Tom's always been able to tell when it happens. The click-shift of someone's mind, the moment the diver catches a fish on his hook, bait eagerly swallowed up. It's part of what makes him great at what he does, something he shares with Alan. What makes them perfect for their respective fields. Storytelling is immersion, creation, crafting the write words to get an intended reaction.
So Tom gently reels his little fish in. He recites a poem, staring into the fire.
"Kept from sleep again last night By the sound of chimes I sway So far below heaven So high above hell Frost creeps up The trunk of my spine All is blackness through these holes Of my eyes Just the wind in my skull And the wings of her crows They perch on the gallows They have pecked me clean And made a chime from My bones."
He glances over at James, looking at him pointedly, searching his face for something--anything. Whatever he's looking for, he returns his gaze to the fire.
"What was in the lake wore her face, but it wasn't her. Not really. That thing's here, too, now. With us in Milton--a different form, a different person, but around. He's quite handsome."
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So Tom gently reels his little fish in. He recites a poem, staring into the fire.
"Kept from sleep again last night
By the sound of chimes
I sway
So far below heaven
So high above hell
Frost creeps up
The trunk of my spine
All is blackness through these holes
Of my eyes
Just the wind in my skull
And the wings of her crows
They perch on the gallows
They have pecked me clean
And made a chime from
My bones."
He glances over at James, looking at him pointedly, searching his face for something--anything. Whatever he's looking for, he returns his gaze to the fire.
"What was in the lake wore her face, but it wasn't her. Not really. That thing's here, too, now. With us in Milton--a different form, a different person, but around. He's quite handsome."