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It’s my birthday today! I’m officially an older adult. It feels like Jude Law becoming Michael Gambdon overnight, and still being just as magical.
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eleanor hill • the author.....| .....#daa520 .015
nye party > The afterparty • skydeck marquee
Elly second guessed herself and looked around the room, again. The "afterparty" was buzzing with a gross electric gossip. The lights were hanging like flies, listening and speaking to everyone about everything. There was a tap in her kitten heels, some nervous rhythm making out a secret S.O.S.
And then, there was Ewan.
He was asking if she could FaceTime.
And then, a new message—from Spencer.
The glow of the screen seemed miles away as she stared at it. Her eyes were vacant and glossed with alcohol. For a brief moment, a memory fluttered by her. Its wings cascade dust of frost on cracking glass. Her fingers, trembled into doing nothing but hover, afraid to land on any response.
Her phone buzzed in her hand. It startled her nerves out of her daydream, and her palm clenched tightly around the metal, warm from her tiring grip. It was late, much later than she wished. She wanted to go home; get out of this stupid fashion show; pretend it never happened; and go to bed.
It was Ewan being ever-ready and reassuring.
It's OK if you can't FT rn. I'll stay with you as long as you need me.
A small smile struggled to make its appearance. She wasn't sure if she was going to cry, but she was trying hard to hide the fact. Her eyes were watering, and she was holding breaths in between quickly thumping heartbeats. And something, if she could imagine it, like a black fog with fangs, was gnawing on her chest.
It was the alcohol, clearly... not Ewan's sentimental but creepishly caring response, nor Spencer's shallow, way-out-of-context, Happy NYE text. It was the haze of ethanol stirring her emotions. It was the night telling her to go to sleep when she couldn't.
But, it was too late for her to go to sleep.
She was trapped.
Trapped as the person she has always been and always will be. There was no new year and no new her. It was all the same. It was always the same.
And then, she would be writing a new book.
Spencer would read it.
Ewan would read it.
And, she would be left asking herself, did she really write a new book? Or have all her books been about the same subject merely worded differently?
She slipped her phone back in her purse and took one more look around the room. Her vision was a bit blurred with tears. Her lips parted and hopeful. Her posture, tall and confident, and slowly blending into the scenery. Reality was hitting: she never stood out for wearing the least fashionable thing at the party. No, she had always blended in, simply by being at the party.
And there had been a murder.
If there was one thing she learned in life: everyone was fighting a war of their own. And, if Tolstoy hadn't taught her anything about struggling through unhappiness, it was that Time and Patience were the two warriors are the two most powerful warriors. All she had to do, was wait and be patient...
... And be glad she was still alive.
And then, there was Ewan.
He was asking if she could FaceTime.
And then, a new message—from Spencer.
The glow of the screen seemed miles away as she stared at it. Her eyes were vacant and glossed with alcohol. For a brief moment, a memory fluttered by her. Its wings cascade dust of frost on cracking glass. Her fingers, trembled into doing nothing but hover, afraid to land on any response.
“He’s going for it.”
“Who?” Elly replied, half-bored.
“Adam Johnson. I wish you wrote more like him.”
He spoke of authors the way other men spoke of football games. It made her sick, and other times, it made her swoon.
Until the icons on the wall interceded.
“Like what?” She asked, taking another sip of wine from her glass.
“Heavier. Deeper.” He took another huff from the paper, not bothering to even look at her. His body was stretched out on the navy sofa, taking more space than necessary.
“Reading your work is like reading Eowyn Ivey or worse Kate Quinn. You keep trying to expand your emotional depth, but honestly, it’s stuck in shallow water.” His tone was dry and accompanied by a shrug of constant disapproval.
He didn’t stop even when her body shifted nervously and the seat dipped next to him.
Elly’s voice was too loud, too concrete, too her. She needed to unlearn this voice and use the next one waiting.
She needed more patience.
“Kate Quinn? Come on, I’m not that bad.” Elly took another sip. The glass was draining quicker than she had expected.
Her eyes glanced at the bottle. It was almost empty.
“Let’s take The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison. Incest. Rape. Pedophilia. And that’s only surface level pain.” He blew smoke from his lips and added one more comment about war and women’s suffering refined into a laureate’s work.
The conversation died with the smoke. It lingered in the air and slowly faded.
Elly watched the smoke.
The ceiling fan spun circles. It was making a numb noise that reminded her of childhood.
A nervous hand ran through her dark hair, and she took the final sip from her glass.
The empty glass stared at her, and Laszlo Krasnahorkai knocked on her mind. A barbed loneliness entered. It reintroduced her to names and faces she could never ignore.
Tears began blurring her focus. Her lips pressed together, and she dabbed her eyes.
He sat up, unzipping his pants.
“I don’t have much time, Elly.”
“I really shouldn’t.”
