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This diary entry is written by Bootheghost. ( View all entries )
Previous entry: when she was five in category Drabble and Prose

a long-distance phone callCategory: Drabble and Prose
Monday, 12 August 2013
07:31:14 PM (GMT)
a/n: the encouraging feedback prompted me to offer a little more
writing up to the table (believe me when i say i have a large backlog of one shot
pieces all regarding the same pair of characters - though i must admit their
real story is much more intense)
so! i was inspired by a candid photo of two people, stranded in different cities, but
connected by a phone call
there was something very peaceful about that scene, but also something inherently
i think i wanted to capture that feeling of being alone, awake in the very dead of
night, when there is nothing but detached quiet, and the the thought that maybe this
time morning might not quite make it for once
technically, technically, this would act as an insert in a canon (thus the
preconceived characters, the names, and the allusions to story verse events)
but i hope the feeling and their longing is enough to keep this afloat

as always, reviews, critiques, thoughts or simple hellos are forever appreciated
i do just enjoy the simple pleasure of making others pause for a moment to think just
a little, or even ask a question of what universe it is that i'm created (i kinda do
have a lot of this stuff building up here and there - but nothing like the big
project i'm so involved in constructing now let me tell you)

as a general aside, this is a little old
to be truthful, it doesn't even fit with their canon any more!
oh, but it's just so tremendously them

