this may or may not be a fantasy writing exercise for me. please reblog

Change a single letter and change the word game

I want to play a game with you all.

You have to make a new word by changing only one letter of the last word.

Dirt

Dire

Dare

Bare

Bard

Card

Care

Mare

Male

Made

Mode

Code

Cone

Core

Cord

Lord

Lore

Lyre

Pyre

Pare

part

Fart

farm

Fare

Fore

Sore

Sort

Soft

Sift

silt!

silk

Milk

Mill

Mull

Mule

Male

Rale

Rule

Rile

Vile

Tile

Time

Lime

Like

Hike

Bike

Bake

Cake

Lake

Like

Bike

Bile

File

Tile

Tilt

Wilt

Lilt

Kilt

Kill

Bill

Jill

Dill

Doll

Dole

pole

Hole

sole

sold

cold

mold

meld

mend

Mind

Hind

Kind

Bind

Rind

Rend

Rent

Lent

Lint

Mint

Tint

Tins

Tons

Tone

Tine

Fine

Line

Lone

Hone

Hose.

Host

Cost

Lost

Loss

lose

nose

none

Tone.

tony

tiny

Tint

hint

hunt

Bunt

Bunk

Funk

Fuck

Puck

Duck

Muck

i cant stop thinking about this. another cis bites the dust. or whatever.

I think they would've been friends

random street interviewer, not recognising Tim or Bernard:

Interviewer (I): Hi! Were with xxxxx do you have time to answer some questions? We’re doing a survey on the average Gothamite’s clothing and knowledge of pop culture.

Tim (T): *so used to doing official interviews he doesn’t even question it and agrees, Bernard (B) thinks its funny so also agrees*

T: How’s that going for you?

I: I’ve dodged 3 knives already. Your the 4th pair we’ve spoken to

T&B: Yeah that tracks

I: SO, the Waynes, who’s your fav?

T: *stiffling laughter as it truly dawns on him the interviewer has no idea* Cass.

I: The one who doesn’t talk?

T: yep.

I: Oh, ok. Because shes hot?

T: Nope.

I: Uhm. Ok. And you? *shoves mic at Bernard*

B: *with a quick, sappy grin sent Tim’s way* Tim.

I: Oh, cool! The CEO?

B:Yep

I: Why?

B: Cos he’s hot.

T: *bright red* hmm.

I: Oh! Cool! Are the two of you a couple?

T&B: 8Shares a look, as theyre not neccessarily out but not neccessarily in the closet either, fianlly coming to a silent decision,* “Yeah.”

I: Oh great! Is TIm you’re celebirty crush, then?

B: *grinning mischevisoulsy* you could say that.

I: Well, your clothes! Could you tell me where you got them? *looks to Tim*

T: Yep so this shirt… *taps the baggy Tshirt* a Paramore consert a while ago, and the undershirt is from… somewhere i forgot. Jeans are… pinched from a friend I think, *indicates the baggy jeans* this hoodie *the Red hoodie wrapped around his waist* Idk. where did you get this, love? *turns to Bernard*

B: honestly, i’ve forgotten. Anyways, i got this from… *continues, similarly, his shirt is Tim’s*

I: Oh great thanks! And what about your skateboards? Do you two frequently go skating? Or is Gotham too dangerous?

T: Oh no, i skate all the time. You get used to just dodging rogues at some point, Anyways, the hero stickers get added each time a new one i like comes on the scene.

I: Nods

B: I like to skate! But i normally just go with Tim.

I: well thats all great, thanks for your time!

T: No prob.

The video gets posted online that night. The news that the practically unrecognisable Skater Star and CEO Tim Drake is queer goes viral. clips of bernard saying Tim is his fav wayne, and that the 2 are together gets clipped and edited and reposted consitantly for the next couple weeks, and Tim’s phone blows up from the Wayne gc, with a mix of complaints (that Cass is his fav and not them) and encouragements from his coming out. WE tries to get him to do a press conference regarding his sexuality. Tim takes a selfie at pride with bernard and a bi flag and posts it to all his Tim Drake accounts instead.

DP x DC Prompt #8

Deadman has been a disembodied spirit for so long he can't even remember anymore. He stopped keeping track. He's gotten lonely, only being able to communicate with people when he possesses someone. And it's hard to build relationships that way.

