Archivist note: This post is from an older recovered archive.
==A Bit O’ Fun==
((Posted by Maggie Lynwood on July 5, 2010))
“Well then, Wot sort of trouble shall we make for them tonight?” Pocket asked, grinning at Maggie, both a little giddy from the dance and the wild run home.
Maggie grinned and skipped across the Gangplank and into the bakery, vaulting up onto one of the counters and stepping across the baked bread, “Oer, I dunno. Wotcher wanna do?”
Pocket picked up a pie and started lifting handfuls of it into his mouth, “Ye the girl that walked on bread, then?”
“I am I am! And watch, not a cracked crust, see?” She stepped lightly back down to the floor and pointed, sure enough, not a crust was dented.
Pocket caught sight of the formed dough that had been left out to rise, he dropped what was left of the pie to the floor and hurried over to them, examining them, “Fall!”
Maggie hopped up on the table, dipping her bare foot into the bag of flour and walking perfect footprints along the surface, ‘That’s no way to make bread fall.”
Pocket sat straight down on the floor and to tug his shoes off and climbed up himself. Maggie picked thick pieces of dough off and tossed a few to the ceiling so that they stuck to the stones there. He watched her for a moment, then began to roll little bread balls until he had a pile and to toss them wherever he pleased.
Maggie sat on the table, swinging her legs, watching Pocket toss bread-balls. The high, soot-stained stones were starting to look like a peculiar sky with doughy-constellations strewn across it. She tossed a few more herself before growing bored, slipping off the table and reaching into the bag of flour started to pattern the oven-stones with white handprints. Pocket walked through the rising loaves, squishing them between his toes. Maggie giggled and tossed a bit of dough at him, he caught it in his mouth.
“Dough good, Pocket?” She called in a sing-song, tossing a handful of flour up into the air and watching it sift down in a cloud.
“It’s right good dough.” He said, climbing up to a crook at the top of the ovens, leaving smudges of dough along the rough bricks. “Lookit me! I’m Pippy bighat!”
Maggie wondered away from him and started to pick-up the baked bread, crumbling the crusts in her hands and pulling apart the soft middles, dropping them to the floor. Pocket came over, picked up a pie, took a single hand-full out of the middle, then dumped the rest over the growing mess of bread. Maggie reached into the filling of a blackberry pie and painted the dark syrup along the bread counter. Pocket scooped up a handful of crumbs and tossed them across the syrup as if they were decoration.
Maggie giggled and ambled back through the bakery, pausing the rub sticky dough-and-pie-filling into the cushions of the sofa. She swung open the door to the rather odd, tall, iron oven and stepped in, “Wot’s she gunna make in this, eh?” Her voice echoed back at her.
Pocket went completely still, like a hare that’s caught scent of a fox, he ran over hauling Maggie out of the oven, “Quick! It’s Lo!”
The two dashed down the steps and climbed over the gate, into the oubliette where Mr. and Mrs. Underby used to keep poor Miss Soup. They hid, panting, hearing Lo exclaim over the mess and run off, presumably to find her mother.
“C’mon,” Pocket said, leading Maggie down into the water and pushing open the grate, “Let’s go hide afore we get caught!”
