ashtreelane: (hall of doors)
[personal profile] ashtreelane
unseelie does not rattle tables and chairs, or hurl things down so they break
It's another hallway. There are doors branching off from this one on either side, spaced at regular intervals.
instead it arranges things you’ve thrown away to a pattern that you can’t escape
And there's no end in sight.


Date: 2006-11-05 07:53 am (UTC)
tibetanmethod: (:O)
From: [personal profile] tibetanmethod
The space of a breath.

(He wonders -- could he see his breath, in here, if he could see?)

Says Dale Cooper, into the dark, almost steadily:

"Is there anybody here?"

Date: 2006-11-05 09:00 am (UTC)
tibetanmethod: (he thrusts his tape recorder against the)
From: [personal profile] tibetanmethod
He wheels, eyes squinted, one arm up to shield them --

There's nothing to see.

"Oh jeez," Cooper whispers. Breathes in deeply, and sighs. "Okay. Okay." He's talking to himself, but wouldn't it be better...?



"I'm in a darkened corridor, alone. At least -- I think it's a corridor. I couldn't see much. There was light, but now it's...gone. And there were people, but now..."

[A quiet sigh.]

"I'm alone."

[A strengthening of the voice, and it sounds forced. A sound -- a brief shuffling of footsteps.]

"Here's what I know. I was in Milliways. Then I was in a first corridor. And then I...slipped, into this one. In the first corridor I was with a Charlie McGee and a Veronica Mars, and Anthony Crowley -- a demon of Moiraine's acquaintance. I don't know what happened to them. I was holding the hands of Charlie and Veronica before I arrived in this place, and -- "

"Diane, I think I just found a doorknob. I'm going to try to see if the door leads anywhere."

Date: 2006-11-05 09:21 am (UTC)
tibetanmethod: (he thrusts his tape recorder against the)
From: [personal profile] tibetanmethod
"It opened, and...I'm through."

[Slow, shuffling footsteps.]

"The walls are smooth, and as cold as the rest of the place -- Diane, I don't know the exact temperature, but it's got to be hovering around forty degrees, give or take. From the sound of things...the ceiling might be a little lower."

"I had scrambled eggs for breakfast this morning."

[Reflectively, as the footsteps continue.]

"With toast, and three strips of bacon. The eggs weren't as fluffy as they could have been, but the bacon was bar none the best I've ever had. Diane, have you ever had a really fresh glass of orange juice? It's been years since I've had one. We had one of the old hand juicers when I was growing up, where you cut an orange in half and just mash it down on the pointed part, and turn it, and then pour the juice out of the thing that looked like a moat, and the seeds and things mostly stayed in. The way my dad did got just the right amount of pulp, and if Mom wasn't looking, he'd put some sugar in the glass before he gave it to me."

"I wonder what happened to that juicer."

[More quietly.]

"Diane, I hope you'll understand why I'm talking about -- "

"Anoher door. Trying it."

Date: 2006-11-07 04:36 am (UTC)
tibetanmethod: (through the darkness of futures past)
From: [personal profile] tibetanmethod

Then, steadily:]

"Who's there."

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Date: 2006-11-12 03:30 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
There's a lone shout as he falls, followed by a thuKONK as his body, and then his head, hits the floor.

Bernard takes a breath. Takes another.

Listens to the silence.

It's a very long time before Bernard fumbles his precious box of wooden matches out of his pocket, his hands almost too shaky and numb to grip it. Eventually, he lights one match, and lets out a quiet sob, dropping it to frantically pull himself to one side of what he now knows to be a hallway, leaning against the wall heavily.

"Okay," he whispers to himself. "Okay. Okay. You have to move your legs now."


Date: 2006-11-12 04:37 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Certain major nerves jangle, and Bernard instinctively shields his eyes, trembling from adrenaline shock and dizzy from what he suspects may be a slight concussion.

The only good thing about it -- he didn't see anyone with him.

