slashyrogue:

Twilight Zone Episode 139: Night Call

The first call comes late in the evening at the end of August just as Will walks in from class.

He answers without looking at the name.

“Hello?”

“Hello, may I ask who I am speaking with?”

Will stops in his doorway.

“You called here.”

“Yes but I am unsure–”

Will rolls his eyes. “Who–I think you have the wrong number.”

He hangs up and sets his cell on top of his television while he feeds the dogs and tries to shake off the oddness of the call. He eats too, his eyes going to the phone across the house more than once but it never rings again.

The second call comes late again not even a week later.

This time he does look at the name.

000-000-0000

Will answers anyway.

“Hello?”

“I apologize for the call before. I am sorry to have frightened you.”

He smiles. “So you called again?”

“I thought it horribly impolite not to apologize,” the stranger says, “Though I am unsure of the time now? Is it late again?”

“It’s almost eleven,” Will offers, “Do you not have a clock?”

“No, I do not. My current resting place is quite sparse.”

Will lays back in bed and stares at the ceiling. “But it has a phone.”

“Of sorts, yes. Though yours seems to be the only number I can reach and I have been horribly bored.”

“I’m pretty boring, sorry.”

“You do not seem to be, though I would ask your name.”

He hesitates and Winston licks his socks.

“Stop it,” he chastises just as the stranger answers.

“Oh I am sorry. If you’re uncomfortable–”

“No, that’s not what I meant, I was just talking to one of my dogs.”

“One?”

And that’s how he ended up telling some strange man all about his pack, his job, and by the time he was so tired he couldn’t keep his eyes open his name.

“Will,” he mumbled, “My name is Will.”

The stranger’s voice lulls him into sleep. “Hello Will, my name is Hannibal.”

He has a strange dream after the third call that comes after another week full of dead bodies and nightmares the likes of which Will hasn’t had before. He sees someone in the dreams, a shadow that has Hannibal’s voice but no face and Will wants to go with him. Begs at one point but the stranger pushes him away.

“This is not for you.”

The dream repeats over and over until the next call.

It is another late night and Will has a bottle of whiskey by his bed half gone when he sees the zeros.

“You could give me your number,” Will mumbles, “The real one.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Why? I like talking to you,” he sighs, “Like it more than talking to anyone.”

Hannibal is quiet and Will’s eyes start to droop down.

“Are you intoxicated? You sound strange.”

“I can’t sleep,” Will confesses.

“You are having trouble?”

Will takes a swig of the bottle and wipes his mouth. “I’ve been having strange dreams…full of blood and bodies.”

“What do you mean?”

He goes off on another long speech, tells Hannibal everything he’s sees in his nightmares until his throat is hoarse.

“And I don’t want to see it again.”

“Because it frightens you?”

Will sighs, “No, because I like it.”

Hannibal pauses and Will does close his eyes this time.

“I do believe we would’ve gotten along well,” Hannibal sighs, “What a missed opportunity that we never met.”

There isn’t another call for three months.

Will looks up any Hannibals in Baltimore and comes across only one:

Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

Continued here: Night Call by nightliferogue 

treacle-a:

I put a bit at the end of the penultimate chapter of my last WIP about how I’d gone through a short period of feeling like the story I was writing was ‘rubbish’ and worthless, and that I’d had to kind of solider on through it in order to finish. I was sharing this information partly as an explanation as to why I hadn’t updated for almost 3 weeks (after initially saying I would update weekly), but also because I feel like it’s important to share stuff about insecurity and process in order to connect with people authentically.

Having a fair bit of insight into my character, I think I can safely say that I didn’t do it in order to fish for compliments or to be reassured that my writing is good. It’s my job to reassure myself about that, which is why I think it’s important to share that block and insecurity are really natural parts of the writing process, and will usually pass of their own accord.

I was a little surprised by some of the reactions I had to my sharing this, and I can only assume it’s because I give the impression that I’m accomplished and super-confident about my writing. I’m not. In fact it’s maybe one of the only areas of my life in which I still suffer pretty crippling self-doubt. I often compare writing fiction – for me – as akin to stripping for an audience (which ironically I’ve actually done with very few problems), because honestly it feels like baring something incredibly intimate of my secret self, and asking everyone who’s looking at me naked for their approval.

So I just wanted to throw that out there.

I know a lot of people who write suffer the same neuroses – I’m not special in any way – but it helped me a lot when another writer told me they often felt this way, and questioned their talent even after being published and lauded.

Believing your work is good is great and everything (because…y’know yay self-confidence in all areas of life), but it’s not a pre-requisite for success.

eliciadonze:

Blanche by Elicia Donze. Drawn in PS. Please do not remove caption.

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[Caption: A realistic digital painting of Blanche from The Golden Girls. Portrait is from the chest up. Blanche is wearing a bright yellow blazer over a yellow blouse and a chunky aquamarine bead necklace with brassy earrings and red lipstick. The background is soft blue.]