So you can forgive him for being caught off guard when there's a new League member who looks right at him. And talks to him. Like Deadman's really there! Apparently Phantom's a ghost, similar to Deadman. But, how is Phantom able to be seen by everyone and Deadman isn't?

Just who is this guy?

I could’ve written a story explaining this concept first, but I’m too impatient! I thought of this while thinking about those “Danny being adopted into the Fenton family”, “Runaway Danny”, and “No One Knows” AUs.

Hide-And-Seek

Hide and seek, in this context, is actually a code between Danny and Danielle, who’s around 8 years old and Danny’s 15 by now. Danny can usually handle ghost hunters on his own just fine, but when things get too much, he’ll look at Danielle and say “Let’s play Hide-And-Seek”.

This actually means “This isn’t looking good. Go far, far away from here and hide, I’ll come find you.” There is no room for arguing.

This can also be used for ghost fights. Danielle gets really scared whenever this happens and often questions if she’ll even see Danny, her big brother/father figure, ever again. He’s found her every time so far, but Danielle has had nightmares of the day he tells her that for the last time.

...he is weaving the chocolate. Do you copy, this bitch is WEAVING CHOCOLATE

Text: "I’m a farmer,“ she insisted, a skeletal raven perched on her shoulder, “nothing more nothing less." 

They say that if you walk through the North Woods at twilight, all the way to the crossroads, a fifth road will appear. 

They say the signpost grows a new arm, pointing to that road, but what is written on it is unreadable.

They say that now and then someone foolish, or desperate, goes down that road. Many do not return. Those who do, come back changed. 

I walked through the woods at twilight every night for a week. On the eighth day, when I reached the crossroads, a narrow path was there, leading off at an angle from the crossed dirt roads and winding through the trees. When I looked up at the signpost, a fifth arm had appeared, and the writing on it was not in any language I know. Beside the letters, however, I saw a stalk of wheat and a bird. 

That was enough. I hefted the pack on my back, and set off down the path. 

The path was narrow, but it was smooth enough to walk even as the light faded. When full darkness came, I lit my lantern, and continued walking. I walked until the moon was up, and then at last the trees thinned, and I stepped into a clearing. 

There was a farm holding there, fields and buildings silvered by moonlight, and one open door with light streaming out of it, warm and welcoming. There seemed nothing else to do, so I walked over to it and knocked on the open door. 

“Come in, wanderer, if you mean no harm.” The voice is serene, but there is a strange echoing quality to it. 

I enter, slow and cautious. The inside of the house is all one room, in the old style, with stores hanging from thick beams, a big fireplace on one wall and a low box bed in one corner. A woman is sitting in a chair by the fire, knitting by the light of two candles stuck to the back of the chair. “Come in,” she says again, turning her head to look at me, her voice still echoing as if it comes from a deep well or an ancient tomb. “Come in, and get warm.” 

There is nothing I could describe, about her appearance, to frighten anyone. She looked like any farmwife, solid and capable, hair coiled around her head in grey-streaked braids, her drab skirts tucked around her legs. And yet, when she looked at me, I quailed, and almost fled. There was something about her that was terrifying, a feeling of… not malice, but of power, held in reserve. If I had meant harm, I think that look would have struck me dead. As it was, it waited, to see what I would do.

“I followed the path,” I blurted, trembling. “I saw it, in the twilight, and I… I came.” 

“I see,” she said, still waiting patiently. “And why did you come, child?” 

“Because… because…” The words rise up and choke me. There are so many reasons, so much boiling inside me… “Because I am cursed,” I say at last, my eyes filling with tears. “Because I bring ill-luck wherever I go. I thought… I thought whatever was down the path couldn’t be worse than what I left behind. Even if I died, it couldn’t be worse.” I remember the graves I’ve left behind me, of those I loved, of the hard words and threats, of children dragged away for fear of my curse touching them. 

She rises, then, and comes to me, laying her hand lightly on my head. It is warm, and soft, like any hand, yet it is much, much heavier than any hand should be. She cocks her head, eyes distant, and then she smiles sadly. “It’s not a curse, child,” she says gently. “Just ill luck, and superstition, and cowards putting blame where it does not belong. Come and sit by the fire, and eat something.” 

She gives me stew and a chunk of bread, and a cup of strong beer. When I am finished, she spreads a pallet before the fire and covers me in blankets of thick wool. I sleep well, for the first time in longer than I can remember. 

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You’re a witch who often trades your skills for firstborn children. Write about a day in your home.

