Our hearts are hungry.
Day 01 → Your favourite song
Day 02 → Your favourite movie
Day 03 → Your favourite television programme
Day 04 → Your favourite book
Day 05 → Your favourite quote
Day 06 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 07 → A photo that makes you happy
Day 08 → A photo that makes you angry/sad
Day 09 → A photo you took
Day 10 → A photo of you taken over ten years ago
Day 11 → A photo of you taken recently
Day 12 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 13 → A fictional book
Day 14 → A non-fictional book
Day 15 → A fanfic
Day 16 → A song that makes you cry (or nearly)
Day 17 → An art piece (painting, drawing, sculpture, etc.)
Day 18 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 19 → A talent of yours
Day 20 → A hobby of yours
Day 21 → A recipe
Day 22 → A website
Day 23 → A YouTube video
Day 24 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 25 → Your day, in great detail
Day 26 → Your week, in great detail
Day 27 → This month, in great detail
Day 28 → This year, in great detail
Day 29 → Hopes, dreams and plans for the next 365 days
Day 30 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Hello there, have more Sway.
Skipping ahead a bit to where Sebastian surprises Helena with a night-time visit, where he intends to tell her what's up with him. Some background information first, however: she has salt (and an iron wrench) at her disposal because she's watched Supernatural to find out how to fend off ghosts, and that's what the Winchester brothers use. She equates the Winchesters with Word of God on all things supernatural (... see what I did there?); our girl's a little too pop-cultured for her own good, I think ... (But she does rationalise her actions later on, so don't be too quick to judge her ...)
And hey! Now we find out what Sebastian looks like. Kind of, since I'd told you in the first post about Sway that I'd based him off Christoph - specifically, Young Christoph, as he was in the 1990s. I've also decided to base Helena off Kat Dennings. Here, have a handy-dandy visual (Christoph picture courtesy of christophdaily!) to help you as you read the following snippet.
And I sleep, until …
… I hear Lola howling her butt off.
It isn’t her usual howl, the one she reserves for scaring animals more diminutive than her, and convening with her kin. This one, however, the vocal exercises she’s doing now … I’ve never heard before. There is a chance that she’s done it before without me being there to witness it, but nope, it was new to me.
Whatever it was, I think I’d prefer to proceed with my life without hearing it ever, because it is fucking terrifying.
It sounds like nothing I know this pure, holy, and blessed earth could produce. It’s worse than long, misshapen nails on a chalkboard and the caterwauling some artistes like to pass off as expressive singing, combined. It’s worse than a wounded seal on its deathbed and me bawling rivers of tears after The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, combined. It’s worse than … okay, I think I’ve provided enough examples to make my point.
But this is weird. It’s quiet and longer (i.e. more dragged), and I hear little growls and snarls sprinkled throughout. Throw in the occasional whimper, too. Oh, and did I mention that her ears are down, and her tail is curled tight around her hind legs?
Because they are, and the latter happens to mirror the growing tightness I feel in my chest, as I wonder what’s upsetting her so much.
I reach over and rub her on the head again, hoping it’d calm her, as I coo, “Okay, honey, it’s nothing, it’s nothing …”
But I notice that her head is dead inclined toward a certain direction, and it’s when I turn my head to find out what she’s looking at, I realise that it is something.
I open my mouth to scream, but I’m quick enough to tell my brain to shut up, because scaring Lola further and waking up everyone in the vicinity isn’t going to win me a ton of favours.
It’s him oh God it’s him and he’s in my room oh God it’s him oh God shit fuck shit it’s him!
To be precise, he’s standing by my desk, his back turned to the two of us. I have no idea what the fuck he’s doing, but he sure is taking his own sweet time at my desk, and -
And oh, God, he turns around.
