Esther Coleman (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
beingdifferent) wrote2014-07-19 11:02 pm
beingdifferent) wrote2014-07-19 11:02 pm
Eighteenth little lie ♰ This is the story of the road that goes to my house
Has anyone been seeing unusual things? More unusual than is customary here, of course. [She turns the communicator to the mirror hanging on her wall – it’s shattered, and the reflection catches her in bizarre images. Some of the shards are much too broad, extending the shape of her face far outward. Others shrink her reflection, and a few of the larger pieces curve and warp the lines of her face, neck, and shoulders.] This does look strange to the rest of you, does it not? It’s never done that before.
[Private to Jean]
May I… [The ease with which she can talk to Ned is, while a tiny step forward, still heartening, and gives her the bravery to be honest in her request.] May I speak with you? In your professional role?
[Garden spam]
[Picking flowers from any of the beds or pots in the garden is a forbidden act. It is, Esther notes, quite a shame; the blooms are vivid and bright, quite healthy despite the odd environment they grow in, and she appreciates a nice bouquet of cut flowers. She has no intention of angering any wandering horticulturist, though, and keeps herself to the flowers growing out of the lawn.
Buttercups, daisies, dandelions – nothing exotic or beautiful, but she still harvests a great deal of them and holds them in a fold of her skirt when she settles on the grass. They won’t make a bouquet, but she can still use them to adorn her cabin, and she begins, fastidiously, weaving them into a chain.]
[Private to Jean]
May I… [The ease with which she can talk to Ned is, while a tiny step forward, still heartening, and gives her the bravery to be honest in her request.] May I speak with you? In your professional role?
[Garden spam]
[Picking flowers from any of the beds or pots in the garden is a forbidden act. It is, Esther notes, quite a shame; the blooms are vivid and bright, quite healthy despite the odd environment they grow in, and she appreciates a nice bouquet of cut flowers. She has no intention of angering any wandering horticulturist, though, and keeps herself to the flowers growing out of the lawn.
Buttercups, daisies, dandelions – nothing exotic or beautiful, but she still harvests a great deal of them and holds them in a fold of her skirt when she settles on the grass. They won’t make a bouquet, but she can still use them to adorn her cabin, and she begins, fastidiously, weaving them into a chain.]
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