I’d tried several different methods. The giant chest had worked, but I didn’t like squashing them all in together like that. It seemed… disrespectful, somehow. 

The bubbles were too inclined to escape out the door in windy weather. 

The jewels were too expensive. 

Flowers worked. Flowers were good. And after all, a magical garden was very traditional. So I grew flowers, and enchanted them, and hid my precious treasures in their hearts. 

Roses held babies bold and bright. Water-lilies the sweet and gentle. Merry daffodils, fragile snowdrops, shy violets… every cluster of flowers held at least one special one, with a sleeping infant in its heart, waiting for the family he or she was meant for. 

They were usually babies. Now and then, I’d take an older child, when it was best for the child that I do so, but they’re not like babies. A newborn, fresh from the snug comfort of the womb, can be curled inside a flower to sleep soundly. An older child is never really comfortable that way and so I can never keep them for long. 

It’s a Leaving Day today. Two boys, twins, like as two peas, sold to me by a father stinking of sour guilt and bitter resentment, for prosperity. His new wife had given him another son, and he wanted money more than these reminders of the first. Well, he’ll have it… and every misfortune money can bring. 

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There is a monster that steals voices, you live in a community where everyone is voiceless. one day a stranger enters your town, asking for directions… In a familiar voice.

Our village isn’t silent. We’ve made sure of that. We’ve hung wind-chimes, tamed songbirds, built fountains and little waterfalls. The dogs still bark, the cats still mew, the chickens and goats and cows still make sounds. 

There are no human voices left, but our village is not silent. 

It started two years ago. Every night, while we slept, one person’s voice vanished. When they woke, though they seemed perfectly healthy, they could not utter a sound. One every night, until even the babies cried silently. It was never a large village. Before spring came again, it was done. 

Two babies have been born since then. They cried on the first day, and then never again. 

It took some time, but our scholar and our priestess made a language of gestures and signs, and we all learned. The language is still growing, we’re still finding new words to make, but it works. The youngest children don’t even remember speaking with words. 

Now and then, travellers come through. The ones who remember the village before generally don’t come back a second time. Our silence frightens them. Strangers find it a little odd, but it’s a nice village. The inn is comfortable, and the food and beer are good. It’s not the biggest pass through the mountains, but there’s always a steady trickle of travellers in summer, who buy our goods and drink our beer and learn a few of our signs. 

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You have the strange one-of-a-kind ability to know, just by looking at a sheet of paper, what is meant to be written on it. Growing up this helped you ace every school exam with no one the wiser, but as an adult you’ve found it has other advantages - and disadvantages.

I was Anne, once. Anne with an e, like in the old book. 

No-one here knows my name. Here, I am Rosetta. 

It seemed so harmless when I was younger. When I looked at a paper, any paper, I knew what should be written on it. It started with my diary, when I was very young. Then quizzes and tests at school, essays and reports and so on. 

It doesn’t work on blank paper. Blank paper is neutral. Uncommitted. It needs to be committed to something. A title or heading is often enough. Sometimes I need more specifics to get me started, maybe a short precis or something. Translation and code-breaking are easy - they put them on a form, with spaces for the translated words, and those come through very clearly. 

When the war started, I volunteered. Many of us, the ones with gifts, did. Our duty, we thought. For our people, for our country. So we came forward and admitted to our gifts, and put them at our country’s service. 

That was about sixteen years ago. I have not left this facility since. 

They don’t tell me much, but I don’t know why. It’s not as if they don’t give me every coded message to decode. I know more about the war - the current one - than most of them do. 

This is the second, or maybe the third. There was a break, but so short that it might just have been a cease-fire, or a temporary truce. They made an effort to pretend to me that the same war had lasted, but after a while I tactfully pointed out to one of my handlers that I spend more time reading top-secret communiques than they do. His angry embarrassment was very amusing. 

My days are monotonous, but not altogether unpleasant. I eat well - not fancy food, but wholesome, tasty food. Every day, I spend half an hour doing exercises, to keep my body in good condition.  I spend my evenings reading, watching movies, listening to music, whatever I feel like. If I’m unwell, a doctor attends me.

It took me some time to make it clear to my handlers that they would have to make me comfortable. That wasn’t a pleasant time, and I still have some scars. But eventually I was able to talk to someone capable of reason, not just obedience. My work takes concentration. It’s hard to concentrate if you’re uncomfortable. If I’m hungry, I can’t concentrate. If I’m in pain, I can’t concentrate. If I’m tired, I can’t concentrate. If I’m uncomfortable - too cold, bad chair, all the little discomforts they tried to use to break my will - I can’t concentrate. 