That's good. That's very good.

He takes another breath and lifts a hand to the back of his head, feeling for the goose egg he knows is there, feeling for broken skin, blood.

The lump is on the left side, behind his ear and up. No blood that he can feel, but his fingertips are numb.

He shoves his hands back into his pockets, and concentrates on his legs again.

Move. Move. Oublier. Laissez-moi oublier. Goddammit, you did not survive this summer to die in this house.


Date: 2006-11-12 05:39 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
The silence is so profound, that Bernard would probably hear a churchmouse fart and jump fifty feet.

As it is, the sound sets his heart racing tripletime, and he turns his head left, right, not even sure which direction it came from.
The one who goes on ahead saves the comrade.
Maybe both.
The one who knows the route protects his friend.
I must now travel a long way.
What seekest thou?
There are other people in here. Other than Bateman. Brian. The woman-god-thing, Illyria.
I seek my brethren.
I seek my brother.
His voice is very quiet and very loud in the hallway.
I must face fighting such as I have not known.
I must travel on a road that I do not know.
He's so petrified, he doesn't even notice that a muscle in his thigh has begun to twitch.

Date: 2006-11-12 06:11 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]

The floor heaves, and Bernard heaves with it, his legs instinctively curling under him.

There's a tiny pause, in which he realizes yes, yes, yesyesyesyesyes, his legs are responding, he moved, he--

He's on them, now, and walking, tripping, his hip catching on doorknobs, every breath crashing in and out, praying that whatever electrical current shuddering up and down his patched-together spinal column does not again shudder to a halt.

My Friend, turn back!...
The road...

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Date: 2006-11-16 04:24 am (UTC)
watching_you: (Trapped)
From: [personal profile] watching_you
Nerves and instinct are all that remain.

So Veronica

gets to her feet

and runs.

Date: 2006-11-17 02:20 am (UTC)
watching_you: (Action)
From: [personal profile] watching_you




Each door is like a gunshot, startling Veronica,
    forcing her to keep running keep moving keep going
        to not look back or to hesitate even for a moment and
            to ignore the dull ache from her knuckles and the
                fact that the sobs that choke her throat are making
                    it harder to breathe in this atmosphere with its constant
                            chill that turns each inhalation into a knife cutting deep
                                and raking her lungs and making her knees feel
                                    wrong and weak somehow and it’s hard to keep
                                        moving when they get like that and she’s staggering
                                                now but she just can’t keep it up she just has to take a
                                                    moment to catch her breath to catch her bearings
                                                        and she stumbles and trips and crashes down and comes to a



Date: 2006-11-17 03:39 am (UTC)
watching_you: (Sleeping)
From: [personal profile] watching_you
It doesn't matter.


She lies very still and feels the cool of the floor against her cheek. It's almost soothing. She remembers being feverish and having her mother press a damp cloth against her forehead, but that was when she was very young, before her mom ran away.


It's nice to think about.


She -


Huh. She blinks. It's an odd sensation. Would've sworn my eyes were already closed.

It's just. So dark. And.



She remembers this one time when she and her father slept out beneath the stars on the beach. And it was strange when she - she woke up in the middle of the night and touched the sand and. It was cold as it passed through her fingers. Which was odd because during the day it was always. So warm.




Veronica exhales.


Date: 2006-11-17 04:52 am (UTC)
watching_you: (Darkness)
From: [personal profile] watching_you
i hear the bells
Dark fingers and she can feel something brushing her cheek, moving hair aside. Thinking of. Days when she would lie in bed and let the morning sun shine in through the window. Just. Resting and listening to the sounds of her parents as they moved about the house. Back when everyone. Still loved each other.

It's not them though. It's her. Own breath. Moving her hair. She's alone.

She can feel herself crying, and the tears are the only warm thing left in this place.
they are like emeralds and
The growl, for the record, does not sound anything like Backup.




on Ash Tree Lane

January 2007

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