Would you hide something in a story for me?” the mouselike man asked the sculptor. “There are those who seek what I must conceal and would turn the universe inside out to find it.
To be a guardian is to be trusted. To be trusted, all must be tested.
Zachary puts the candy on his tongue. He was right, peppermint. No, steel. Cold steel. The story unfolds in his head more than in his ears and there are words but there aren’t, pictures and sensations and tastes that change and progress from the initial mint and metal through blood and sugar and summer air. Then it’s gone.
The pirate was placed here for numerous acts of a piratey nature considered criminal enough for punishment by those non-pirates who decide such things.
Tell me a story,” she says. The pirate obliges her.
I don’t know,′ she says. ‘I feel. It’s not the same.
Passionate love stories that were manipulated into the vacancies between raindrops and vanished with the end of the storm.
I have felt what you are feeling myriad times. It does not get any easier, it simply becomes... familiar.
Skyrim-inspired sweet rolls and classic BioShock cream-filled cakes and maraschino truffle odes to Pac-Man cherries.
Once there was a woman who sculpted stories.
For some reason laundry concerns drag him back to the reality of the situation, dreams or hallucinations probably don’t involve such mundane problems.
And no story ever truly ends as long as it is told.
We are words on paper,” he says softly, turning the book over in his hands. “We are coming to the end.
She trained bees to build honeycombs on intricate frames forming entire cities with sweet inhabitants and bitter dramas.
Meoowrrr,” the cat remarks, in approval or dissent or indifference.
If the boy turns the painted knob and opens the impossible door, everything will change. But he does not.
Passing off manipulations as tricks and illusion. Charging admission.
When you were five years old you turned a laundry tub into a pirate ship and launched an attack against the hydrangeas in my garden.
He tells himself that it is not a bad life. That there is nothing wrong with being a farmer. But still, the discontent remains. Even the ground beneath his feet feels unsatisfying to his boots.
They tell of how they found the circus, how those first few steps were like magic. Like stepping into a fairy tale under a curtain of stars.