They Were Gone...

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They were gone, and the house had been quiet for days. With all small amusements to be found below stairs soon exhausted, Ellette began to reacquaint herself with the crevices of the house. It wasn't long before she found her way into the tiny attic antechamber, with its kaleidoscope of walls and patchwork windows. 

The corner alcove had somehow been fitted with shelves, all of which were bedecked with abandoned precious treasures. Feathers and stones, wilting under dust and their long, motionless existence made the most part, and all were carefully arranged around the jewel: a full-skirted figurine that concealed a tiny set of jewellery drawers. They rattled open to reveal their dull white gems, tiny teeth that collapsed to powder when her fingertips alighted on them. She gasped, the fine grains were turning golden, and rising, filling the air with a glitter of sunlight. But a sudden gust, a pane was broken, she flung out her hands but too late - it was lost to the winds.

Waves Tumbled Toward The Shore...

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Waves tumbled toward the shore, their foam crumbling like broken chalk. In the distance, the shrinking shadows of sails dropped over the edge of the world. The day was in its simple beginnings, awaking in a creamy haze that tenderly swept away the last dregs of a grey dawn. At the border of the this water world sat a woman, her body sanded fine by every-weather, and the days she spent rolling in amongst the tides. Here she sat rested, dry for the merest moment, surveying her liquid kingdom and reading its secrets. A shadow crossed her and her mind resurfaced. She reclined and observed the playful, cloudy light whilst her lace cap sent its ribbons streaming, licking her face as softly as spray. She bathed in the light, drawing down its lustre, and encased it in her heart-shell, there to burn throughout the day as she dived between the cool currents.

The Black, Broken Leaves...

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The black, broken leaves rested gently in the bowl. Her hands, exhausted and still blooming with blood, clasped the vessel.  She drew it near, woody scent and ink water filled her, causing sharp, salty drops to fall from her lashes and in amongst the dying stalks.

Clear, Sinuous Water Swept Around Her...

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Clear, sinuous water swept around her. Again, the cool liquid had beckoned her, and its charms were irresistible. The last time passed in a moment, before the day's light faded and the growing chill of lonely night drove her home. But again it called, and again she returned, luxuriating in the soft swell. She shed her civil skin, undressing each piece of society's paltry patchwork, and her human fur, overjoyed, melted into the river.

The Smoke Curled And Drifted...

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The smoke curled and drifted into the silver air of winter. The grey streams had been relentless all afternoon, the last whisper of breath from hearth fires that remained well lit among the row of stunted houses. Their inhabitants had mistaken the grey mist, so frequent with morning frost, as the ruin of the day and had resolutely determined to keep themselves lodged in well-worn chairs and forget the world. But the world lightened, and frost faded, with only the daring dunnocks there to see it. 

The Books Had Always Sat There...

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The books had always sat there. Their spines, once twisted to and fro, had now been claimed by age. Tired, they had been left to fray and fade and fall silent on the shelf. The last bloom of these books was in the curling, painted leaves on their covers - they seemed to battle on like all unlucky, growing things - desperately thrusting their tiny, coloured leaves towards the light. She gazed at them. Those poor tomes, forced into unnatural sleep. No pages allowed to turn, no words allowed to escape and whirl around a new mind, scattering their seeds of delight and wonder. She gazed at them, willing them to wake at once and furiously fan their pages, unleashing their cascade of knowledge into her soul. But they remained, silent, slumbering, hidden within themselves, and she daren't wake them.

Upon Arrival They Were Given...

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Upon arrival they were given tiny, lockable treasure boxes that were small enough to hold in one hand. Within a few weeks all the girls managed to amass a small collection of similar possessions: carelessly half-stitched embroideries, buttons they'd rather forget about, the unused thimble, dead blooms and paper clippings for shows never attended. It was usually mid-year when one of them, possessed with a desire for simplicity, and mild alarm at the amassing objects that anchored her to the dark dormitory, would upend her wooden heart-box and madly cast the pieces, fistful at a time, out into the spring-like night.