If I can’t concentrate, I can’t work fast… and I make mistakes.

I am very cooperative, if I’m comfortable.

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A single mom moves into a new apartment with her young son, only to find out it’s inhabited by a poltergeist. At first she’s spooked, but comes to realize that the poltergeist is helping to raise her son.

I’d watch it.

It’s like ‘The Others’, except that everyone just kind of… gets used to seeing each other. There are two families sharing one house, and okay, one family is a bit dead, but they’re all figuring things out as they go and it’s super handy to have a spare parent or two around.

“Mom, I’m home!” 

“She’s out shopping, go do your homework.”

“Aunt Ingrid, they didn’t even HAVE homework when you were alive, why are you BUGGING me - “ 

“When I was alive we churned butter instead of our mother going to the store to buy it, do you want to learn how to churn butter?”

“Fine, okay, homework it is.” 

“David, don’t walk through the walls.”

“Opening the door is too hard.”

“Then walk through the DOOR like your sister. Respect the conventions at least.”

“Fiiiiiinnne…” 

“Mom, what are you doing?”

“Fixing the fence.” 

“Uncle Roger, are you possessing my mom?”

“We tried just having me tell her how to do it, but it was taking too long and she got frustrated.” 

“It’s WEIRD, though.”

“Do you want to do this?”

“No, I - “

“Too late. Come and learn how to fix this. You’re the man of the house now.”

“NOBODY SAYS THAT ANY MORE, UNCLE ROGER.”

“Did you have a fight with David?”

“No.”

“Then why are you both making that face?”

“There’s no FACE.”

“That’s what he said.” 

“We didn’t have a FIGHT, okay…”

“Aunt Ingrid is worried, she says he’s been moping all morning. He’s barely visible half the time.” 

“Look, we didn’t have a fight, I just asked him how he died and then it got weird.” 

“STEVE YOU DO NOT ASK PEOPLE HOW THEY DIED THAT IS SO RUDE.” 

“Mom, it came up, okay, it wasn’t just out of nowhere!”

“YOU APOLOGIZE RIGHT NOW.” 

* 

“Steve! David! Isobel! Who broke this vase?”

“Meteor did it.”

“It was not the dog! Which one of you was throwing things in the house?”

“No, really, Mom, it was Meteor.”

“And how did the dog get up on the mantlepiece?”

“Uh…”

“ISOBEL WERE YOU LEVITATING THE DOG AGAIN?”

“This is completely inaccurate.” 

“Roger…”

“I mean, look at those clothes. I’ve never seen *anyone* dressed like that.”

“They weren’t very careful about accurate costuming in these old movies.”

“I read ALL the Sherlock Holmes stories when they were first published and I ASSURE you he was a GENTLEMAN, not like - “

“Roger, will you just let us watch the moving pictures in peace?”

“But they’re WRONG.”

“We don’t care. Shush.”

*Roger mutters about bossy women and levitates popcorn*

“Steve, what happened to your face?”

“I got into a fight.” 

“I would surmise from your bruises that you lost.”

“I always lose.”

“Oh, we can’t have that! Come, I will teach you the manly art of fisticuffs.”

“ROGER NO.”

“Aunt Ingrid, can you teach me how to make pie?”

“Of course I can… why? I know boys do a lot of things now that girls used to, I understand that, but why pie?”

“I like pie.”

“I can make you a pie if you just want to eat pie.”

“… Ava likes pie too.”

“That girl who lives down the street?”

“Yeah…”

“Then I’ll help you make the pie. What kind?”

“She likes cherry.” 

Aw man, I almost made it wikout tears til the last one.

Some time ago, you sold your soul to the Devil. He just gave it back and asked you for a favor.

There’s really no good time to open your front door and find a demon standing on your doormat, but five minutes before you’re supposed to leave for work is an especially bad time. 

Of course, no-one else would know that the Devil - or a demon who claimed to be the Biblical Satan, I had no way of knowing for sure - was on my doorstep. He’s wearing a discreet grey suit, which is honestly much more suitable than the flashy black number with the cape he was wearing last time we met. Still wearing the same face, thought. 

“I was under the impression,” I say slowly, “that my deal was concluded.” 

