Moments out of time

There's still a moment of stifling pain as I slide on my Underground boots. The leather grips my foot, my toes bumps against the steel inserts. For a moment I feel an itch in my toe, which would prompt me to take my boot off to scratch it. The moment passed by the time I finish lacing the boot. The next one slides on fine. Walking gets easier every time I put them on, and I know that a little alcohol will erase any discomfort.
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The room is dimly lit, and sparsely peopled. I travel from floor to floor, sharing intimate conversations and more intimate photographs. The glass of sangria lowers and rises from time to time, but it never empties. Interests peak and are quickly squashed. In the end, a very good time is had. We congregate and sing along with barely remembered hits from the 80s... and then it's time to go. Back into the deeper more natural night. Cruising through empty streets. The suburbs never look ghostly the way a city does.

Pressing forward

Another reminder of how well a game can come together. The players started out in different locations, and slowly were drawn together. Each of them got little pieces of the puzzle. Dice were rolled, and the Fates were cursed. There was copious amounts of good role playing, tense drama, and some inspirational plays by our heroes. In the end, they triumphed, but at what cost? I suppose the rest of the group will find that out this Friday...
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I am well and truly tired. The glass which once held so many different zinfandels now holds ice wine. It is clean and has no bouquet, no aftertaste, and you have to drink an awful lot of it before you get sick. Fingers are running through my hair, and conversation flows. I listen and don't say much, not because I can't, but because I shouldn't. I am guest in a confessional, and it is inappropriate to just blurt out what's on your mind. The air is cold and humid here, but far better than the rest of the house. I venture out from time to time to refill my glass, sometimes with something darker. The heat latches on to me like gnats, like smoke. Pushing into the main room is a physical effort. But it is done, and I reward myself with cheese and pie and just a little more zinfandel. Then a quick trip to the back, where real smoke curls up through the light and is swallowed by the night. The night consumes everything. I walk some more and end up back in the cold, in the confessional. The bed creaks under my weight, I lean back and rest my head on a shoulder, and the words continue to flow.

that demon sun (almost there!)

There was something Zen like about the entire morning. Standing in a new apartment, surrounded mostly by silence, carefully watching where I stepped. The roller hisses and whispers across the wall. Sweat drenches my body, and I mean drenches. I've sweated less at workouts. But it all feels good somehow. I stop every so often and review my work, but the walls look solid, even. By the time I need to leave the entrance way is looking sweet. Blank, even, still drying. And if I miss anything, the might legion that stayed behind can touch up.
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I lost another DnD character.
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The incessant car horn won't shut up. It blares on and on and on until angry voices are heard, and it stops. A car revs up and speeds away loudly, driving down our street. And I'm suddenly paralyzed. I'm sure that someone is going to sneak into our house. I have a heavy candle near the bed, it's the heaviest thing I can throw. If I'm lucky it will distract the perp long enough for me to do... something. I tell myself I'm being irrational, and ignore the panic in my body. But isn't it always when you tell yourself nothing's wrong, that something goes wrong?
I lie in silence. Cold clammy air fills the room. My hand steals towards the candle...