[ The way his eyes alight, the quickness, the liveliness of it, is somewhere between animal and mental patient, and not any better for retaining a self-aware focus quite unlike either of those. ]
Thank you kindly, sister. I'm ready, yes.
[ Flagg leans upon the podium like a teacher intent on a misbehaving student, the smile lingering as he watches her perform. The stare could come out of a zoo cage or at the footlights of a strip club's stage. Behind it too is the Eye, but this place inhibits him; all that insistent, obnoxious sense of sanctuary is beyond his ability to undo. He can only be himself, which is in some ways more than enough.
He is an involved audience as well. The story invokes in certain places a minor call and response reaction, a word she says echoed in mutter here, an odd syllable of acknowledgment to punctuate her story there. Never too loud. Never fully intrusive, or at least, no more intrusive than his stare, which she as an actress must be accustomed to. At the end he inhales slowly, then whistles in cartoonish amazement, giving the podium a light thwack with his fist. ]
Now that was a story. It had everything. And it was true, very true in the way stories can be. Truer than life, which is after all full of lies. Did you come up with this story, sister? Or did you hear it on your travels?
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Thank you kindly, sister. I'm ready, yes.
[ Flagg leans upon the podium like a teacher intent on a misbehaving student, the smile lingering as he watches her perform. The stare could come out of a zoo cage or at the footlights of a strip club's stage. Behind it too is the Eye, but this place inhibits him; all that insistent, obnoxious sense of sanctuary is beyond his ability to undo. He can only be himself, which is in some ways more than enough.
He is an involved audience as well. The story invokes in certain places a minor call and response reaction, a word she says echoed in mutter here, an odd syllable of acknowledgment to punctuate her story there. Never too loud. Never fully intrusive, or at least, no more intrusive than his stare, which she as an actress must be accustomed to. At the end he inhales slowly, then whistles in cartoonish amazement, giving the podium a light thwack with his fist. ]
Now that was a story. It had everything. And it was true, very true in the way stories can be. Truer than life, which is after all full of lies. Did you come up with this story, sister? Or did you hear it on your travels?