Dramatis Personae



Scene Title Dramatis Personae
Synopsis The future isn't written in stone, but it can be scrawled on lined paper by candlelight.
Date March 26, 2011

Bannerman's Castle: Bedroom

Twin candles gutter light low, flares illumination up a steamed window, spills it onto the desk. It's the only light source in the room if you do not count the moon light sliding on in paler and harder to write by, and Joseph Sumter has it close enough to watch what he's doing that it would make one nervous to observe his hands near the identical shafts of wax. It's not quite the stoic, constant glow that the gas lamp from his dream is still imprinting in his memory, but it will do.

Because it's, like. Passed 3 am in the damn morning.

Hedging to 4, and all around the world, the season is too odd for the sun to be helping, languishing lazy beneath the horizon. But he has to get this out. Has to or he'll forget, although the details etch so vividly behind his eyes that maybe he'd have the same clarity come daylight, and probably better eyes for his scrawl. Slightly out of date prescription glasses do what they can for him, and at least, he is not unpracticed at writing for long spans of time. When he'd had the option, he did everything by hand anyway — now that he no longer has an option out here, it doesn't present itself to be an issue.

Jensen Raith
Delilah Trafford
Ben Little Ben?

Walter Trafford
and father - Teo

A long hesitation transpires, putting down his pencil for his fingers to ghost after a wedding ring that used to be there and one day might be again although currently is not. And Joseph cannot tell if it's the vividness of dreaming that makes him feel the tingle of precious metal's absence, or just the reminder of how he'd worn it for so long before. By now, the appropriate digit looks like it hasn't felt that constriction in its life, no tan lines or indentations to be seen.

And he misses his ability more than his ex-wife.

Fingers splay, stretch. Take up their pen.

Hannah Sumter

With this dramatis personae transcribed, it's folded into the dream's description, a story about a Grand Central Terminal that took on more renovations and sturdy longevity than this Ferryman would have dreamed for it, and a little girl brought to live there, and the new family beneath it (with countless others extended from it, and Joseph feels minorly dizzy at the notion of time passing so quickly and with nothing changed except to grow taller and greyer and she had to be eight, or seven, how big was she now, a little more than baby Walter at least)—

He folds the pages over, and writes on the newly turned blank face.

make of it what must be.

And blows out the candles, leaving the room dark, the woman in the bed alone, but only for the time it takes for Joseph to walk around Bannerman's Castle and back again.

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