I’d been working on a completely different footprint story for Tale Weavers, but it had problems. Yves’s wordle words, with some heavy manipulation, were made to fit into a tale about footsteps. And since I’m not in the mood for editing – it’s free fall free write.
When the timepiece in the foyer, an ancient great-grandmother’s clock, chimed, the footsteps could be heard. On odd days, they began in the cellar at 4 am, with the clacking of wine bottles. Perhaps due to drink, odd day steps seemed more feeble. On even days, the invisible feet had a syncopated rhythm, a ghostly Fred Astaire descending from the attic at 2 am to visit the wine cellar below.
Those were the regular steps, the set your watch to steps. There were the less reliable ones. The ballerina taps and twirls in the nursery. Clompy ones, sounding like a truculent maid with a bucket and mop to sent cleanse the front hall way. The rattle of pots and pans and sliding slippers in the kitchen. The clop of horses in the foggy night.
I had my bedtime ritual, timed to my neighbours. When no-one was prancing, stamping, or tip-toeing in the 2nd floor hall and bathroom, I pulled my hair back into a long, low pony tail with an elastic, and slathered my freshly washed face with avocado paste. Two slugs of tincture of laudanum and I was ready for sleep. You might wonder why I don’t have a visceral reaction to all the footfalls, threads, paces, strides, footsteps. Since the electroshock therapy, nothing really bothers me at all.