Le Royaume de Floraison

Once upon a time there was a kingdom ruled by a king who loved.

If on a dismal, sultry night

You enter the kingdom of Florescence on a quiet midnight. The sky above you is dark with the stars spread out and the moon half full, pregnant with anticipation of being full and heavy in the sky.

It is midnight, but all of the buildings have torches lit outside and there is singing and there is dancing. You can hear the music, people playing hammered dulcimers with immense precision. Someone else is playing the violin alongside and together they create a melody that is almost intoxicating.

There is a sign outside of a building, one whose windows are as bright as the moon, and inside you can see men and women clapping and dancing. And the sign says:

Our hearts shall be the torches of the shrine

You enter the building, the strange music calling you, but as you step inside, the music slows and stops and those dancing stop their movements and turn towards you.

"I'm sorry," you are compelled to say, "if I am interrupting. I was drawn to that music." Nobody says a word. "Do you know of an inn where I can stay? Or even a barn perhaps?"

There is a woman in the corner who is holding a violin to her chin. She lowers it and then says, "Welcome to Florescence, young lover who wants only but a bed and warmth. We are but humble players, we can provide nothing, only the King can do that."

"The King?" you ask, slightly bewildered.

"The King of Passion," the woman with the violin says. "Like angels with bright savage eyes, he will come treading phantom-wise."

"I don't understand," you say. "Can none of you give me a place to sleep without consulting your King?"

The woman runs her bow across the strings of her violin, creating a sound that starts as soothing but ends of screeching. "Only he who understands the language of flowers and other silent things can help you."

"Perhaps, I will find another place," you say as you careful step backwards.

"Many a flower regretfully," the woman says, "exhales perfume soft as secrets in a profound solitude."

You step outside and, after a few seconds, the music starts up again. But now, instead of inviting, you realize that the music is a warning, a warning to stay away from this place, these people and their King.

You move slowly to leave Florescence when you see a shadow come up behind you. You turn around, thinking perhaps someone will finally offer you a room or barn at least, and that is when you see him. One glimpse and those eyes

Strange flowers that bloomed beneath diviner skies

You cannot see. There is only darkness and pain, so much pain. Your eyes what happened to your eyes oh god

There is a voice like a soft whisper, like a lover, and he says, "Thy hollow eyes with midnight visions burn."

You can feel the warmth of his hand on your heart. You can hear his breath and the rustle of his clothing and his awful stink, some perfume that pervades your mind. You wish to the heavens that death takes you.

But it doesn't. The night is not over. It is the time of the midnight blooming, the time of flowers, of love.

It is the time of passion.

The City of Dreadful Night

Once upon a time there was a kingdom ruled by many kings, kings who were indistinct and tenebrous.

There is a knock on the door and a silhouette behind the glass, curves outlining the black letters of your name and the words "private detective." You had the sign installed...when was it? You don't remember. You don't remember when you moved in here.

But that doesn't matter. There's someone outside the door. A dame, in fact. More importantly, a customer.

"Come in," you say and when she walks through the door, it takes some effort not to wolf whistle. Her body (and those curves) is clad in a black dress, the folds of which you could get lost in, and she's wearing a veil above her face, her eyes obscured, only the dark lipstick of her mouth visible. She says your name in a questioning tone. Her voice is melodious, like warm milk at bedtime.

"That's me," you say, moving from behind your desk and pulling out a chair for her to sit down on. "Can I help you with something?"

"Yes," she says. She crosses her legs and places her purse on her lap, then pulls out a picture from inside. It's of a man, his suit and tie wrinkled, the hair on his head thinning. "This is my husband. He's been missing for two days now."

"You think he's stepping out on you?" you say, thinking that he would be an imbecile of he had. "Taking up with some moll in a motel?"

"I don't know," she says. "He's never done anything like this before...I think. I don't exactly remember." Something hazy appears on the edges of your vision, but you ignore it. "He's never done anything like this," she repeats in desperation. "You've got to find him, mister."

"Okay, okay," you say. You quote your price, expenses and all, and she doesn't hesitate as she pulls out a wad of cash from her purse and hands it over to you.

You pull out your notepad and say, "Tell me everything about him. His habits, what he likes to eat, what picture shows he likes, what bands he listens to. Anything that could be helpful." You sit there, the cash burning a hole in your pocket, your pen scratching against the paper, the ink bleeding through the pages as you write what her warm milk voice tells you about her husband, the sorry sap.

It takes you three days to find him. Three days of footwork, of following leads, and it was simple dumb luck you found him. You took a break from your investigation and went to a diner to get some coffee and there he was, same crumpled suit and tie, same thinning hair. You can't believe your luck and you try not to stare at him as you get a booth and crack open a newspaper. You watch as he patiently eats some bacon and eggs, glancing at his watch every few minutes. Is he waiting for someone? Perhaps or perhaps not. You sip your coffee slowly, until he takes one more glance at his watch and gets up to leave.

You try not to hurry after him. Tailing someone is a fine art, making sure that they don't know they are tailed requires skill. Always stay far enough behind them that they don't get suspicious, but not too far that you lose them in a crowd. This one, the husband, he looks around, very paranoid, but he hasn't spotted you yet. He doesn't appear to be looking at people at all, in fact. You can't tell where he's looking sometimes or why.

Finally, he takes another glance at his watch and stops walking. He's in front of a cinema now. His wife said that he disliked going to the cinema -- something about being afraid of the dark -- but now he goes inside without a problem. You follow and buy a ticket for the next show. You follow him into the theater, down the steps, until he turns around unexpectedly and grabs your wrist. "Hey, pal," you yell, but his grip tightens.

