   of   aimless   dream.   lately   reggie's   been   sleepwalking   farther   and   farther   from   home.   there's   no   trail   of   breadcrumbs   to   find   her   way   back.

she   slips   out   of   place,   and   she's   suddenly   lost.   eyes   try   to   take   in   her   surroundings,   but   the   shadows   veil   across   the   trees.   there   are   few   lamplights   scattered   about   here.   she   cannot   make   out   the   street   ahead   in   the   pitch   black   and   it   unnerves   her.

she   is   cold.   reggie's   arms   lift   to   wrap   around   herself.   she   has   no   choice   but   to   walk   forward   in   spite   of   her   fear,   in   spite   of   the   anxiety   that   accompanies   slipping   out   of   slumber.   it   is   not   her   fault   she   does   not   know   the   way   home,   she   does   not   know   where   she   is,   she   does   not   have   shoes   or   cellphone.   the   only   choice   she   has   is   to   move   forward   without   so   much   as   looking   back.

then   suddenly,   she   hears   laughter   coming   from   the   dark.

she   can't   make   out   the   shapes   until   she   is   closing.   following   the   sound   of   boots   hitting   railing,   and   the   wicker   cracks   under   her   feet.   her   steps   are   still   muffled   because   she   is   barefoot.   she   does   not   mean   to   be   so   quiet.

she   has   a   hard   time   telling   apart   what's   real   from   what's   not   until   she's   up   close.   not   sure   if   the   young   woman   is   a   figment   of   her   imagination,   a   conjured   cruel   dream,   or   someone   real.

“hi,”   it's   a   soft   chirp,   and   she   steps   forward,   stumbling   forth   still   clad   in   pajamas,   a   hand   rising   to   wave   towards   the   stranger,   “i'm   sorry,   i   didn't   mean   to   scare   you.”

she's   glad   to   see   someone   else. 

her   eyes   are   wide   -   deer   in   headlight   kubrick   stare   trying   to   make   out   her   features.   she   sits   on   the   edge   of   swing,   facing   towards   the   monkey   bars,   “are   we   close   to   mid-city?”

[moonlight]

LADY VENGEANCE / 친절한 금자씨

— 2005, dir. Park Chan-wook

[griefpains]

@handspike said: “So the aurora is influencing wildlife too? ”

． ． ．He's  been  glued  to  his  phone  all  morning.  It's  uncomfortably  familiar,  how  his  heart  stopped  halfway  through  reading  his  weekly  newsletter,  switching  quickly  from  his  emails  to  a  neverending  chain  of  academic  papers  and  articles;  everywhere  he  goes,  the  information  seems  to  get  worse.  (  Or  maybe  that's  just  his  anxiety  rearing  its  ugly  head. It tends to do that pretty often.  )  If  he  weren't  having  such  a  serious  case  of  deja  vu,  he  might  think  it's  funny  how  intrigued  he  is  by  the  same  phenomenon  that  scares  him  -  but  it's  a  little  harder  to  watch  a  train  wreck  when  you  remember  what  it  felt  like  inside  the  burning  carriage.

It's  only  when  Freddie  speaks  up  that  he  snaps  out  of  his  haze.  She  curls  around  his  shoulders,  and  he  lets  her  glance  at  his  screen,  gazing  mournfully  at  his  now-cold  coffee.  Darn  it.  Maybe  he  can  stick  it  in  the  microwave.

"Looks  like  it,"  he  mumbles with  a  heavy  sigh.  The  only  thing  that  makes  him  feel  a  little  better  is  leaning  back  against  her.

She's  still  warm  from  her  shower,  and  he  tastes  strawberry  when  he  turns  to  kiss  her  cheek,  abandoning  his  phone  on  the  table.  "Nobody  really  knows  what  it  is  yet.  It  could  just  be  a  disturbance  in  the  earth's  magnetic  fields  -  but  they've  been  gathering  reports  from  the  IUCN  and  the  Space  Weather  Prediction  Center.  That's...  uh.  That's  what  I  was  reading..."  He  trails  off,  shaking  his  head.

"Sorry,  Fred.  You  probably  didn't  sign  up  for  a  lecture  before  breakfast."  Which  reminds  him:  he  should  really  get  dressed  if  they're  going  to  head  to  the  diner.  That,  or  he  should  grab  something  from  the  freezer.

A sheepish smile quirks at his lips. "How  was  your  shower?"

[handspike]

This   is   all   achingly   familiar.   The   spider   web   he's   spun   his   way   out   of   finds   its   way   back.   History   has   a   tendency   of   repeating   itself.   She   knows   it   is   hard   to   resist   the   call.   Every   alert   sounds   like   a   siren.   All   the   flags   are   now   red. 

She   only   needs   to   skim   the   headline   to   hear   what   he's   thinking.   It's   been   the   subject   of   conversation   since   last   night.   She   knows   it's   like   picking   at   a   scab.   More   so,   salt   in   the   wound.

When   he   sets   the   phone   down,   she   flips   it.   Face   down.   So   he   won't   notice   any   more   notifications   from   every   news   outlet   taking   over   the   screen.   They   want   his   perspective   -   they   always   do.   They   can   wait.

Digits   curl   around   the   mug   of   coffee,   no   longer   steaming,   and   she   places   it   in   the   microwave   for   a   minute,   before   turning   back   towards   him.

“You're   worried   about   it,”   she   drapes   her   arm   around   his   shoulder   -   the   diner   can   also   wait.   Getting   there   fifteen   minutes   later   won't   make   much   of   a   difference   when   he's   not   settled,   and   when   his   mind's   running   rampant,   it's   hard   to   steer   focus   when   she   knows   this   is   what   he   wants   to   talk   about.

Freddie   doesn't   let   him   evade,   or   talk   around   it.   They   don't   avoid   topics.   He's   not   a   broken   record   to   her,   he's   not   beating   a   dead   horse.   Ryland   can   talk   about   anything,   and   she's   listening.   “My   shower   was   good,”   she   doesn't   allow   deflection,   as   she   settles   onto   his   lap.

The   microwave   beeps,   and   she   reaches   for   it.   Sets   it   on   the   table   before   him,   then   resting   her   palm   on   his   knuckles.   She   traces   his   fingertips   while   she   looks   towards   his   eyes.

Nature   perseveres.   But   the   influence   of   something   external   always   frightens   the   population.   There   is   panic   stirring,   wonder   over   the   endtimes   looming.   But   every   year,   there   is   another   premonition.   Can   this   be   something   big?   Can   this   be   nothing?

“You   think   you   could   be   called   to   go   check   it   out?”