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Post by ELIZA RACHEL HEILBRONNER on Jan 1, 2012 13:43:35 GMT -5
"No ship of all that under sail or steam
Have gathered people to us more and more
But Pilgrim-manned the Mayflower in a dream
Has been her anxious convoy in to shore." Eliza’s bare feet leapt across the cold, stone floor of the Chapel as she recited one of her favorite Robert Frost poems. Of course, she couldn’t feel the cold- She couldn’t really feel anything in the Living World. But, for now, she didn’t think about the fact that she was dead. She had never been to the lone-standing building in the Penitentiary. It was very large, and greatly falling apart. And, given that it was the middle of the week, completely void of people. It was an excellent time to visit- she didn’t have to worry about startling anybody alive. Taking the opportunity to be alone, she had slipped off her shoes and taken her reddish-brown curls down from their usual loose bun, and began simply running around the empty building for fun. After doing so for quite some time, she decided to take a break. It wasn’t that she was tired- that didn’t happen anymore- but that she just wanted to. She retired to a pew in the front-left corner of the church, panting with the memory of breath and exhaustion. Word Count: 230
Note: Birthdaaaaaay
Muse: Poetry
Song: None |
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Post by OLIVER FRANCIS MILLER on Jan 1, 2012 21:54:49 GMT -5
A black covered spiral-bound sketchbook. That was the only thing that Oliver Miller had really wanted to keep from his old life, and it was the only thing that he carried with him during the trip through Eastern State. Spring and summer tours offered free roaming audio tours, and on a whim, he had taken some money, tucked away in his pockets after the last visit home to his father, and paid for admission and a pair of headphones. He didn't bother with them, because the pencil clipped to the binding and the eraser stuffed hastily into his pocket were all that mattered, really. He had sketched out some of the empty cells, paying attention to the natural decay preserved in favor of becoming its own art form. But now he wanted to get at the chapel, and settle in at a pew and focus on getting in a more detailed landscape. He wanted to capture the silence, and the decay, and the hopelessness of praying prisoners who had passed through for a century.
He made his way through quietly, the scuffling of his sneakers a mere whisper of what they once had been. He turned the eraser over in his fingers within the pocket of his cardigan, not really paying attention to anything, but looking at everything. He was grateful that people seemed to just . . . gloss over him so far that day, not wholly seeing him, but giving him enough attention to remind him that yes, he was there. And that was the best kind of day, Oliver thought; he liked being able to find contact if he wanted, but relished being left to his own devices. No one was in the chapel when he wandered in, taking in the sights and getting a feel for the shading, the colors, the shadows of the paint chips crumbling from the walls, the floor coated with dust and debris that even a good sweeping wouldn't fully eliminate.
He slowly walked to the front, tapping a finger on each pew as he went, watching his feet leave impressions but not quite footprints in the lingering dust. He turned to find a good place to sit, there he would have the best view, the best angles and lighting and the best look at the dust flowing through air that condemned men once breathed as they prayed to their gods for forgiveness and mercy in the hellish conditions. It was only that turn that brought him to see a young girl sitting in one of the pews, the dull and worn wood showing through her body. "Oh!" he said, starting. "Are you a ghost?" He immediately flinched. "That was rude, I'm sorry."
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Post by ELIZA RACHEL HEILBRONNER on Jan 4, 2012 15:44:12 GMT -5
“Oh! Are you a ghost?” Eliza jumped at the sound of the voice. "Sorry, that was rude…” She turned, and saw a young man standing at the back of the chapel, obviously the person who spoke to her. She wasn’t used to people talking to her anymore, since so few ever did. She especially wasn’t used to anybody saying it was rude to ask if she was a ghost. Most just screamed or ran, or got a vacuum and attempted to be a Ghostbuster.
She observed the man closer- He was tall, young, dark hair… And transparent. At the notice of this fact, her green eyes widened, a smile spread across her face. “That’s okay. Yes, I’m a ghost. She stood ad fully faced the stranger. And by the looks of it, I’d say you are, too? She inquired. She sure hoped the man was, since she got such few chances to interact with her own kind. She crossed her fingers behind her back in hope, and gave him a friendly smile. Word Count: 201
Note: Bad day T.T
Muse: Indifference
Song: None |
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Post by OLIVER FRANCIS MILLER on Jan 5, 2012 23:11:31 GMT -5
“That’s okay. Yes, I’m a ghost." Oliver's face lit up. He wasn't sure if he had ever met another ghost, unless they were like him--easily passable as alive, because aside from when he went out of his way to concentrate on disappearing (a trick he still hadn't nailed very well!), he was solid-looking, even sometimes making noise and casting faded shadows. He sometimes sat up at night, wondering if he was in some kind of personal Hell, where he was stuck being always in view, when he would like nothing more than to fade away into obscurity. But at the same time, that would probably mean having to give up his father, which he knew he wouldn't be able to handle.