I suppose everyone has what they feel like pressing reasons for selling their souls. The life of a loved one is a common one. I was careful with my bargain - health, wealth and happiness for all of my children for the period of their natural lives. I wasn’t going to blow my entire immortal soul on just one of them, and then see another one get sick.

“It is,” the demon calling himself Lucifer says slowly. “But I have come to offer you a new bargain.” 

I raise my eyebrows. “For what? You already have full post-expiry rights to my immortal soul, subject to fulfilment of all conditions of our contract.” 

“And I’m willing to return those… post-expiry rights to you, in exchange for… a favour.” He actually looks embarrassed. I didn’t think demons could get flustered. 

“A favour.” I look at my watch. “I have to get to work. Will this favour take long?” 

“Yes, it will.” He looks around, looking more flustered than ever. “When would be a… good time, then?” 

I check my watch again. “If you can get through it in half an hour, I can fit you in at eleven. If it’s going to take longer, you’ll have to wait until after work.” 

“I remember you as being more accommodating,” he says dryly. 

“I remember that last time we met, I was the one who wanted something.” 

“You don’t want your soul back?” 

“I don’t know yet. I don’t know what the price is going to be.” I step out, closing the door behind me. “I’ll tell you what. Meet me outside my office at six. I suppose that under the circumstances, I could give you the courtesy of a free consultation.” 

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One day, when walking home from work, you make a mistake. You give a last kindness to a dying god, and in return, it grants a wish you never wanted granted.

It was an act of kindness. For all the consequences, I do not regret being kind. 

I was walking home, just before sunset, after working from before dawn at the bakery. The best bread in the city, the baker says. It’s all right. I don’t know if it’s that good. 

I heard the soft sounds, and thought it was an injured or trapped animal. So I turned down the alley to see if I could help. I like animals, and too many people in this city don’t. 

There were no cobbles in the alley, just mud and stones, and I gathered up my skirts and picked my way carefully. Watching where my feet were going, I didn’t see her until I was close. 

She was not human. No stretch of imagination could think she was, too large and too strange. Standing, she would have been twice my height, and I am not a small woman. No human woman ever had that strangely mottled skin, glittering like granite, or a fall of ‘hair’ more like shaggy moss. No human woman had eyes like polished shale, or a mouth like a crack in a stone. 

But she was wounded, I could see it, the too-long limbs cracked and twisted, strange milky blood seeping out of what looked like deep wounds. She looked up at me with her shining eyes, and her crack-mouth opened. “Water?” she asked pleadingly. 

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In the kingdom you live in a child’s 10th Christmas is a big deal because they receive a dragon in their stocking to care for. It’s always a mystery what kind of dragon they are going to recieve. As the kings child you expect one of the majestic winter beasts or the wild fiery dragons. Instead you get what is viewed as the most bland species: an Earth dragon. But you soon discover your Earth dragon to be anything but bland.

No-one knows why they come at midwinter. Every child asks, and no parent ever really answers. All we know is that on our tenth midwinter, the longest night, we set out a basket. At some time during the night, a dragon will appear in it. No-one ever sees it happen. Plenty of people have tried, but they fall asleep, or look away for a moment, or sneeze… something always happens. 

Everyone has a dragon. They’re not the big monsters of legend… they start out tiny, anywhere between the size of a rat to the size of a puppy. Something a child can pick up. As adults, they’re anywhere between three and eight feet. They are unmistakeably magical creatures - they don’t eat much, for their size, and they all have some power. Fire, or ice, or wind, or something. 

I was so excited, that midwinter. I was a princess, after all. Surely my dragon would be special, too. Something exciting, like the sparkling white Ice dragons, or the dark, gleaming Fire dragons, or the colourful, crystalline Light dragons. It took me a very long time to go to sleep, and when I woke up I ran to the basket before the fire in my nightgown, despite the cold. 

I was so disappointed I could have cried. 

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Every day you’ve dealt with your terrible stepmother and your equally terrible and ugly stepsisters as you’ve done your chores. One day, an invitation to the prince’s ball comes to your late father’s estate. After your late mother’s dress is destroyed, you find an elderly woman in front of you. She waves her wand through the air and suddenly a blue ball gown with glass slippers appear on the bench next to you. She claims you can go to the ball for only a small price. You have to kill the prince.

“No.” I fold my arms, meeting her eyes. 

She blinks at me. “No?”