She hadn’t received Communion for a month, and her apartment was starting to feel muted.
She was no longer present.
“It doesn’t matter. Elder Thaddeus said I can’t have Communion until Pascha.”
Elder Thaddeus. His Spiritual Father, who lived on Mount Athos — the holiest place on Earth.
Elly couldn’t imagine having a monastic as a Spiritual Father. Let alone one on Mount Athos. Their penances were stricter.
All she had to do was tell him, no, and on Sunday, the veil would be lifted.
Don’t you think my writing would be better with Communion? She wanted to ask.
But, she never did.
And when she woke up in the morning, she was still on the couch. Curled into a ball.
He was gone.
Morning light peeked through the window. It cast shadows on the floor and couch.
There were two text messages on her phone, Don’t worry. Nothing happened last night. You passed out on me. You’re welcome and, “Tell Father Thomas hi for me. Thanks”
The phone’s cracked screen went dark.
She closed her eyes and listened to the room breathe.
There was a relief in her soul, but her heart ached.
Was she Natasha, with a candle burning at her window? Waiting for patience to finally make an announcement?
The thought haunted her before evaporating.
It’s not as if her dad rescued her mother.
Books rescued her mother.
Elly had to write her own.
“Who?” Elly replied, half-bored.
“Adam Johnson. I wish you wrote more like him.”
He spoke of authors the way other men spoke of football games. It made her sick, and other times, it made her swoon.
Until the icons on the wall interceded.
“Like what?” She asked, taking another sip of wine from her glass.
“Heavier. Deeper.” He took another huff from the paper, not bothering to even look at her. His body was stretched out on the navy sofa, taking more space than necessary.
“Reading your work is like reading Eowyn Ivey or worse Kate Quinn. You keep trying to expand your emotional depth, but honestly, it’s stuck in shallow water.” His tone was dry and accompanied by a shrug of constant disapproval.
He didn’t stop even when her body shifted nervously and the seat dipped next to him.
Elly’s voice was too loud, too concrete, too her. She needed to unlearn this voice and use the next one waiting.
She needed more patience.
“Kate Quinn? Come on, I’m not that bad.” Elly took another sip. The glass was draining quicker than she had expected.
Her eyes glanced at the bottle. It was almost empty.
“Let’s take The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison. Incest. Rape. Pedophilia. And that’s only surface level pain.” He blew smoke from his lips and added one more comment about war and women’s suffering refined into a laureate’s work.
The conversation died with the smoke. It lingered in the air and slowly faded.
Elly watched the smoke.
The ceiling fan spun circles. It was making a numb noise that reminded her of childhood.
A nervous hand ran through her dark hair, and she took the final sip from her glass.
The empty glass stared at her, and Laszlo Krasnahorkai knocked on her mind. A barbed loneliness entered. It reintroduced her to names and faces she could never ignore.
Tears began blurring her focus. Her lips pressed together, and she dabbed her eyes.
He sat up, unzipping his pants.
“I don’t have much time, Elly.”
“I really shouldn’t.”
She hadn’t received Communion for a month, and her apartment was starting to feel muted.
She was no longer present.
“It doesn’t matter. Elder Thaddeus said I can’t have Communion until Pascha.”
Elder Thaddeus. His Spiritual Father, who lived on Mount Athos — the holiest place on Earth.
Elly couldn’t imagine having a monastic as a Spiritual Father. Let alone one on Mount Athos. Their penances were stricter.
All she had to do was tell him, no, and on Sunday, the veil would be lifted.
Don’t you think my writing would be better with Communion? She wanted to ask.
But, she never did.
And when she woke up in the morning, she was still on the couch. Curled into a ball.
He was gone.
Morning light peeked through the window. It cast shadows on the floor and couch.
There were two text messages on her phone, Don’t worry. Nothing happened last night. You passed out on me. You’re welcome and, “Tell Father Thomas hi for me. Thanks”
The phone’s cracked screen went dark.
She closed her eyes and listened to the room breathe.
There was a relief in her soul, but her heart ached.
Was she Natasha, with a candle burning at her window? Waiting for patience to finally make an announcement?
The thought haunted her before evaporating.
It’s not as if her dad rescued her mother.
Books rescued her mother.
Elly had to write her own.
Her phone buzzed in her hand. It startled her nerves out of her daydream, and her palm clenched tightly around the metal, warm from her tiring grip. It was late, much later than she wished. She wanted to go home; get out of this stupid fashion show; pretend it never happened; and go to bed.
It was Ewan being ever-ready and reassuring.
It's OK if you can't FT rn. I'll stay with you as long as you need me.
A small smile struggled to make its appearance. She wasn't sure if she was going to cry, but she was trying hard to hide the fact. Her eyes were watering, and she was holding breaths in between quickly thumping heartbeats. And something, if she could imagine it, like a black fog with fangs, was gnawing on her chest.
