#driftlikesleep

[lcngdays-archive]

@driftlikesleep came for Breakfast

It’s a cold, quiet day in Erie, Pennsylvania. The snow is piled up, the plows are backed up, and almost threefeet of snow graced the ground of the city since the night before. But the restaurant front of a hole in the wall is still open at five am sharp, the sidewalk to the door is dug out by someone who must have gotten up mighty early, and the lights are on. 

Inside it’s dim, the heat is blasting, and music plays softly from the speakers, soft rock with a clear bias for the Eagles from whoever made the Playlist. The place was deserted, aside from the short order cook, who also seemed to be doubling as the waiter for today’s service, since they were the one to come and give Job the menu, and then come back and take his order, and then go and start cooking it. 

Average height with red hair tied back in a bun under one of those black cook beret’s. They’re in uniform, black pants and a black t-shirt that displays the name of the restaurant in neon green letters, The Trail House. 

Indeed, the little hole in the wall seemed to have some kind of vague cowboy theme, with a few pictures of western looking things on the wall, a few themed meals... But otherwise it was just any other diner that could be in any other place, awake when everyone else is asleep. 

Kennedy is coming back now, they seem to have an affinity for looking at the ground, pale blue eyes downcast, freckled face wanting nothing to do with what’s ahead of them. Their apron hangs high on their hips, their feet shuffle soundlessly on the dirty tile floor  before they set Job’s food in front of him. 

“Sorry it took so long.” Their voice is quiet, tentative. Not the voice of someone used to working front of house. “Um... No one had cut the potatoes last night, so I was... Doing that. To. Make them. So you could also... Eat. Them.” 

[sleepingmythsa]

@driftlikesleep​      !

her days are boring and horribly long.  poppy spends them roaming around aimlessly, sometimes sitting and daydreaming about the life she could’ve had for hours at a time. it’s a painful experience — to see life go on without her. today, she finds herself sitting on the same blue bench at the same park she’s visited for the last week. the odd thing is that she can never quite remember how she got here. only that being here feels right, somehow. 

‘ excuse me, ‘  her voice is soft and low, almost unrecognizable even to herself. the longer she’s here, in the land of the living, the harder it is to remember the person she used to be. she sighs, unsure the man heard her considering most people can’t. she clears her throat and tries again, this time a little louder.  ‘ excuse me, do you know what today is? ‘ 

[tomyrot]

          No one calls the police, not Hank the mortician or the townsfolk who watch Monteith carry the body inside, but he spends the next seventy-two hours with his hackles raised anyway. He calls several times the first two days, wondering if the guy’s family has come to collect him yet, but by the seventh Hank tells him to call it a day.           Take a break, get some sleep. Call tomorrow at breakfast.           Monteith stays awake through the night, perched on the railing of his home, high up above the trees with a bottle in hand. He doesn’t drink much and morning comes slow--- with it a call from Hank. The old man isn’t explicit but he says enough; something in his conviction has Monteith blazing down highway 12, then Tumac street, then the water-damaged parking lot of the mortuary before the sun has fully risen. The world is still bathed in grey and early morning pink when he hops from his truck onto the damp pavement and cautiously enters the mortuary. Part of him expects a confrontation with a grieving father, maybe a mother or a sibling. When he pushes through the parlor he’s greeted only by Hank’s wrinkled, ashen face--- and one young man.           I know I still got my wits about me, Monty. I know I ain’t crazy. I think you ought’a just get here. See fer yerself. You gotta see it.           Initially, it’s unclear what he’s supposed to see. A young man trembling under the blue florescence of the mortuary’s huge, buzzing lights. Dark hair. Pale skin. Tattoos. A thick black cross, a mountain range. The realization comes quick and fast and hits him hard. It takes much of his will to keep himself upright, shocked dizzy by what he’s seeing.          “Wha...” His mouth is a desert. He swallows hard, unable to look away from what was surely a dead man just three days ago. The man’s blood is soaked into his clothes at home, into the leather of his boots, some even still lingers beneath his nails. He can’t believe his eyes. “...who are you? What’s happening here?”