For some reason, I expected a chalk-white face with black eyes that melt down his cheeks, creating black streaks that a mourner with intense black mascara couldn’t even begin to emulate with her hardcore weeping, and a black hole for a mouth; or a face that’s riddled with blood and pus, and the skull is visible in some parts, and one eye is loose from its socket, holding on to dear life by a vein, even though I’ve seen his real face many times before.
There are two possibilities to explain this. One, horror films have conditioned me to accept wraiths as grotesque beings without question … and two, I’m doing this on purpose to distract me from the fact that he is hot as sin in the ectoplasmic flesh, so I wouldn’t regret exorcising him.
He’s a brunette, as I mentioned before. I can make out some features better now, like his eyes, which are brown, and his prominent nose, which complements his jaw. There’s a certain old charm about him that … I don’t see in most men nowadays. He’s handsome in the absolute literal sense of the word, unlike those effeminate, foundation-wearing male specimens with fringe-covered faces the media likes to idolise. No, I don’t think a man with pale skin and hair that doesn’t look like it’s been washed in a long time is “handsome”, thanks. In fact, this specific person I’m talking about resembles a foot more than the man of my dreams, and yet, women cream themselves mad over him. I don’t get it! This generation …
Anyway, Mr Ghost is quite the dapper dresser, too. He’s decked out in a sweater vest atop a dark-coloured blouse with the sleeves rolled up, revealing neither thin nor muscular arms; they are, as Goldilocks would put it after tasting the little bear’s porridge, “just nice”. Rounding up the look is a pair of dark pants … and some pins on his vest, all too small for me to make out from this distance.
Lola’s unholy baying brings me crashing right back down to earth, however. And so does the fact that this man, no matter how good-looking he is, has cost me my sleep on several occasions, and that is absolutely unforgivable.
I get up and grab a fistful of salt, and fling it in his direction. It’s after how he doesn’t flinch that I realise how stupid this is, finally. Which is good, because the next thing I’d have done is to chuck the wrench at him, and if that sails through him like the salt, I’m out a computer. And that is going to be real hard to explain to the Parents.
Mr Ghost chuckles. “Salt. That’s new.”
Day 02 → Your favourite movie
Day 03 → Your favourite television programme
Day 04 → Your favourite book
Day 05 → Your favourite quote
Day 06 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 07 → A photo that makes you happy
Day 08 → A photo that makes you angry/sad
Day 09 → A photo you took
Day 10 → A photo of you taken over ten years ago
Day 11 → A photo of you taken recently
Day 12 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 13 → A fictional book
Day 14 → A non-fictional book
Day 15 → A fanfic
Day 16 → A song that makes you cry (or nearly)
Day 17 → An art piece (painting, drawing, sculpture, etc.)
Day 18 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 19 → A talent of yours
Day 20 → A hobby of yours
Day 21 → A recipe
Day 22 → A website
Day 23 → A YouTube video
Day 24 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 25 → Your day, in great detail
Day 26 → Your week, in great detail
Day 27 → This month, in great detail
Day 28 → This year, in great detail
Day 29 → Hopes, dreams and plans for the next 365 days
Day 30 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Hello there, have more Sway.
Skipping ahead a bit to where Sebastian surprises Helena with a night-time visit, where he intends to tell her what's up with him. Some background information first, however: she has salt (and an iron wrench) at her disposal because she's watched Supernatural to find out how to fend off ghosts, and that's what the Winchester brothers use. She equates the Winchesters with Word of God on all things supernatural (... see what I did there?); our girl's a little too pop-cultured for her own good, I think ... (But she does rationalise her actions later on, so don't be too quick to judge her ...)
And hey! Now we find out what Sebastian looks like. Kind of, since I'd told you in the first post about Sway that I'd based him off Christoph - specifically, Young Christoph, as he was in the 1990s. I've also decided to base Helena off Kat Dennings. Here, have a handy-dandy visual (Christoph picture courtesy of christophdaily!) to help you as you read the following snippet.
And I sleep, until …
… I hear Lola howling her butt off.
