[ID: A realistic watercolor painting of a green-eyed, white cat lying on a white windowsill. Only its head, chest, and arm stick out from behind a floral, salmon-colored curtain. Its head is lifted but its posture is relaxed. The window is open on a blue sky and faint, thin branches. End ID.]
When she takes the position in the archives, when she kills the thing that killed Angus back, she takes the recorder with her.
The Grinning Wheel goes up in crackling flames.
The summer heat is muggy, the roar of the fire lingering in her ears, and Gertrude is overhot, shaky with adrenaline and misplaced fear. She hides her shakes in the press of people on the tube, the livid burns on her hands in the pockets of her jacket. The metal of the tape recorder is cool against her skin. It feels like a job well done. It feels like satisfaction. It’s only when she’s shut the door in the silence of her flat that she hears the whiir. It’s run out of tape. - Over the years, the sound stops.
OR: a study of Gertrude Robinson on tape through the years. The choices add up.
rinsing the sink, running the garbage disposal, fork balanced on bowl slips off and slides into the drain, subconscious reflexes kick in as I shut disposal off just in time, staring at fork, only conscious thought in brain is pitch perfect recreation, ten years buried, like i tripped and hit play on a dusty tape recorder lying forgotten in the room, of let’s do the fork in the gaaarbage disposal!! dingdingdingdidingdingding
POV it’s 2013 and at least one of your friends is chronically involved in the high school theater department
OH FUCK! okay twitter is dead, that’s amazing. this is a death blow. does he not understand that the platform relies on addictive doom scrolling, and that people actively want to quit but can’t because it activates all the right brain chemicals? this is wonderful for me at least, with Elon’s help I can finally kick this particular addiction.
