You have written of these ‘’companions’’ as you call them. You say you were afraid of them. But do you know what really scares us? It is not things that go bump – or even hiss- in the night. Our fears are much closer than that. We are afraid of the things inside us.
When you predict the future, when you do so strongly and you cling to it, how much of that future do you then cause to happen?
My insane love for anthologies can be easily explained by the fact that I love the short story form, and by the fact that I love various accounts on a certain topic, in this case fairies.
Any decent human being, witch or otherwise, has the capacity to do good in this world. It’s merely a case of whether one chooses to do so.
It is said that far from the world of man, lies a cruel and mysterious forest. It lures in lost travelers with the promise of safety, only to devour them for all eternity.
That’s the secret to performance: conviction. The right note played tentatively still misses its mark, but play boldly and no one will question you. If one believes there is truth in art – and I do – then it’s troubling how similar the skill of performing is to lying. Maybe lying is itself a kind of art.
Notions of day and night no longer have any sense here. Only our brief moments of slumber allow us to mark our progress. As if everything in this world seemed continuous, permanent. For while there’s no cycle to form a rhythm in this subterranean universe, nothing here remains identical very long