#tbd|verse

[brooklynislandgirl]

@artificialperscn {{a little starter from xx}}

This February, New York has been absolutely brutal with dangerously low temperatures and snow that has turned everything ~briefly~ glowing, crystalline white. The sun had struggled that morning when she was on her way to work and her face ached with the smile. But eventually the cold in tandem with hours of treating the city's forgotten brings aching joints and a stiff back and a little less wonder at the still falling flakes. But it isn't the snow, the fairly quiet night and surprisingly low traffic that casts faint glowing pools of colour that catches the nurse's eye. Instead, as she passes by one of the neighbourhood flower shops, it's a stark pair of figures. The man she knows is tall, he has at least a foot on her, and as far as she can tell, has not moved a muscle since she'd come by nearly twelve hours earlier. The second figure is the one that concerns her the most. The man's dog is gorgeous and such a good companion, sitting quietly beside him. Anyone else might let this go. But Beth isn't just anyone. She unwraps the hand-knitted scarf from around her face and neck, and approaches the pair slowly, trying to be as non-threatening as possible. Not hard to do when you're short and fine boned and weigh probably less than the dog. She holds the scarf in between two small hands, ready to offer it to either man or beast as needs it the most. Words whisper soft as the fog creeping up from the exhaust vents and from out across the bay. "Uhm, excuse me...sir...but...ah....how long have ya been here? Wha' I mean is...d' ya need help? Mebbe ya lost or somet'ing?"

[brooklynislandgirl]

@thrall-of-the-hill  {{xx}}

For a man so large, his voice is small. His fingers coiled around her wrist overlap in their comparative excess; she is bird-boned and his hands are as big as the rest of him. It was only by Gaia’s grace she was able to keep him upright and moving to get him indoors. He towered over her even while sitting, and when he turns his head away, she sighs.  The scalp laceration might need stitches. Sure, she has her suturing kit, she always keeps a modest assortment of supplies wherever she might go, but none of that will do any good if he chooses to fight her on it. But before she could do anything to actually treat him, she first needs to see how bad the wound is. And to do that, she needs to clean it. She will also need to conduct a neurological exam, cognitive testing, and short of being able to do imaging tests, she’s got to work with his blood and observation to rule out a concussion. First things first though. Her voice is soft, full of compassion. “You don’ need t’ be ‘fraid of me, yeah? I’m a nurse, an’ I won’ let any harm come t’ ya. If ya wan, we can take a minute, an’ I can get ya somet’ing warm t’ drink an’ mebbe ya tell me wha’ happen t’ ya.”

[brooklynislandgirl]

💽

Notes in a Quiet Room || Accepting

I. A Spoonful of Sugar || Julie Andrews

II. Desert Rose || Sting ft. Cheb Mami III. Season of the Witch || Lana Del Rey {cover} IV. The Mountain || Dead Can Dance V. Landslide || Bush {cover} VI. Feels like Summer || Childish Gambino VII. Because of You || Ne-Yo VIII. Never Never Land || Lyfe Jennings IX. A Kind of Magic || Queen X. Bottom of the River || Delta Rae

[brooklynislandgirl]

@ronmanmob {{xx}}

The look passing from Beth to Ron is perhaps one of the reasons Andrew Riley refused to remember that she is only five years his junior and not ten or twenty. A grown woman of thirty-two. Teeth come down to bite into her lower lip, devoid of the careful colouring most women choose to shellac themselves in. Hands held up before her modest chest with fingers curled together, a tawny contrast to the white sweater ~ jumper, they call it here~ and apron. Hair done up in twin buns on either side of her face though she’s got some escapee strands that have legged it toward her neck. Wide doe eyes staring on as if they’re dealing with unhoused nuclear isotopes rather than potential food options. She watches his hands, a greater indicative of thought and mood than his face ~this is not a masquerade, they are not required to hide behind the acceptably palatable~ and which have a life of their own. She still bears a spare glance now and then to eye and lip. Resorts to atonal vibrations of his voice to fill in the gaps. He speaks wisdom, Ron Kray, and she soaks it all up like a sponge having near perished in a desert. She doesn’t know how Andy always managed to come up with all the right things, how everything was perfectly regimented and prepared.  She can hardly cook packet rice or the saimin that comes in the wrinkly little plastic packaging with the salt-spice flavouring that never really tastes right and tries to pass it off as ramen. {It was a microwave and she’d been going on nearly an entire week with perhaps four hours of sleep and it wasn’t like they’d had to call the fire-department, the little extinguisher on the counter’d done the trick, in her defense}.

Granted, looking at the words now, half of them upset her in that vague malaise kind of way. There was the one that had spiced beef, gravy, bread sauce ~she will have to use the internet to to see if they mean stuffing by that~ cranberry sauce, potatoes, of course, root veggies, and sprouts cooked with bacon. The most traditional Irish of the three. The second was more English: swapping out turkey or prime rib for the spiced beef, the pigs-in-a-blanket ~so much different than what she’s used to on the mainland~ and not much else. Tiny fingers squirm over and around his arm and she peeks out from behind him as if the menus will bite if she has not a solid wall of this man to stand behind. Even smaller still is her voice. 