"You have to remember," he says, "you have to remember or it won't matter. I went willingly. I knew it was going to happen, but I went anyway. We're all puppets, you see. We're windup people to them. You have to remember!"

"I don't know what you're on about," you say, trying to pull away from his hand.

"The Chiaroscuro Kings," he says. "They arranged all of this. It's like a play, you see, a film. They want to watch it happen over and over again, changing the details around sometimes. And nobody remembers. Except me! I saw them! I saw them because they wanted me to see them! They told me what will happen! The time of my death!" You pull away finally, but he grabs you by the shoulder. "Don't let them make you forget! The city shouldn't be like this! Don't let me die in black and white!"

There was a crack and suddenly his head was twisted around. His legs bent at extreme angles, his arms twisted backwards.

And out of the corner of my eye, you see them. You see the Chiaroscuro Kings.

You need to remember. Don't forget this, you tell yourself. This is real.

But then they reach their smoky fingers into your head like needles and...

There is a knock on the door and a silhouette behind the glass, curves outlining the black letters of your name and the words "private detective." You had the sign installed...when was it? You don't remember. You don't remember when you moved in here.

A Fire on Dunwich Beach

The boy opened up the tinderbox and tried to start a fire in the pit. The waves lapped the edges of the beach, burrowing into the sand as if trying to erode the continent.

"That's not real flint, you know," the girl said as she watched the boy.

"What?" the boy said. He temporarily stopped striking the rock against the heavy black metal. "Of course it's flint. It's written on the box."

"It's fake flint," the girl said. "Artificial. It's actually called ferrocerium. Real flint works differently."

"Well, this one's not working at all," the boy said. "I can't fucking make it work."

"Here," the girl said and pulled out a box of matches. She struck one and it burst into a small flame.

"Great," the boy said. "So you wanted to watch me try in futility to light this thing like a stone age man."

"Don't be such a baby," the girl said. She tipped the match sideways and then raised up a piece of paper, setting it on fire, then blew out the match. Then she lowered the burning page into the firepit and watches as the fire spread outwards. "You wanted to come here."

The boy rubbed his hands in front of the fire. "Yeah, well, I didn't like sitting around the house. You didn't happen to bring any marshmallows, did you?"

The girl shook her head. "No food. Just the fire."

"Yeah, thanks," the boy said. "Hey, let's tell some scary stories."

The girl smiled. "Really?"

"What? You know of anything better to do?"

The girl shrugged. "I don't know any scary stories. But I do know a fairy tale."

The boy put his hands underneath his armpits and crossed his feet. "I'm not picky. Go on then."

"Once upon a time," the girl said, "there were two kingdoms who were continually at war. One was ruled by a king who boiled with rage. The other was ruled by a queen that simmered with hatred. The war between the kingdoms had lasted for generations beforehand, the reason for the war lost to history itself. The war was all the people knew, all the king and the queen knew.

"But one day, the people decided it was enough. They had fought and killed and fought and killed and it had done nothing. It was time, now, for peace. So it was decided that the King of Flint and the Queen of Flames were to be married."

"The King of Flint and the Queen of Flames?" the boy said. "Really?"

"Shut it," the girl said. "I told you this was a fairy tale and this is how fairy tales go." The boy made an imaginary zipper close across his mouth and gestured for her to continue.

"Their wedding was a historic occasion. Everyone for a thousand miles came to see them wed, for everyone knew that this at last was the end of the endless war. Even though they hated each other, each one would be forced to stay with the other or else the war would go on and on.

"But something strange happened on their wedding night. Something nobody anticipated: they fell in love. When they awoke the next morning, they were glad to be wed because now they had a bond that could never be broken. Now they could merge their kingdoms and be one, be whole.

"But the war had also twisted something inside them. They felt love for one another, but the anger and the hatred still seethed inside them, seeking release. When their subjects came forward with requests, they would laugh and make them walk across burning embers. And if someone displeased them, they would open them up and stuff them with burning coals. Their proclivities grew monstrous.

"Finally, the people had enough of it. They stormed the palace and chained the king and shut the queen in the highest tower. The next night, they took out her out and made her watch as they burned him."

"I thought this was a fairy tale and not a scary story?" the boy said.

"It is," the girl said, "you just aren't listening." The boy shrugged and rubbed his hands in front of the fire again.

"The Queen was now left with nothing but her hatred and her anger. It rose from her skin like steam and one day, still locked up in the tower, she put on her wedding dress and burst into flames.

"The people thought that was the end of it. No more King, no more Queen. But the fires continued. Houses burnt for no reason. People would find burns on their arms and faces, as if touched by fire. The kingdom was soon deserted, the people scattered, thought cursed by all those around them.

"But if you were to find this kingdom and walk through the blackened husk of a palace, you might see the King of Flint, still in chains, and the Queen of Flames, still in her wedding dress, as they dance around one another."

"Sounds like a ghost story, not a fairy tale," the boy said.

The girl picked up a stick and poked the fire. "Every story is a ghost story if you wait long enough."

They stayed on the beach until the sun rose and the fire was only a memory.

Skin and Sorrow

Once upon a time there was a kingdom ruled by a child queen.

Before I tell this tale, I must explain that this tale has been told many times in many ways. Sometimes it is called "Donkeyskin" and sometimes it is called "Thousandfurs" and sometimes it is called "The King Who Wanted to Marry His Daughter." In these tales, the Queen dies and the King declares that he shall only marry someone as beautiful as she was...and the only one who fits that description is the King's Daughter.

