A faerie who works as a radio show host because you absolutely cannot convince me that radio stations are not liminal spaces (fight me).

The day is long gone and the stars fast asleep, but his night has only just begun.ДЄ/N: An OC teaser for an upcoming character of mine. He takes a sip of his coffee and parts his rose petal lips in a smile that reveals too many rows of teeth that are too sharp. Today, the chime of gongs and chants in dead languages no longer spoken welcome his listeners to the radio show. The lone radio host leans back in his chair and stretches, adjusting his the cushioned headphones to hug his pointed ears comfortably as he lets the music play. After all, where else is there for you to go?вЂќ But while youвЂ™re here, I hope you enjoy our time together. Our time on this earth is futile and short and youвЂ™re wasting it by listening to the ramblings of a stranger you do not know. вЂќGood evening to listeners new and old, to those guided here by fate, by chance, by your daily horoscope, or by the unblinking figure that lives by the foot of your bed. He cranes the head of the microphone towards his lips as he begins to speak, his voice like 3am dew, a deep and gentle velvet croon. The light, neon red, flickers to life over his head, reading вЂњON AIRвЂќ. Good enough.ДЄ soft hum, the tap of a pen against the coffee-stained table, the ruffling of papers. The managers have noted his complaint, along with the hundreds before. The ground beneath him rumbles violently from deep below the sewers, nearly toppling the mug of coffee from its precarious position on an overturned flower pot. The waxy words on the paper perpetually mutate and bleed into one another before his eyes, conveying the ever-changing knowledge of the past, present, and multiple futures for him to relay.Д«rows knit into a frown, as he complains loudly why his managers would want to make his job even harder, when reading is challenging enough already with his condition. It reads yesterdayвЂ™s weather, tomorrowвЂ™s moon cycle, and next weekвЂ™s news, or so he believes. His left eye, dragonfly blue that reminds one of spring holds in juxtaposition to his right eye, the rich and intense scarlet flush of autumn leaves as the seasons change, at once hawkish and brumal as he scans the words that leap and gambol across the sheets of paper. The air inside the radio station is still, occupied only by the heady scent of ground coffee and wisteria, and the tick of the analog clock that either turns a second too late, a second too early, or not a second at all.

Curling vines and ivy crawl on the walls and the floor, marigolds and heliotropes droop from the ceiling, fireflies float lazily in the air, like cinders drifting in the void of space. The booth is overgrown, the plantlife breathing as one with the radio host who nestles within. He sits by his lonesome in the silence of the radio booth, with but the amber glow of lantern flowers, to penetrate the hazy darkness. There is not a soul that had not been guided into sleepвЂ™s ephemeral comfort, except for one. A sigh rolls over the land, the breath of twilight flowing with a chilling sound. As the stars settles beneath the sinking moon, the vault of the sky embraces the cold earth which sleeps below.

Radio silence space