glittcrpeach: SLOOM, 25k celebration excerpt. From the depths she pulls one test
glittcrpeach: SLOOM, 25k celebration excerpt. From the depths she pulls one test tube, one envelope. Cradling them in the heat of her palm as she closes the freezer lid and, with rapid steps, heads back to the house away from the great cool emptiness of the seed vault’s guts. Outside Oliver waits for her in the entrance, right beneath the house’s doorway. She bites back the urge to hesitate — the great instinct that he wouldn’t have waited for her when freedom without communication awaited him only some yards away. They’ve done well so far, not discussing it. Ramona can imagine that he wouldn’t want to see her inevitably break that peace with the anxious ricochet in her mind. “Here.” Their boots nearly scrape together. Her hand barely extended out, the final containers offered to him open palmed and barely trembling. Oliver’s shoulders fall. A softness there, in the looseness of his jaw as his callused fingers take both vessels from her. A residue of contact lingers on her palm when he pulls away. With slowness he overturns them both in his hands, from the writing on each label to the non existent weight they bear. “Is this Hebrew?” He asks her, holding the envelope up. “Yeah. Beautiful, but it took awhile for me to translate it.” “You didn’t write it down.” “I…” Couldn’t, when opening the containers was already a profound sin. To damage their skins, disgrace them with her own graffiti — “just sort of remembered it. Those should be snap peas if I did it right. Some sort of pea, at least. The test tube has honeydew seeds.” Oliver nods. They both vanish into the front pocket of his flannel, vanishing behind thick red fabric that hangs ever so slightly lower. Against the heart. Figures. He seems to be one for profound symbolism. Doesn’t matter how small. “Walk down carefully.” Ramona says after a moment passes, walking forward to take his place in the doorway as he steps down into the dirt. “I will.” “My radio— it’ll be on.” Oliver chuckles. Shifts the weight on his back, where she can hear mason jars clanking between fabric and canvas. “I’ll give you a call, but it might take a few days. Keep an ear open for it.” “Will do.” “And hey,” over his shoulder, into the slow Spring breeze as he heads for cracked open gates so far away from the house, “thank you for humoring my stay.” Ramona’s throat aches; with apologies and assurances and all the witty things she thinks of far too late for him to catch them before wind and weariness swallows them away. It leaves her silent. Only watching as he disappears through the crack between open gate doors, and into the forest beyond. All at once the garden feels far too large, and perfectly like home. TAG LIST: @skeletongrrl / @penumbrics / @noloumna / @euphoriecs / @madsaialik / @tokyoghoulua / @irlstarchild / @heavenlybursts / @empress-of-big-delusions / @nepeinthe / @omgbrekkerkaz / @ivonoris / @writinginslowmotion / @endymions / @bitterbodies / @naavakaiho / @semblanche / @maskedlady / @castormay / @aschenink / @bebewrites / @kowlazovdi / @noni-lio / @perringwrites / @penkai / @vandorens / @waterfallofinkandpages / @uhngelic / @whorizcn ASK, DM, OR REPLY TBA. -- source link