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vocab_drabblesFandom: Time For Chaos (Podcast)
small_fandoms Sitting at the front pew of church, as he’s done every Sunday since rediscovering his faith, Vaughn diligently jots down notes on the sermon.
Then the priest’s words make his pen stop cold.
Vaughn looks around, the other parishioners stare forward —in boredom or concentration— completely unperturbed by the revelations of a great beast rising from a bottomless abyss.
Taking a breath to quell the visceral fear roiling in his gut, he tries not to think about the diabolical voice he heard in Peru, puppeteering a severed head to foretell its reawakening.
The priest continues talking.
Vaughn’s pen remains still.
Fairuz scours her mother’s journal once again, looking for anything she might’ve missed before, no matter how small.
The paucity of relevant information in those pages has always bothered her, but never as much as it does now. She is certain something is hidden therein—her mother was far too clever to have left behind nothing but a common diary.
At least, she hopes.
Still, she can’t help feeling that the death of her mother is only the tip of an ancient iceberg she’s barely become aware of.
Fairuz turns the pages, tracing her mother’s careful handwriting, and reads everything again.
Margot stares at the canvas in front of her, brush in one hand, palette in the other.
The brushstrokes she just laid down writhe and distort under her gaze, marring the space with the faces she saw when she donned that golden mask, twisted in sublime agony.
She tilts her head, squints a bit, and places another daub of grey to accompany the rest, not realising it’s her own face she is planting amongst the haunted subjects of her work.
Margot continues painting, the art around her a reflection of the nightmares she can neither quite remember nor truly forget.
Carter sits at the back of the speakeasy, frowning at his drink while someone on stage sings something he doesn’t recognise.
Surviving that terrible ordeal in the jungle should have given him a new lease in life —or at least the sense of one— but all it did was leave him feeling empty once he came back.
Maybe this newfound sense of apathy stems from the certainty that, while people around him sing, dance and drink without a care, malevolent forces out there are conspiring to wipe everything out in an instant.
Or maybe he just needs another pisco sour.
