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The hatter stared.
The workroom was a disaster of feathers and lace. Wild trails of embroidered ribbon tangled helplessly with upended baskets of straw, and unadorned top hats rolled under the workbench. Forms leaned drunkenly into each other. Damp felt and tattered straw blanks made strange geography on the floor.
Worse, the spells were loose; fine powders freed from their toppled jars and pots, already fading into the ruffled air and absorbing into the fabrics and frills.
The hatter's despair swelled as he stepped into the room and began to take stock of the damage. A lacy sleep cap destined for a cavity curing spell was clearly steeped in an allure spell; the hatter felt bizarrely drawn to write it poetry as he righted the pot next to it, frowning at the label. A schoolboy's cap, waiting for an application of a docility powder, was so thick with the gardening charm that it was sprouting from the brim. It would have to be weeded before it could be sold -- if anyone would be even be interested in buying such an inappropriate cap to garden in. The hatter moved it away from the edge of the bench and brushed what powder he could back into the jar beside it. It was probably too badly contaminated to salvage, but this was a particularly precious powder.
A strip of silky violet ribbon hanging from a tangle of fabric had taken a grace powder so strong it danced artfully in the breeze of the open door. A straw hat meant for sunburn deflection was sitting beneath an upended powder for warmth, while the fur trim beside it had a distinct odor of peppermint that came with the 'don't-notice-me' spell. The hatter collected an armload of loose straw and put it in an empty basket, wondering what the itch that came with it might portent; there were a half-dozen toppled pots that might have saturated the raw straw.
The harbinger of the chaos was sitting in the center of it, tail tucked primly around her paws as she gazed serenely over the ruined workroom. A single drab songbird feather under one foot gave a hint to the cause of her rampage. At the hatter's glare, her ears flattened slightly, but she gave no sign that resembled remorse.
Clearly, she had never heard the wisdom of not making a hatter mad.
Thimbleful Thursday is a weekly challenge. This week, the prompt was Mad as a hatter, with a wordcount goal of 400 (+/-40). This came in at 396 words.
The workroom was a disaster of feathers and lace. Wild trails of embroidered ribbon tangled helplessly with upended baskets of straw, and unadorned top hats rolled under the workbench. Forms leaned drunkenly into each other. Damp felt and tattered straw blanks made strange geography on the floor.
Worse, the spells were loose; fine powders freed from their toppled jars and pots, already fading into the ruffled air and absorbing into the fabrics and frills.
The hatter's despair swelled as he stepped into the room and began to take stock of the damage. A lacy sleep cap destined for a cavity curing spell was clearly steeped in an allure spell; the hatter felt bizarrely drawn to write it poetry as he righted the pot next to it, frowning at the label. A schoolboy's cap, waiting for an application of a docility powder, was so thick with the gardening charm that it was sprouting from the brim. It would have to be weeded before it could be sold -- if anyone would be even be interested in buying such an inappropriate cap to garden in. The hatter moved it away from the edge of the bench and brushed what powder he could back into the jar beside it. It was probably too badly contaminated to salvage, but this was a particularly precious powder.
A strip of silky violet ribbon hanging from a tangle of fabric had taken a grace powder so strong it danced artfully in the breeze of the open door. A straw hat meant for sunburn deflection was sitting beneath an upended powder for warmth, while the fur trim beside it had a distinct odor of peppermint that came with the 'don't-notice-me' spell. The hatter collected an armload of loose straw and put it in an empty basket, wondering what the itch that came with it might portent; there were a half-dozen toppled pots that might have saturated the raw straw.
The harbinger of the chaos was sitting in the center of it, tail tucked primly around her paws as she gazed serenely over the ruined workroom. A single drab songbird feather under one foot gave a hint to the cause of her rampage. At the hatter's glare, her ears flattened slightly, but she gave no sign that resembled remorse.
Clearly, she had never heard the wisdom of not making a hatter mad.
Thimbleful Thursday is a weekly challenge. This week, the prompt was Mad as a hatter, with a wordcount goal of 400 (+/-40). This came in at 396 words.
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