This is not as bad as it looks.
Okay, it’s almost as bad, but there is one tiny silver lining that you may not pick up on right away – I’m wearing my very best socks. On any other day that a red cap decided to steal my boots, I’d be chasing after him in dirty socks with holes in the toes.
But on this day, I had my clean socks on.
Today I died.
If I kept a diary, that would’ve been my entry for the day. Super dark right? It’s kinda hard not to be when you’re standing on a burning building, staring into the gigantic eyeballs of a Godzilla-size, evil version of yourself that wants to squash you like a bug.
Not my best day ever.
Here’s the thing with dreams – and I’m talking about the kind you have when you sleep, not the kind where you’re finally learning to surf when you’re fifty: they’re carefully tailored to the only audience who will ever see them, which is you. So I’m not big on telling people about my dreams for that reason.
That said, there’s this recurring dream I have. It comes around every couple of months or so, but I wish it were more often because it’s awesome, and when I wake up from it, I lie there for a few moments wishing I could reenter it. In this dream, I’m at a familiar place. Often it’s my grandma’s house.
The day before the house on Princess street was due to be demolished, Mandy Crystal stood by the wire fence, looking through it. She stared hungrily, her fingers tugging on a pendant that was hanging from her neck. The windows and front door of the house had been removed and she could glimpse into the shady interior. It wasn’t the first time she had looked through the windows of this house. The inside had been dark and gloomy even then, when someone had been living in it.
It had been mostly empty since the killing.
There once was a boy who heard the Whispers.
He heard them late in the day as the lazy sun dipped below the treetops and the woods behind his house came alive with the magic of twilight. The voices came to him so gently he though it might be the win, or the first trickle of summer rain. But as time passed, the voices grew louder and the boy was sure they were calling his name. So he followed them.
Here’s something you won’t believe.
I, Cymbeline Igloo, have never been swimming.
It’s the swimming bit you won’t believe, by the way, though if you don’t believe my name either, it really is Cymbeline Igloo, and you have to beleive that because it’s written on my schoolbag and in my jumpers and on lots of other things, like my passport. You won’t believe I’ve never been swimming because I mean totally never. Not ever. Not once, in my whole life. I am nine years old!
In one enchanted telling of old, a prince desperately seeks a princess to wed and rule by his side. But when his destiny arrives upon the castle steps, she fails to look the part of royalty, being drenched and forlorn after facing a cloudburst on her journey. To satisfy the prince’s queenly mother, she must prove herself a real princess, with a constitution so delicate the slightest lump beneath a tower of eiderdown mattresses – a lump no bigger than a pea- bruises her flesh and hinders her sleep. Only a girl as tender as a budding rose may marry the royal son and become a queen in her own right.