Creaks, ever apparent in the well of descent, whether by apparition or ambulation, no longer tingled fears. Lily had become accustomed to the lack of materialized threat. What interested her today, though, was how dissimilar was the experience of footing the steps sans soles; she, in a sense, felt like she now belonged—that she was part of the structural milieu—rather than just a passing denizen. It was like how traipsing a beach is the height of a vacation experience, even more so than those crossed by credit charges. Was it ironic, then, that her current purpose was to make timely entry at the cobbler’s place that fronted the ground floor, the one passed with only the slightest subconscious awareness for years—until her heels’ needs heeded? As she stepped out onto the sidewalk—a surface not nearly as tactilely temperate as the stair planks, horned hullabaloo filled the air. Then, as she turned toward the store, the faint pelts of him working the lapstone—synced with neon’s buzz, followed by the door’s jingle—hit her head with harmony, distinct from, but clearly connected to what she had just felt during her downwards. They were already boxed and ready to go. He, of course, still used one of those manual rollers for stamping payment and she did not see a line for out-filling a tip—the shoes were better than new and held a novel scent—that of the store—which she hoped would not fade too quickly—and she only had a twenty. It was more than what was societally merited, but she happily slid it over to him with her thanks, hoping he would not decline it. Who would have known he was a baker too? she warmthfully wondered as she headed back home, balancing the bagged muffins on the shoebox. She thought about saving them for later, but ascent’s setting shadows pulled for an immediate return, so she dropped the kicks on the sofa and returned to the hall—leaving her door open, akin to how she was emoting—and walked down to the first landing—which was imbibing the best of day’s remaining light play—and curled her toes around the steps, leaned her back against the railing, opened the bag, and basked. ; )

Mums who bums, this bowl you have set before me clearly presents no pâte

And I am not at all in the mood for such egregious state of diss play.

Walnuts, bah!-nuts—and if those other few in the compost-ition are ripe,

I underscore, regarding site of appetite bites to abhor, my gripe!

And, where is my saucer of milk to support shiny coat de calico?

Am I dreaming in another place or time? A mix-up in Mexico?

Listen, crackpot of crap lot, fur-purr will forgive you this most recent goof,

But you will drop this hell down a well and tear down any nearby shadoof.

Then, you shall carry me to field of mice or water body teemed with fish—

And you shall hunt and hook for me while I precisely pick the most delish.

I understand you are a ‘cat lady’ and, hence, your crazy is quite clear;

From now on, though, even if you mind, keep it down when dinner time is here. ; )

Ups a daisy’s petal,

Signaling its mettle.

Surviving curtilage

Means mower from garage,

Hugging fence for a chance

To beat weeder’s strike stance.

Buzz says lea is better,

But just kids could get her.

Bunny beasts, truth be told,

Clean their place of white’s gold.

Fauna frolics, it haps,

Oft occur with stem snaps.

So, resigned to its space,

Bloom dreams, but lives in grace. ; )

Crunch, crunch snow.

Lamps light-glow.

Eve wintry.

Stars glinty.

Hark! Soft chime.

From ghost’s dime?

Like zills. Kay?

Tink’s bells sleigh!

Flakes romance.

Shadows dance.

Lambent path.

Spirit bath.

Corner black.

Could turn back.

Orange brush.

Home? No rush.

Coat’s white stuff.

Fractal fluff.

Gelid chalk.

Frosty walk.

Crackle ice.

Hues feel nice.

Pitched just bright.

Live, full, night. ; )

Alice was musing in the museum when happened an occurrence so baffling

As she was shrunk—along with stag-statues—to a state that left her maffling.

“Oh-oh, d-deer! What h-have we h-here?!” stumbled her inquiring exclamation.

Anticipating her fright, in unison, the circled mates chimed, “Fret not. This is just pre-celebration organization.”

And, then, she was told the actual story of old regarding how Nick could know which souls were decent and which were of the dastardly pack.

Who knew that such correspondences were happening not only twixt domiciles, but between each inherently inert knick-knack?

Of course, it made perfect sense that a wondrous world could be active in both a dream and its encompassing milieu.

Though, she would have preferred to remain full-sized if it meant she could escape the burden of labelling an attribution onto each who.

They must have been telepaths, for sure, as she next heard, “We just need some help checking the list if you do not too much mind.”

“We would do it ourselves, but inked antlers all too oft mark unintended boxes. A couple hours, please, and you may return to your kind.”

So, she rode and she wrote as the—who knew?— now caroling caribou calculated chari-Chris-matics of characters—until it was finally time to bid bye-byes.

*Blink-blink* Before’s same painting and same seat. Fawns back to brawns. Pulling hand from right pocket, alas, a reasonable-seasonable cheer—a miniature reindeer—alive to not-so-much-anymore a surprise. ; )