Thief's IceCream

Sing a song of Sixpence.
Words are the fabric the tapestry is woven from.
Stories are the cogs that move the hands across the clock.
All things tred down the cobweb of life, trailing silk behind them. They meter out their existence by spooling out the filaments of their story, no matter if they are extreme and exceptional, dull and dreary, lucky and licentious or ordinary.
These myriad lines of life weave and knit while the clock ticks its tortuous time and the web grows like some phantasmagorical mycelium. They crisscross and interlock, merging only to break apart again until they peter out at their own, The End.
Within this tapestry of lives, frustrations and emotions there are countless opportunities for these stories to birth and produce; within their own intentions and experiences an idea, a design, beginnings and endings that are so vivid that they are recounted over and over, written down and distributed, stories contained within themselves to fuel creative thought.
For without which, there would be no sentience.
The Weaver delicately moved her spindle legs; it was a myth that she merely observed, ever waiting, ever cautious.
She loved the little things.



Hester shivered under the night sky, the upper clouds pouring rain. In another time and place she would have been glad. Rain was cleansing; washing the soot from the air and clearing the scratch from collective throats. At least for a day or so.
Through the cascade of fat, freezing droplets she allowed herself a private smile, enjoying the peace of being out on the streets at curfew. She heard the very ground beneath her creak; as if Spiral was lazily keeping her company in this forsaken hour. That contorted city slumbering now the night balmed it's brass works and frosted it's steaming bellows.
Not that silence reigned. The many sounds of trade and the hustle and bustle of carts were replaced by something much more primal. The flying city rocked in it's fetters as thunder rumbled it's gripe at the night sky and lightning danced like maniacal cats up and down the chains; fitting them with whimsical christmas lights and giving the damp and heady air the definite tang of ozone.
Sheets of iron plating ground together like the continents, their muted squeals a never-ending lullaby for the great city.

Lights out at curfew!

Nobody bade the rusted streets company on Spiral's night except the steady beats of the Night Guard, those chimerical monsters with their storm-lights and ideals.
Thieves too, of course.
Hester pondered this as she stood in the shadows of an alleyway, waiting. Corruption and immorality were constants for civilization but she wasn't proud of her trade. What else were she to do? Either that or the beggar's shelter, where she'd curl up, shivering, and hope the poncy gentry would spare her tuppence. She remembered the smell of that place: the stench of unwashed clothes, alcohol and bile and she thought herself lucky to be young, fit and free.

Storm-light washed down the alleyway and Hester shrank back into the shadows. Without thinking she started counting until five and held her breath, then as the darkness seeped back a sigh of relief passed her lips. Safe, for the moment, she slunk out of the alleyway, shadows creeping after her to bade her company. Down the streets she crept, her splashing footfalls masked by the continuing drumming of the rain. She felt like a rat, running wild and disallowed.

A thief.

Hester sung a song:
"Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rhy. Four and twenty blackbirds all baked in a pie."

Roderick had taught her that sky pirates on their rusty airships used to sing the song, undercover, to recruit those who knew. A secret code for the lawless, a form of solidarity among the wastrels of such a decadent society. Oh Roderick; he of the rapier smile and polished manners.

Hester's hand strayed to her skirts to check the pockets; everything was still there: her lock-picks packaged in paper to dull their conniving chimes; her little pouch of bloodberries. Pressing herself into the shadowed entrance of a shop, Hester felt a thrill run down her spine: this was it! This was the culmination of weeks of preparation, her first heist. If she managed to steal and get away with it, Roderick promised he would accept her.
Her fingers flew to her pocket and with a sibilant rustle extracted a lock-pick. She ducked down over the door, instinctively obscuring her motions and then shook her head to wake the fireflies entwined into her hair; the tiny pinpricks of light shedding luminescence upon the keyhole.
There was a soft, metallic sound and then a series of clicks. Hester slipped into the shop as quietly as the footfalls of a cat and by the firefly light she picked out the rows and rows of darkened displays. A sweet shop.
Upon the glass shelves lay stacked heaps of garishly coloured chocolates, smoky jars stuffed to bursting with boiled sweets and a long row filled with troughs of ice-cream. The hum of electricity cooling the sweet was droned out by the continuing rain outside and Hester stood adrift in the middle of the shop. The smell of the place was intoxicating, heady, rich and so thick you could cut it with a knife. Hester breathed deeply, taking several long and painstaking breaths, enjoying that which only the rich children normally would.
It was one of life's little deaths, choosing ice-cream flavours: no matter how carefully cogitated the decision one always left feeling that you were wrong, and that hazelnut would have been the more delicious option. Interesting how something so epicurean could be so vexing.
Hester turned her back resolutely on the ice-cream display. The only winning move was not to play and in this case her fingers grabbed in the dark. A snatch, a catch, and she hurried out of the shop, huddling a bottle-green wrapped cube of marchpane to her breast.

