RE: The Gradual Massacre (GBS2G4) [Round 6: Tidal Cove]
10-26-2015, 02:29 AM
Over the rocks
(salt-scoured, enbarnacled)
Down to the beach
Keep the gulls (the gears) at bay
Tick, tick<file not found:
C:\Cove\ADMIN\birds.ogg>
Tick CRASH graunch screech
“Countess, you’ve got better shit to do than follow me around!”
Countess extricated herself with a squeal, limbs dully shining where the barnacles had cut in. Holly dumped Arnold, without protest, on the sand. The sea-hag was out on her porch again, unstrapping some kind of basket (a coracle, though Holly wouldn’t have recognised it) from the side of her shack. Holly took a break from being done with everyone’s shit long enough for Delphine to let it fall into the water, and shoving it beachward.
“Thanks,” called Holly over the clatter of an paddle being tossed in, only a little sarcastic. Delphine shrugged.
“You were going to drag that wretched thing over anyway.”
Holly didn’t bother to ask whether that was supposed to be some kind of oraculous insight. She hiked up her skirts, waded out to grab the boat, and with a fair bit of splashing and cursing about in the shallows eventually got Arnold into the damn thing. Arnold seemed hellbent on being fifty shades of useless, but he at least managed to grip the oar when Holly shoved it into his hands.
“Can you get yourself out to that boat?”
Arnold stared blankly at Holly, stared blankly in the direction of the tower, then back at Holly. Countess waved; Arnold flinched and nodded.
“Oh thank god.” Then: “...Are you going to behave yourself?”
Nod. “Good.” She pushed the coracle out, beyond the scum-ring surf that lapped at the cove. To whoever was listening and competent enough to pass the message on, she yelled:
“Tell Algernon I’m off to search the woods!”
No response, save for the eventual clatter of the paddle. Ugh. Holly turned to Countess, and jerked a thumb woods-ward.
“He dzzzzzzzzzzzn’t belong there.” It almost came out like a sigh.
“Well, he’s not staying in that ruin, and I’m certainly not leaving him anywhere you can go,” snapped Holly. “Shit. Should’ve asked that witch how long until the fog-”
“Five hours, tk-tk-tkwenty-seven minggggggtes.”
Holly stopped. “How would you know?”
Her shrug set her shoulderblades (and Holly’s teeth) on squealing edge. “It’s like clock-k-k-k-k-wk.” Chirp-laugh-clack-sprang. “twenty-six minutes.”
“Fine. Perfect. Fan-fucking-tastic. Do me a favour and let me spend at least an hour of that in peace, would you?”
Holly trekked into the woods with many a glance back toward the cove and the boat and fucking Countess, but the amalgam was making her laboured way off the beach, heading for the hills.
Nothing ahead of Holly now, but the woods.
Gnarled and sickly pines - trunks black, boughs bare. A spongy mush of needles underfoot. Buried branches, snapping under her weight when she deigned a futile glance up and away from the forest floor; a sunless sky draped across the dead canopy that wouldn’t care whether she lingered in those woods for five hours or fifty.
The sun was <runtime error>. The birds were <file not found>. Flowers <you’re fucking joking, right?>
What a goddamn <expression unavailable> day. The silence was worse than the beach, somehow.
Holly might’ve preferred groves to shores, but this waterlogged mockery with its malingering fog like a bad memory left her wondering why she’d bothered enjoying anything. Grabbing a stick, she gouged a mark in the sooty flank of a tree, like hell she’d get this far and become fog-food or whatever the fuck while wandering in lost circles.
Holly pressed on, ignoring the rare lick of fog slithering out of sight. Wasn’t like it’d still be there if she turned to look again.
(salt-scoured, enbarnacled)
Down to the beach
Keep the gulls (the gears) at bay
Tick, tick<file not found:
C:\Cove\ADMIN\birds.ogg>
Tick CRASH graunch screech
“Countess, you’ve got better shit to do than follow me around!”
Countess extricated herself with a squeal, limbs dully shining where the barnacles had cut in. Holly dumped Arnold, without protest, on the sand. The sea-hag was out on her porch again, unstrapping some kind of basket (a coracle, though Holly wouldn’t have recognised it) from the side of her shack. Holly took a break from being done with everyone’s shit long enough for Delphine to let it fall into the water, and shoving it beachward.
“Thanks,” called Holly over the clatter of an paddle being tossed in, only a little sarcastic. Delphine shrugged.
“You were going to drag that wretched thing over anyway.”
Holly didn’t bother to ask whether that was supposed to be some kind of oraculous insight. She hiked up her skirts, waded out to grab the boat, and with a fair bit of splashing and cursing about in the shallows eventually got Arnold into the damn thing. Arnold seemed hellbent on being fifty shades of useless, but he at least managed to grip the oar when Holly shoved it into his hands.
“Can you get yourself out to that boat?”
Arnold stared blankly at Holly, stared blankly in the direction of the tower, then back at Holly. Countess waved; Arnold flinched and nodded.
“Oh thank god.” Then: “...Are you going to behave yourself?”
Nod. “Good.” She pushed the coracle out, beyond the scum-ring surf that lapped at the cove. To whoever was listening and competent enough to pass the message on, she yelled:
“Tell Algernon I’m off to search the woods!”
No response, save for the eventual clatter of the paddle. Ugh. Holly turned to Countess, and jerked a thumb woods-ward.
“He dzzzzzzzzzzzn’t belong there.” It almost came out like a sigh.
“Well, he’s not staying in that ruin, and I’m certainly not leaving him anywhere you can go,” snapped Holly. “Shit. Should’ve asked that witch how long until the fog-”
“Five hours, tk-tk-tkwenty-seven minggggggtes.”
Holly stopped. “How would you know?”
Her shrug set her shoulderblades (and Holly’s teeth) on squealing edge. “It’s like clock-k-k-k-k-wk.” Chirp-laugh-clack-sprang. “twenty-six minutes.”
“Fine. Perfect. Fan-fucking-tastic. Do me a favour and let me spend at least an hour of that in peace, would you?”
Holly trekked into the woods with many a glance back toward the cove and the boat and fucking Countess, but the amalgam was making her laboured way off the beach, heading for the hills.
Nothing ahead of Holly now, but the woods.
Gnarled and sickly pines - trunks black, boughs bare. A spongy mush of needles underfoot. Buried branches, snapping under her weight when she deigned a futile glance up and away from the forest floor; a sunless sky draped across the dead canopy that wouldn’t care whether she lingered in those woods for five hours or fifty.
The sun was <runtime error>. The birds were <file not found>. Flowers <you’re fucking joking, right?>
What a goddamn <expression unavailable> day. The silence was worse than the beach, somehow.
Holly might’ve preferred groves to shores, but this waterlogged mockery with its malingering fog like a bad memory left her wondering why she’d bothered enjoying anything. Grabbing a stick, she gouged a mark in the sooty flank of a tree, like hell she’d get this far and become fog-food or whatever the fuck while wandering in lost circles.
Holly pressed on, ignoring the rare lick of fog slithering out of sight. Wasn’t like it’d still be there if she turned to look again.
peace to the unsung peace to the martyrs | i'm johnny rotten appleseed
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow