EXCERPT FROM DRAFTS OF “THE DREAMS AS PROPHECY - LOCATIONS” S. CLINE, 1988-1990 PAGES 6, 7, 9
ANNOTATIONS GIVEN BY DR. JEANNIE GRAY, PH.D
UNPUBLISHED. CW CAR CRASH IMAGERYthe office
The clock doesn't speak when it strikes the next number; you know it hasn't moved. Time stood still, in this place, the air thick with dust that never quite left, no matter how many times it was cleaned away. The copier stands still, for once, the quiet hum from the flickering lights above your head the only chatter, beyond a distant car alarm. The office was empty - it always seemed to be empty, when you were here.
Files spread out upon the table, white pages spilling out onto the dull wood. You couldn't find what you were looking for. It didn't matter how many color codes or cabinets you went through - you were still looking.the stairs
The stairs are made of cold cement. They can feel the late night drizzle coming from outside, the metal door at the bottom hardly enough to block it out. This is a transitory state, the stairs, but there is a feeling of urgency. You have somewhere to be. There is a bathtub, the porcelain basin floating, suspended in a way that should have been impossible, but nothing was truly impossible in this space. The stairs are warped and bent, despite feeling flat underfoot, and sticky red ichor drips onto the floor from above. Even professionals vandalized, it seemed, as you finally come to the bottom, hand prepared to push the door open, covered and scratched with symbols that meant nothing.
The door locks behind you.the crash
The smell of gasoline and burnt rubber hits in a wave as you step outside, soles padding along the asphalt of the parking lot until you reach the source - the overturned vehicle rests, the cherry red of the truck resembling a crushed coke can more than an all American Ford. You can feel the ghosts that linger on the pavement just as well as you can feel the receipt in your pocket. Fingers peel and pry at the unmoving metal carcass, arms and heads hung limp. The doors are dented and bent like broken, torn wings cradling its steel ribs. You don't like this place. You don't like how you're standing by it, untouched, while the rolled, faceless forms rest on stretchers, draped in white cloth to obscure them.
Nothing can be done. Nothing could be done.the telephone booth
The ringing draws you away. Beyond the fuzzy street lamps that try in vain to cut through the fog that had rolled in, low to the ground, the only other illumination comes from further down - the phone booth, door slightly ajar, is practically screaming, a shrill and heavy chime, incessantly repeating. You can't remember if it had been like that always, if it ever stopped, or when it started. The closer you get, the quieter it becomes, until it is a faint murmur from the ear piece pressed against your head. The words are mixed and muddled, the voice a man, then a woman, then no one. Somehow you know that no matter how many times you try to understand, and try to get whoever is on the other line to understand you - it will never work. It drops with a hard clack as its wire sinks down and strikes the glass.the road
If the stairs had been transitory so too was this. Past the phone booth stretches a dark expanse, a cut through the forest and fields, which seems to extend impossibly for miles. Everything is mixed around, in a way that didn't make sense, that wasn't right for the time or location, but it was always the mind's habit to attempt to make sense from nothing. It's like the world is weaving around, over, under, over, trying to keep up, trying to correct itself, to place things in the right order. The asphalt is cold and hard - where had your shoes gone? It scratches your heels as you walk, and palms as you trip. But it didn't matter; stopping wasn't an option. There is no rush of cars rushing down the road, and the shoulder is overtaken with crabgrass and thistle, stalks taller than you. The wind whips the mullan, proud yellow flowers faded in color, as the fog trails behind. There are no headlights, no crescent eyes that betrayed an animal, waiting to pounce - there was utterly nothing but the pitter pat of a heartbeat. Loud in your ears, almost as if being played from some speaker just behind you, just out of reach.the burning pyre
You can smell it before you see it, the darkness swallowing up the warm glow from afar unnaturally. The road comes to a bend, and just down the hill is a stretch of tinder, stacked high, higher than you could reach- an ugly, unholy combination of the building that had burnt in truth, and the one you wish had turned to ash, beams and roofs twisted and braided into one, shingles making the crumbling scales of a hellish serpent. Hot, acrid smoke climbs up the slope as you slip down it, edging forward to take a better look.
The underbrush is dry, the flame licking through it, its red and yellow teeth and tongues tearing and scorching the earth. The old bones littered on the ground smoke and charr. You are like this forest floor, like this fire - you are a nurse log as much as you were an uncontrolled burn, fertilizer as much as you were hungry little mushrooms. Growth comes from rot, from ashes.
This will be where you start the world anew, a baptismal fire born of pain and necessity.
WORKS CITED
Dante Alighieri, 1265-1321. The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri : Inferno, Purgatory, Paradise. New York :The Union Library Association, 1935.
Cline E. Serafeim, The Dreams as Prophecy. Unpublished, 1988.
Cline E. Serafeim, The Id and Ego In a Modern Context. Unpublished, 1990.
HI! I’m Cybes
[cybes#2147] / [Any Pronouns] / [PST]
Writing style, I’m most familiar with lit/semi lit - sometimes I type a lot but don’t be intimidated! I don’t expect people to match me. I’m fine with nudging if it’s been a couple of days in our thread. I can HC, but I tend to not be the best at it :’) I also don’t mind google docs! If the week is extra busy, I can take up to a week to reply - I’m a student, and I’m usually in class.
Comfort/Preferences, I don’t have any triggers that would come across in most writing, but if you’re thinking something heavy/difficult, just let me know ahead of time.
Relationships, Elijah is a friendly guy! Probably over friendly, and rather flirty. If that bothers you/oversteps, please please let me know! You don’t have to dm me for permission if they can get along (or not!) in character, or there’s something unrequited. DO dm if you’re after something specific in the form of friends, flings, enemies, etc. If something feels ooc, I will say no. Overall, just talk to me, and we can probably work something out :”)
[HISTORY - EXPANDED]
Serafeim Cline was born overseas while his father was employed at the U.K branch of some banking or management company that has terribly little relevance to the rest of his life - beyond ensuring that his childhood was packed up in boxes every couple of months, and his father rarely attending to him, it didn't touch him. He was not brought to company holiday parties or 'bring your kid to work day', the most attention brought on by his mother's homeschooling, a terribly rigorous and strict thing, or her idea of bonding - which typically constituted a chore, like cooking, cleaning, gardening, and so forth. He could read before he could speak, and became a hopeless homeschooled bookworm; the one that might wave to the neighbor kids, but never played.Moving back to the states to raise their son, the Clines traveled throughout large cities across the country. Previously, their priorities often lied in their work, and with an obedient son that, upon entering middle school, was usually away with tutoring, sports, and extracurriculars, it was remarkably easy to see each other for only a stretch of minutes each day. As Elijah grew older, his father did take more interest in him, and if the location permitted, the two would partake in various outdoor activities, hunting being his father's favorite.At the start of his charter middle schooling, the family moved to Seattle, at which they would stay for the following seven years. Seattle Preparatory, a private catholic high school, was his next educational step, and one that did not treat an odd boy nicely. Serafeim, a bizarre name that was easily shortened to Sera and used to belittle or call him girly - became Elijah, his middle name. Elijah had little to no friends within his school, outside of the other 'nerds' or social outcasts that he equally found difficult to connect with. It was then that, despite being somewhat reserved by nature, Elijah made an above and beyond effort to get along with others; if no one wanted to be his friend, he would quite simply try harder. While his kindness was equally taken for granted, feeling helpful or otherwise needed is still a driving factor in his sociability.At the end of the fall of his freshman year, very nearly winter, his father, two men from his work, and Elijah took a trip somewhere outside Tacoma. As only Elijah and his father returned home, after two days a search began. Sparing the details of the crime, though there were a series of false trails to follow, the obvious answer became set in stone relatively quickly. Both after Elijah's testimony, his father's confession, and evidence that was conclusive. Joseph Cline was sentenced to life in prison, and that was simply that. Attempts at understanding why were in vain - Joseph is and was quite good with his tongue, and prefers to reroute any questions unto their sender.Elijah transferred to another school, this time a public school. He adopted a much more reserved demeanor, became friends with people who didn't have any of their best interests in mind, and eventually, met Mary. Mary both introduced him to their 'weird kid book club' and metal, a proud and terribly quiet goth girl in the same grade as him. The two maintained their friendship through strenuous hurdles; a hospitalization and a car accident before graduation, and at the start of college, hazing and a house fire, among others. These, of course, had a drastically different affect on Elijah's perception of himself, believing himself to be both a curse and what will, in some way, create the End of it all. It was this perception that continually separates them, and ultimately, in the present day, has separated their relationship all together.After graduating college, not nearly satisfied enough with the psychological answers he found or didn't find, Elijah moved back to Seattle. Participating in the dingey, gravely music scene did both wonders and horrors for him. He had already begun to dress quite extravagantly for the State he found himself in, and identified as Goth and (as he would put it) sexually fluid - as it stood, others did not enjoy the fact that he existed. He had many difficult conversations with his mother during this time, who had since moved to Arizona, with a new partner. Telephones always made delivering messages easier, and Elijah still finds himself drawn to calling his mother and offering updates, even if he can sense the distaste through the line.In the present day, Elijah is a grad student, having gone back to school after his musical hobby became too much of a waste, in his eyes. He is currently on leave for what is written as mental health reasons.He believes in the supernatural, in that he believes himself to be treading the line between human and something necessary for the next coming of... well, he's not sure. This is usually intensified with bouts of depression, the delusion flowering most often then; otherwise he does not believe in vampires, werewolves, or Bigfoot. Over time, he has developed a deeply rooted Savior and Martyr complex.