A Walk in the Rain| FrUKIt was the fact that his pockets and wallet were devoid of any change that made him want to tug at his hair and attack the claustrophobic booth with a rapid stream of French curses that would put the most drunken sailor to shame. Bills, yes, but not a single coin in sight.A Walk in the Rain| FrUK1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
It was also the fact that he had purposely refused to bring an umbrella, because a couple of hours ago the skies had promised him a cool, cloudy day.
But apparently, it was not.
Francis watched as rain poured down upon this wretched payphone booth, making a horrible drumming noise on its top that only served to infuriate him further. Rainwater ran down the sides of the booth like a waterfall.
He slumped against the wall beside the phone, running his hand through his hair. His umbrella-less bag lay on the floor at his feet, as if taunting him for his recklessness.
Here, in the outskirts of town and more than five blocks from his flat, an hour into he evening, he is stuck inside a narrow phonebooth in the middle of a p
Watercolor Angel | Italy x ReaderWhen you appear in his room, he's awake, working on a painting on a small canvas. He doesn't mind the boring white of the small room, nor the stiff sheets or beeping machines. When he paints, you realize, nothing bothers him. At all. He's lost in his world, a much, much more colorful world, away from the hospital and the sickness and the sadness.Watercolor Angel | Italy x Reader1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
You watch, mesmerized, as with smooth, precise movements he works, as if pulled by some invisible thing. The fond, content look in his eyes. Paint-spattered hands and sheets, the tubes of watercolor lay around him within easy reach. Glasses with murky water and used brushes.
This is the only burst of color in the room. And yet, it feels like it's enough.
"What're you working on?" you ask, gliding over to him and peering over the canvas.
He grins brightly. "A painting of you," he answers all too honestly, with so much cheerfulness it made you wonder if he really was sick at all.
"M-me?" You feel heat on your cheeks.
and then the gods come forth your lips were bleeding ichor,and then the gods come forth1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
as you dreamt beneath the universe
and i thought to myself...
i. head underwater, they watch you
with cassiopeia eyes as you
seep into her star-stricken skin
ii. we carved our names in hearts
on the flesh of dryads, arms
branched out, head full of sky
ever-expanding, infinity between
but falling leaves
indicate that the tree is dying
iii. iii. you're like a flower in the winter,
storm tucked behind your ears, and
oblivion in the corners of your lips
the summer heat is getting to your head
fall-ing for you-is the season of change
(but have i not changed enough for you?)
iv. i think of you spilling out the lyrics
to a heartsong, a blurry crescendo,
with the drip-drip-dripping melody
of the november rains and the honey
sunsets that fill up your cheeks that
you'll never realize you're singing all the
w r o n g w o r d s
Stargazing | UsUkAnother thing Arthur liked, besides the endless shelves of books that lined his room and a hot cup of tea, were stars.Stargazing | UsUk1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
Such a trivial, childish thing; that he was sure others would say. Stars were merely balls of gases and other things floating around the dark expanse of the universe, more scientific than fantastical, he had finally decided once he spent a few minutes thinking about it. "They're nothing more than tiny dots in the sky," was always his excuse; some futile attempt to convince himself that they were nothing of importance.
Though for why, even he wasn't really sure himself.
Maybe it was that stars were almost extinct in his city. Maybe it was that he had just given up long ago, as a little child, trying to see through the thick haze of smog that hung stagnantly over these buildings. Maybe it was that he was simply favoring realism over child's play.
He didn't really know.
So when Alfred appeared on his door with a loud banging and the invitation of a walk to some "secret pl
Oddities | Iceland x ReaderThe shop is bland, faded; as if all color had been drained from it and left it solemn and grey and small, squashed between two smart red-brick buildings that towered over it a couple of stories higher, so that it looked like a little grey child settled between fat red parents, all forced into the backseat of a car driven by a relative; an oddity from every other building.Oddities | Iceland x Reader1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
You chuckled to yourself from underneath this little shop's faded awning, listening to the hollow sounds of rain dripping onto it overhead. Why you had chosen this place, of all possible shelters, was unknown to you.
Your hair and clothes are spattered with dark, small stains of rainwater, your backpack even more so. You would worry about its contents later. For now you are stranded blocks away from home, without an actual umbrella, and have been spending the last few seconds standing underneath this awning.
The door opens with the hollow rattle of a bell -- a rattle more than a tinkle, a silent, clanking sound -- as