Daughter of the House of Dreams: A Fragment
Author's Note: This is the opening to a long-abandoned "Sleeping Beauty" retelling that I no longer plan to write, but I still like it as a piece of prose, and it sparked my enduring interest in second-person narration, so it feels relevant, and why should long-dead authors be the only ones who get to have their unfinished fragments published?
If you ever travel to Monetta City, be sure to visit Faraway Lane. Walk past the glittering new shops, and the shoppers in their bright silk dresses and top hats, and you'll find a cozy stone shop at the end of the street. This shop isn't grand and mighty like the other shops. It won't sniff and turn you away if your clothes aren't the latest fashion. It's a grandmotherly old shop that shakes its head at the prancing and preening of the younger shops, and invites you in instead. It holds no wares in its windows; it hardly has windows at all. But it has a warm and wide wooden door, with a shingle hanging above—Alessia Day, maker of dreams.
Don't ponder the sign's message too long—it means exactly what it says. Just slip inside, shut the door behind you, and look. Don't breathe too deeply, unless you want a week of crazy dreams, but allow yourself one gasp of astonishment. You won't be able to stop yourself. No living person has failed to feel awe toward the rows and rows of shelves, longer than streets and taller than palaces, filled to bursting with glass bottles in such bright colors that the dresses in the other shops' windows would weep in envy. Some bottles are the size of thumbnails. Most fit comfortably in the palm. Some are as large as breadboxes or steamer trunks or carriage horses, but the shelves manage to fit them all. And each bottle is filled to the brim with dreams.
If you don't understand, ask Alessia Day. You'll find her at a counter half a mile from the door, polishing bottles and humming a song you've heard but can't remember. She's an old woman now, and proud of it, but squint your eyes and start to daydream, and you'll see her as I remember her—a willow-wand girl with shining brown hair and eyes that sparkle with half-formed jokes.
Tell this girl how pretty she is (she'll laugh and call you crazy) and ask about her dreams. She'll tell you of her stock and sell you any dream you ask for—daydreams and pipe dreams, dreams of love, dreams of adventure, dreams of loved ones lost and loved ones found and people you've never met but wish you had. She'll show you dreams of lush and perfect islands, dreams where fishes fly through the air, and dreams where people swim the seas with fishes' tails. She'll pull down dreams that last a second but linger a lifetime, dreams that fill a month of stormy nights, dreams that fade on waking and dreams that drown out memories. If you let her, she'll talk of dreams until you drift off, and she'll bottle up your dream while you doze.
But if you're smart (I know you are) you'll step to the counter with a clear glass bottle, empty of everything but air, and ask for her story instead. She'd distill it in a dream for you, and be glad to do it—I once saw her whip it up in half a minute, and I'll bet she's even faster now. Buy the dream, but don't drink it right away. You won't be ready for it. Linger in the shop a while. Hear the story first from Alessia Day's lips, in that voice of hers that's sweeter than singing.
You won't believe half of it, but when you stagger from the shop and wander the empty, starlit streets, you'll ponder over passages until you stumble into bed at sunrise. And when you wake, the world will be different—you'll see tiny footprints on the windowsills, know things about the shadows on the walls, tip your hat to creatures in the corner of your eye, and realize there is another color no one else can see. You'll laugh and call it your imagination, but every second Tuesday, you'll start to wonder if the old woman was right, if the things she told you were true.
If you drink the dream she made, you'll know. I'll understand if you don't—some things are easier not to know. But if you do, and dream through her story, come to my house and ring the bell. My man will let you in—he'll know you by the wonder on your face. He'll bring you to my study, set you in my oldest, softest chair, and get us both settled with a steaming pot of tea. Then, once you've finished babbling, I'll close my eyes and tell you my part in the tale.
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its very rich of team dynasty say hurrem needs to pay for her sins when all of them have like sinned at least 3 hurrems worth each
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that picture of swiss that you had is making me add him to my daddy kink ghoul catalog alongside aether. this was your doing
HE IS THE DADDIEST I DONT MAKE THE RULES
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I just cannot wait for the day Lindy Ruff is fired.
I am tired of having the tiny hope I have be taken away every damn game.
I am tired of seeing the players, who are clearly just dun not in the sense that they aren't trying but in the sense that they have gotten used to the disappointment that is this season, be exhausted every game, especially when players like Daws, L. Hughes and literally anyone else who is showing signs of stress clearly aren't playing in tiptop shape.
I am tired of Lindy sounded disappointed any time he is on screen, no matter if we do well or not that game, it's consistent disappointment and disinterest when I hear him talk and it sucks.
I am tired of New Jersey somehow finding a way to be a joke even in the sports world with our ONLY major professional, this team is many people only knowledge of Jersey and yet we are STILL a joke or something to just not be respected.
I am tired of every game where everyone is sure this just HAS to be Lindy's last game and yet somehow he is still there the next time we play, that somehow someway he probably won't be fired till the end of the season and EVEN THEN who knows if he actually will me.
I am tired and over it but I'll still be watching the games, I'll still be there when we lose once again, I'll still be there talking to Sky saying shit about how much I hate Lindy and how he is running this team into the ground, I'll still be complaining about Ruff to my parents because they have to know everything wrong going on.
I'll still be here because just because a team is doing shit doesn't mean you should drop it just because of that, that just shows you weren't actually a fan in my opinion.
I have far too much state pride for my own good because I genuinely love this state and love this team, so I'll stick through the good and the bad, continue to be slightly angry with myself for not being able to get into hockey last year when we were badass.
And I'll still be watching and eventually buy more stuff for the Devils because let's be real, the second that sales drop and the Devs aren't as popular the club isn't stay in Jersey, so might as well support the bastards ya know?
And hey, who knows, maybe one day we shall see Lindy gone and this team flourishing, but until then I'll just keep being sorta upset that we aren't doing as well as we can and drinking my problems away (this is a joke and I promise it's just water, Liquid Death specifically).
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I just learned about carcharodontosaurus (first from ARK and then from YDAW on YouTube) and I feel like my life has been changed forever
YES!!! BIG BEAUTIFUL BEASTIE!!! I love how tall (& as I recall narrow) the skull is. There’s just something regal about Carcharodontosaurus, you know? I fondly remember back when it popularly held the ‘biggest theropod’ title for a little while, I was lucky enough to see a cast of the skull in some small traveling exhibit & man … that was almost a religious experience.
I looked up it’s appearance in ARK and that is SUCH a fantastic model! Love all the spikey bits making it look even taller & more imposing (like it needed the help)! Since Spinosaurus swept the ‘biggest known theropod’ title -& resulting adoration- from pretty much all the competition, it’s nice to see the big beauty getting some love again!
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