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stargate, DanielJackson

Title: Without the Glass

Posted on 2015.10.24 at 13:35
Written for bleodswean's prompt-a-thon

Chairs. Empty chairs. They are more powerful than you would imagine.

The floor is not water. It’s dented glass. It’s a world seeped into the ground. A world steeped in faces upturned, peering at our empty chairs. Peering at our empty world, waiting.

You can’t dent glass. You say.

This is a different kind of glass, one that doesn’t crack or shatter. One that merely magnifies and refracts our world into something it isn’t. Upturned faces look into our lie.


They are climbing up their buildings to reach us. Their palms pale and static against the underside of our floor.

They are coming. Only a membrane separates us. And it is denting. Cobbled with imprints of hands and fists and knees and fingers.

The glass will not break.


On one side there are those trying to break through.

On one side there are those watching this struggle.

Which side are the monsters? And why should the empty chairs matter? It’s all a matter of perspective.

Oh and the chairs don’t matter. Forget about the chairs. And the glass, forget about the glass too.

They were always here. There was never anything stopping them.


The chairs are empty because no one is here. No one is here because…

No one is here because…

The things. The things under the glass. They did something.

There’s something we’re forgetting.


The things. The things over the glass. They did something.

They hid. Lay in wait, hiding behind their empty chairs.

They watched us. They watched us scream. They watched us struggle. They watched us fall.

No one watches us anymore.

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