quixotice
In conversation, he is like a torrent of sand poured over rocks. The gaps are filled so quickly that you don't realize you're leaning forwards in anticipation until he pauses mid-segue and yawns, jaw cracking. And you lean back, startled, with dry lips and a wanton mind. You can't remember what he was talking about.
It threw a wrench in things, so to speak. Every well-oiled machine has its weakness, after all. This machine's weakness was Marta Lovestrett, and she was about to change everything, for better or worse.
Her hands were shaking imperceptibly as she unplugged the first wire. Nothing happened. She let out a slow breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Another. Good. Confidence slowly returning, she moved quicker. Two to go. One. Now the last one, and-
He writes reports in his spare time. They're on the lives of other people, people he sees every day. The middle aged man on the bus, his secretary, the postman. He makes speculations about them, their favorite foods, their preferences, affairs, secrets. His life is empty, so he fills it with the stories of others.
I can't help but take the phrase 'in your element' literally. Everybody has a place on the periodic table. Optimists- stable, happy, carefree? Noble Gases. Average people, nothing special or extraordinary? Metals. Solid. Normal.
And me? A halogen. I'd make a perfect Chlorine element. Highly reactive and dangerously acidic. But despite everything, all I really need is that perfect, single electron to stabilize me.
Clash of cymbals, clash of swords. The crash, the epitome to end it all. The last stand, the final blow. Clash. And it all goes dark.