yrindor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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writetomyheart2019-05-02 06:00 pm
yrindor) wrote in writetomyheart2019-05-02 06:00 pm
Entry tags:
[Team Two] Mists
In which Gentarou encounters a stray cat (and not the human sort for once)
The cat jumped off the windowsill to nudge at his leg. Gentarou frowned. He didn't think he had left the window open, but he must have. Otherwise, how could the cat have gotten in? It wasn't like Dice, who could let himself in and take over the futon whenever he wanted. The cat had to have come through the window. He must have opened it earlier and forgotten about it; he often forgot about things while writing. As the story wrapped around him, swirling before his eyes and wrapping around his fingers like mist, it was easy to forget there was another world outside of the story.
And a story it had been. There were days when the pen fought him, where every word had to be dragged bodily out onto the page. Then there were days like today, where the story flowed from him as easily as blood flows from a wound. Where the words hemorrhaged out onto the page so quickly he wasn't sure he could stop them if he tried. Those were the days he felt invincible. Kingdoms had been brought down by words before; what worlds could he rule with his?
The cat butted against his leg again, more insistently this time. He knew cats. Next he'd find claws in his leg if he didn't pay attention.
"Wait for me," he whispered to his story as he rose. Stray cats always liked milk, right? Gods knew he always had some in his fridge for when Dice wandered in. He poured milk into a saucer and set it on the floor. The cat ran over immediately without so much as a glance in his direction, the selfish little thing.
Remembering the window that had let the cat in, he turned to close it. It wasn't open. It sat just as he remembered leaving it, closed and latched against the night's chill. He felt the first shiver of unease as he turned back to the cat.
The cat looked up at him with eyes the same deep blue as the night sky. In those eyes, Gentarou saw the universe. It called to him, tempting him with whispers of untold stories just beyond his reach.
He looked away, his heart pounding in his chest. He was the storyteller, not the story.
The cat had different ideas. Milk forgotten, it walked to the door, clearly expecting him to follow.
He hesitated, but the mysteries he had seen behind those eyes called to him despite his better judgement. He wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and opened the door.
A fog had rolled in while he had been writing, filling the streets with a mist so thick he could barely see his hand in front of his face. It swirled around him as he walked, parting just enough to reveal a streetlamp here or a fire hydrant there before it closed in again and obscured the world from view. The cat twined around his legs as if it were made of mist itself. He swore the cat must be as incorporeal as mist as well, never tripping him even as he felt it brushing against the wide legs of his pants. After everything else, maybe that wasn't too much of a leap of imagination.
He followed the cat through turns and twisted streets, down alleys he swore he had never seen before. In the mist, he lost all sense of direction. He let the mists take him, and followed the cat to wherever it had chosen to bring him.
Hours, or was it days, later, the mists finally parted, leaving him standing before a large, marble building. Fog swirled around its base, but never touched the walls, as if some unseen force held it back.
The doors massive doors swung open on silent hinges. Inside, book after book lined shelves stretching farther than the eye could see. The universe in stories.
Gentarou stepped inside. His boot clicked against the marble floor, but there was no echo. No sooner was the sound created than it was absorbed by the dense volumes surrounding it. In his own little bubble, Gentarou walked into the shelves.
From everywhere and nowhere a laugh rang out, as bright as bubblegum and as sharp as glass.
You're up![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
clearlykero
The cat jumped off the windowsill to nudge at his leg. Gentarou frowned. He didn't think he had left the window open, but he must have. Otherwise, how could the cat have gotten in? It wasn't like Dice, who could let himself in and take over the futon whenever he wanted. The cat had to have come through the window. He must have opened it earlier and forgotten about it; he often forgot about things while writing. As the story wrapped around him, swirling before his eyes and wrapping around his fingers like mist, it was easy to forget there was another world outside of the story.
And a story it had been. There were days when the pen fought him, where every word had to be dragged bodily out onto the page. Then there were days like today, where the story flowed from him as easily as blood flows from a wound. Where the words hemorrhaged out onto the page so quickly he wasn't sure he could stop them if he tried. Those were the days he felt invincible. Kingdoms had been brought down by words before; what worlds could he rule with his?
The cat butted against his leg again, more insistently this time. He knew cats. Next he'd find claws in his leg if he didn't pay attention.
"Wait for me," he whispered to his story as he rose. Stray cats always liked milk, right? Gods knew he always had some in his fridge for when Dice wandered in. He poured milk into a saucer and set it on the floor. The cat ran over immediately without so much as a glance in his direction, the selfish little thing.
Remembering the window that had let the cat in, he turned to close it. It wasn't open. It sat just as he remembered leaving it, closed and latched against the night's chill. He felt the first shiver of unease as he turned back to the cat.
The cat looked up at him with eyes the same deep blue as the night sky. In those eyes, Gentarou saw the universe. It called to him, tempting him with whispers of untold stories just beyond his reach.
He looked away, his heart pounding in his chest. He was the storyteller, not the story.
The cat had different ideas. Milk forgotten, it walked to the door, clearly expecting him to follow.
He hesitated, but the mysteries he had seen behind those eyes called to him despite his better judgement. He wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and opened the door.
A fog had rolled in while he had been writing, filling the streets with a mist so thick he could barely see his hand in front of his face. It swirled around him as he walked, parting just enough to reveal a streetlamp here or a fire hydrant there before it closed in again and obscured the world from view. The cat twined around his legs as if it were made of mist itself. He swore the cat must be as incorporeal as mist as well, never tripping him even as he felt it brushing against the wide legs of his pants. After everything else, maybe that wasn't too much of a leap of imagination.
He followed the cat through turns and twisted streets, down alleys he swore he had never seen before. In the mist, he lost all sense of direction. He let the mists take him, and followed the cat to wherever it had chosen to bring him.
Hours, or was it days, later, the mists finally parted, leaving him standing before a large, marble building. Fog swirled around its base, but never touched the walls, as if some unseen force held it back.
The doors massive doors swung open on silent hinges. Inside, book after book lined shelves stretching farther than the eye could see. The universe in stories.
Gentarou stepped inside. His boot clicked against the marble floor, but there was no echo. No sooner was the sound created than it was absorbed by the dense volumes surrounding it. In his own little bubble, Gentarou walked into the shelves.
From everywhere and nowhere a laugh rang out, as bright as bubblegum and as sharp as glass.
You're up
clearlykero