ofsilvas-blog

[ofsilvas-blog]

liujies:

哎呀, he was totally clueless. “Let me guess,” Clio began. “You had a bad dream last week, and now you’ve been seeing strange things since then. Pretty soon you’ll be waking up on another continent. Don’t worry, you weren’t drugged or anything,” she assured him, still wandering the room, feeling like an under-appreciated schoolteacher. “I know, it sounds crazy, but you’re just gonna have to trust me – how else could you understand me? I’m speaking Shanghainese.”

Clio stopped pacing and stood still, silently examining the newest stranger in her life. “Well, you’re definitely cuter than the last two I’ve met,” she admitted with a begrudging smirk. “But man, you should have seen the Russian’s wife. She was something.”

Looking around skeptically, she crossed her arms against her chest. “Where are we now, then? Ukraine? Taiwan?”

Flashes of the dream come back to him---a woman, words being told in hushed voices and in a mother’s tone, the world unmaking itself in front of Angel. It was messed up, to say the least, giving him nightmares every day since of other things that he never wanted to look back at. Who needed horror movies when people’s own heads were more frightening than the Blair Witch Project could throw at him. ( Not true---but he needed a metaphor. Nothing tops the Blair Witch Project.  Nothing. )

“And you’re definitely the prettiest woman I’ve met within the month, if we’re being frank here.“ Grinning wide, he supposed that she couldn’t be that bad of a kingpin if she did sling around compliments like that. ( He has a big ego; don’t judge. ) “We’re in sunny, sunny São Paolo though, miss,” he answered, a perkier voice than when he thought she was coming to Lucy him up. “Though, well. Doesn’t this all seem too sci-fi? People in my head, in yours. Like a Netflix show, but real life? Do you know any other people like this---like us?”

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valentinvolkov:

They already had half of the speech prepared in their head, something about the shared dream they had all had, and already having met five of the other people who were experiencing exactly what they were experiencing right now, but the man’s reaction to seeing them standing there in presumably his room was enough to make Valentin temporarily forget how to speak.

This was obviously some place very, very far from Moscow, and this man was obviously in a very, very different place in his life from them. It was rare that Valentin was flustered to the point of not knowing what to say, but this was one of those times. After all, it was even more rare that they were asked if they had slept with an attractive man.

“I…er… no, no. I’m not… I have a wife,” was all that they managed to stutter out, trying, and failing, to keep themself from looking at his bare chest. They cleared their throat again, and attempted to regain their composure, buttoning their suit jacket. “What country is this?”

He could just feel his heart clenching---they have a wife; what were they doing in Brazil in his apartment? Call him a sap, a romantic, but there was somewhere in hell for him if he did try anything with a married man; what sort of shorts were he downing for that to happen? ( Blame his friends. Definitely them. ) 

Taking himself out of the spiral of overthinking, which he was trying not to let happen again for the life of him; that line of thinking just gave him nausea and left him in a slump for days at a time, he gave another once over at the strange person. Putting on the ratty tank top that he usually sported, for modesty’s sake, he started to wonder if this was another one of those goddamn ghost episodes.

( Hopefully not. He’d had enough of other people roaming his apartment other than him. )

“Sunny São Paulo, my friend.” He waved his hand at his bedroom, mostly full of paraphernalia from Pride events and picket signs amidst the strewn clothes, an aesthetic he called “activist chic” and his friends called just being a slob. “What, where do you think you are?” he asked, a smile on his face, “Mars? A wasteland? Because while both of those may be perfect descriptors, it really doesn’t do my room justice.”

[ofsilvas-blog]

valentinvolkov:

location: bank of the Moskva River time: 1:30 pm UTC+3 @ofsilvas​

Moments like this made it difficult to believe that there was a constant debate going on beneath the surface. Since their argument and since the other incident had happened, Valentin and Yana hadn’t brought up the issue again, which at least for now, seemed like a good thing. Things felt strangely normal. Normal to the point that they had actually met for a lunch down by the river, since the day was unseasonably warm, picking Alexandra up and having something of a family picnic. And it was nice.

Until they had gotten up to throw away some of their trash, while Yana took Alexandra closer to the water to have a look, and they had looked up immediately realizing they weren’t in Moscow anymore.

Valentin glanced around the unfamiliar location, slowing taking their sunglasses off and stowing them in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. This wasn’t somewhere he had been before, surprisingly. The thought was only confirmed when their eyes landed on a very attractive man who was very much in the middle of changing. They cleared their throat to get his attention.

There were a lot of weird things happening this week.

Ghost visitations, constant migraines, his sister Maria’s cooking, ( though that was alway very.... weird. Weird and a gamble with your tastebuds. ) but so far a white person walking through the door in a suit as he was changing has got to be the weirdest of them all. Not that Angel had never encountered a white man before, but an attractive white person in his house? That rung at least a few alarm bells.

