The pencil clattered on the stone floor, echoing around the cavernous space. An eyebrow arched delicately at the intrusion, a slight quirk of the lips, all visible only briefly before the shadows fell again. The air was heavy with an oddly familiar metallic tang and the faintest trace of suplher. Everything was caught in a soft laugh, an arched back, and eyes that scorched the darkness. A lilting voice that was designed to both soothe and tear apart became as immediate as oxygen. Permeable, it sank through conciousness and into the blood stream.
"You really have no idea."
A soft thump provided the only answer, but he was dead before he hit the ground. The walls seemed to close in on themselves, denying what they had just seen. They clamped their hands over their ears as the soft laugh played between them again, passing from one end to the other. Silence descended. It was a pink haze, light and decadent. It was anything but oppresive.
We're in trouble now.
Also,
I've learned a lot this past week, I learned my friend LeVar Burton is on Twitter, I learned how to tie three different nautical knots, I learned who William Beckett was, and I've learned how hard it is to find a rust-free 1979 Trans Am in California, near Los Angeles, that isn't brown, gold, manual, or being sold by a diehard Burt Reynolds buff.
Oh Gerard *shakes head* How we adore you.
Music: Some ridiculous Charles Bronson movie
Mood: Dispondent
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