In these stories, the King's Daughter first demands impossible items -- dresses the color of the sky, the moon, the sun -- and then a skin to hide in. In some tales, it is the skin of a magical donkey, in some it is the skin of a cat, and in some it is the fur of many animals stitched together. Hiding in these skins, the King's Daughter then escapes her incestuous father and finds happiness somewhere else.

In the Sorrowlands, however, the tale ends differently. In the Sorrowlands, the King's Daughter marries the King. She stays a child in this tale. She becomes the Child Queen and her tears turn her into the Child Queen of Sorrows. But the King is protective of her, so fiercely protective, that he will allow none to see her except himself.

And when he dies, of course, there is always someone else that finds her and protects her.

This tale has been told many times and in many ways.

"The King is dead," the town crier calls as you wander through town. "The King is dead and now all must hear the proclamation of the Child Queen of Sorrows." The town crier looks like he has been taking his job a bit too literally, all things told: his face is wet with tears. "Hear this proclamation: the King is dead and the Child Queen asks us to choose another King for her."

"This must be a sad occasion," you say to someone standing nearby. Their cheeks are red and wet as well. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"'Tis not the King I'm sad for," the man says, "but the Child Queen. Her protector has gone and no one is left to help her." He steps forward to the town crier. "Here, I shall sign up to be her protector, to be the new King."

You watch as more and more people sign up to be the new King. But there can only be one King at a time, so now there must be a contest. The next King, like the one before, must find and bring forth an impossible item, something that can "change the world with one stroke."

The contest will last until sundown and then the new King shall be chosen.

You find this process interesting, so you go to the palace at the center of the Sorrowlands at the day's end to see if someone has brought forth the impossible item and you bring your pen and paper to record what it is. The palace is cold and even with everyone inside, it still seems empty. You wonder about the servants -- are there any? And what, exactly, did the King die from? You start to ask someone standing next to you, but then the Child Queen appears.

She is the most beautiful child you have ever seen. Her eyes are...her hair is...her skin is...you cannot describe it. Just looking at her is making your eyes tear up. Through the tears, her face distorts and you can see something wrong with it, but then you wipe your eyes and it's gone.

Without even saying a thing, those who want to be the next King (which is basically the whole town) bring forth what they believe is the impossible item. With every shake of her head, you hear sobbing. No, he won't be her protector. Next. Next.

You hardly realize you are the next in line until you are right in front of her. All you are carrying is your pen and paper, but it appears that this is, in fact, the answer to her riddle. These items can change the world with a stroke.

She beckons you to lean down and she touches your face, feeling your skin. Her hands are cold like marble. The more you look into her eyes, the more you realize that this is what you wanted. She is the only thing you need in your life. The King is dead. You are the King. And you must protect her.

This tale has been told in many times and in many ways. In the Sorrowlands, however, the King's Daughter doesn't disguise herself with donkeyskin or catskin or fur. Instead, she uses a different disguise. She wraps herself in your skin.

Long live the Child Queen of Sorrows.

Mirrors for Princes

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom ruled by a darkly reflective queen.

There are no maps to the Mirrorlands. Some people say that all crossroads can lead to the Mirrorlands, but they are wrong. Only the road that splits into two and both sides look the same, their paths identical, leads to the Mirrorlands. It does not matter which path you take. Both will lead you there. There is no road not taken.

Once you reach the Mirrorlands, you will start to notice certain things. The road will become sinuous, each bend curving around obsidian hills, their dark edges sharp like knives. Do not attempt to climb the hills -- they do not allow anyone except for the Queen of Glass on their dark slopes and peaks.

Across the jagged chasms, you can see an identical road with identical obsidian hills. If you look close enough, you can even see yourself walking along that path, looking across the chasm at you.

I would not recommend doing this.

Reaching the middle of the Mirrorlands is a difficult journey. There are many places to get lost, places of confusion and obfuscation and bifurcation. There are alleys of antipodes, corridors of counterpoles, and roads of reversals.

There are some who say that the Mirrorlands are merely an expanse of desert, that the Queen of Glass created a storm that ground all of her glass mountains into sand, but they are wrong.

If you do reach the center of the Mirrorlands, you will find a place where the sky mirrors the ground and a palace so tall that it connects the two. If you walk into this palace, its huge double doors darkly gleaming, you will find that you have already arrived. The other you from the other road has opened the opposite door and also walks inside.

In-between the doors, in-between both of you, is the Queen of Glass. She smiles at both of you. She has two faces. She has infinite faces. Looking at her is like looking at a mirror reflecting back at itself.

Her scales shine luminously.

You are all around her now. As you approach her, more and more of you appear. Every piece of you, every moment of your life is here. Here is you as a child. Here is you as an adult. Here is you right before death.

If you reach to touch her, you will feel a cold serpentine tendril wrap around your body. It lifts you up and you can see it doing the same for every single one of you. And you will realize: every single moment of your life now leads to this. Every moment is mirrored within the Queen of Glass.

She is you.

The light will leave your eyes. This is the way out of the Mirrorlands. This is the way forward. This is the way to leave a reflection. There is no light.

If you choose to go the Mirrorlands, you will find the only way out is to replace yourself. The only way out is to choose the dark mirror. There is no way out at all.

The Quiet Kingdom

Once upon a time, there was no kingdom ruled by a nothing king.

You

You were walking along and

You were walking along and thought about hitching a ride on the next wagon when

You were walking along and thought about hitching a ride on the next wagon when you looked up and you saw

You saw

You saw the sky.

