“’Sup,” Crooned Dialogue.
Imagery stood still, saying nothing to the face of her brother. Carefully, she shifted her weight, head defiantly downcast. Where she stirred, the ground blossomed at her feet, shifting like tendrils of ink and metamorphing into a thousand silent words.
“Dude, c’mon, talk. Did you hear what happened to Sonnet last week? She chocked on a verse!” He guffawed, snorting slightly.
With blind eyes, Imagery turned to face his voice, milky cataracts eating the noonday light one moment, and reflecting the moonlight the next.
Grimacing, Dialogue watched her in silence for a moment, obviously waiting for a reply. Not finding one, he rushed on, blabbering uncomfortably.
“That’s the first time, right? Metaphor’s losing his touch too, what with Simile being pissy and all, but still! And I mean come on- IRONY saving the day? Really? Since when has Irony saved anyth-” Stricken silent, Dialogue watched with wide eyes as an inky tendril slid over his face, sliding throughout his hair and embracing his features before splitting into others. Gaping, his mouth worked noiselessly.
And Imagery smiled, wind gratefully kissing her hair.
Moral: Dialogue sucks.
Moral: Dialogue sucks.