@driftlikesleep 

[lcngdays-archive]

Have they ever had a supernatural experience? What’s a place that holds special meaning to them? Why? - for Isaiah

oh so you want to know about my characters...?

Supernatural Experience: The town from which Isaiah comes from, Cross Hill Valley, has a secret. The preacher there is not Christian, as all children are thought to believe. He is, instead, a Black Magic Preacher, named Peter, something revealed to them on their 21st birthday. This black magic included animal and human sacrifice, specifically people who were unlucky enough to come drifting through their little town... A tiny little town surprisingly wealthy despite it being so small and out of place. 

Once this was revealed to Isaiah a lot of things began to fall into place. His brother, who had run away only a week before, who had been, as far as Isaiah had known, training to be a Christian preacher under Peter for years. What had Peter taught his brother? What had his brother done under this man’s direction? Why had he run away? Isaiah confronted Peter, only to be beat down and back by the man and his magic in front of him and the entire congregation gathered. 

Isaiah’s life was spared that day, however, and he was sent out of the town, with his final words to Peter and to his townsfolk he had once called family and friends, “I’ll be back when you last expect it. Hell’s coming with me.”

The man fled the town, and did the only thing he could think to do. He went after his brother.

In the years following, he himself took up preaching, and he’s had his fair share of supernatural encounters while he’s been searching for Elijah, and he’s beat back and down every one of them, all of it in practice to ensure his promise to that town is eventually kept. 

Special Place: Cross Hill Valley isn’t all that far from the Saluda River. Isaiah and Elijah often made their way to a fishing hole, a secret, special spot, in their boyhood, riding their bikes down the road and then hiking through the woods to get to that place. They’d come home, baskets full of fish, smiles on their faces, and laughter over dinner about what crazy thing they saw or got up to on their own little day trip to the river. 

In that spot, Isaiah and Elijah made a pact, Isaiah slashing his left palm, Elijah his right, and shaking their hands together to make it a forever pact. The pact that they would always, always take care of one another, no matter what. Even if it was them against the world, they would have each other’s back. 

And look how that turned out. 

[nitebit-archive]

@driftlikesleep 

Taking a deep breath only to then release it in a low sigh proves to be somewhat difficult in the darkness of their motel room, which appears to grow stuffier by the hour. The curtains hang closed still despite the sun having climbed well up into the morning sky and, though Job reckons this is fine, that Bunny ought to take however long she needs to heal from their traumatizing experience at the farm, he can’t help but wonder whether this is what she does all day while he’s off cooking at the local diner.

She has every right to, of course. Job himself is hardly functional when he gets like this - remembers all too vividly the months immediately following his mother’s disappearance, in which an act as simple as crawling out of bed and taking a shower seemed like an impossible task. Most of all, he merely wishes he could be here with her, to keep her company -- so that he could, in the least, tidy up the mess on the floor and crack open the windows to let a bit of fresh air inside which, in his mind, could only do Bunny a bit of good.

Voice heavy with regret, he finally murmurs, “Can’t, Bun. I’m sorry... I gotta head out to work.” Truth be told, keeping a roof over his own head when he travels on his lonesome is hard enough as it is. Affording this two-bedder has been a hard blow to his tattered, mostly-empty wallet already, and though Job has never been one to complain, there’s simply no way that he can afford to miss a payday.

And still, knowing this doesn’t make him feel any better, not when Bunny needs him there. He remembers his own first year on the road, some dozen years ago, to easily be the roughest, most loneliest time of his life -- and now, finding the same loneliness reflected in Bunny’s pleading tone, rather than remain standing by the door, just on his way out, Job instead ventures farther into the darkened room, sinking back down onto the creaking mattress of his own, undone bed.

“We can do something when I’m back, huh?” Though he doesn’t think this will do much in terms of lifting her spirits, it’s the most he can think to offer. Normally bringing burgers and fries back with him from the diner, he’s wondering whether Bunny can be cheered at all by being coaxed to spend some quality time together outside the confinements of their room. “Go out to eat. Take a little walk, maybe, see the stars. Yeah?”