Not the sky. The No Sky. The Nothing Sky. It wasn't white or black. It wasn't any color, for what color was nothing? It was nothing at all and it spread out as far as the eye could see and farther, for can the eye see nothing?

You looked up and saw nothing at all. And then it fell, the sky, the No Sky, was falling all around you and everything was turning into nothing.

You reached out your hand and it was gone. Like it had never existed.

You wished for one more hour, one more minute, one more second, but you knew there were no more left. No more minutes, no more stars, no more wishes. There was only nothing left.

Only nothing left.

Only nothing.

Nothing.

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The Land of Do-As-You-Please

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom ruled a...well, a ruler. Sometimes this ruler was a king and sometimes they were a queen. Sometimes they were both and sometimes they were neither. They always, however, wore a red armband with a heart tied around their sleeve.

You are tired and you are hungry. You have traveled many miles to get to this city, but you have nowhere to stay. Up ahead, you can see a motel with a flashing neon sign -- probably not the best place to stay, but certainly the cheapest.

You enter the motel and get a room. As the proprietor hands you the key, you notice there is a flier on his desk, a flier for some performance art theatre called 'The Land of Do-As-You-Please.' "You wanna go there?" the proprietor asks you. "I hear they do some freaky stuff there." You politely decline and go to your room. In your room, you crash on the bed and quickly fall asleep.

It is dark when you wake up. The lights of the neon sign illuminate your room. Someone is knocking on the door.

Groggily, you get up and walk over to the door, but by the time you open it, whoever was knocking is gone. You do find that they slipped something under the door: another flier for The Land of Do-As-You-Please. You decide that you might actually want to check it out -- at least to see why someone was knocking on your room in the middle of the night. The next performance, per the flier, is in thirty minutes.

The city looks different at night. The regular stores have closed and new ones have opened in their place. Stores festooned with the letters XXX and the words 'live' and 'nude.' You finally find the theatre called The Land of Do-As-You-Please and enter.

There are velvet curtains across the stage and row upon row of empty seats. As you walk down the aisle, a woman peeks out from behind the curtain. "You're early," she says. "We don't start for another ten minutes."

"Someone slipped this under my door," you say and show her the flier.

She smiles. "You want the King and Queen," she says.

"Who?" you say.

"The King and Queen of Hearts," she says. "They always choose someone from, you know, outside. They want you to be a part of it."

"A part of what?"

"This!" She waves her hands around. "It's going to be so exciting! I'll go get them."

You try to stop her, try to tell her that you don't really want to be a part of their play, but she's already gone. You shake your head and turn to go.

And then you hear the voice. It's beautiful, enchanting, exotic. It flows through the air and into your ears like music. "Leaving so soon?"

You turn and look to the source of the voice. The velvet curtains have parted and there is a man standing on the stage. He is tall and handsome and you can't help but imagine what kissing him would feel like.

And then a woman emerges from the side of the stage and drapes her arm around him. You would feel jealousy, but the woman is just as beautiful, just as enticing. She says, "Don't leave now. We're just going to start soon."

The man and woman both wear an armband with a red heart on it. Your own heart beats faster as you approach the stage. You can't help yourself. The man smiles at you and the woman beckons you with one finger. "You must be the King and Queen of Hearts," you say, your mouth dry, your fingers trembling.

"We are," the woman says. "We are many things to many people. We can be yours for the night."

"What?" you swallow nervously.

"If you want it," the man says. "Every time we perform, we like to choose one member of our audience to...dally with, shall we say. We've had so many dalliances."

"So many," the woman says.

"I," you say, "I should be going."

"Don't go," the man says. "Don't go," the woman says. Their voices blend together and pierce your heart and you are pulled forward against your will. You cannot remember how you got on the stage, but the man and woman are circling you now, showering your body with kisses. You can feel their hands and their breath and you realize that you have slept, but you are still hungry.

Angrily, achingly, you kiss them. They strip you and themselves and together on the stage you have sex. You are just a tangle of bodies, of limbs, of white heat waiting to escape. You cry out in ecstasy and

and

and you open your eyes and you are all alone. There is no one on stage with you.

But every single seat is filled. There are people in every chair, people watching you, people judging you, people shaming you with their stares.

You grab your clothes and run. You run so fast, you can't even remember leaving the theatre. You run and run until you find yourself back at the motel, back in your room.

Why did you do that? Why did you let them do that to you?

You get in the shower to try to wash the shame off of you, but it stays there like a foul stench. The water mixes with your tears.

You close your eyes. You know there is only one way to get rid of it. The shame is inside you. The shame can only be cut out.

So you do. You cut and let it bleed.

The Kingdom & The Kingdom

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom ruled by many and varied kings. There were so many kings of so many sizes, with so many legs, so many joints, so many eyes.

You have traveled across mountains and valleys and fields. You have seen great deserts and vast oceans. You have witnessed the most wondrous of things, bright green lights in the sky, and you have experienced the most terrible of things, the almost eternal darkness, both, paradoxically, in the same place. You have traveled far.

You now come to a field. A grassy field, like so many others. You can hear the humming of insects on the earth, in the grass, and it feels right. You feel content. You feel like you could lay in the grass and stare up at the deep blue sky forever.

And, best of all, the field seems to go for quite a while. You begin walking across the field, intent to see how far it really goes, when you see a patch of brown grass, dead grass. You think nothing of it until you see another and another and soon the field you are in is completely brown, completely dead.

You wonder what could have caused this. Your curiosity outweighs your fear. You trek onward.

