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reed westergard-holmen. ([personal profile] entered) wrote2003-04-05 06:50 pm

ic inbox.





You've reached Reed.

texts, calls, voicemails, starters, etc.

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[personal profile] enters 2020-04-06 09:00 pm (UTC)(link)
where did you go?
SENT 4:32 PM
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[personal profile] enters 2020-04-10 05:26 pm (UTC)(link)
i just get worried. i can stop asking, if you'd rather.
SENT 4:37PM
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[personal profile] enters 2020-04-18 07:57 pm (UTC)(link)
if you say so.
SENT: 4:38PM

red, please.
SENT: 4:39PM
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[personal profile] enters 2020-04-28 02:17 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Wendy lacks the same kind of propensity for doors and liminal spaces (though there are moments when it seems like she could slip away into them, leaving behind an empty space where her tremulous smile used to be). She gasps faintly as the rose appears, and rather than picking it up by hand, she coaxes it into the air. It trembles an inch, two inches, above the sill, droplets of dew falling onto the wood. (How romantic, she thinks. Red red red the color of blood, thinks the thing inside her.)

But her body is hers, for the moment, and so she waits, busying herself with the small things she believes herself capable of.
]
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prompt: meeting.

[personal profile] enters 2020-04-06 09:04 pm (UTC)(link)

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[personal profile] enters 2020-04-10 07:00 pm (UTC)(link)
[ She dreams of him in the shape of a door. The doorknob turns, locks click, and the door swings open. There's darkness behind her, and darkness ahead. But the darkness ahead, at least, has a name.

(The thing inside her is hungry. A door is a mouth. Its mouth is bigger.)

She dreams of him in his own shape.

There's no moment before she begins reaching for the fruit, fingers wrapping around each apple as she puts them into a basket. Then — a jar of honey, a jar of preserves, a figure of a saint. The basket fills, as do her arms. The shawl around her shoulders seems to grow, too. Maybe she's just imagining that. That same sensation of reaching spreads like lightning through her as she feels her whole balance shift, an apple toppling from its precarious place on top of the things she carries.

It stops at his feet. She stops a few steps back.
]

I'm sorry, I—

[ A pause, though it's not clear if it's because she's generally flustered or because she recognizes him. ]

You can have one, if you'd like. Not— not the one that just fell.
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[personal profile] enters 2020-04-18 08:04 pm (UTC)(link)
[ The sound startles her, though not to any noticeable degree. It's just — sharp, the way the colors of the apple suddenly seem to be. Vivid, bright, dangerous.

(Little mouse. The thing inside her bristles. But Wendy, for her part, takes it in stride. He's not wrong about what she is.)
]

—This way.

[ She gestures and begins walking at the same time; the option not to accompany him and merely give him directions never seems to occur to her. Yes, she lives here, she's lived here her whole life, but the days have been falling away until she no longer will. Because he's finally here.

As the heels of her shoes clack against the cobblestones, she casts a glance back at the stranger.
]

Is there a particular book you're looking for, sir?
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[personal profile] enters 2020-04-28 02:24 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Carefully: ] Reed.

[ It feels improper to address him as such, but Wendy — as she is — has never been anything if not pliant. She glances over, almost skittish, as he catches up to her, though her gaze changes into something more like fascination, lingering a beat longer before she returns her attention to the winding street in front of her. ]

The Knight and the Hours, [ she repeats, the way she mulls over the words making it clear that they're unfamiliar to her. (It sounds melancholy to her — most things to do with the Hours do, to her — but she keeps that particular thought to herself.) Still— ] I don't believe I know it.