It’s a moment of weakness, asking him to stay, but it’s unbearable today. What she went through in The Facility and at The Farm linger in the deepest parts of her. No matter how much or how often she tries, she can’t get rid of either. It haunts her when she’s awake and it holds on to her when she sleeps. Bunny wonders if she’ll ever be the person she used to be, or if she’s doomed to live in this ghost of a shell forever.

She regrets asking him to stay almost instantly ( he’s done so much for her already ) and burrows deeper into the bed, anticipating his answer. Her head peaks out of the sheets as she considers his offer. When was the last time she stepped outside and felt the sun? How long have they even been here? It feels like a lifetime, and yet like no time has passed at all. 

“That sounds nice. The stars,” it’s the only confirmation he’ll get from her as she turns away. “Thank you... — for everything.” She wouldn’t have made it this far without him, that she knows for certain. 

[lcngdays-archive]

"my bike stalled outta town. Can I get a ride?" (For Isaiah!)

God, you really did mean Middle of Nowhere

@driftlikesleep

Isaiah looks down at the man from his position in the driver’s side of his truck. He’s leaned forward against the wheel, very much aware of the gun around his waist while he stops for this poor man possible psycho killer walking alongside the road. 

Now no kind, God Fearing, Southern Gentleman would be thinking more about the gun he has than about offering hospitality, but Isaiah has been around more than the South in his time searching for his brother, and he knows very well that it doesn’t hurt to make sure you’re prepared. 

When he speaks, none of this comes through. He smiles politely, and leans over to push the door of the passenger side open, rolling up the window with his left hand as he sits back. It’s an old enough truck, sure, but not old enough for crank windows. He wished they did, his old truck did, but it broke down and he’d never been the mechanic of the family. 

“Hop in,” his drawl is a little more reigned in, not trying to hide it, exactly, but dampening it. “Isaiah Renoylds. I have a personal rule that anyone who rides with me must offer their name in return. Whether or not it’s their real name is between them and God, but I might remind ya that God abhors a liar.” 

[lcngdays-archive]

‘ want some? ’ (for elijah c: )

You had a question?

@driftlikesleep

Brown eyes flick over to a second set of the same, brows draw together, a slight pout of his lips. This is a man, and maybe Job can tell, maybe he’s that good of a judge of character, who has been putting on a front. A man who has become a chameleon, acting exactly how the situation requires. And who is he, under layer after layer, after layer? 

Does the man with the sandy blonde hair and brown eyes and scar going from lip to ear even know who he’s meant to be anymore? 

Tongue flicks out against those lips which part slowly, head tipping up as he takes in a deep breath of salt and grease and chicken. He is a Southern Man, born and raised, and here this stranger is trying to tempt him with some fried chicken. What is he supposed to do? Not let his guard down and take him up on his offer? 

God, no. That would be worse than the worst sin he’s ever gone and committed. 

Well. Maybe not the worst. 

“I mean... If y’offerin’?” Voice comes out quiet, almost reserved, he is being so very polite. 

[dogxfiend]

what type of romanticism are you?

lustful romanticism

restless love, endless wanting, white knuckles: you're lustful romanticism. mind the fact that it's been given the cruel reputation of a sin, lust is a wonderful thing. lustful romanticism consists of fast, deep, love... or simply lust. it's leaping into your lover's arms and wanting to drown there, in their warmth, in their blood. it's a silly argument played out like a bad high school drama skit, ending up in a physical resolution the moment the velvet curtain closes, omitting the verbal jabs from your memory. you tend to come to conclusions quickly and are often very opinionated, which isn't inherently bad, of course. lust is often thought of as a lonely way to love, which can be true, however, I’ll be damned if it isn't fun. keep taking pleasure in life, but be sustainable about it. don't be afraid to live in your own body for a while and let the world pass you by. "I would rather die of passion than boredom." - Vincent Van Gogh

tagged by : @driftlikesleep​ tagging : steal it from me!