The jeweler’s house, at the bottom of the incline, boiled like a cauldron. Lonan plaited tough thread and rum-mixed resin through Shay’s sweaty hair, patterning crushed cockle shells in braids away from Shay’s hairline. His fingerwork was tight and precise.
He jogged down the trail to the temple, ignoring the windows of the apothecary shop. The grove was shaken clean to its bones from winter. When Lonan knocked on the door, all the birds inside—crows, seagulls, martins, finches, and swallows—exploded into a ruckus. Wind-catchers clacked wooden music on either side of his head.
Gilliana sat herself down by the fire, mottled brown robes bagging around her. The cage clanked to the floor. She handed him a warm, slightly muddy seagull egg from a brass bowl and pillowed the martin in her lap.
You may or may not have noticed that Google AdSense finally bought my soul after weeks of me trying to sell it. Apologies from Phantasmagorium if the old girl's a little rough around the edges while everything gets figured out.
Like with "Black Dragon," I decided to make "Lost and Found" a more fitting cover now that it's on the chopping block.
"What do we need from the store? I already have 'measuring cups' written down."
So today we're having the equivalent of a Class Movie Day here on Phantasmagorium. In the spirit of rest and relaxation--and extreme discomfort--I thought we'd watch "Possibly in Michigan," a ten-minute short film directed by Cecelia Condit.
A man at Camalo Fair swore to me that if I came with him on the Ferris wheel he’d cure cancer.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
Sadie owned the most remarkable pair of green eyes Iván had ever itched to paint.