A Long-Distance Phone Call He does not believe words stretched so thinly over copper wires should be so difficult. But they are. Shouldn’t the distance of four thousand miles dilute the way in which he drowns helplessly in his seized-up throat? There are cracks running through his bones, and the distance makes them creak as they splinter beneath the dial tone. The days seem more plentiful, when his youth escapes him. Her voice is a tender kiss in this cold world. "It’s snowing here." The paper-white flakes are building up a blanket-fortress outside his window – on the balconies across the street, on the roofs of cars dozing below. He presses his hand to the window; the air condenses around his slender fingers. He creates smears on the glass. This city is like glass: transparent. There’s nothing bold and brackish here. He finds no soul in office walls and concrete floors. He wishes for her, opaquely. "Yeah, here too." He dreams of the frosty cape which covers and caresses neon signs. Of petals of snow silently dancing, spinning, swaying – fleeting to the ground and filling up the window ledges of his apartment, like white lace upon pale, glassy skin. Glass. Does she stare beyond it too, immersed in the winter flurry? He wonders if he woke her, or if she has been sat beside the phone for hours, waiting for his call. It’s late there, after all – really late, so late that the night has reached that truly hopeless stage where it seems like morning might not come this time. His touch trails the glass. He envisions. "Have you been to bed yet?" He hopes that she has, because, in his fogged-up head, he does not want her hanging on his every waking need to call her, text her, see her. But then, in that darker place, where his dreams tend to pool abyssally, he finds himself secretly glad that he has found someone who cares for him on such an intrinsic level. "I was sketching." She answers his question indirectly; he imagines her captivation with the snow she views through the frosted glass tunnel to the outside world, and guesses that to be the fascination which prevents her sleep. "I’m glad to hear your voice," he says, and he knows he’s stepping on a threshold which seems to transcend their friendship. There are words he cannot yet say. And so he limits himself to dipping his toes in waters of moonlight-dappled temptation. The world seems quiet, save for her gentle breathing in his ear. "There’s no-one to talk to here. It’s a little lonesome." The candid breath catches in her throat – or is that just a hiccup in the line? He imagines her graceful hands around the receiver, tightening. The darkness of the apartment absorbing, until she is the only thing illuminated by the portal of glass connecting her to the city beyond. He sees a masking silence. "What is there like?” she breathes – her voice is like braille because he reads her and his body responds fluently to her words, fingers squeaking across the misty glass. "You’d like it," he sighs. His eyes close. He dreams of her beside him, behind that same pane of glass, looking out. "You’d find so many things here which I have not." "I wasn’t asking if I’d like it.” Her timid voice fizzles across the miles of static between them, and a world turning through a transient infinity of night. He hears the sound of tenderness which pours like iridescent stardust from between her fingers – his longing intensifies. "I miss you." He hides a lot behind warm smiles and soft hellos, because he’s afraid of asking her: what do you think of me? (The demons inside him say her answer will be: I don’t.) Still, he carries on, because sometimes these words cascade like flurries of this white snow from his quivering lips, before he can stop himself to appease them with thoughts of what could be. (But when he thinks more than he wants, his thoughts begin to bleed.) "Don’t say that." Her voice trembles, barely a whisper beneath the buzzing static. Has he stepped too far this time? He closes his hand in a fist, rests his forehead against the glass. It’s cool. "Why not? It’s true." Does his exasperation come across too loudly, too obtrusively? He squeezes his eyes as shut as he can muster – he wants to block out that blue city light, the hypnotic lace swirls beyond his window. The city beneath him is yet to fall asleep – it only lingers on the cusp of drowsiness. Save he seeks the solitude of darkness. "I know." Timeless, the world stops spinning. "But there’s nothing we can do." Her voice trails off, and for a while, is lost to the distance between them. "I don’t want to dwell on it." He wants to tell her that it hurts because it matters, but he feels his words seep between the cracks in those splintering bones of his. They dwell perpetually in a grey silence, the sound of her breaths through the phone soothing on his city-swollen heart. He could lie for many years in such a gentle purgatory, but fears it is not a feeling shared. He incites the feathery touch of her voice once more. "Talk to me." He does not doubt the desperate longing in his plea, submerged in a grey, translucent light, too grainy, too dreary to see beyond. He retreats from the glass, the hollows of his knees meeting soft linen – he collapses backwards, expended. The bed is too hard, the pillows too lumpy. The sheets do not smell right, something too pristine, too artificial. He presses the phone harder against his ear, praying, somehow, it’ll lessen the distance. He lies very still, even though the white-washed ceiling holds little interest. He hangs on the slight sighs and delicate rustling, and pictures her twirling her hair between her thumb and forefinger, or a gentle hand upon her neck. There’s something about those little breaths that clears the monochrome haze transparently. "About what?" He’s jealous of that place where she is, because it’s not here. Why does it take four thousand miles for him to realize the intensity of his emotion? It’s a little too cold in that room where he lies; the heating is broken, or maybe the contractors forget to double glaze the windows. He feels the chill on his chest, on his arms, on his rising throat as his breathes deeply. He must steady himself. "Anything." His world is black and white and grey, until she speaks – how deeply he is stained by her colour. "I want to take you out for dinner when I get back. Can you think of anywhere we could go?" "Yes." She pauses, for breath, for thought. He thinks that threshold must really sting (it does for him, after all). Her glass begins to mist. "I’ve got somewhere in mind… I went with my friend a few days ago." His brow furrows, his world seems more translucent. The snow beyond his window blends into opaque obscurity. Blackness. And whiteness. She does not often speak of others. "Which friend?" Really, he cannot fathom the myriad of universes within her. Too often, her character draws upon another unopened faucet, the water first slowly dripping, and then gushing out all at once, in the manner by which one falls asleep. If he was dismally tame, she was so tremendously fascinating. "Thomas." He feels his jealousy is like the snow, for he cannot push it back with his bare hands – it slips between his long fingers and freezes in those bone-crevices. It’s cold, and shouldn't be building up like this. He runs a hand through his hair, loosens the tie around his neck. The city murmurs. He thinks he’s been waking up alone for far too long. "Oh." He wonders if she can read the way in which his naked soul deflates so selfishly. "You haven’t mentioned him before." "I know." Her words are crystalline, and fragile. He imagines the static could – will break them. The night beckons. Its black fingers curl and uncurl. He cannot help but be ruled by the greenest of sins. If she is glass, he is paper, because his emotions blot like ink upon his surface, and make his weak and rippable. "He’s lonely. But he doesn’t realize it," she explains, solemnly. The line splutters. Her breathing is lost to the inaudible static for a moment. His breath is baited – it clings to his lips. "He surrounds himself with people he does not care for." The snow on the streets does not settle for him; as water, it begins to absorb the dancing white petals, gobbling up their energy. The air groans, for it is tired. "This boy interests you." Be it snow or rain that falls silently beyond the window pane, there is no mask he can create to conceal the truth his words cradle. In solitude, he feels the weight of loneliness. "Reasons are simple," she says with clarity. Her voice resonates so close now – his skin prickles in the dark. "But not for him. He’s different. I want to understand him a little better." The grey night breathes heavily down his neck – it bothers him. He feels its fingers fleetingly along his throat, his jaw, like the memory of an all too distant lover. His silence sweeps the four thousand miles. "I miss you." A tender kiss melts the haze upon the glass. Her words alone, they tremble. The greyness flees. "I thought you didn’t want to dwell on it." He sits up, spine hunched. He cares not for the white-washed ceiling, nor the snow-turned-rain beyond the confines of his hotel room. All becomes inconsequential now. The dream she writes becomes his tether. "That’s not what I meant." She means she hates the distance, the miles of copper wire, the way words become suddenly so difficult, yet mean so much. She means she misses the way she exists only when he touches her. The rest of her is smoke. "Come home safely." Silence descends. The rain is quiet. The glass sings.

SecondStar says:   16 August 2013   925573  
 Woah. Excuse me for stalking your Kupika, but this is an
absolutely stunning short. I really felt the emotion of the characters
when I was reading and generally I think your writing style is
beautiful. Please please please share more when you can, I would love
to read them. ♥
Grizzlies says :   7 May 2014   672521  
i first read this a while ago and still love it, aw. ;u; it really
reminds me of eleanor and park

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