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Luring the Nightmare (excerpt)Nightmares are insidious, ethereal creatures.
They dwell within the mind, a soul inside a soul – parasitic, extremely short-lived, and almost always too weak to do any noticeable or lasting harm to their hosts. But sometimes, if aided by traumatic experiences or malicious magic, a nightmare can grow strong enough to consume its host's mind.
“This,” the Professor explained, “is what every nightmare wants, of course – to terrify and bewilder its host into a kind of... um... an abdication of its body, so that the nightmare can live out its own life while the host mind has trapped itself in the sensation of endless flight, trying to get away from the thing forever breathing just behind. Certainly this is what has happened to some of those considered psychotically insane. A recurring, increasingly vivid nightmare such as you describe could be quite serious.”
Petra Godfellow sighed. Sentient nightmares! Adrenaline pumped through her, responding to t
Rabbit (excerpt)Much later that night, or perhaps very early the next morning, when a splash of moonlight struck Petra in the face as coldly as a bucket of water, she realized she was sitting – or, rather, floating – in Tod's vegetable garden, she could not at first remember why she was there. Hadn't she gone to bed...?
Oh yes. That's right. Something has been stealing Tod's vegetables, and he asked me to sit up and watch over them. I must have dozed for a minute.
She drew her shawl around her more tightly. She did not feel cold, but she knew she ought to. Come to think of it, she couldn't feel the wind rustling through the tomato plants, although she could smell its delicious dewy coolness.
It seemed perfectly reasonable that she could see through her own body, that although she was sitting on a little hillock facing the vegetable patch her weight made no impression on the grass. That was how she knew she was floating.
The night, in fact, was warm – just as warm as if she wer
Red Riding HoodI want to believe people so badly when they say they won’t bite
that I contemplate climbing into their smiling jaws
thinking that it might be better to be split in two than left hanging.
But always, I draw my red hood and flit back into the forest
running in the shadows of pathways, never stepping into clearings
because I’ve spent my whole life in the wilderness
and I still can’t tell the wolves from the woodsmen.
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