ysonesse: (pic#5165920)
[personal profile] ysonesse

Night isn't quiet. Below the languid gaze of the indigo sky, the whispers of evening creatures mingle with the murmuring breeze slipping through the trees keeping watch along the narrow streets of the comfortable suburban enclave. A rising gust of wind reaches through a half-open window into the bungalow rooted to its ancient spot at the top of a dead end street.

Nalieza is awake. In these shadow hours between sunset and sunrise, she hears the quiet sounds now, those small auditory details that form the backdrop to her workaday existence. And she notices the more obvious noises, too. Like the one that's been irritating her for the past forty-five minutes.

She rolls over and slides off the bed to her feet. It's well past time to shut out the unsubtle drone of a chat show hostess coming from the house next door. The retired Lit professor always keeps the volume up to maximum on his holoviewer, so everyone nearby is forced to endure the old man's awful choice of programming. Poorly scripted dialogue and synthesized strings from the romance dramas during the day, and pointless banter and a cheap horn section from the talk shows after midnight. They were all from another life, tokens of the lack of substance that made her run back into normalcy. Of course it was annoying. Especially the singsong intonations of the "Stars Revealed!" hostess. Most everyone in the galaxy enjoys the vibrating tones of Melo Canteuse. But to her, the alien glamour queen's voice is crackling ice in a plastene cup. Cheap, and artificial.

But the bother is silenced when Nalieza closes the window. With a sliding thud, one lingering reminder of her previous life disappears.

Out in the hall, her father walks along the hardwood floor, calling up the ghosts built into the boards. A house of two hundred years has its own unique methods of communication. Creaks, squeaks, bangs, and rumbles are all the ways of letting those contained within know this is a haven. Like when the heater shudders on rainy days. That is the little abode's reassurance of warmth within its walls even when the air might be chilled outside. Nothing can invade their peace for very long. Not even the disruption of fifty midterm reports. At least her father was finally done perusing all those differing interpretations of the Battle of Remis, judging by "Thank the Creatrix!" coming from his office ten minutes ago. Now he was on his way downstairs to the kitchen, probably for a cup of tea, or possibly something more bracing.