He tried to place them----to figure out his face. Did he go out clubbing with his friends again? Did he just randomly pick this guy up? Was he currently emotionally attached to the jawline-cheekbone combination that the person had going on? ( He didn’t know about the other two, but the last question? A definite yes. ) Angel gave a low whistle of appreciation as he stood there looking at him in the middle of changing, as if he was the one looking at something glorious---and by all accounts, he was.

“Did we fuck?” There was a bluntness in his tone, something that practically screamed that he’d done this sort of thing before. “I mean, I think we didn’t, which is a damn shame,” he said, holding his shirt, “But I know I’d remember giving head to that face.”

[ofsilvas-blog]

liujies:

Clio raised an eyebrow. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

The stranger seemed aggressive, a thought that sprouted a mischievous smirk on Clio’s face. Much more exciting than the other ones, she imagined. It hadn’t happened to her yet, not in this way, but after what had happened when she met the Russian man and the Japanese kid, Clio had almost been expecting an impromptu vacation to a far-off land. The only surprise for her was the new person there, an interesting stranger that she peered at with an excited curiosity.

But the last thing Clio Zhang had was patience, and seeing someone as clueless as she had been yesterday made her roll her eyes. “I take it this is your first time,” she said, beginning to pace the stranger’s apartment and unabashedly snooping around. “With the whole foreign-ghost-visit thing, I mean. You’ll get used to it.”

An attractive Chinese woman in the middle of his apartment---he could say there were worse things than that, though she could be some kingpin somewhere looking for more prospects to gobble up and spit out. Maybe a busboy, an enforcer, a drug mule. ( Worst case scenario: he ends up like Scarlet Johannson in the movie Lucy without the cool mind warping abilities. )

“What are you talking about?”  he asked her, scared out of his wits and irritable beyond belief. He was looking for an exit if he brained her, there was a window on the far side that was big enough for his size and the door behind him, but other than that, zip. She talked coolly, as if anything she was saying was making sense to him, but Angel was half-listening to this woman---she must be nuts. ( Foreign ghost visits his ass. )

“Unless I’m on reality TV, or my life is actually the Truman Show---I don’t think I’ll get used to whatever nonsense you’re talking about.” He eyed the bat that was sitting on the desk next to him, eyes flitting for just a second, “Ghost visits. Am I haunted or something?”

[ofsilvas-blog]

ravisharpe:

location: Sharpe manor, Mumbai, India time: 11:00am UTC+5:30

1, 2, duck…. 1, 2, duck…. 1, 2, 3, duck.

Beads of sweat ran down his back and across his forehead, his long hair wrapped in a half-assed ponytail that allowed some strands to escape and stick to the sides of his face. He looked disgusting, but pleased as he hit the punching bag consistently, staring at it with some intensity as he repeated the routine over and over again.

Ravi had taken to the hobby the summer after he’d arrived in Mumbai. His Marathi was still medium, at best, and he was having trouble adjusting, so his best friend got him a punching bag and some gloves and told him to work it out. His grandmother sourly told him to put it on the garage by the pool, since it wasn’t being used, and he hadn’t stopped training since.

>When the last of the punches were thrown, he sighed and wiped the sweat off his face with his forearm, dropping his arms to his sides afterwards. He turned to walk towards what should’ve been the pool, but in the blink of an eye it…. Wasn’t.

“What the fuck?”

Angel was in the shelter.

Not for himself, mind you. He found it relaxing to volunteer anywhere his help was needed, and the LGBT youth shelter was just one of his most favorite places to visit---the hours were long and the people were less than friendly sometimes, but it still did him good to walk around and help out. He moved kids to their rooms, found them part time jobs, he even made small talk with the people who came in.  Although, he didn’t have words for what he was seeing right now.

Another stranger come to visit him in his most hallowed spaces, beads of sweat trailing down his forehead and boxing gloves for what he supposed was boxing. He really didn’t need any more of these visits; he’d have to contact his therapist for more information about travelling ghosts inside his brain. ( Was this a progressive thing? Was he losing it?  )

“I... I take it you’re not here to get into the shelter, right?” He could feel another headache coming on and sighed, “What in the blue hell are you doing here? Are there more ghosts?”

[ofsilvas-blog]

ishikawao:

He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to turning around and suddenly being in a new country, but his adjustment time was already starting to get shorter by incident number three, and it only took him half a second of wondering where the refrigerated shelves of the konbini he’d been buying lunch at had gone and who’s apartment this was.

It was clearly the apartment of the man standing in front of him, threatening him with a baseball bat. Par for the course, strangely, and it was easier than it should have been to back a step away, hold his hands up in front of him and grimacing apologetically to try to calm him down.