Soon, you realize that the humming you are hearing is not from the insects in the grass. It is a deeper hum, a lower hum. It is coming from under the earth. It is coming from the roots of the dead grass, from beneath the roots. Before, it was a gentle hum, a hum of insects going about there business. Now, it is an ominous hum, a hum of things moving and feeding and waiting.

You move on, hoping that the hum will go away, hoping that the grass become bright and green again, but it doesn't. The soil now is loose and you can feel things pulling at your feet. You think it's your imagination at first, but then you see the beetles, fat and black, on your shins. You brush them off, but there are more of them. And then you see:

There are more of them and more of them and more of them. There are so many of them, rising up from the dirt and topsoil, that they make the ground turn from brown to black. They aren't on the ground anymore; they are the ground.

You run. You have no other options. You run and you can feel every insect beneath your boot, every squish of every exoskeleton and then you can feel them on your legs and you can feel their tiny legs climbing and if you stop to push them off, that just means more will show up, so you keep running and they keep climbing and now your legs are covered and so is your stomach and you arms and your shoulders and your neck and your mouth and your eyes.

The Many-Legged Kings feast on you. You are a tasty snack for them. Your skin is soft, your muscle chewy. Soon, you are just white bone against their black bodies.

You would serve as a warning to others not to step into this field, if the Many-Legged Kings didn't drag your skeleton underground to be fossilized with the others.

Port de Peste

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom ruled by a king who was a physician.

You are going to a new land, a land of plenty and opportunity, and you are going there by ship. And it is hell.

The conditions of the ship are brutal and sickening. Those on this coffin ship are packed tight, without regard to safety or sanitary conditions. The plague has struck many times and each time, you must give money to the sailors for them to even toss the body overboard, but it is better to lose money then to let the bodies fester in the heat. You try not to breath the noxious vapors, you try so hard to stay away from others, but there is no room, no room at all.

Until, finally, the ship lands. You are here. You are free.

Joyously, you rush to the top of the ship and prepare to leave. Until you see the men on the dock, the signs that they hold, the word that fills your heart with dread: quarantine.

You have traded one ship for another. Now, you and your fellow passengers must stay in this port for who knows how long. You don't even remember seeing this port on the map, but it must have been set up specifically to serve as a pest-house.

The workers of the port speak barely a word of your language. All you recognize is "quaratine." "Quarantine," they say repeatedly as they lead the sickly passengers away. "Quarantine."

One of the other passengers sidles up to you and says, "I hear they serve the Physician King. That this whole place was set up by him so that he could observe how fast those carrying the plague die."

You don't respond. You don't even want to open your mouth, the miasma is so thick around here.

Over time, more and more passengers of the ship disappear. You see each one being lead by one of the port workers, big hulking men and women wearing white cloaks and bird masks. You never see them again and you know why: the plague has taken them.

Finally, you are alone. The last passenger before you had to be dragged away, all the while screaming about how he had been "careful" and how he didn't have the plague at all. You shake your head and silently curse God.

And then they come for you. Their cloaks are still white and clean, so clean you don't even know how they have kept them in such a state. "Come with us," they say.

"Why?" you ask.

"Quarantine," they say. "Come with us."

You don't want to be dragged like the other man, so you slowly walk along with them. You have never felt the touch of the plague, perhaps they will finally let you go. Yes, that's it, they're going to let you go now, it's all over, you hope.

They lead you to a wooden door and slowly push the door open. Inside, there is a man. He is wearing a cloak like the others, but this cloak is black, as black as the deepest well you've ever seen. He wears a bird mask, too, but you can see there are actual feathers on this one, and the eyes are made of a shiny black glass. And above his mask, he is wearing a small wooden crown that looks like a snake wrapped around a stick.

You realize that this is the Physician King.

"Please," you beg. "I don't have the plague. I don't. Please."

The Physician King steps forward, his movements swift and sudden. With one gloved hand, he touches you on the chest and then moves away.

The port workers grab you and drag you outside. You cannot move, but you can see the sun on your face as they drop you. You stand up, unsure and afraid, and look around. You are outside now. You are free.

You long to ask why, but you know you would never receive an answer, so you simply thank God you are free and alive and start walking.

Until you feel a cough heaving in your throat, a fever burning in your blood, pustules bubbling on your skin.

If you didn't have the plague before, you certainly have it now. You look back, but the port is gone. No more quarantine.

The Physician King has work to do.

Big Sky Country

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom ruled by a king with many wings.

You have traveled a great distance to be here. You have traveled across seas and mountains, through small villages and large cities.

And now you are in the country of big sky. You haven't seen anything like this before. The clouds a perfectly white, the breeze is soft and gentle, and the sky seems so large that it dwarfs anything you can think of. You always wondered why it was called Big Sky Country, for other countries have certainly had skies and big ones at that, but now you know: it's not that the sky seems big, it is big. You just never noticed it before, but here, you can see just how immense it is, how magnificent it is. It's almost overpowering.

Luckily, the people who live in Big Sky Country are friendly and hospitable and they share with you their meals and ale and stories of life. It sounds like perfection - there are no roofs here, so at night, they sleep under the darkening sky and can see the morning sun when they wake up.

You decide to stay for the night just to experience it. After all, it sounds wonderful.

They give you a room and tell you that you are free to stay however long you want...provided you work for their king. You agree that this is a fair trade, although you only want to stay the night right now.

And as you fall asleep under the starry sky, it seems like you can hear some of the others whispering, but you cannot make out what.

When you awake, the dawn is breaking and it is beautiful. You are glad you stayed the night, until someone enters your room and says, "It is time. The king is coming."

"So soon?" you ask. "Can we not break our fast first?"

