the spyglass
I used to think that I was bold, I used to think love would be fun
Tapping his heel against one of his chair legs, Finn tilts his head back to empty the contents of his champagne glass into his mouth, enjoying the sparkle of the liquid on his tongue. Distantly he thinks he can hear the sound of drums or footsteps; Remi's approach threatens to crack the sky overhead into dark shards, sending them raining down upon the feast.
At the bottom of the flute sits the eyeball, faded denim iris staring back up at the Spyglass. "Hello," he says to it, before his head tips back a second time to drink (eat?) that up as well.
Finn doesn't know what possesses him to do such a thing - perhaps it will taste wonderful, since the rest of the feast seems so tempting. But no matter the reason that his dream spins up, he does bite down on the eyeball with a crunch that feels as though it echoes just as loudly as the footsteps.
It tastes like clear spring water, though the texture is as if he's biting into an onion. Finn swallows and sets down his glass. "No more Eye."
At the bottom of the flute sits the eyeball, faded denim iris staring back up at the Spyglass. "Hello," he says to it, before his head tips back a second time to drink (eat?) that up as well.
Finn doesn't know what possesses him to do such a thing - perhaps it will taste wonderful, since the rest of the feast seems so tempting. But no matter the reason that his dream spins up, he does bite down on the eyeball with a crunch that feels as though it echoes just as loudly as the footsteps.
It tastes like clear spring water, though the texture is as if he's biting into an onion. Finn swallows and sets down his glass. "No more Eye."
now all my stories have been told; except for one
