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Posit a man. He could be any man. She could be a woman. They could be any human being anywhere on the spectrum. The story would play out the same. This is, however, entirely the creation of a writer who has written plenty of formidable women, and so he exerts authority for this one time and says that this is a man,
Finneus Lark finds the man nestled inside of the abdominal cavity of a doe, his skin so pale that his veins are like spiderwebs. Slick with visceral fluid, leaves and petals cling to the man’s bird-boned wrists. His face, haloed by damp curls and crowned by the doe’s diaphragm, is so peaceful he might as well have been asleep.
Kharatet moistens his sightless eyes with his tongue as he draws his finger across the limestone tablet glyphs. His audience today is a clutch of toddling nymphs, motionless save for their short tails rippling the shallow water impatiently. It’s a good age to read to, while the little ulmuns are still young enough.
The first time you can’t answer the question, you are already within the Great Dragon. Any bad decisions today? Mindy’s text reads. Around you, the Great Dragon’s pistons squeal, stutter, while the crew’s stressed voices echo above and below you.
To hear us sing is to know /your/ desire. The one you call captain, ruled by many longings, orders himself bound to the mast. Salt-cracked hands secure him. The prow’s a wedge to split the sea, carrying you toward /your/ fate: a role in /his/ story.
The unkind witch in Hook Tree Woods has little use for people. Mothers and sisters, obviously, will only disappoint you, and friends—well. She never had many of those. Her only friends now are snakes and toads, who are far preferable to humans.
On the cold dreary night, we were set to leave the water’s depth for good, do you remember what you asked me? Well, if you have forgotten, I haven’t. An avalanche of fright shrouded my insides, blocking any question knocking at the lid of my heart.
The sweet air of the temple district is what makes the bread taste so good, Mama says. The shafts of sunbeams that come through broken stained glass pick up a honeyed fragrance on their way down and warm our rising dough. The breeze that wheezes through chinks in crumbling stone walls stirs up ghosts of ancient incense and perfumes our airy loaves.
Azahn had been the ninety-third Imperial Foresight to the Dynasty of Silken Flame for only three weeks when he was forcibly retired. His body had been blessed by the holy waters of the Sky-Vein River, and he had earned the named-blade Stalwart Thy Mind, Strong Thy Arm, even now strapped to his back. He had trained his entire life.
When they flash his sign at the top of the Space Needle, he shoots out from the center of Lake Union and flies high into the sky. A mushroom wave erupts from where he surfaces and expands radially. Children watching from the shore jump in place and scream and point at him. The shy ones clap.
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