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silentspringlogs2024-01-19 09:39 pm
frauseufzen) wrote in silentspringlogs2024-01-19 09:39 pm
Entry tags:
[open]
Who: Agathe Marowski Raskolnikova
When: ehhh Lately
Where: around and about
Open/Closed: open
Applicable Warnings: none yet
I. Please Give Me Number Nine (one taker only pls)
"Operator. Operator?"
The formidable woman in the phone booth grips the receiver like a hawk holds its prey, her teeth bared in desperate impatience as she all but shouts the word. She claws at the rotary dialer, frantic to make anything happen (and if she knew to turn it to zero, it might), but ultimately succumbs to her frustration and slams the receiver back into place, bracing her thin arms against the sides of the phone booth.
The public phone booth, in the town square.
She cuts her gaze to the nearest onlooker, and the resemblance to a bird of prey persists in the severity and stillness of her eyes: fear, but the kind that might leave someone's insides on the outside.
II. Ask Me No More Questions
Life in Sweetwater is quiet, and although it may be unnervingly so, that also offers great opportunity not getting into trouble. The wintertime sees Agathe inside most days, keeping house as is clearly expected, maintaining pristine appearances and absolutely not thinking about what happened on New Year's Eve or the visions therein: she has spoken of it to no one, and has no reason to imagine anyone else shared the experience.
On any given day she can be found inside, cleaning or reading a magazine or fully acting the part, certainly not in the guise of learning every inch of her house to determine its secrets. She's not friendly to guests, but admits them nonetheless, and clearly bears at least a passing interest in hearing their smalltalk.
Especially if it isn't small in the least.
III. and Tell Me No More Lies
It's in the market that the stares and whispers are noticed most, and though Agathe has a thick skin for such things, it's impossible to ignore when one is being followed surreptitiously (poorly) down the bread aisle. Is it true that the couple is foreign? That the husband is a Red, that the wife is a Kraut? What nefarious reason could they have to be here?
A sympathetic (read: also new) face catches her eye, and she meets their gaze levelly, knowingly. This particular hell is not a new one to her, even if it wears a different skin, in a different decade.
When: ehhh Lately
Where: around and about
Open/Closed: open
Applicable Warnings: none yet
I. Please Give Me Number Nine (one taker only pls)
"Operator. Operator?"
The formidable woman in the phone booth grips the receiver like a hawk holds its prey, her teeth bared in desperate impatience as she all but shouts the word. She claws at the rotary dialer, frantic to make anything happen (and if she knew to turn it to zero, it might), but ultimately succumbs to her frustration and slams the receiver back into place, bracing her thin arms against the sides of the phone booth.
The public phone booth, in the town square.
She cuts her gaze to the nearest onlooker, and the resemblance to a bird of prey persists in the severity and stillness of her eyes: fear, but the kind that might leave someone's insides on the outside.
II. Ask Me No More Questions
Life in Sweetwater is quiet, and although it may be unnervingly so, that also offers great opportunity not getting into trouble. The wintertime sees Agathe inside most days, keeping house as is clearly expected, maintaining pristine appearances and absolutely not thinking about what happened on New Year's Eve or the visions therein: she has spoken of it to no one, and has no reason to imagine anyone else shared the experience.
On any given day she can be found inside, cleaning or reading a magazine or fully acting the part, certainly not in the guise of learning every inch of her house to determine its secrets. She's not friendly to guests, but admits them nonetheless, and clearly bears at least a passing interest in hearing their smalltalk.
Especially if it isn't small in the least.
III. and Tell Me No More Lies
It's in the market that the stares and whispers are noticed most, and though Agathe has a thick skin for such things, it's impossible to ignore when one is being followed surreptitiously (poorly) down the bread aisle. Is it true that the couple is foreign? That the husband is a Red, that the wife is a Kraut? What nefarious reason could they have to be here?
A sympathetic (read: also new) face catches her eye, and she meets their gaze levelly, knowingly. This particular hell is not a new one to her, even if it wears a different skin, in a different decade.