Quiet. Oh, she liked the quiet. Warmth and darkness all around, and lovely water everywhere that felt just exactly like home should feel. And it wasn’t a lonely kind of quiet, not at all. Not with the steady beat that thrummed through her, rhythmic and soothing and sweet. Oh, and she liked the way the world sometimes rocked, back and forth, back and forth, wrapping her up in dreams and a feeling that had no name beyond safety. The beat was sometimes faster, especially when muffled murmuring reached her, meaningless sounds sometimes deep and rumbling, sometimes coated in silk and sparks.
She was always very quiet, very still when the world rocked and moved, or when those murmurs washed over her, or when anything at all changed. But when the world was still and quiet, only then she stretched and turned and explored her slowly forming body, learned how muscles still taking shape pushed and pulled and worked together to make motion. The tilt of her head, or rubbing her nose against the edge of the world, or the sudden jerking of a limb that she didn’t actually intend to kick out with. She learned to turn and twirl, to swim and dance. But as the world got smaller and smaller, it got harder and harder to twist about and move freely, until it was all she could do to stretch her legs a little, squirm about and press back against the constant, steady pressure of the walls of the world holding her in.
But even though the world was getting smaller, it was getting a whole lot more interesting, too. Because the smaller the world got, the more often she felt a strange tingling at the edge of her awareness, a quiet little whisper of something new. Something else. Something different. Oh and that was maybe her favorite part, that gentle, cautious brush of intangible something that checked in, quiet and curious and waiting.
But waiting for what?
When that tingly something came again, gentle probing awash in questions and maybe a hint of impatience, she reached out with a flutter of curiosity, wondering if maybe this time there could be more than just a faint hint of presence and then another stretch of nothing but the rhythmic beating sound and the gentle rocking of the world. Maybe this time, she would be not the only one here.
Oh.
Oh. A soft ache somewhere in her middle, forward some though, just above where her front limbs attached to the rest of her. A hushed whisper, the very first stirring of want, of yearning. For the first time, she realized she was lonely. So she reached again, trying harder to touch something untouchable, something far beyond her limited reach. Even if all she could manage was that feeling, that quiet-aching-yearning curiosity.
???
She was always very quiet, very still when the world rocked and moved, or when those murmurs washed over her, or when anything at all changed. But when the world was still and quiet, only then she stretched and turned and explored her slowly forming body, learned how muscles still taking shape pushed and pulled and worked together to make motion. The tilt of her head, or rubbing her nose against the edge of the world, or the sudden jerking of a limb that she didn’t actually intend to kick out with. She learned to turn and twirl, to swim and dance. But as the world got smaller and smaller, it got harder and harder to twist about and move freely, until it was all she could do to stretch her legs a little, squirm about and press back against the constant, steady pressure of the walls of the world holding her in.
But even though the world was getting smaller, it was getting a whole lot more interesting, too. Because the smaller the world got, the more often she felt a strange tingling at the edge of her awareness, a quiet little whisper of something new. Something else. Something different. Oh and that was maybe her favorite part, that gentle, cautious brush of intangible something that checked in, quiet and curious and waiting.
But waiting for what?
When that tingly something came again, gentle probing awash in questions and maybe a hint of impatience, she reached out with a flutter of curiosity, wondering if maybe this time there could be more than just a faint hint of presence and then another stretch of nothing but the rhythmic beating sound and the gentle rocking of the world. Maybe this time, she would be not the only one here.
Oh.
Oh. A soft ache somewhere in her middle, forward some though, just above where her front limbs attached to the rest of her. A hushed whisper, the very first stirring of want, of yearning. For the first time, she realized she was lonely. So she reached again, trying harder to touch something untouchable, something far beyond her limited reach. Even if all she could manage was that feeling, that quiet-aching-yearning curiosity.
???
Kirby and Lacey's
little whisper girl
little whisper girl