Solo: Paper Snickers (PG)
13/1/19 07:09![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
peccadilloparlourWritten for ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tripledrabbles .
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Reuben put his phone down and resolved not to think about it anymore. He picked up his notebook. The empty page mocked him. He took up his phone, turned off notifications, and set it down on its face. He could hear the page laughing at him. It sounded like a breeze passing through foliage on a dry day.
Paper snickers,
he wrote, and it was silent.
Reuben left his phone on his hotel room’s desk and found his way out through corridors that cancelled all sound. He no longer heard the quiet sounds, despite the operations, only the machine hum of his own head. Outside, the Texas heat hit him. Across the street, down a block, into a park whose name he didn’t know. The heroically watered trees blessed him with their shade.
He closed his eyes and listened as a blast of air came through, making the trees laugh.
It had been eight months since he’d seen his mum, felt her fragility as they’d hugged goodbye. Heard his father’s voice, with that edge like a door hinge. Met his publisher, who expected a new masterpiece, considered herself overdue one. Closed the door to his apartment, running away from the works of art that had begun to feel like charges rather than things to be admired.
If he didn’t find himself here, then where? If he didn’t find himself, then what?
Reuben looked at his hands, big, steady hands that could have done a number of useful things, if only he hadn’t chosen to waste his life scribbling. He should have known the gift would leave him, leave him with nothing to hold on to.
He’d go on looking. He had to. At least until he hit the Pacific Ocean. And then?
He’d think of it when he got there.
tripledrabbles .-
Reuben put his phone down and resolved not to think about it anymore. He picked up his notebook. The empty page mocked him. He took up his phone, turned off notifications, and set it down on its face. He could hear the page laughing at him. It sounded like a breeze passing through foliage on a dry day.
Paper snickers,
he wrote, and it was silent.
Reuben left his phone on his hotel room’s desk and found his way out through corridors that cancelled all sound. He no longer heard the quiet sounds, despite the operations, only the machine hum of his own head. Outside, the Texas heat hit him. Across the street, down a block, into a park whose name he didn’t know. The heroically watered trees blessed him with their shade.
He closed his eyes and listened as a blast of air came through, making the trees laugh.
It had been eight months since he’d seen his mum, felt her fragility as they’d hugged goodbye. Heard his father’s voice, with that edge like a door hinge. Met his publisher, who expected a new masterpiece, considered herself overdue one. Closed the door to his apartment, running away from the works of art that had begun to feel like charges rather than things to be admired.
If he didn’t find himself here, then where? If he didn’t find himself, then what?
Reuben looked at his hands, big, steady hands that could have done a number of useful things, if only he hadn’t chosen to waste his life scribbling. He should have known the gift would leave him, leave him with nothing to hold on to.
He’d go on looking. He had to. At least until he hit the Pacific Ocean. And then?
He’d think of it when he got there.
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