Out, away, free!

Out into the drenched streets, the gutters filled with flowing rubbish, fat drops exploding like little bombs and making froth and bubbles gurgle along their eternal dance with the cycle of elements.

And then everything went wrong.

Hester felt storm-light sweep along the night-clad street, creating a crazy impressionist painting of shadows and she froze still, her pupils contracting like a animal picked out by headlights. She could hear the splashing sounds, the ringing noise of metal capped boots on iron dulled by the water. Everything seemed to be inflected with an odd clarity as the Night Guard moved ever closer, implacable silhouettes: a deeper black against the night sky.
Hester acted without thinking; falling over to her side she flipped the pouch of bloodberries out of her pocket and crushed it in hands, dark red juice dribbling out of the soft cotton pouch. Smearing the liquid against lips and chin she started to tremble as the light grew stronger and stronger until she seemed enveloped in the harsh glare.
"Th-thief!" she cried and pointed down the rain-washed streets. That was the oldest trick in the book, the most infantile of gestures, but as the fake blood dripped from her chin, the soulless Night Guard hurried by. Her leg muscles flexed as she forced herself to her feet, running at full tilt, weaving through the streets like yesterdays headlines blown by the wind. No matter that her skirts threatened to trip her at every step, sodden clothes clinging to her shivering body: she kept on running until she felt her knees buckle in exhaustion, her lungs burning in her heaving chest.
No time! Forcing herself up she looked around wildly, her wide eyes piercing the cloying darkness for any hint of the Night Guard.
She was safe.

A quiet smile creased her lips: it was still early; the sun wouldn't be up for a while. Everything was quite and she got up, the urge to laugh bubbling in her chest, joy unfolding like a warm flower in heart which warded away the chill.

No sound at curfew!

Even the rain had stopped. Down the rain-cleansed streets she sauntered, cocky, enjoying the way her shadow skittered wildly from side to side; fleeing from the puddles of light cast by the street-lamps.
Her nose twitched in delight as the nightly aromas were those of freshness. It was a new dawn, and Hester knew exactly what to do with it. She reached the lip of Spiral and found what she was looking for: an old stairwell that led out into the clouds. Rubbish was cast down off the flying city there, but she was happy and felt safe. Hester sat down on the last step and kicked her legs out into the sky.
As the heavens lightened she watched the clouds that lapped at her feet upon their majestic trawl through the heavens turn a shadowed turquoise. Colours passed through the spectrum as the rising sun caused a conflagration of golds and shell pinks, misty purples where the shadows of the clouds made the mounted banks look like fuzzy sails upon an immaterial ship.
Valleys and mountains of cumulous, raging oceanic waves of perpetual motion, yet oddly frozen in time and liable to dissipate into nothing.
And so she ate her marchpane, the light of the sun warming the specs of cold-damaged skin like a soothing balm, her cool, sea-blue eyes closing. To partake in such a stolen, guilty pleasure made it better, somehow.

The city held a rhythm. A deep tangible throb that could be felt through the dirty chains, witness of the many boilers slaving away under the monstrous disc; keeping the city aloft even as it's manacles fought to hold it tethered.
A remarkable city.
A symbol born of man to reach for the skies, but even in flight was hope chained.
Like the unfurling of a putrid flower.
However...
At this time and place, Hester was happy.

She loved the little things.