The spacilisk’s feet hurt. They hurt very badly, in fact. They were so sore that, while he could slither about pretty well, it was hard for him to stop, or turn, or even to get properly started, really.
Of course, no one understood this, since they were all elves and elves have no idea just how much spacilisks use their feet. They think spacilisks slither and slide and their feet just dangle there for no reason whatsoever, but they’re wrong. A spacilisk’s feet are terribly important, and it is most uncomfortable when they hurt.
“I need different shoes,” said the spacilisk to his elvish keepers (his name was Craig, which he would have told anyone who asked, which, of course, they did not). But they just looked at him strangely, as though they didn’t understand what he said. They simply couldn’t fathom the fact that a spacilisk needed properly fitting shoes just like everyone else.
If a faerie made perfumes
How would she blend?
Would she tincture the green of a violet stem
In dew from the tip of a fern of the deep,
Deep, dark woods
So cool and fecund?
Yes, she should.
Jacey stopped at the Laundromat on her way to work, the only customer save for two suited men standing in the corner, passing a box of Wheat Thins back and forth. She opened one of the washers to discover a pile of confetti within. Some of their colors had bled onto each other and mixed to create new shades of blue, pink, yellow-green. She heard a crunching sound and turned to find the two suited men at her side, regarding her sternly as they chewed.
“Sorry,” Jacey muttered, backing away.
The men began transferring the confetti to the dryer below. They took big handfuls before scouring the machine for remaining pieces, picking them out with care. Jacey approached Gretchen at the front desk, leaned back with a jumbo Slurpee and a tattered anthology of ghost stories.
“What’s up with them?”