The young girl in front of him, looking like she had been plucked right from a history book about . . . urban colonists or something, was the kind of faded and see-through he had wished he could become. He thought he would remember having seen someone like that in his time around the city--he'd gotten even more observant and dedicated to watching and recording than when he was alive--but he couldn't say he could recognize that wispy quality outside of Patrick Swayze's masterpiece. He stood in his place for a few seconds, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, sucking in the memory of a breath to push himself into speaking again, when she did the job for him. "And by the looks of it, I’d say you are, too?"
"The . . . looks?" he started, looking down at himself. No, he looked about the same! Maybe it was different for other ghosts? Maybe he saw himself as he wanted to, and he was more transparent (or at least more obviously dead) to other people who knew exactly what to look for. He frowned, plucking at the hem of his cardigan, but shrugged off his concerns. More pressing was the fact that he was now alone with a young-looking girl in a chapel in a horrible prison. Was she a prisoner...? No, they didn't have kids that young! I think, he thought, lifting his gaze back to her. He returned the smile awkwardly, the corners of his mouth wobbling as if they weren't sure whether to commit to the gesture.
"Y-yeah, I am! A ghost, I mean. I'm just, um, on one of the tours," he said softly, gripping his book tighter and drawing it in closer to his body, almost protectively. He fought the urge to begin squirming, as though he'd been caught with his pants down; public displays of his art always made his heart (or the memory of it) flutter like a caged bird, and now he was in view of someone from whom he apparently couldn't even fade. "Are you taking a tour, too?"
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Post by ELIZA RACHEL HEILBRONNER on Jan 7, 2012 11:58:14 GMT -5
Head cocked slightly, Eliza watched the boy search for words. “The…Looks?” She resisted giggling at the awkward smile he gave her. “Y-yeah! I am! A ghost, I mean. I’m on one of the tours.”
Tours. That’s puzzled her. If he was a ghost, why was he taking a tour? She just walked in, completely unnoticed. Perhaps… Perhaps people could still see him? He didn’t look like he’d died long ago, so perhaps that affected it? But then again, she couldn’t really follow “modern trends” so who knew how long he’d been gone?
“Are you taking the tour, too?”
“Oh, no.” She replied. “I’m just sort of… Wandering around. I don’t come here often, so I decided to pay a visit.” She cast her eyes down, noticed a small book in the hands of the boy. He pulled it closer, gripping it protectively. It looked solid- perhaps he was the type of ghost that could interact with the World of the Living? She could, but only a little. She couldn’t pick things up and carry them around like that, only items that had crossed over. That’s how she acquired all of her clothing- dresses that had once been someone’s favorite, gotten a large, unfixable rip in the side; stockings hand-spun by a grandmother, outgrown by the wearer. Anything somebody had loved and cherished that was lost, eventually crossed over.
She glanced at the book once more, then back to the young man. “If I’m interfering with something, I can leave. It’s okay.” Word Count: 298
Note: Could have
done more,
but sister’s
kicking me
off :/
Muse: Curiosity
Song: None |
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Post by OLIVER FRANCIS MILLER on Jan 7, 2012 14:53:34 GMT -5
“I’m just sort of… Wandering around." Oliver's mouth pulled up into a small, warm smile. Yeah, he knew all about that. It was kind of his past time even when he was alive, but now it was practically his job. "I don’t come here often, so I decided to pay a visit.”
"To the prison, you mean? Yeah, I guess most people don't really--" he trailed off, chest raising with the imitation of a quick breath as he searched for the appropriate phrasing, "--hang around a place like this for fun." He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. "But I guess . . . we're not really most people." His chin dropped and he looked up through his eyelashes almost sheepishly. "But, um, I guess that just makes things more interesting?" His voice raised an octave at the end, making it obvious that he wasn't quite ready to commit to that particular way of viewing the world.
“If I’m interfering with something, I can leave. It’s okay.” Oliver paused, hesitated, then shook his head.
"Oh, no! I mean, you . . . you were here first! And I just, um, came over to--" he stopped again, keeping a flinch from his face even as he imagined the reactions to his next words ("oh wow neat you draw that's so cool i can only draw stick figures" or "oh my grandfather was a painter!" or "oh do you want to paint are you going to put your paintings in a gallery what do you mean no you don't want to paint" -- all things he had heard countless times before) "--to sketch. So if you were here, I was just going to sit! Over here, probably, so, um, you can stay! I can stay out of the way."
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