#slackerphilosopher

[andryuska]

@slackerphilosopher // continued.

Henry was still staring at the painting, still unable to shake the uncanny resemblance. They did say that everyone has about seven doppelgangers out there, so maybe some people had historical doppelgangers? Regardless, it was still a pretty freaky coincidence.

“Yeah, probably. Seriously though, looks like he could have been your ancestor or something.” He looked at the description. “Prince, huh? You secretly royalty?”

He turned to Andrei with a playful smile, but it was clear the other wasn’t in a joking mood, exactly. In fact, he looked…Henry didn’t know if he had a word for how the other looked, just really bothered somehow. That was somehow more confusing than the painting. There were plenty of ways to explain that. So why did it seem to be freaking Andrei out so much?

“Hey, you okay?”

HE  LOOKS  LIKE  HE  HAS  SEEN  A  GHOST  :  and he has, but andrei cannot allow henry to know any of this. memories awhirl within his head threaten to break the fragile mask he wears above the pain so many lives have carved ---- none so terrible as those first and most personal scars. he has never trusted a home because of the man in that picture, never felt safe, never escaped . . .

his throat is tight and his palms are cold and uncomfortable. he rubs them against his pants, and shrugs, as though this means nothing to him at all.

“ russian princes in the nineteenth century were not royalty. ” this, something he knows instinctively of a position he has left so far behind him ( the century following had scrubbed with iron bristles the nobility from his hands and left them bleeding ) should not sound suspicious, except that he says it without any apparent thought.

“ it’s just a likeness anyways. ” a deep breath is discreetly taken, and his weight rests in his heel. his hands find stillness knotted behind his back. “ the real person probably didn’t even look like this. ”

( he did, and the painting is exact in every harshness, in every hard line. it’s like his father could reach out and take him by the arm and drag him back into a ruthless and lonely childhood. ) 

[whatsthepoop]

@slackerphilosopher

Olive was running late. Not too late though, just enough for her to be self conscious of it. They needed to get some rehearsal time in to nail down these songs if they were going to add anything new to the set, something they had already been asked to do more than once. 

She looked back and forth before running across the street, wrenching the door open and running in. 

“Sorry, I –” She turned around when she heard the door open and close again behind her. Oh come on.

“Olive Snook!” said the woman who had followed her into the speakeasy. “Your parents have been trying to  find you for the past three months and the whole time you’ve been in this dump?”

[imthehitch]

@slackerphilosopher – from this

“Ha, very funny, Mel.”

Of course he didn’t think she was serious. After all, why should he suspect she wouldn’t remember him? Nothing seemed out of place in the shop, she didn’t seem hurt.

“I was just…”

But the confused look on her face didn’t go away. It was enough to make him wonder. She wouldn’t try and pull a joke like that on him, would she? He honestly wasn’t sure, but he was also getting more and more sure she might not be faking.

“Wait, are you serious? I’m Henry.”

Mel frowned. He thought she was joking. Why did she feel like she knew him? He seemed to know who she was, apparently Mel. His name was Henry, which was a start. 

“I feel like I’m supposed to know you.” She thought back, trying to remember but she was getting… nothing. 

[watcrbound-blog]

@slackerphilosopher​ liked this for a starter ! ( accepting )

    ‘ look — look at this. ’

        she’s giggling HELPLESSLY as she turns the starbucks cup to face him;         the name scrawled in black marker reads OFEELYA.

       ‘ i’ve never had it spelled like that before ! ’

[requismsa-blog]

@slackerphilosopher

zoe didn’t care much about henry’s ‘recreational activities,’ since she had been exposed to drugs ever since her brother discovered them. she wasn’t one to judge, she was just happy to be spending time with her friend after a busy friday afternoon at school. she had asked if she could walk home with him instead of going back to her own house-- mostly because her family had a huge fight at breakfast this morning which resulted in her father storming out of the house and connor and zoe shouting at each other. she sat beside him once they reached his home. a sudden wave of anxiety blew through her when she saw his stash of rolled papers and pipes. it wasn’t a conscious fear, but zoe suddenly realized that she associated weed with anger-- with yelling, with death threats, with slammed doors. 

“how different are you when you’re high?” she asked, glancing nervously at her friend. henry was always gentle and kind, never aggressive towards her-- or anyone, from what she’s seen. but she had only ever been around sober henry, and to her, sober meant more reliable. “i’m not judging, i promise. i’m just curious,” she added reassuringly, not wanting to seem stuck up because she herself didn’t smoke. 

[andryuska]

@slackerphilosopher // transport terminated

    they were not moving. were they moving? it was hard to tell ---- laid on the metal floor, which against his face made an impression, unable to see out into the vastness of space, he couldn’t be certain. but there was no buzz of working engines, none of those function murmurs with which he was so familiar that their absence was felt more than their presence. they weren’t moving. why not?

he pushed himself from the ground, using the wall for support, and as he did, the memories of flashing lights and whirring sirens came back in small fragments. yes, he remembered. a warning, an indication that there was damage done, and that the ship was crashing, and that everyone ought to abandon it ---- and he remembered rushing back to the hold, to their cargo, and foolishly relieving others of their duty so they could leave ---- and in their departure, expecting the birth of his own glory, whether it be through distinction or martyrdom. and then that had not happened.

his eyesight blurred, and the floor beneath him felt uneven, but still he rose and took shaky steps. the familiar closed doors ahead, the cells of those dissenters toward whom he felt deep repulsion, came closer with every step, and with his electronic key he opened the doors. stumbled through. was anyone else alive here? or at the front of the ship? had anyone gotten out? why was light streaming in ---- there wasn’t supposed to be a window here.

with eyes that didn’t see into those cells ( maybe some of him hoped the prisoners hadn’t survived, but he couldn’t admit to that level of maliciousness ) he pressed forward. there was a hole in the side of the ship. he looked out. and no ---- they definitely were not moving.