Playing strings in the depths of the night was necessary. It felt right, for those mournful strains to hit air caressed by shadows. And here, in this house--HIS house--the neighbors were further away than they'd ever been before. He didn't have to adhere to ordinances or pick locks to break into practice rooms on campus or put sound-dampening, dust-collecting materials on his ceilings and walls and floor.
He just had to follow his internal clock, get out of bed, and play.
Except. Well.
The blanket looked almost new--except that he'd had it for an age, knew the charming country colors even in their current shades-of-gray-in-the-dark state and all the spots that had worn thin. It was draped over his body though he hadn't made the bed and hadn't even done a preliminary look for sheets. An eyebrow rose. The other followed almost immediately, then he yawned. New place.
Potentially haunted?
It'd been an amused consideration upon moving in but perhaps he needed to give it more credence. Or else, something else was afoot. He scooted out from under the foreign covering and stood to swipe at the dangling light pull in the center of the room. The bulbs clicked on and he squinted at his quilt. Suspicion warred with intrigue. Was it brighter than he'd remembered?
"How much time did I spend packing those cases? Not long enough for the lead to do damage, surely," he muttered aloud. Coming down the stairs in bare feet, he noted places where the wood felt uneven and yet creaked. He would have heard if he'd had a midnight visitor, a caretaker who yet had a key.
He checked the front door: locked. Two deadbolts. So he hadn't been visited in the middle of the night by a home invader who cared if he got cold. Vic scratched his head and headed back through the house. What was that...smell? Everything seemed permeated by the ambiance of early morning mimosas.
Perhaps the blanket had come from a sorority house who'd broken in and made breakfast.
Vic shuddered and dismissed the idea on the grounds that there wasn't any squealing. He did decide, however, he needed to immediately remedy the decor situation. More unwelcoming bits. Discourage the visiting classmates. Especially the flautists. Cobwebs, maybe. He had some of his family's collection of medieval torture devices packed away somewhere, and they might look good--he strode into the sitting room and switched on the light, one bulb down so it was easy on eyes used to night.
All thoughts of sprucing up the interior decor vanished. "What the devil--"
His grand.
The beautiful, scruffy, personable piano...GLISTENED. Cracks and scuff marks had been buffed, removed...FIXED.
Everywhere it glowed as though the wood itself had begun to regrow from within, like once inside the house it'd put down roots and sprouted new leaves.
The bench was the same, a gleam to the aged legs that caught even in the dimmer light.
Mimosas. His piano, the instrument of composition, pensivity, seriousness...no self-respecting musician could possibly lay claim to such a thing.
Sweet reeds and sweet wax and tiger balm, yes. Oranges? No.
No. No. No.
He swiped his finger over the wood and retracted his hand as the familiar texture came away sleek instead of like a calloused handshake.
Unacceptable.
A quilt and a piano made new--what had his aunt said about this place?
There was a box in the hall--had he put it there? And where had the other boxes gotten to? Incompetent movers! Vic dug around the bin, strewing spare parts and empty string packs and scattering half-finished and out of order sheets of scores all over the room. Carefully, he slid the note from its gilded envelope again, trying not to inhale the decaying scent of old flowers that for some reason, seemed a popular perfume. "I know you'll take good care of the place," the note read, as he recalled. "Just be happy. Oh! And remember the sugar for the attic fae."
He snorted.
"Right. And Mr. Enz really IS a dragon, too."
He shifted so he sat across the stairs instead of down them, lanky legs crossing as he slumped against the stairway wall. Vic let his head fall back against the molded faux boards with a satisfying thunk. "So this place probably had a lot of ants. Including her."
Because one didn't leave sugar for ghosts.
Or fairies.
What other quirks would he discover before the first day in his new home was out? Damn it, he'd really needed that quick shot of brandy. But maybe the strings would ease his mind...
He just had to follow his internal clock, get out of bed, and play.
Except. Well.
The blanket looked almost new--except that he'd had it for an age, knew the charming country colors even in their current shades-of-gray-in-the-dark state and all the spots that had worn thin. It was draped over his body though he hadn't made the bed and hadn't even done a preliminary look for sheets. An eyebrow rose. The other followed almost immediately, then he yawned. New place.
