The Powers That Be (
powersthatbe) wrote2016-11-11 04:59 pm
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Entry tags:
Conversation Space I.
The room is small, intimate. You are alone. There is no sign of a way in or out. Ping-pong balls crunch underfoot, and empty giftboxes, meticulously wrapped and ribboned, are lined up against one wall, while a humming wall of server blades are racked on the opposite wall. A high-backed, gilt chair with red velvet cushions faces an ornate, full-length mirror, and beside the chair is a mug of steaming hot chocolate on a tiny side table, steaming invitingly from beneath a layer of fifteen half-melted marshmallows.
What do you do?
What do you do?
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He floats there with his arms folded across his chest, though his irritation is shown through the sharper motions in the coiling of his liquid-light, ghost tail. This this because of his message on the fridge? Or because he tried to launch a soccer meteor at said fridge? Granted that was probably a dumb idea, but whatever.
"What? Did I get put in a timeout? Do I gotta sit and think about what I done?"
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"Hello, there."
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Then he clears his throat and folds his arms like his feathers aren't all fluffed up ridiculously. "This is the lamest funhouse ever."
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