Among the Clouds

The best lofts for living are full ones - with enough length to go for a jog, and thickness so you can hang your clothes out without them slipping through the insubstantial. Not the wispy lofts that form in the heat, when there’s no water. Nor in the figurehead of a thunderstorm.

But one can’t always afford to be picky.

Elvas had begun looking for a new loft on short notice. Her list of requirements was equally short: somewhere her and Herring and the litter could stay, for at least one cycle.

They left their previous loft hurridely, leaving their cycles of labor behind with it. The upper deck peeking out of lofttop, which took a full darklight of singing before it agreed to stay put. The mist hammock, too, which still slipped slight if Herring laid down in it too quick - despite his sweet voice calling for it to stay put. And the warm loftcenter too - it was all left behind.

In a single darklight, the pressure must have changed and coaxed their loft into something unrecognizable - from a full loft to a strung out, thin, but angry loft. A loft that no longer wished to listen to their coaxing, and had new things it wanted. The loft at least made one thing clear - it wanted them gone.

So Elvas decided to go, and bring Herring with her, though she had half a mind to leave him, and the litter too, who were still only darklightdarklightdarklight and couldn’t