Potentially haunted?
It'd been an amused consideration upon moving in but perhaps he needed to give it more credence. Or else, something else was afoot. He scooted out from under the foreign covering and stood to swipe at the dangling light pull in the center of the room. The bulbs clicked on and he squinted at his quilt. Suspicion warred with intrigue. Was it brighter than he'd remembered?
"How much time did I spend packing those cases? Not long enough for the lead to do damage, surely," he muttered aloud. Coming down the stairs in bare feet, he noted places where the wood felt uneven and yet creaked. He would have heard if he'd had a midnight visitor, a caretaker who yet had a key.
He checked the front door: locked. Two deadbolts. So he hadn't been visited in the middle of the night by a home invader who cared if he got cold. Vic scratched his head and headed back through the house. What was that...smell? Everything seemed permeated by the ambiance of early morning mimosas.
Perhaps the blanket had come from a sorority house who'd broken in and made breakfast.
Vic shuddered and dismissed the idea on the grounds that there wasn't any squealing. He did decide, however, he needed to immediately remedy the decor situation. More unwelcoming bits. Discourage the visiting classmates. Especially the flautists. Cobwebs, maybe. He had some of his family's collection of medieval torture devices packed away somewhere, and they might look good--he strode into the sitting room and switched on the light, one bulb down so it was easy on eyes used to night.
All thoughts of sprucing up the interior decor vanished. "What the devil--"
His grand.
The beautiful, scruffy, personable piano...GLISTENED. Cracks and scuff marks had been buffed, removed...FIXED.
Everywhere it glowed as though the wood itself had begun to regrow from within, like once inside the house it'd put down roots and sprouted new leaves.
The bench was the same, a gleam to the aged legs that caught even in the dimmer light.
Mimosas. His piano, the instrument of composition, pensivity, seriousness...no self-respecting musician could possibly lay claim to such a thing.
Sweet reeds and sweet wax and tiger balm, yes. Oranges? No.
No. No. No.
He swiped his finger over the wood and retracted his hand as the familiar texture came away sleek instead of like a calloused handshake.
Unacceptable.
A quilt and a piano made new--what had his aunt said about this place?
There was a box in the hall--had he put it there? And where had the other boxes gotten to? Incompetent movers! Vic dug around the bin, strewing spare parts and empty string packs and scattering half-finished and out of order sheets of scores all over the room. Carefully, he slid the note from its gilded envelope again, trying not to inhale the decaying scent of old flowers that for some reason, seemed a popular perfume. "I know you'll take good care of the place," the note read, as he recalled. "Just be happy. Oh! And remember the sugar for the attic fae."
He snorted.
"Right. And Mr. Enz really IS a dragon, too."
He shifted so he sat across the stairs instead of down them, lanky legs crossing as he slumped against the stairway wall. Vic let his head fall back against the molded faux boards with a satisfying thunk. "So this place probably had a lot of ants. Including her."
Because one didn't leave sugar for ghosts.
Or fairies.
What other quirks would he discover before the first day in his new home was out? Damn it, he'd really needed that quick shot of brandy. But maybe the strings would ease his mind...
Dreams come in a size too big so we can grow into them.
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Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by danixiewrites - 11-17-2015, 11:49 PM
RE: Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by danixiewrites - 11-18-2015, 01:27 AM
RE: Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by Tindome - 11-18-2015, 03:44 PM
RE: Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by danixiewrites - 11-22-2015, 12:33 PM
RE: Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by Tindome - 11-22-2015, 01:49 PM
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RE: Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by Tindome - 01-03-2016, 10:07 AM
RE: Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by danixiewrites - 01-03-2016, 12:03 PM
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RE: Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by danixiewrites - 02-16-2016, 05:26 PM
RE: Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by Tindome - 02-16-2016, 10:33 PM
RE: Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by danixiewrites - 08-02-2016, 03:34 PM
RE: Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by Tindome - 08-31-2016, 01:16 AM
RE: Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by danixiewrites - 03-16-2017, 11:17 PM
RE: Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by Tindome - 03-17-2017, 04:26 PM