Story-Worlds: pictures illustrated with very short stories
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After that, there was no art or color left on those walls.
It had been years since she had thrown out her dog-eared rulebooks for Time and Space.
The morning light settled, fresh lined-paper for the new day.
There was no choice but to start a collection.
That table knew all of the secrets and never said a word.
Even with the storm, there were garden beds to be planted.
The dusty air moaned enviously, directed toward one single peer: posied, open, read.
Nothing surprised her, not even the blackbirds perched on that memory.
Those days, things were larger than they appeared.
Even delight could feel too hard or too soft.
Then there was the time that even the chairs made music.
The drawing room demanded novelty -- fluff the lamps, turn on the pillows.
Innovation was plentiful, but carefully guarded by the three queens.
Any absence of color gaily danced down the drain.
The table was set for a delicious meal.
Underneath the cushion lived three little words: "here I'll stay".
She called it the year of solitary refinement.
The advice stuck with her: "Wherever one dreams is the most important room in the house."
They never faced the same direction but they always saw the same thing.
When those tiny angels dance in the sunlight, look closely and you might see their tap shoes.
Just past midnight, a brand new day, and all the knots had loosened.
They thought she didn't know about the secret door.
She was a gyspy, peddling light.
The fire light brought the wall into full bloom.
The higher she stacked them, the sturdier it became.
It was a pastry shop serving songs instead of scones.
When there is always a mirror in the corner of the room, you never really know what you look like.
In those days, you could get possibilities for a penny each.
There were too many rugs for that dream to get swept under.
She eventually opted for fake plants and real art.
She felt at odds with just about everything, but that's what always being on display can do a person.
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