It is silent. In the beginning, it is always silent. The cool stillness is like a beacon, silently beckoning its mistress home to her sanctuary. Log on? Y/N _Yes_ Log on: ************ Password: ****** Log on time: 12am/central time Time twists. Or rather, what passes as time here. Everything is pulled apart at the seams, and for a moment it screams. Time resumes it's normal (normal?) flow and the portal ripples into existence. There is no up or down or anywhere, and yet out of this nothing (anything?) the gateway twists into life. For a moment, it simply is there, rippling, and then it's gone. And she is standing in the place and the nothing is something. Jeanne runs her hands through the short red hair, and examines the surroundings. She walks over to the couch that wasn't there a moment ago, but has always been there, and sits to empty out her bag on the coffee table. She knows that she's late. No one's here, so she has some time to clean that monster out. Muttering things about Mary Poppins, and giving impressionable writers ideas, she proceeds to dump out many many colored markers, a few bags of lollies, a coffee maker, various lighters, hot chocolate mix, three fake Ids, and assorted other junk onto the tabletop. A sweep of her hand, and it's all back in the old sidebag. Another contortion in time, and the paint-splattered overalls and shirt have been replaced with a clean tanktop and bellbottoms. Clog-like sandals have replaced combat boots, and a faint smell of lilies is in the (non) air. This is her, loosened from the constraints of mundane reality. She doesn't grow any taller, and her hair doesn't change shape or color- it does that often enough as it is. Jeanne shuts her eyes, and lets the Voices in. Voices....Muses.....different aspects of the same dementia. Her's is simply Voices. She knows perfectly well that sane people don't hear voices. Who decides what is sane? Then again she never wanted to be 'sane.' "Lemmings. Bah." She doesn't write anything down, yet. There's a laptop or a pad or something in her bag if she needs it. For now she just lets everything run in and out of her mind like mercury. Her voices, the choir of thought. Bits of songs and poems, quotes and colors swirl together laughing before scattering to join other fragments. Her own private Sea of Stories. Haroun. She makes a mental note to get her copy of Rushdie back from Stace. She also needs to return those books to the library. Jeanne allows her conscious to wander into the soothing calm. There's a twinge. He's coming he's coming soon now so soon did you feel that? She laughs silently to the Voices. Jeanne knows that her guest is stirring, ready to make an appearance, and will arrive in their own time. A snap of her fingers, and a dozen candles burn in assorted positions around the room. She hates electric lights- too harsh. With ease, Jeanne opens her eyes and walks through the expanse. It is as it has always been, her little apartment in her mind. Time screams in pain again. "Hullo." Her soft accent floats across the space. "I thought maybe I had missed you. My bag's by the couch if you want a lollie. Did you get the email I sent today?" Somehow, her body knows time has passed in the real world. Seconds are hours are a day. No time has passed since her entrance, too much time has passed. As they sit talking, she notices the couch fading from view. For a moment, her guest blurs. It's time to go. She's being scolded, her guest is lecturing her on the time difference- reminding her that it's late where Jeanne lives. A consolation hug, an attempt at stalling, and Jeanne grabs her bag. Something tears. Log off? Y/N _Yes_ Signing off...... Thank you! Log off time: 6am/central time I stretch, wincing at the pain in my neck. I slide the CPU back under my bed, and place the keyboard on top of my monitor. The nice thing about working the 2-10 shift is not having to wake up until noon. I hit save for all the fragments and paragraphs. Time enough to deal with those later. Critically eyeing my painted attire, I simply collapse on the bed, cuddling Darien close. Soooooooo tired, I hadn't even realized how exhausted I was. Growling in the back of my throat, my arm suddenly snakes up and smacks the light switch off. Ah......much better. The last of the candles flickers and dies as the setting moonlight floods through the window and in to the room. Sighing, I snuggle down against the soft blankets and pull Darien tighter. It's only six in the morning, and it's already nearing 85 degrees according to the thermometer against the window. Let's hear it for the Midwest heatwave! As Lord Shaper begins his encroachment of my mind, I can hear the story. Sleeping. Beginning to stir. And as it begins to breathe, I'm already far away. Walking on beaches. Dancing on cliffs. And watching people who don't really exist. |
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