The Mysterious Figure_Dao Shi_The Window Watcher_Cage the Storm
Catalog Guide:
The Mysterious Figure
The house that stood at the edge of the town was gloomy. The walls were covered with moss and creeping vines. The roof was missing some tiles and in the front porch, dead, fallen leaves lay scattered everywhere. Whenever anyone passed by the house, the wind would blow ever so gently, sending chills down the spine. The windows were always kept tightly shut, and when the moon danced in the sky, not a single lamp was lit inside the house.Who lived there? Mr. Garth did. It was said that Mr. Garth’s parents had lived there, and his grandparents, and so on. But this family was never seen in public. ...
Dao Shi
A man, his wife and his son and daughter walked to a reed boat at the edge of a winding river. The son and daughter, as per their mother and father's instruction, loaded flowers into the reed boat, while the father loaded a basket of steamed dumplings and grilled fish into the boat. The four of them pushed the boat out into the water so the current could send the boat downstream.Dozens of other people on either side of the river loaded offerings in reed boats on the river's edge and sent the boats out into the water.Red Lanterns hung from buildings, gates and other structures. Musicians played...
The Window Watcher
It's not a veil, really. Not the way people think it is. It's a pane of glass, about the size of one of the portraits hanging in the throne room upstairs. It's perfectly smooth and freezing to the touch, nestled in a tiny room just below the dungeons, a chip of ice in the belly of the sprawling castle. There's no fingerprints, no smudges. No way to leave a mark. If there was, it would’ve been coated in them. I press my hand to it now, the palm, then the back, the cold www.onedoor.ccrefreshing in the stale air. The landscape beyond the glass is empty, a void the color of milk and swirling fog. After a mom...
Cage the Storm
I liked it better when we were on the bookcase.The titles were all lined up in front of us and we could read them aloud to each other every night. We’d come up with stories and attach them to the titles. The stories would produce other stories with new titles. It became difficult to tell which story sprung from the child of which imagination and how it connected to one of the spines on the shelf.Remember when we lived in that tchotchke shop in the Bahamas?We were just one bottle amongst so many other bottles. The ships were all painted different colors and the captains had different names, but...