#cursedline

[multamusae-archive-blog]

tomas’ sc. –– @cursedline

          In a place like this –– very much the complete epitome of the stereotypical wild west –– Tomas feels overwhelmingly out of place in his collar. His fingers fiddle with it for a moment, trying to decide if it’s worth keeping it on. “A cowboy hat won’t make this look any better, will it?” 

[xaedificare]

@cursedline

she rubs down the wood of the bar with oil to keep it at least a little bit presentable, arching her eyebrow at the man hold it down.

           “ you look like a guy with a lot on his mind. “

[nbruges-blog]

         ‘ it’s not half as endearing as you’ve apparently been led to believe. ’ in the tone of a man who couldn’t be less so, he adds, ‘ i’m sorry to be the bearer. ’

@cursedline​,  sc.

[estrellasombra]

@cursedline // sc.

             “... far be it from me to start a fight, but i believe he said your hair was stringy.” 

[skhism]

         ‘ i don’t... knooow what that is. ’ and she sure as hell isn’t going to touch it. janitorial duties do not fall within her purview. ‘ and i wouldn’t, uh, engage with it in any way if i were you, fella. can i offer a different table? comped meal? moral support? ’

@cursedline,  sc.

[julesryley-blog]

@cursedline replied to your post: i slept like 19 hours, randomly got sick around...

allison i love you very much but i think three times should’ve been enough

yes probably

[clbuono-blog]

greeter for @cursedline

     “You mind?” The voice sounded behind and to Wyatt’s right, accompanied by the clocking of worn bootheels in the sawdust as the stranger rounded the table - occupant: one - and took the seat to which he had gestured. Evidently it had been a rhetorical question. 

     There were dozens of other seats he could have chosen - more than half of the tables in the saloon were empty, as a matter of fact - but the stranger in the dusty serape didn’t seem to have noticed, stubbing out his cigar on the sole of his boot and trading it for a glass. 

     “Wouldn’t be very Christian of me, not telling you about the fella waiting for you outside.” He said this behind the rim of his glass, as quietly and casually as if he’d made a comment on the weather, and their eyes had yet to meet. His back was to the door, and to the windows peering out on the darkened thoroughfare. “Came along just after you rolled in, been skulking around the general store ever since. Whatever you did, guess he’s waiting for you to leave.” He didn’t look over his shoulder, catching the view behind him in the barback mirror instead, and pinpricks of light glowed like fireflies on the storefront porch, vanishing one by one as the old-timers put out their cigarettes and went inside.

     One, he suspected, would not be going out.

     “Hope you didn’t put up a horse. Probably dead, now.”