The Contract: a story.

‘We told you,’ said the rat, ‘in… stench. In roaring, shrieking, text-rich, sensitively detailed, totally articulate, operatically eloquent, quintessentially consummate perfect miracles of stench, illustrated in nervy, fraught visual arrangements of variegated grunge pointed up with pithy pellets of filth. But then you’re illiterate, aren’t you?’

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whatever happened to sheilah?

sheila awoke in a strange bed in a weird little room all angles and planes and the little man bringing her in a cup of tea. he seemed very pleased. the teacup looked hopelessly tiny, but as she reached for it it became just the right size, yet didn’t seem to have changed. the tea was delicious and gave her strength. the little man showed her a beautiful green dress and a pair of green leather shoes, and told her to put them on and come downstairs.

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An Koffiji/The Coffee House

Through the door came – no, not a child, but a small man. Bel caught her breath, he seemed so small at first, but she soon convinced herself that she’d been deluded by the dipping and swooping of the shadows around him as the wind disturbed the candles. But even sitting down he did look tiny. Maybe he’s just slouching a bit, she reassured herself, and looked at him less closely. With a bright smile, she greeted him in her best Cornish, ‘Gorthugher da, a Vester!’ and then in English, ‘Good evening, Sir!’

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needlework

janvas was willing enough to take her word for that. he was wiccan enough to know not to enquire too deeply into another path’s mysteries if you’re only casually interested. he kept a respectful distance and circled it slowly, his hands spread palms out before him for protection.

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