"We will eat with them," the person says, eyeing you uneasily.

"Them?"

"Our king," they say. "If you wish, you can watch their approach. You can see them on the horizon."

You go outside to try and catch a glimpse, but at first see nothing. And then you notice that the sky is darkening somewhat. The sun is still rising, but a dark cloud appears to be catching up with it. "What is that?" you ask.

"That is our king," they say. "The Many-Winged King. They have come to fill the sky and fill our bodies."

"'Fill the sky'?" you say and, looking closer, you noticed that the cloud appears to be made of black feathers. "But those are birds. They can't possibly be so many to fill..." You stop and your eyes widen. The cloud grows and grows and soon overtakes the sun, so that it is night all over again.

You rush, trying to get away from this place, but the cloud is faster than you could ever be. The Many-Winged King is above you now, a dark thunderstorm of claws and feathers and sharp, wicked beaks. You can feel a hum above you and see the crackle of lightning and then the boom of thunder and you fall to your knees.

"We all work for them," the others say. "It is the price to pay for living in Big Sky Country. For the sky to be so big, we must let it be filled. We must let ourselves be filled by them."

The birds that make up the Many-Winged King start to break up and the inhabitants of Big Sky Country each open their mouths and let the birds fill them up.

You gaze in terror, but eventually they hold you down and lift your face upwards to face the storm of birds.

And before you become a simply nesting place, you can hear them say, "Open wide."

The Gardens of Glossolalia

Once upon a time, there was a king who spoke all languages.

Have you ever heard of the Gardens of Glossolalia? They lie about ten parasangs from the edge of the eastern desert and are in the center of a stone city that has been completely abandoned. Come, why don't we visit it together?

You wish to know why they were called the Gardens of Glossolalia, don't you? Well, the city had always been known for its beautiful hanging gardens, gardens that covered terraces and plinths and pillars and which extended for hundreds of plethra within the city. But then something happened to those within the Gardens; they began to speak in a myriad of languages, both known and unknown. Some spoke in wild tongues that none could understand.

The inhabitants of the stone city said that the "seeds of the Garden" had caught these people and they were led to the edge of the city and made to wander the desert. Eventually, as time passed, more and more inhabitants fell to this strange affliction and were forced to leave the city until finally there was no one left.

Now, of course, you and I don't believe such a story. It's a tall tale, designed to keep visitors from finding the Gardens and its treasures. I mean, people gave gifts to the Gardens, as if it was their king. They left tokens of gold and silver, tokens which could still be there. Ours for the plucking, my friend.

Ah, here we are. What a magnificent sight. And look, there is the Gardens, just as I said. Well, all the plants have died out, of course, without anyone to water them and care for them. Look, all that's left is this gray mold substance - the effect of age on stone, I suspect.

And look, here's some writing on the wall. It's written in various languages - even Latin, I see. I wonder why. Let me see if my old school lessons still work. "Rex omnes Linguae." Ah, it's a warning. It reads: "The King of All Tongues will make you speak. The King of All Tongues will make you weep. The King of All Tongues gave us the word and can take it away. The King of All Tongues sang life and sang death. Leave now before the King of All Tongues sings again."

What was that? I didn't quite hear you. I'm sorry, I don't understand. Quit fooling around. I mean it, stop talking like that. Where did you learn how to speak like that anyway?

What are you doing? Don't sit down, we have to find that treasure, we have to...what is that gray substance doing? It's...it's growing on you. Come on, we have to move, we have to leave this place. I was wrong. Don't just sit there and babble on.

Oh god, oh god, it's on me, too. Get it off get it off bekommen sie ab fá það burt af mér núna voi luoja se kasvaa nire azala da gauza honekin estalita åh gud ho dio Ó Istenem ela-hando-satelay-eek-condele-mosandrey-aseya-sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-aaaaaaaaa

The Slender City

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom ruled by a king who was tall and thin.

There is a city where the streets are paved in black and white stones, like a checkerboard. All the buildings are painted black and white and they are built tall and high and stretch into the skies. Men walk the streets, men in sharp business suits, with black ties and briefcases.

You are a stranger in this city, this city of black and white. You look at each building and notice they are made of wood - and have objects carved into the side. One building has a tree carved into it; the other has an apple; a third has a circle crossed out. Symbol after symbol adorn the buildings.

You stop one man on the street. "Excuse me," you say, "can you tell me what these symbols mean?"

"They are tributes to Him," he says nervously. "We carve them for the same reason we wear these suits. In tribute to the Thin King."

"He has a lot of tributes," you say, not noticing the hurried glances of the man you are talking to, the sweat on his brow. "Is he a good king?"

"He is the King," the man says, "and we pay tribute to him. Please, I must go." He pulls away and walks across the street, his footsteps pitter-pattering across the white and black stones.

You try to stop another man, but every one seems too busy to stop for you. Finally, you try following one man, but it seems like he is just walking in a roundabout way throughout the city. You follow another man and he, too, doesn't seem to actually be going anywhere. Finally, you manage to stop one man and ask him where he is rushing.

"Please," he says, "I need to go. If I stay in one place too long, He will notice me. He might want tribute from me or my family. Please."

"Fine," you say, "but where is this Thin King? I'd like to see him."

"The center of the city," the man says as he walks away from you. "Just go where we do not."

So you look at the man around and you see a direction they do not walk in. So you go in that direction, against the flow of men in sharp suits, and you see the buildings as they gradually grow bigger. They seem to reach farther and farther up into the sky and you wonder how they were built, until finally you come to the center of the city and you see the Thin King.