      “Slight problem with that,” he said, gently, glad he didn’t see a baseball in the immediately threatening vicinity. “I actually can’t leave.” He grimaced again and added, “Sorry.”

Angel knew that he should’ve gone to church, just like his grandmother insisted. Now he has a fucking ghost on his hands. An attractive, Japanese ghost who was stuck in the mortal plane for some reason or other and he was about to try to hit him with a baseball bat that would have either angered him, or made him posses Angel, both of which sent a chill up his spine. ( He’s seen The Grudge, he’s not going to be that stupid. Not until he contacts his parish priest. )

“Why... can’t you leave?” His eyes trailed up and down, looking for any sign of disfigurement, or anything that he might point to cause of death. “Do you need prayers? Candles? Some type of peace offering? Anything that could put you to rest?”

[ofsilvas-blog]

eloise-tanaka:

The words this isn’t happening were on the the tip of Eloise’s tongue. It would be easy, reassure the stranger and herself that this was just some kind of dream. But Eloise was pretty sure that three times was the limit for denying reality and besides she was pretty sure that she might actually get whacked with a baseball bat if she did anything suss.

“This is… this is something that’s happening, okay? Not, like, as a stickup or anything. I didn’t break into your house. This is… I don’t know what it is, actually. But I’m here and also in New Zealand and you’re at my place. It’s just a mess, trust me okay? And don’t call the cops. Or hit me. I’m not sure what the result of that would actually be, but I’m pretty sure it would hurt.”

Either the lady was deranged, or she was just trying to stall for time, both of which never sat well with him; something about being panicky and agitated in the face of danger as a heightened survival instinct---or something or other. A lot of words that his doctor talked about always went over his head and he couldn’t comprehend them. But what he could comprehend at the moment was an itch on the back of his brain and an intruder in his house.

“You are making zero sense, lady. I suggest you leave.” Gripping the baseball bat, a bit of pain welling up from the back of his mind to the front, he took a stance and glared at her---this wasn’t the first time he was in a fight, and this wouldn’t be the last. “One! Two! Don’t let me get to three or I come over there.”

There was a pause, a breath, and there was a change in scenery. No more bat, no more apartment---not his, anyways. The Yellow Stain was gone from his sight, and all the adrenaline and rage that Angel felt in his body was replaced with only a sentence.

“Where in the goddamn hell----what’s happening?!”

[ofsilvas-blog]

He could feel another migraine coming along.

It wasn’t because he was a natural at handling these things, take some medicine and lie down for a solid fifteen minutes. His therapist was almost certain that it came as a drawback of almost dying and he would almost agree with her, although this one probably needed more than just one pill. ( Three? Five? The joys of in-home treatments. ) It blinded him for a moment, made his head pound like the screams of a crowd condensed into his head as he tried to not fall flat on his face as he walked back into his somewhat dingy little apartment.

Angel expected that the flashes of hurt that flickered all over to subside, to maybe catch a break and lie down on the couch, maybe drink some scotch to help him sleep. What he didn’t expect was the stranger in his apartment that looked horribly out of place.

“Who in the hell?” he asked, bewildered by this whole circumstance, “Get out before I call the cops on you, or I beat you over the head with a baseball bat!”

[ofsilvas-blog]

Cafe Asks ☕️

Vanilla Chai Latte : Are you in love? Flat White : Coffee or Tea? Cappuccino : What’s your middle name? Mocha : Dream Job? Pumpkin Spice : Dream car? Jasmine Tea : If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be and why? Old English : You’re stranded on an island, who do you bring with you? Iced Chocolate : Do you have a crush on someone? Caramel Frappe : Favorite video game? Iced Lemon Tea : Favorite song/band? Iced Cafe Mocha : Favorite thing to do on rainy days? Hot Chocolate : Are you an affectionate person? Caramel Macchiato : You’re travelling the entire world but you can only take one person with you. Who do you take? Green Tea : How tall are you? Early Grey Tea : The inevitable Zombie Apocalypse is upon us! What’s your plan of action? Mint Tea : How do you relax? Vanilla Latte : Board games or drinking games? Iced Coffee : Do you like reading? If so, what’s your favorite book? Italian Soda : Describe your dream date Sparkling Water : Describe what qualities you look for in a person Orange Juice : Have you ever had a valentine? Rose Hip Tea : Describe your first kiss Herbal Tea : You’re at a candle shop, what scented candle do you buy?

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[ofsilvas-blog]

dear today, i spend all of you pretending i’m okay when i’m not, pretending i’m happy when i’m not, pretending about everything to everyone.

Nina LaCour, Hold Still (via theliteraryjournals)