home authors guest shorts graphical shorts
Gail the real estate agent wore the frozen grin of the newly baptised as Henry opened the closet door. Real choice; full sized walk-in, tons of shelf space, shoe racks, angled mirrors so a person can check out their own ass, Cadillac front to back.
It came off the en suite and curved way back out of sight to an outside wall. He flicked on the light - a puff of purfumed air sang down from a hidden vent, nice - stepped through the ebony lined archway and took a good look at that back wall; there was big, glowing hole in it, and it was whispering.
Henry walked towards the back wall and mentally knocked a couple grand from his offer. Then he stuck his goddamn head in the hole.
Interdimensional. A portal. The entire works of Hans Christian Anderson played themselves out before him in the freezing rain on the cobbled streets of Munkemøllestræde. The shivering sweet bliss of the little match girl collapsed him to one knee and the spell was lost, while inside the hole, story after story after story to infinity bled seamlessly into the depths of time and space.
Henry wiped his eyes and tried to hate the wainscotting instead.
Date Written: November 13, 2004
Average Vote: 4.375