This week, have a creative flash fiction instead of a post. (Goodness I really need a buffer again for times like this when I have too much to do and not enough time.)
The dragons are gone. They were killed years ago, when maps were made of the continent. The unicorns are gone, too. They left when beauty was mistaken for innocence. The draiads have fled in despair, the selkies have shed their skins, the kraken revealed as the octopus; even the horizon closes down, down, with clouds the color of heavy cream, muffling the very sounds of the open. If only there was space to move, land to run in, mountains to climb – but the plastic siding on red brick houses covers even that much freedom. My horizon is small, the hills but illusions ready to vanish. Only the sea is left. Waters so black, so dark and deep, no one has yet found the end. Perhaps there the mermaid hides, and the sea serpent which has not yet been disproved; perhaps the gateway can be found there, in the sea, the doorway through which they all fled. Or perhaps the window exists everywhere, and to enter you must only know where you are going.