“Not for a silk dress and a night at a party. Only a fool would commit regicide for so low a price.” 

The old woman hesitates, and her eyes narrow. “Well. True. Though it would only be regicide if I asked you to kill the king.”

“His heir is close enough, to my mind.” 

The old woman rubs her chin thoughtfully. “Aye, that’s fair. But… if the price were better?” 

I shrug. “I’ve contemplated murdering my stepmother and her daughters often enough. The only reason I don’t do it is that I’d surely be the first and only suspect. If a murder would truly free me from this misery… I’d certainly be willing to consider it. After careful planning, of course.” 

“Indeed. Indeed.” She smiles grimly. “All right, my dear. Shall we plan a murder, then?” 

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The Wolf in the Mountains

In the old days, the beginning days, there was a warlord who had made himself a king by conquest. That king had a son, and in time that son became a king, and he was not content with his father’s little kingdom. So he, too, set out to conquer, and his armies were mighty. And among his armies was a warleader who was better than all the others, a man skilled and cunning, fearsome with an axe and unwearying in battle.  All fell before him, and he was called the Hound of the King, for he was ever loyal, and fought only at his king’s command.

At last the king sent for this warleader, and showed him the great mountains that bounded his kingdom on one side. “The great pass,” he said, “is still held by the mountain people, the little tribes who cling to the old ways and call no man king. I will give you an army, and when you take the great pass for me, I will name you Jarl of that country, and you will answer only to the king.”

This greatly pleased the warleader, for he was a man of low birth, though a great soldier, and moreover, he was of the blood of the mountain people by his mother, and it suited him that a man of the mountains should rule the mountain tribes.

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Text: The road to the farmhouse was lined with empty graves. They wanted. They waited. 

The open graves yawned on either side of the road, and she shuddered and looked away. They looked… hungry. Almost worse were the ones that weren’t, here and there a pitiful little mound of earth, or a pitiful figure lying quiet in the bottom of a pit, waiting to be covered. She thought she saw one move a little, and turned her eyes away again. 

That was why the graves were so close to the road, after all. If those who came were too late, if the plague victim had died on the way, or if some poor sufferer stumbling towards refuge felt death’s touch, there the graves waited, a poor semblance of dignity for the dying. At least you could have your own grave. At least you wouldn’t be thrown on one of the pits or the pyres, nameless among many. 

It was a last, grotesque kindness. 

Most animals didn’t get the plague, which was a mercy. The horse was healthier than it had ever been, feeding well on crops grown to feed people who would never need to eat again. Still, it seemed to sense the miasma of despair that hung over the farm full of open graves, and it was quiet and nervous when they reached the farmhouse. 

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You were a baby created by a wish, and you learn the cost of that when you hear about one of your friends’ cousins touching seawater and dying on contact. Children like you are fatally vulnerable to something, whether it’s snow, silver, too much distance from your home or even kisses. You don’t know what your weakness is yet. How will you find out what it is and avoid it?

I am wish-born, I have always known it. Even if my parents had never told me, I would know. The wish-born are always… special. Extraordinarily beautiful, or extraordinarily ugly. Extraordinarily wise, or extraordinarily foolish. We are never ordinary. 

Sweetness, my mother wished for, a sweet, loving child, and so I brim with sweetness. Golden hair and soft blue eyes, sweet of voice and of face, always good, always kind. She was lucky - she sought me in good faith and true need, and so her wish was granted true, not twisted as some are to break the wisher’s heart. 

I did not know, I never knew, of the curse that comes with being wish-born. Not until Vida came to our house with red eyes, and confided in me that her uncle’s only child, wish-born like me, had died. A strong son and heir the uncle had wished for, and Gaspar was all he had wanted - big and ugly, true, but he was clever and honest and a good master to those who worked for him. He’d been dearly loved, for all his gargoyle’s face. But after twenty years without a day’s illness, he’d gone down to the docks to meet a friend’s ship, and a drop of seawater had landed on his hand. And big, strong, kindly Gaspar died, between one breath and the next. 

They hadn’t known, Vida said through slowly dripping tears, too weary to cry hard any more. They had never known, not until afterward, that every wish-born child had a fatal weakness. Gaspar’s parents had been warned about never letting him go on the sea, never to touch the waves, but they hadn’t understood, hadn’t realized that even a single drop splashed onto him would kill. And she asked me what my mother had warned me of, so she could help me to avoid it.

But my mother warned me of nothing.

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