It isn’t her usual howl, the one she reserves for scaring animals more diminutive than her, and convening with her kin. This one, however, the vocal exercises she’s doing now … I’ve never heard before. There is a chance that she’s done it before without me being there to witness it, but nope, it was new to me.
Whatever it was, I think I’d prefer to proceed with my life without hearing it ever, because it is fucking terrifying.
It sounds like nothing I know this pure, holy, and blessed earth could produce. It’s worse than long, misshapen nails on a chalkboard and the caterwauling some artistes like to pass off as expressive singing, combined. It’s worse than a wounded seal on its deathbed and me bawling rivers of tears after The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, combined. It’s worse than … okay, I think I’ve provided enough examples to make my point.
But this is weird. It’s quiet and longer (i.e. more dragged), and I hear little growls and snarls sprinkled throughout. Throw in the occasional whimper, too. Oh, and did I mention that her ears are down, and her tail is curled tight around her hind legs?
Because they are, and the latter happens to mirror the growing tightness I feel in my chest, as I wonder what’s upsetting her so much.
I reach over and rub her on the head again, hoping it’d calm her, as I coo, “Okay, honey, it’s nothing, it’s nothing …”
But I notice that her head is dead inclined toward a certain direction, and it’s when I turn my head to find out what she’s looking at, I realise that it is something.
I open my mouth to scream, but I’m quick enough to tell my brain to shut up, because scaring Lola further and waking up everyone in the vicinity isn’t going to win me a ton of favours.
It’s him oh God it’s him and he’s in my room oh God it’s him oh God shit fuck shit it’s him!
To be precise, he’s standing by my desk, his back turned to the two of us. I have no idea what the fuck he’s doing, but he sure is taking his own sweet time at my desk, and -
And oh, God, he turns around.
For some reason, I expected a chalk-white face with black eyes that melt down his cheeks, creating black streaks that a mourner with intense black mascara couldn’t even begin to emulate with her hardcore weeping, and a black hole for a mouth; or a face that’s riddled with blood and pus, and the skull is visible in some parts, and one eye is loose from its socket, holding on to dear life by a vein, even though I’ve seen his real face many times before.
There are two possibilities to explain this. One, horror films have conditioned me to accept wraiths as grotesque beings without question … and two, I’m doing this on purpose to distract me from the fact that he is hot as sin in the ectoplasmic flesh, so I wouldn’t regret exorcising him.
He’s a brunette, as I mentioned before. I can make out some features better now, like his eyes, which are brown, and his prominent nose, which complements his jaw. There’s a certain old charm about him that … I don’t see in most men nowadays. He’s handsome in the absolute literal sense of the word, unlike those effeminate, foundation-wearing male specimens with fringe-covered faces the media likes to idolise. No, I don’t think a man with pale skin and hair that doesn’t look like it’s been washed in a long time is “handsome”, thanks. In fact, this specific person I’m talking about resembles a foot more than the man of my dreams, and yet, women cream themselves mad over him. I don’t get it! This generation …
Anyway, Mr Ghost is quite the dapper dresser, too. He’s decked out in a sweater vest atop a dark-coloured blouse with the sleeves rolled up, revealing neither thin nor muscular arms; they are, as Goldilocks would put it after tasting the little bear’s porridge, “just nice”. Rounding up the look is a pair of dark pants … and some pins on his vest, all too small for me to make out from this distance.
Lola’s unholy baying brings me crashing right back down to earth, however. And so does the fact that this man, no matter how good-looking he is, has cost me my sleep on several occasions, and that is absolutely unforgivable.
I get up and grab a fistful of salt, and fling it in his direction. It’s after how he doesn’t flinch that I realise how stupid this is, finally. Which is good, because the next thing I’d have done is to chuck the wrench at him, and if that sails through him like the salt, I’m out a computer. And that is going to be real hard to explain to the Parents.
Mr Ghost chuckles. “Salt. That’s new.”