"i'd like to see them smile. one more time." [wies]
Jan 5, 2020 14:49:38 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Jan 5, 2020 14:49:38 GMT -5
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io wie
This is the last string she pulls.
The attendant lets them in near the end of the day, the sunset through the windowpanes casting golden light on the carpets and the woodwork, the faux-stone columns and the wallpaper. The exhibits are illustrated with a thoughtful hand: Io remembers shifting waves of the 76th, the aqua waters the same hue as the ones decorating Jacob Wickham's memorial. She remembers the way the smoke billowed off of Denali Lyon's frame, how the artist has rendered the ghost of a living girl, and feels bile building at the top of her stomach.
She tightens her grip around her sister's arm. They are the only ones here in this zoo of the dead.
"I don't..."
Io takes a moment, doesn't quite know how to continue her thought. Instead they walk, down and down, past the 80s and the 70s, onwards. It curves: if she looks back, she cannot see where it began. She cannot see where it all ends.
The 57th is a billow of smoke: of a volcano erupting with reds and oranges, white lightning scattering the skies.
The 59th is a flat expanse of blue: ice and snow a copper penny wedged underfoot.
Standing there, Io whispers. Her eyes do not turn to Europa, but focuses instead on the button with their siblings' name on it, glowing soft gold on the tablet's screen.
"It's hard to remember their voices."
But she's not sure if here is where she wants to start.
This is the last string she pulls.
The attendant lets them in near the end of the day, the sunset through the windowpanes casting golden light on the carpets and the woodwork, the faux-stone columns and the wallpaper. The exhibits are illustrated with a thoughtful hand: Io remembers shifting waves of the 76th, the aqua waters the same hue as the ones decorating Jacob Wickham's memorial. She remembers the way the smoke billowed off of Denali Lyon's frame, how the artist has rendered the ghost of a living girl, and feels bile building at the top of her stomach.
She tightens her grip around her sister's arm. They are the only ones here in this zoo of the dead.
"I don't..."
Io takes a moment, doesn't quite know how to continue her thought. Instead they walk, down and down, past the 80s and the 70s, onwards. It curves: if she looks back, she cannot see where it began. She cannot see where it all ends.
The 57th is a billow of smoke: of a volcano erupting with reds and oranges, white lightning scattering the skies.
The 59th is a flat expanse of blue: ice and snow a copper penny wedged underfoot.
Standing there, Io whispers. Her eyes do not turn to Europa, but focuses instead on the button with their siblings' name on it, glowing soft gold on the tablet's screen.
"It's hard to remember their voices."
But she's not sure if here is where she wants to start.
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