“I...don’ need t’ make anyt’ing special.” She means for herself. There’s enough vegetables to suffice her small needs. Nothing that will add extra time, expertise, or any more daunting prospects to what’s already being made. Especially in the light that it’s been over a year of missed family dinners on Sunday where she’s felt anything but a part of that, and has choked down every dead animal imaginable.

“Uh...” A little more timber on this one. “He gonna come in on Solst...ah.. on...uhm... twen’y first. If he can. Twen’y t’ird if he no can. Depends on if dey bump him or he come firs’ class. New York got lotsa bad weaddah around dat time ususally, so sometimes he take military flight. Plan t’ ring in da new year wi’....us.” While her face might not be in view, the energy picks up when she has time to process what he’s said. “Oh t’ank fu...I mean choke mahalo to da universe for Aunties.

[brooklynislandgirl]

“You ever been so tired you forget your own name but still remember someone else’s smile? You’ve got one of those.” (From Nico)

The little table outside the cafe is three-quarters of the way covered in a large spiral bound notebook ~college ruled~ and the page is filled with meticulous, tiny writing. Portions of which are highlighted in various colours whose meaning is known only to the woman being spoken to, but such is the way of charting. There's also a large glass of iced coffee. The occasional breeze ~comforting in the late afternoon heat~ carries the faintest traces of coconut and caramel and something a little toasted, a little nutty. Thankfully Beth had been looking up at him before he spoke otherwise it might have seemed like she were ignoring him. Social custom dictates she smile at him in return for the compliment on it. She isn't so sure that the flattery is true. Beth tends to be shy when it comes to displaying a full-tooth display. The corners of her generous mouth turn upward and she inclines her head to one side. "Doctor Andrews," she murmurs in acknowledgement. Her voice is warm, very soft and tinged with a smokey husk while she is careful to enunciate every word to sound as haole as possible. Still the formality doesn't seem to match the setting and she says "Nicholas." The hand not holding her pen flickers toward the empty space and second chair at her table. "Shift changing takes a kind of adjustment, so please have a seat. Let me order you a drink." Even outside of the hospital, Beth can't help but nurse the aches of others. Green-and-honey eyes narrow as she examines his face for a moment, then two. "You're just coming off three sixteen hour shifts, so I'd say...if you want coffee, we'll do a Bisch Please ~white chocolate, toasted marshmallow, hazelnut and espresso, tastes just like one of those speculoos cookies, or....if you're not in the mood to be caffeinated, a Surf's Up: Watermelon, pineapple, lime and white tea, with either lychee or pomegranate popping bobba."

[brooklynislandgirl]

@ltcdrconnolly

Sailors collect superstitions in the same way old men with bread crumbs collect birds in the park. They offer fertile imagination that calls to every wayward dream and nightmare looking for somewhere to roost. The whole world should be so observant. In a sliver of time between middle and morning watches, the sleek dark shape crests the tide with its distinctive short, triangular dorsal fin. The gliding swim is silent and the closer to the water's inky surface it comes the better its stripes show even in the moonlight. A tiger shark doesn't belong so far inland. But neither should it twist and bend like that as it approaches the shore. For a brief instant the creature disappears into the turbid water again and when it reappears... ...long dark hair is plastered to rapidly cooling skin. Water drips off slender limbs and a small frame as the woman puts one foot on shore, then the next. At any distance the age would be difficult to guess but the general size and mathematics might dictate someone young or at least not large by any means. Someone very naked. Seemingly unaware of being observed, the woman picks her way demurely toward an outcropping of rock, where she bends and searches amongst the black shapes for something. A something she can't find and becomes increasingly panicked over. She's not had anything dedicated and so doesn't benefit from the ritual in changing forms. She could do with missing footwear but she's entirely sure that if she tries to walk home as she is now, she will be arrested. The tide couldn't have taken her small bundle. She's entirely certain the gulls didn't either, though she hasn't asked yet. The grasses don't seem particularly aware and there's no real breezes she can ask. In her despair and increasing anxiety, she can't help herself. Hands fisted at her side, she stamps her feet onto the sand, throws her head back and shouts. "Oh, come the heck on!"

[brooklynislandgirl]

“Axel told me about you, just how far would you go for him?”

The delicate hairs at the back of her neck rise and with it a cold chill manages to shiver down her spine as she gazes at the pleasant enough looking man. She can't put her finger on just why she reacts that way. Is it something in his smooth tone? Some gesture of the elegant hands that registers only in hindsight? She doesn't know, except Axel would be the first to tell her that he doesn't have many close friends. A flicker of fear shapes her features for an instant before it's replaced by something else; primordial and gelid at once, something subtle and less than human. The same could be said about her tone which was at first warm and inviting. Now it carries the idea that he might swim out in a pool of his own blood. "Where is he? An' I would urge you t' answer dat very carefully Mr...?"

[brooklynislandgirl]

@artificialperscn {{xx}}

"Mebbe mo' beddah question is why you t'ink someone should."

Words that carry universes of unspoken thought, weighing down everything around and within them. "But dat's not wha' you aks. So to answer? No, no I don't."