Vis avis
12-09-2015, 04:15 AM
Something strange happened. To you or the world, you're not even sure which.
---
You had to figure out what was going on, so you told your boyfriend your rich great-aunt upstate was on her deathbed, this time for probably realsies, and she could use a reminder that you were totally the favourite grand-relative, god (or more practically weren't this all a big excuse to get out the house, her executor) willing you get there in time. He could tell you were stressed about something, and left you to your packing. Made do with a peck on your cheek on your way out the door, told you to drive safe. You looked tired, and tried not to flinch as you kissed him back on a proffered cheek.
Tried to ignore the not-taste of feathers.
You've been gone four days now, holed up in the university library. Other than the library staff, the place is deserted. You commandeered the aisles in the late 500's, mostly because they're furtherest off from the main entranceway, neo-gothic double doors left open to the elements during the day.
(The staff close them at night, but they can't seem to get the hang of keys, or automated security alarms. Small blessings.)
You'll venture out on expeditions, pulling anything off the shelves which might offer some insight. The head librarian is pretty helpful and nice, for a vulture. (Incertae sedis, your only resource here for her family is an early-1900's tome, with glossy “plates” in the middle to sequester all the illustrations. Her near-garish colors don't resemble any of them, probably because the artist only had a shot and stuffed phantasm to draw from). She helped you drag a bunch of mythology-pertaining eventual dead-ends out of storage, after you both took a tour of the 200's upstairs and concluded “Dewey decimal is bullshit”.
She thinks you're writing a thesis paper. It got awkward turning down her offers to request transfers from other libraries, considering you've not seen a car on the streets since you left home, so she eventually got the hint you wanted to be left alone. The staff rotate, but the ones that manage to show up for their shifts are university kids flatting near campus, so they've no interest in anyone old enough to have to defend their inclusion under the banner millennial. They shelve your shit once you're done with it, ignore you for the most part.
Of course, you're really here because sticking your neck in the sand (like an _______) under pretext of research beats having to confront the situation. You're hiding. From what, you can't even begin to contemplate. There's a frightening normalcy to all this. Other than plane crashes and other mechanical disasters attributable to “human” error, the news websites report nothing out of the ordinary. World news is peaceful, like everyone who was fighting forgot what exactly it was they were fighting about.
You're not sure you believe that, though. The articles are as rife with misspellings as their comment sections, though the most offensive comments therein only get as bad as being banal. If no news is good news, then less news might mean better-than-before news. A new paradigm, maybe. A global skein migrating its way new era of lazy peace on avihumanity's wintering grounds.
Who the hell are you then, that you missed the final boarding call?
---
You had to figure out what was going on, so you told your boyfriend your rich great-aunt upstate was on her deathbed, this time for probably realsies, and she could use a reminder that you were totally the favourite grand-relative, god (or more practically weren't this all a big excuse to get out the house, her executor) willing you get there in time. He could tell you were stressed about something, and left you to your packing. Made do with a peck on your cheek on your way out the door, told you to drive safe. You looked tired, and tried not to flinch as you kissed him back on a proffered cheek.
Tried to ignore the not-taste of feathers.
You've been gone four days now, holed up in the university library. Other than the library staff, the place is deserted. You commandeered the aisles in the late 500's, mostly because they're furtherest off from the main entranceway, neo-gothic double doors left open to the elements during the day.
(The staff close them at night, but they can't seem to get the hang of keys, or automated security alarms. Small blessings.)
You'll venture out on expeditions, pulling anything off the shelves which might offer some insight. The head librarian is pretty helpful and nice, for a vulture. (Incertae sedis, your only resource here for her family is an early-1900's tome, with glossy “plates” in the middle to sequester all the illustrations. Her near-garish colors don't resemble any of them, probably because the artist only had a shot and stuffed phantasm to draw from). She helped you drag a bunch of mythology-pertaining eventual dead-ends out of storage, after you both took a tour of the 200's upstairs and concluded “Dewey decimal is bullshit”.
She thinks you're writing a thesis paper. It got awkward turning down her offers to request transfers from other libraries, considering you've not seen a car on the streets since you left home, so she eventually got the hint you wanted to be left alone. The staff rotate, but the ones that manage to show up for their shifts are university kids flatting near campus, so they've no interest in anyone old enough to have to defend their inclusion under the banner millennial. They shelve your shit once you're done with it, ignore you for the most part.
Of course, you're really here because sticking your neck in the sand (like an _______) under pretext of research beats having to confront the situation. You're hiding. From what, you can't even begin to contemplate. There's a frightening normalcy to all this. Other than plane crashes and other mechanical disasters attributable to “human” error, the news websites report nothing out of the ordinary. World news is peaceful, like everyone who was fighting forgot what exactly it was they were fighting about.
You're not sure you believe that, though. The articles are as rife with misspellings as their comment sections, though the most offensive comments therein only get as bad as being banal. If no news is good news, then less news might mean better-than-before news. A new paradigm, maybe. A global skein migrating its way new era of lazy peace on avihumanity's wintering grounds.
Who the hell are you then, that you missed the final boarding call?
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