kingdomsofrain | tfln open post

Okay.

Okay.

So.

So, fuck, all right. So you know how just after a storm, everything goes calm and still and it's like you're the last person on earth?

Tofu needs to be cooked right for it to be interesting.

Nevermind, that's not important

Yes. Is this a story intended to frighten me? Because I can handle EITHER a scary story OR being locked alone in a bathroom, but not both.

Hey, come on. We both know you're the master of horror writing here. No way I'm going to impinge on your territory. ;)

It's a good story. I promise.

...I think.

I think Stephen King would heavily contest losing his crown to me, but thank you.

Best husband. :)

Okay. Stillness after a storm. GO.

Hey, I don't care, I'll punch Stephen King in the face.

For my wife.

And also for all those nightmares I had after my brothers decided it'd be 'fun' to read Pet Semetary as a bedtime story.

Right. All right. The stillness.

It was like walking into a painting. Like he might disturb something deeper than the earth, only there was no protestation, no trembling, only a softness that seemed to welcome him in. Like inside - where he'd been all day, watching the storm pour itself out - was just a holding place, and this, this painting world was somewhere he was always meant to find.

[ It doesn't seem right to interrupt him, to comment any further on Mr. King or how much Pet Semetary creeped her out. Or how his brothers are horrible people.

There are certain moments that, when viewed in retrospect, seem pitiable in how they've been given so little attentiveness. How they demanded more regard than they were given, and were lost to half-memory. Katrina is lucky enough to recognize this one as it's coming; it's important to pay attention to this.

Treavor's storytelling is different from hers, less razor-sharp, erring more towards metaphor - and it's mesmerizing.

Odd as this moment strikes her - wearing his shirt, seated on the closed toilet, pack of Swedish gummies in her lap, her husband not able or yet willing to get upright and let her out of the bathroom - it feels almost sacred.

This is another glimpse of his soul. ]

Don't stop.

You sure? I was kind of hoping you'd give up on me after that.

Not me. Not me, I mean. The story. Shit.

Okay. Okay...

[ ... ... ... ]

There was nothing for five, ten minutes. Only the spring of wet grass, rise and fall of his own breath, and the sky gone purple and carmine. End of the world, he thought, only the notion didn't startle him, only if this was the end of the world, it wasn't such a terrible way to go. Everything was ease. Everything was settled.

The man didn't think what had happened. The man didn't wonder, or need to.

He sat on the grass, elbows propped upon his knees, letting the damp soak through him, and even that wasn't unwanted, even the damp reminded him of sitting half-submerged in a stream, memory from years and years ago, the water fresh and renewing in each moment, gracing him with some unspoken gift.

Another five minutes, ten minutes, who could count the time. The grass stayed where the grass was and the damp crept further through him and it all, still all felt right. Him and the world, just him in the world.

And then there came a sound.

[ She's. Still, and silent, and her hand covers her mouth as though to physically prevent her from interrupting. Speaking, texting, breathing more than shallow breaths might break the spell. Speaking might somehow jar him out of this rhythmic patter, which seems to Katrina to be the greatest possible tragedy.

He's awake.

He's sober.

And his storytelling is bewitching. Haunting. Has anyone ever seen this part of him? Has he ever taken the time for anyone else? Maybe Wallace, but she suspects even then, it was a drunken ramble or a half-remembered incident from a night gone by. No, this seems like something just for her, something just between a husband and wife - and doesn't she love subjects of morbid fascination? Monsters and ghosts and mystery, and stories with atmospheres akin to the end of the world?

Doesn't he know that?

She loves him. She loves every last thing about him, every layered flaw that happens to shroud this person, with his beautiful eloquence. ]

Still not giving up on you.

[ Or the story. ]

Working hard to make my life difficult, huh kid?

Well.

For you, I guess I'll endure it.

[ ... ... ]

At first the man scarcely noticed, felt the sound more than he heard it and the sound was no interruption, only one more layering of all the world around. It was a sound borne of silence, come from quiet and knowing quiet’s ways. A sound that wound itself in slow, no startling, no trespass to this moment, this long, lingered moment’s stretch.

A bird.

A bird, he thought, and he wasn’t alone, now not only the man and the grass but the man and the grass and this new, subtle bird.

The bird was dust and a flash of radiance. Ash blown over ember, a glowing heart within. A bird, but no bird that this man had seen, no fluttered browns no silver no jay blue or bright, bright red. Just quiet pulsing not-orange not-red glimpsed beneath the shuffle of its heavy gray. Blink away, and you might miss it. Stare too close, and you won’t see. Little ash bird that knows more than it utters.

Tilt of a small ashy head. The briefest flutter of wingtips.

“Have you been watching me,” the man asked, not minding, no not minding because if the bird had been watching, it was the most agreeable kind of watch, not intrusive not invasive not disrupting, not one bit.

[ What people say is often filtered, an edited statement far removed from the original virgin thought. There are very few people who speak in stream-of-consciousness, who are honest with the words that flow from conception to voice.

What Treavor says is often abbreviated, often self-interrupted. He speaks so little; Katrina knows she can fill the silences well enough, can take up space with her inane chatter, but she has the impression he exists very much in his own head. To see this change, an outpouring of words (texted! Simply input into a phone without any need for drafting, any fruitless pecking at keys!) is remarkable on its own. To know he has such beauty in him is humbling.

The best, most reliable way to learn about someone - to see how they exist in the recessive processes of their mind - is to read their writing.

How one writes is who they are.

Katrina's writing is different from her manner of speech, very different from her texting: these are faces she gives the world, the cheerful blonde, smart but not too smart. Katrina Van Tassel is as much an alias as the other names she uses. But in writing, she hones words; she carves her stories clear and defined, contrast to the nebulous motives and honesty of her protagonists. And that is her existence: sharp and clear, honest in tone, but an untrustworthy narration. She is multiple people, multiple lives, all as loyal and truthful as possible and yet still lacking certainty.

And Treavor is, apparently, calm devastation after a storm.

No, no, that's wrong. (Not entirely wrong. Mostly wrong.) He's a -

She smiles.

He's a dream at the end of the world, isn't he? ]

We write ourselves into our own stories.

Are you the bird or the man?

Trick question. You know I'm the fish.

[ ... ]

;)

You going to let me tell my story, or is it time for some psychoanalysis?

Good answer.

[...]

I g u e s s I can psychoanalyze you quietly.

[...]

Your storytelling is beautiful.

You're beautiful.

Shhh, hey. You'll make me blush.

Fish aren't supposed to blush. It's not in the fish playbook. :/

I asked around, and it's totally a legal play for fish to blush.

Everyone in this bathroom agrees with me.

You going to tell me a story or flirt with me?

Huh. Good to know I'm not breaking any laws. I wouldn't want to go to fish jail.

It's a hard choice, kid. You know I love flirting with you.

🐟 🐟 🐟

I said it's a legal PLAY. You'd have to confirm it's legal legal, since you're the fish lawyer.

I think you love ME and everything else is just a perk. ;)

Shit, I guess I am. :o I'm going to say it's legal. My fish heart tells me so.

And hey, I won't say you're WRONG.

Because you're not. You're not wrong at all. <3

The question is, does the lady locked up in the bathroom want more flirting, or more story?

Of course I'm not wrong. I know the perks of loving someone.

[...]

The question ACTUALLY is, how much creepier could you have made that question?

:/ :/ :/

Didn't mean to.

Unintentional kidnapping? I see how it is.

Flirt first, story after, flirt some more?

I'm prepared to work with that.

Hey, for my Kat, I'm prepared for anything.

At least one of us is prepared. For all my lists and planning, I'm perpetually unprepared for life with you.

...Case in point. There's no prep for this. I mean, I have a contingency plan, but anticipation is out of the question.

[...]

I love it.

And you.

Excuse me, flirt police? Yes, hello, this is Treavor Pendleton calling, and I've spotted a flirt. ;)

Oh shit, flirt police? Plot twist! The flirt is my wife??!

My wife, who I love deeply.

Hey, flirt police? I've got myself a real winner. c:

:o :o I can't believe you called the flirt police on me.

Me, an honest flirt who did no harm.

Well, guess what, smart guy.

I'm calling my LAWYER. ;)

3/3

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

1/2

2/2

no subject

no subject