Somewhere, unbound by the laws of time and space, exists a wishing well. You probably haven’t heard of this well, but not because it’s a secret. It’s just that most people who encounter it aren’t around to tell the tale.
Three stories too short to be posted on their own.
A story written far too late at night
A month ago my husband Augustine purchased a bag of mushroom seeds from your store. He was delighted at first, and the mushrooms grew fast and looked surprisingly nice, the latter of which I was most happy about.
Now, Augustine would write you himself, but he is currently weeping in his office. The mushrooms will not glow, he informs me.
He rushed after her, through the plant-filled living room and into the kitchen. Danielle’s entire house was like an oasis, plants included. Any space that wasn’t filled with furniture was covered in plants. Long vines with round bright green leaves hung down from the top kitchen cupboards. The counter was filled with herbs and flowers in all kinds of colours.
Pig was Ana’s escape from her dreams. Flimsy and deflated, the stuffing compacted by years of squishes and hugs, pig was always there for her when she woke from those terrible nightmares. Where her dreams were filled with dread, flashes of pain, dizzying movements, pig was pure comfort. Always the same, reliable, in her control.
I am posting here in regards to the wounds that have been appearing on my arms when I sleep.
They’re not from bedbugs, I know that much for certain. The wounds are too big, and too odd. It doesn’t look like your usual insect bite. Instead it’s like something has scraped away a tiny patch of skin, layer by layer, until they drew blood.