It was the alcohol, clearly... not Ewan's sentimental but creepishly caring response, nor Spencer's shallow, way-out-of-context, Happy NYE text. It was the haze of ethanol stirring her emotions. It was the night telling her to go to sleep when she couldn't.
But, it was too late for her to go to sleep.
She was trapped.
Trapped as the person she has always been and always will be. There was no new year and no new her. It was all the same. It was always the same.
And then, she would be writing a new book.
Spencer would read it.
Ewan would read it.
And, she would be left asking herself, did she really write a new book? Or have all her books been about the same subject merely worded differently?
She slipped her phone back in her purse and took one more look around the room. Her vision was a bit blurred with tears. Her lips parted and hopeful. Her posture, tall and confident, and slowly blending into the scenery. Reality was hitting: she never stood out for wearing the least fashionable thing at the party. No, she had always blended in, simply by being at the party.
And there had been a murder.
If there was one thing she learned in life: everyone was fighting a war of their own. And, if Tolstoy hadn't taught her anything about struggling through unhappiness, it was that Time and Patience were the two warriors are the two most powerful warriors. All she had to do, was wait and be patient...
... And be glad she was still alive.
Banned for being @Foster.
"How can one be well... when one suffers morally? Is it possible to remain at ease in our time, if one has any feeling?" said Anna Pavlovna.
— Leo Tolstoy, War And Peace
I’m just here to say that I have interest in playing a character in Fashionably Late, if no one minds. However, if it is a bother — then oh wow, this game looks so cool and fun, and I hope you all enjoy. 🤩
L O C A T I O N : Timothy Babadil’s Cabin, Port10
I N T E R A C T I O N S : @Conscripts
T A G S : @Conscripts
E Q U I P M E N T :
Rowan opened his eyes. A wooden roof was over him. Plants hung comfortably, and the sound of fireplace cracked warmly. It did not take long for the Light Elf to remember where he was.
Carefully, he sat upwards. It was a hard feat, not because he was in pain, but because the bed was pleasant. His wounds felt tremendously better, but he still felt a stir of unease as he guided his body from the mattress.
“Aurora?” He whispered.
The words drifted through the air, like a mystical note. From a room that an outsider normally would have not noticed, there was a small stir. It was like a labyrinth how the cabin was designed, yet when all was said and done, it was as clear as night-and-day to read the blueprints.
Aurora’s room was somewhere next to his, and when he walked from his room, he found himself in the living room and immediately noticed the letter on the table.
His first instinct was to check on Aurora, but with hesitation, Rowan walked to the table. Just as he finished reading the letter, he heard commotion from outside the front door.
It was Timothy’s voice.
A small flutter caught in Rowan’s chest. The sound of Timothy’s voice was not alone. He had Barrock and Vasco with him.
No.
The letter had not mentioned Vasco. Then, why did he have that notion? A small pain winced in his side. Like the very thought made his wounds hurt worse, and when the door opened, his wounds felt even darker and heavier.
Timothy tucked his hat under the doorway, and as he did so, he removed it. Behind him was a huge figure. It seemed much too impossible yet all too possible for the creature to huddle through the door way.
“Don’t yah worry about anything,” Timothy turned around the creature. “There’s always room for weary ones like yourself.” He turned to Rowan, “Ah, Rowan, glad to see you’re awake.”
Eyeing the Elf’s hand, gripping his tender side, Timothy smiled knowingly, “Apologies are well-known for making uncanny recoveries for various aches and pains of the body, mind, and soul, if you will. And, I believe, a perfect opportunity has stumbled upon you.”
He sparkled a wink and stepped aside to allow Barrock and entrance into the cabin. Friendly warmth lightened the room, despite his looming shadow. The fireplace continued to whisper embers of a steady slowness. If any evil did happen upon them, it would be blinded by the benignity of the room.
@Simply Not Real, I had the notion that once a person discovers an author, he researches them for more books, because bookstores are not an accurate representation of one author due to limited bookshelf space.
I enjoy “international” literature with philosophical, theological, and cultural insight. Kazuo Ishiguro, Maki Kashimada, and Archimandrite Roman Braga are a few current favorites.
What about you?
I enjoy “international” literature with philosophical, theological, and cultural insight. Kazuo Ishiguro, Maki Kashimada, and Archimandrite Roman Braga are a few current favorites.
What about you?
Oh, wow, I clicked the don’t click link due to an undying need to be insatiably hospitable.
It was worth it.
Welcome! 👋🏻
It was worth it.
Welcome! 👋🏻
@Simply Not Real, ah, I had no idea. I found him a couple years ago at a Kinokuniya. And then, several weeks later, No Longer Human was in the display window at the local Barnes & Nobles. Maybe it was a small phase.
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