Chatterbox: Inkwell

Welcome to the Glass Game. 

You didn't know you were a player.

You didn't know anything except that the grey clouds oozing across the sky looked especially mystical that day. In fact, the thick rolls and speckles gathered into a roaring thunderhead reminded you of a giant bird of prey swooping over the edge of Earth. 

Most of you don't like the rain. 

But three of you were out in the oncoming storm.

The Poet was on her favorite rock in the woods, staring up through the shaggy arms of trees, her absent mind seeing only metaphors and brushing over reality.

The Artist was out on the moor. Waves of tall grass tickled the edge of her coat and weeds swarmed around her ankles. If she looked down, she would not have been able to see her shoes. One hand supported her easel as the first drop of rain splashed onto her painting. Confound it all, she thought and shook her fist at the sky. 

The Messenger was hopping over fallen locks and little winding strips of water. His dirty, bare feet flew through the air. The satchel at his side slapped against his thigh, and a piece of paper fell out, although he didn't notice. 

The rest of you were indoors and elsewhere. It did not matter where you were. It did not matter who you were, not to any of the rest. Not until a single, rather unimportant second of time. Not until 4:50 PM, August September 5, in the swaying old house that stood (or rather, leaned) on the moor. The Gentleman was there, as well as The Realtor and The Son. They were taking a tour of the old house, which had been left to the Gentleman by an old relative he'd forgotten he had. The Son wished he wasn't there. He wanted to be in the car, practicing driving. Or at home, at his electronic keyboard. Would his father let him drive all the way back home? Probably not. It was too much to ask for. 

He was looking out the window when all the sudden, his watch beeped. 10 minutes til 5. For a second, nothing happened.

And then it thundered. The house shook. The Artist's easel just about fell over. The Poet threw her body over her precious pieces.

Every one of you hunted for shelter, and you found it. The house on the moor's door stood open for you. Or rather, The Son held it open shyly. The Artist came in first, then The Messenger, panting. Last, the Poet, dripping. 

The Son looked around for any more stranglers. An eerie dust of wind hurried by, dragging its fingers through his hair. There was no one else. Yet.

You began to look around. The Realtor wasn't very happy about this. She leaned against the railing, checking her phone. 

The Son and The Artist began to talk. The first found the latter scatter-brained and friendly, and he liked her immediately. But The Artist did not like The Son.  

"Well," said The Poet, "I guess we're stuck here." No one listened to her. The tick of time grew louder and louder in everyone's ears. The thunderheads were now raging, flaming pheonix's, wings thrown back and beating the sky into a severe wind. 

Something happened. Of course something happened, or there wouldn't be a story. But this story was a little different then most. There was no clarity, no beginning or warning. It just sort of happened right then, without an introduction.

What was it? One of you opened the cupboard in an upstairs room of the house. In it was nothing but 2 balls of oblique glass. You reached out and touched it. It felt like running your hand across the moon. 

Who was it?  

Was it The Artist? The Messenger? The Realtor? The Poet? The Son? The Gentleman? It was you. We know it was you. We have our eyes on everywhere. And if you won't confess, the truth will come out soon enough.

So which of you was it? Answer me this and I, Glass Shard, Countess of Alltrubia; the land under sight, and Mistress of the Great Mirror will continue weaving my tale.