He is so tall, you almost don't see His face. You have to turn your head upward, upward so much that even at noon, His face would blot out the sun. And what a face: just a canvas of blank whiteness. You reel backwards, because the Thin King towers over every building, over everything, and you wonder how you could not see Him before. His fingers are larger than your entire body.

You trip and fall and suddenly His head turns toward you. He has noticed you. You get up and try to run, but it's useless. How could you outrun such a thing? You feel a strange fuzziness in your mind and a sickness in your stomach and you fall to the ground again and retch. Then your mind goes blank, blank as His face, and you descend into darkness.

When you wake up, the man who had talked to before is standing above you. He helps you up and you notice that you are now wearing a business suit. "He has spared you," the man says. "Now you must help us spread His symbols. You must help Him grow bigger. Or else He might ask tribute of you."

The man hands you a briefcase and, even though it's empty, it seems to contain the weight of the world.

The Hills Have Eyes

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom ruled by a king that saw all things.

There is a place where the hills are paved with cobblestones. You can walk among them, each foot pressing against each stone, and climb each hill's gentle slopes. Sometimes you will come across a building (also made of cobblestone) and inside will be a roaring fire (for it will be quite cold, even though the sun is shining brightly) and a pint of your favorite alcohol waiting for you.

As you wonder whose house it is and if perhaps they would be angry if you had some of the pint, a man and woman emerge from a door inside the cobblestone house. "Oh, I'm sorry," you say, "I should have knocked, but there was no door-"

And then you stop because of what you see: this man and woman, this couple who are smiling at you, have no eyes, nothing but empty sockets. "Oh, hello," the man said. "We've been expecting you. Come, have a seat. Have a drink." He motions to the hearth and the pint.

Since there are no chairs, you sit on the ground and take the drink, even as you try not to look at their lack of eyes. And then you remember what the man said. "What do you mean, you've been expecting me?" you ask.

"Oh, we saw you coming a while away," the woman said. She is holding a rag and wiping down some of the cobblestones, though you don't know how she can tell if they are clean or not.

"You...saw me coming?" you asked with confusion in your voice.

"A figure of speech," the man says. "I realize our appearance is somewhat disconcerting. The fact of the matter is, without eyes, we can hear so much better and we were able to hear your footsteps on the path as you walked."

"Ah," you say. You lift up the cup and take a slow drink. It tastes delicious. "If I may ask, about the state of your, well, eyes."

"Yes," the woman said. "Our eyes. It was better we put them out. They were of no use to us here."

"No use?" you ask. "How so? Surely it is better to see than be blind."

"Our king sees for us," the woman says. "Our king can see all."

"Ah," you nod. You have heard of such megalomania – leaders claiming that they are omniscient and omnipotent, but you hadn't yet encountered subjects that truly believed those claims, not until now. You lift up your drink again, but when you look down, the foam, unbelievably, has formed into the shape of an eye. You set it down. All this eye talk is getting to you. "Would you mind if I stayed the night here?" you ask. The couple is creepy, but any shelter is better than none.

"You may stay," the man says. "Please, rest."

You take off your pack and use it as a pillow. You are awfully tired. And the fire is very warm. You start to fall asleep in front of it and as sleep overtakes you, you think you see the flames form the shape of an eye.

You wake up in the middle of the night. The fire has gone out, leaving only a ring of ashes and a dark spot in the center, like the pupil of an eye. There is a bright light outside, however, and you stand up and walk through the doorway and see a raging bonfire. The man and woman and many others are standing around it. You slowly notice that all of them are eyeless.

"Come," the woman motions for you. You do not know how she saw you – not only does she have no eyes, she wasn't even turned in your direction. Perhaps her hearing really is that good, though how she could hear over the crackling of the fire, you do not know. "Come. I told you we were expecting you."

You walk over to the bonfire. "It is time for the judgment," the man says and the rest of the eyeless people around the bonfire nod. "It is time for him to meet our All-Seeing King."

The woman turns to you and motions to the sky. "It has a thousand eyes," she says and you look up.

"Those are the stars," you say. "It's just the night sky."

"Look again," she says and you do. And you see.

All the stars. Every single one. They are eyes. Eyes looking at you. Thousands and thousands of eyes, all of them looking at you, looking into your very heart and soul. You turn away from the sky, but still you see eyes everywhere. There are eyes in the fire, eyes in the cobblestones, and now there are eyes in each and every one of the people's faces. All of them look at you.

"A girlfriend in his hometown," one of them says. "Broke her heart."

"Left his mother," another says. "So lonely. Died alone."

"Stole food," the man says. "Took another's livelihood."

"I was hungry," you say. "I had no money. And the girl and my mother...I was young. I was stupid."

"No excuses," the woman says. "No reasons. Only judgment."

You feel the pain of all of your mistakes, all of your crimes as you feel the eyes of the All-Seeing King stare at you. There is no escape from its gaze. There is only you, the eyes, and the fire.

The fire. You can feel its heat. It is your punishment. It is your judgment. You feel the people around you take hold of you shoulders and you do not resist. They push and you go with it and you fall into the fire.

And the fire burns you away.

The Isle of Secrets

Once upon a time there was a kingdom ruled by a king with red eyes.

There is an island out there hidden from normal eyes. Some seek it out and never find it. Some stumble upon it blindly. It has been called many names -- the Island of the Unbidden, the Obscure Isle -- but the name that most use is the Isle of Secrets. Legend states that the island is littered with the secrets of dead men, maps of hidden riches, accounts of untold treasures.

