|miles (deadman) wrote in repose,|
@ 2020-05-10 14:00:00
|Entry tags:||*log, damian wainright, miles williams|
Who: Miles & Damian, not the one from The Omen
What: Miles, signing up for a duo of new feline responsibilities
When: The afternoon after this fateful offer
Where: Wainright Manor
Warnings: Good question (Probably not?)
Admittedly, the hushed surrounds are imposing, a tinge intimidating. Isolated, this road has a homesick, yawning charm. The split tooth of a ramshackle but grandiose place piercing up out of the sward, some low-hanging hill. Another is dismal, wedged in a lush upswelling of perennial spiked speedwell and catmint patrolling around a glasslike house, which makes him think of breaking burnt out lightbulbs in some gravel pan of his lonesome, tedious youth. Then, there is this Wainright manor he’s meant to pull into with his frankenstein jalopy. A consummate stonecastle, something torn out of Hans Christian Anderson’s spine.
The man had a rough night, this much was evident in the slope of bones, the posture crooked in some unguessed ache. He is tired. While others grow irritable with lack of sleep, he’s found that it acts like some anodyne pill, making him even more placid than he usually is by nature (unless stirred) and the one thing that can piss him off is bouncing in the backseat like she’s at a Beatles concert in 1965. “I can’t BELIEVE it!” she squeals, “I get two kitties AND I get to see a REAL castle!”
“Just don’t talk when we’re inside.” he pleads, the last thing he needs is somebody thinking he’s crazy.
He is reminded of the Sumerian ziggurat that once his squinting eyes had laid upon, before in that other life of his, before in that impossibly bright place. It’s the subtle mudbrick tone of this manor they draw closer to, which makes the memory bubble. But, pathetically armed with all things cat in the car, they pull up to the gate. Both phantom and man feeling a mite out of place, if we’re being honest.