writer – artist – musician
“The sunlight gently lit up the orb from the inside, just as a candle is used to kindle another. He sighed with pleasure and passed me the little pygmy globe. I cupped my palms, surprised by the offering, and held it like a fragile, soft-shelled queepfluff egg. It was heavy and warm, and throbbed with a tiny pulse that vibrated gently through its crystal wall.”
🖤
For a short moment as I was passed from one to the other, I felt like an entity caught in the pull between what had to be the two most magnetic beings in the world.”
“I slid rapidly down the dark burrow to the threshold of the sub-plains where the color market lay, and landing with my feet firmly on the hard ground, brushed myself off as I stood to look around the poorly lit surroundings. The color market was like a tiny village, spread wide to house workshops, vending stations, and Tintors’ homes tucked away like small caves along the hollowed veins of its circuitry. The only light came from candles and the bioluminescent chubbiness of flightless flaptoot byrds perched on the leafless branches of small, dead trees scattered about.”
The branches, though creaking, seemed soft like vines, its foliage musical gemlike ornaments. Just as they were all but done lifting themselves off the ground, a thin bough-tip scooped up the wooden stump I had loathsomely discarded and, wrapping itself around it, pulled it up amidst the other elderly limbs as they returned into their erect position.
“Um, you are going to keep that?”
“Every one of her hundred selves began to laugh, to scream, sobbing, speaking out all at once, saying everything that had been stuck inside for so many starlaps, vibrating with emotion until the quaking of their gossamer made it impossible to decipher their individual shapes.”
Rachel Tremblay 