This story begins with some fingers flicking this bauble back and forth through the air. Flick-flick, flick-flick, imagine the bauble swinging there like a pendulum; flick-flick, flick-flick, a sparkly metronome in time. When the bauble swings, it passes over invisible strings which call out in song in another dimension. Strings so clustered, that even a micrometer difference in direction results in a profoundly different tune. In that other dimension, music is the intelligent life form. Songs roam about in the air the way sunlight and shadows do here. In that dimension, the strings of existence are strummed by wind or rain and this is what causes procreation. Natural processes pass over the strings and give birth to song after song after song. Songs who roam that dimension, creating choruses and clustering in the sky the way starlings call and murmur here. Flick-flick, flick-flick. As the bauble passes over the strings in that
The first time I saw Isobel it was raining and I had been walking for a good few miles through the North Downs. I saw a small, appealing clearing in amongst some beech trees in Bagden Wood, so I left the path and sat on a stump in the middle of the clearing. The canopy of the beech trees sheltered me from the rain, so I was able to settle down and stare off into the half-focused distance. I felt comfortable there, despite the rain; I was quiet and content. At first I thought it was the clearing itself which called to me, and it was in a way. There was a veil which hovered behind the colours of the green and yellowing leaves above me, the carpet of auburn beech nuts and old leaves below me, and the glistening blackness of the trees’ bark encircling me. I could feel parts
I have been reliably informed that this site is called the Launch Pad. The moss in the foreground serves as a kind of deep-pile-shag-rug-in-waiting, and the light green, clam-shaped pedal-keys which overlook the river are where the action happens. If you want to spectate, the Launch Pad’s location is on the little river as you approach Frensham Great Pond from the west. You can’t miss it, such is the shimmering delight of the residual fairy and pixie dust which covers the area. It’s called the Launch Pad because, every full moon, it’s the site of a great inter-species diving and dance competition. As it was dreamed up by fairies, anyone can join, as the fairies will shrink you down to the appropriate size. When I went, a trio of frogs did an outstanding tap routine and then leapt into the air, jumping from back to back, somersaulting, before enacting the most
These are The Three Teasels, they’re anxious for your song request. Individually they’re called Fiona, Bottombubs, and Nibs, but most people just refer to them in the collective. In the background is Frederico the Oak, who was once hit by some lightning and from whom The Three Teasels draw their power. The Tree Teasels absolutely love to sing. In particular, they like to perform love songs; they’re keen to understand human romance, since it’s mostly absent from the plant world. I say mostly, but of course you will expect me to whip out some exception from the knowledge of whoever the fuck it is that dictates these stories to me. (It’s sunflowers, just in case you were wondering; the exception I mean, not the dictator.) Anyway, what The Three Teasels love the most about love songs is the wide variety. They feel learning and truly feeling the array of love songs
Rachel was a portal hunter. She’d been doing this professionally since 1988, but this was the first one she’d found. She’d known it was the real deal because of the way the light avoided the ground. This tricksy portal was hiding in plain sight, but not from her! Her decades of honed professionalism taught her to look directly at that which others pass over. She felt vindicated at last, and shook off the niggling doubts which others had imparted to her. To be honest, it wasn’t what she expected: it was a bit dirty really. She had presumed portals to the underworld would be kept pristine by their magical charms. It may well be that others are, she thought, perhaps that’s why even her trained gaze slid over their glossy charm. That this one was covered in grime was the fact which allowed her gaze to stick upon it, and thereby