#gothsic

          ❝ AAAAND WE’RE STOPPED  again.  julian, why are we stopped again ? ❞  despite forcing a little laugh along with his demands toward his driver, he’s clearly exasperated.  ignoring the man’s response, the once-ler stares out the tinted window from the backseat of his town car to find short narrow roads and swimsuit clad people carelessly walking in front of traffic.  unable to stifle an eye roll, he leans back in his seat, propping a foot atop his opposite knee.  ❝ just honk at them.  jesus. ❞

a sigh escapes him as he gazes out the front window, focus eventually softening.  while his eagerness to reunite with jonathan vastielle, the complimentary writer who interviewed him months ago, overrules any minor inconvenience like traffic, he imagined a place with a name like venice beach to ooze glamour.  to say the least, the dingy little shops and homes they drive past are not what he expected.  he supposes it could just be the beach that looks this trashy.  the golf course they intend to visit should be a refreshing change for jonathan.

when the car finally pulls in front of a tiny shack, the once-ler gratefully pops his door open and steps out.  he’s dressed in a ridiculous set of high-waisted plaid pants in kelly green, styled with a matching cap and pepto bismol-pink polo tee.  by the way he lowers his bulky sunglasses down his nose bridge in a casual pose, he clearly has a high opinion of this outfit.  he looks the structure up and down before turning back to his driver.  ❝ this is the address he gave us ? ❞  the man rereads the address aloud and the once-ler’s eyes widen, staring at what he wouldn’t quite consider a house.  ❝ ha ha, no big deal !  i’ll, uh...i’ll be right back. ❞

a polite smile plastered on his face, he shuts his door and steps along the pavement toward the door, careful to avoid the cracks.  by the way jonathan carried himself in their interview, he hadn’t expected him to live like this.  regardless, the once-ler can’t remember the last time he just hung out with a friend--let alone, an older, cooler friend.  he hopes desperately that this game of golf will solidify a friendship between the two of them.

he raps on the door and rocks back and forth on his heels as he waits.  he notices a rather large spider in the doorway inches from his face and he jumps back, letting out a little squeal.  when the door opens, his grin returns.

     ❝ DO YOU -- make these ? ❞

     PERHAPS THE question comes across as entirely unnecessary -- it’s rather obvious, isn’t it, with the strewn inks and pencils and papers all cluttered into Jonathan’s cramped excuse of a studio, but it’s difficult to parse his words into things a bit more elegant, with more nuance.  He doesn’t trust his human language abilities quiet yet; adequate eloquence will come with time for his translator implant to adjust.  Mismatched irises rove over the strewn artwork before him, delicate gloved hands carefully taking up the edges of paper swathed in laminate -- original inks, one day they’ll be quite pricey, really, because Mr. Vastielle is destined to become a cult-classic.  There’s a nervous little laugh, a quiet, shy smile as he carefully sets aside one sheet and withdraws another, index finger tracing the swirling black lines, black ink voids and little tumultuous crosshatchings.  

          ❝ DAMN. ❞  SHE STANDS  outside the local bookstore, staring at the sign out front in disappointment.  staring back at her is the face of the ruggedly handsome writer her best friend willow cannot stop talking about :  jonathan vastielle.  beneath his name, buffy reads and rereads the times of his book signing and could’ve sworn that it should say 6-9 pm, not 6-8.  cursing herself again, she checks her watch despite knowing that it’s well past eight o’clock.

disappointed, willow’s well loved copy of the author’s graphic novel (whose title buffy cannot pronounce) dangling sadly in her hand, buffy starts down the street to head for home.  a sound in the neighboring alleyway catches her attention and she’s surprised to see mr. vastielle himself having a cigarette alone.

before she can second guess it, she takes her shot and rushes to his side.  ❝ hi !  mr. vastielle, right ?  i totally meant to come to your signing...but i got the times mixed up. ❞  she clears her throat awkwardly, realizing she’s probably really annoying this guy.  plastering on her most charming smile, she continues,  ❝ i’m sorry to bother you, but do you think you could sign my book really quick ? ❞

A THOUSAND WORDS WITHERING ‘PON INKED PAPER, thoughts and feelings and secrets being cruelly spilled only to afterwards be molded and contorted into something grotesque and impossible to recognize or categorize   ──   HER HEART IS A CHIMERA, a creature that ought not to exist outside of nightmarish tales and long forgotten reveries. An overly dramatic sigh throbs against the back of the young starling’s clenched throat and although it does wither ‘pon the tip of her  (  acidic  )  tongue, it still manages to deftly paint the expanse of peachy features into the sulky pigments of puerile frustration and annoyance.   ❝  Do you think there’s any topic that humans have yet to write or SING about  ?  Lately, everything seems to be so... Banal and uninteresting.  ❞

@gothsic​ | @symptomofinsanity​ | @rebelgargoyle​ | @cardshcrp​ | @sebaldcoded​ | @companionperfected​ | @demayoproud​ | @surgikill​ | @doctorvii​ | @talktoten​ | @ofamazonia​ | @northpolebear​ |

Augh. . . Whatever. He decided he could deal with it. Besides, for it being a Friday afternoon, it was pretty empty. Usually, hundreds of nearby office workers who were cramming to get all their work done were filling the store with shouts for coffee. With the little foot traffic they were currently getting, he felt rather at ease. The line had even died down, leaving no one but students chilling in the lounging area with their laptops. With a heavy sigh, he decided that he could turn his attention away for just a brief moment. Hands were quick to reach for his phone, leaning casually up against the counter as he didn’t think there would be anyone else coming in anytime soon. But like with most things in his life, he was wrong. . .

Brown eyes momentarily glanced upwards from behind circular frames, catching a single glimpse of the man who now stood in line. Wait. . . Wait, wait, wait. . . Back up just a second. . .

Forget getting a customer out of fucking nowhere. . . This guy looked TOTALLY familiar. A single glance became a full-on stare as Curly stood there, mouth slightly open in pure confusion trying to figure this one out. There was a brief squint given, Curly mentally ignoring whatever had just been said to him by the other. . . Why couldn’t he figure this out !? He definitely had it on the tip of his tongue. . !! And yet, the only words that he could muster were, ❝ Sorry uh. . . What was that ??  ❞