|Fable (figmentations) wrote in repose,|
@ 2020-04-25 04:05:00
|Entry tags:||*narrative, fable white|
The house was loud. Settling floors and frames. Zephyr whistled gently beneath the window pane beckoning her to leave. She had stopped looking for Abel. Fable was taken in by wandering halls, the spices that lingered in the air like a spell from the baker who ruled the kitchens, there were secrets and magic in this town not much different from what made her; a familiarity swimming in her veins.
She’d been told he’d come back. It hadn’t been very long, but what if he was lost? What if he was surrounded by crumbling buildings again and it had pulled him down and deep, buried under the nightmares of other people’s lies?
Baby girl, baby girl, baby girl. The wind whispered.
Fable slipped on the socks that were now her own and the red converses lent to her along with the flannel shirt hanging loosely over her frame. The white dress she had arrived in was left on the bed she never slept in. The secondhand phone that connected her to the rest of the world was shoved into her left pocket right above her heart. It might be useless out there but the weight of it brought some comfort to her. Warmth.
Perhaps she’d see the inhabitants (some more like visitors) of these halls again soon one day, but Fable was never certain how long soon was. Puck and his mischief managed eyes were gone from this place, perhaps roaming midnight streets once more, disagreeing to disagree. The bakerman bakes and bakes: sugar, flour, butter. His whole life is here, in that kitchen baking, what a mess he’s making, except there is no mess; everything was perfectly placed, clean in jars and cabinets.
Don't be trapped into being like everyone else. She remembered her, too. The everything at once and not.
Red converse tip-toed down the stairs not earning a single creak from the aged wood of the estate. Shadows had blanketed the foyer cut only by slivers of light. Whispers everywhere of what was unseen, betwixt, between. Dreams were even here. Worlds. Lost, found, beautiful, terrible and maybe Abel was calling from a place she could not hear from those very layers. The flannel shirt slipped down her shoulder hiding her fingers as they took the door handle.
She wouldn’t deny that she couldn’t wait to feel the breeze move through her body, sometimes she flew in Dreams, but high as she flew there the ghosts kept passing by in this world. So maybe she’d find her way home and he’d be there, waiting. No Very Bad Men. No Nightmares. Just the cabin. Home.
Fable, please practice being less agreeable while I'm away.
At least she was doing what was asked, in a way. She was disagreeing. She wasn’t contacting a boy named Alex as she was told. Sorry, Puck, but she had to. The door opened, the baby spring leaves rustled, and the small figure that had been standing at the open was suddenly gone as if she had never been.