-Fictional Life- -- Quirinos

[ Show ]

Support VoyForums

[ Shrink ]

VoyForums Announcement: Programming and providing support for this service has been a labor of love since 1997. We are one of the few services online who values our users' privacy, and have never sold your information. We have even fought hard to defend your privacy in legal cases; however, we've done it with almost no financial support -- paying out of pocket to continue providing the service. Due to the issues imposed on us by advertisers, we also stopped hosting most ads on the forums many years ago. We hope you appreciate our efforts.

Show your support by donating any amount. (Note: We are still technically a for-profit company, so your contribution is not tax-deductible.) PayPal Acct: Feedback:

Donate to VoyForums (PayPal):

[ Login ] [ Contact Forum Admin ] [ Main index ] [ Post a new message ] [ Search | Check update time ]

[ Next Thread | Previous Thread | Next Message | Previous Message ]

Date Posted: 18:35:23 06/10/02 Mon
Author: Rune Curran
Subject: -Fictional Life-

*Rune's boots clink heavily against the wooden floor, as he swings the door to the bar opened. His eyes wander across the lone faces, but never making complete contact with any. He knows they're all lost in their own puddle of heartache. He knows he's one of them. His footsteps break the bitter silence as he makes his way to a table in the far corner. Secluded, solitary, within untainted shadows. He feels glances thrown upon him, drunk eyes, drunk faces. Uncaring. They all created their own fictional life, their own dreary tale that sent them escalating, rising into their own highs and never returning to earth. He knew the feel of true pain. True pain, tragic memories, forgotten dreams. Now all that remained was a sliver of thoughts.

Seating himself in the loneliness, his gloved fingers tap gently against the table. Leather drumming against a hallow mahogany, forming an unheard sound. Hollow, like himself, like the only thoughts he can conceive anymore. Mindless, he can no longer form a life, a future.

A waitress makes her way towards him, his eyes remaining silhouetted by the dull lighting. No radiance shines through, completely dim, he doesn't throw a glance at her. His words are spoken in monotone as he orders a drink. Make it liquor. Any kind will do. He knows the words he speaks, the thirst he feeds, will change nothing. But he starts the evening, an array of possibilities strewn across the splintering table. He chooses solitude.

[ Next Thread | Previous Thread | Next Message | Previous Message ]