You are one of the few to find the island. The sand crunches underneath your foot as you step forward, past the trees, when you see a road. It starts from nowhere and seems to go nowhere, but when the sunlight hits it, you see a shine of metal. Hurriedly, you step foward and pick up a coin -- small and dark, probably made of copper, it can't be worth more than a pence. You pocket the coin and walk on the road, careful to check and see if there are any more coins littering the ground.

Soon, you come across more of the coins and you pick them up, worthless though they are. Surely there will be better treasure than this, you know. You have heard all the tales of this island. You know what you could find here. The images of gold coins and jewels as big as your fist rise up in your mind. However, the next object you come across on the road is neither gold nor jewel. Instead, it is a dagger, sharp and bloody. You pick it up and pocket it, not really knowing why.

There are more worthless coins scattered on the road, but you leave them be, because you see something better. There is a chest made of wood and bronze in the middle of the road. You race towards it and try to open it, but the chest is locked. You take out the dagger and pick at the lock until it springs open, but there are no treasures inside. It is filled with dozens of letters bound together. You discard them and close the chest again.

You do not know how long this road lasts, but you continue walking along it. The sun, which beat down so much on your shoulders, is now going down under the horizon and night is finally descending. There are no more coins on the road, but you see something ahead and rush towards it. In the dark it is hard to see, so you lean down and pick it up. It's a piece of rope, twisted and turned into a noose. You throw the noose back on the ground and continue your walk.

The road is ending, you can see. No, wait, it doesn't end -- instead, it appears to intersect with another road you had not seen before. It is a crossroads. And in the middle of the crossroads, you can see a pile of objects. This must be the treasure, you think, and rush forward. But the night makes you blind and there is something in front of the pile, in the exact center of the crossroads. As you slow, you see it open its eyes, its blood-red eyes.

You try to stop and stumble, you trip and fall onto the ground. The Red-Eyed King stands above you on four legs. You can hear its growl, like the rumble of the earth. It is larger than you ever imagined.

You pull the dagger from your pocket and brandish it in front of you. Blood drips from the knife. Where did the blood come from? You remember now. This is your dagger, the dagger you used to kill. The letters belonged to the man you killed, the writings of a life cut short. And that was your noose, the noose that you should have been hanged with before you left. Before the island found you. Before the Red-Eyed King found you.

The Red-Eyed King looks you in the eyes. It has taken all of your secrets. This is its treasure. The pile behind it, you can see now, is not gold nor jewels, but the bodies of men like yourself. You feel its breath on your face and you feel tears crawling down your cheek.

The Red-Eyed King steps forward and opens its jaws.

The Fountain of Forever

Once upon a time there was a kingdom ruled by a king who wandered.

Once upon a time there was a king without a kingdom.

Once upon a time there was a king.

Once upon a time.

Once.


Hello there. Sorry to interrupt your story so abruptly, but I noticed you were starting to speak of the Wandering King, yes? Why, I know that story so well, I could retell it in my sleep. Ah, the adventures I could tell you, the tales of treacherous mountains that would crash into one another, of storms that could tear the flesh from your bones, of rivers ruled by fearsome jaguars.

But you wish to know about the Wandering King. You wish to know about the King Without a Kingdom, the King Within and Without. Well, alright, let me tell you the story.

Once there was a king whose kingdom was prosperous. He had everything that he could ever have wanted -- and therein was the problem. He had no need for money, no need to go out and seduce women (what with his generous harem), no need to do anything. So he stayed in his castle and wished that there was something he still needed, something he wanted. You of course know the saying that you should take care of what you wish for, yes? So you can probably guess what is going to happen next.

So, the king, having made this wish, is suddenly confronted with a visitor to his kingdom. Now, normally this would not be such a big deal, because his was a prosperous kingdom, so it had a lot of visitors. But this visitor was different -- he had approached the king's palace without making a noise and asked to speak with the king about his most fervent wish. The king looked at this visitor and noticed his ashen skin and sickly demeaner and wondered if perhaps he had escaped from a leper colony. "What makes you think you can help me?" the king asked the ashen man.

"I know of one thing you cannot have," the ashen man said. "One thing that you wish to possess, but which you can never possess."

The king stood up at this thought -- was there such a thing? "Speak of this and I will grant you anything in my kingdom you want," he said.

"I want for nothing," the ashen man said (and the king believed this for the ashen man looked as if he was on the edge of death's domain). "I do, however, wish to lead you on your journey."

"Journey?" the king said. "To where?"

The ashen man smiled. "To the undying waters. To the place where death is no more. To the Fountain of Life, your majesty."

And so the king was hooked. He had everything, but it would not last. Nothing would last, not the jaguars or the rivers or the mountains. But by drinking the waters of the Eternal Fountain, well, he would last forever; he would outlive his wives, spend all his money, do everything he wished and it would not matter, for he would always be able to do more. So he agreed: he would go with the ashen man to the place where the Fountain was and both he and the ashen man would drink in its deathless waters.

What followed was a long, harrowing journey that would last many pages if I decided to write it out completely. Needless to say, the king and the ashen man traveled for many months, following the map that the ashen man had memorized long ago. He told the king he had seen the Fountain once, but he had been a young man then and thought immortality was not worth it. This was all the backstory the ashen man would give the king, even though the king would ask many questions during their quest. The ashen man would often refuse to answer; the king never even learned his name.

Finally, after a year of travel, the ashen man stopped them and said, "It is here."

The king looked around, but could not see any fountain. Instead, he saw what looked like ruins and the burnt remains of villages. "Where are we?" the king asked.

"Where?" The ashen man said. "We are inside your kingdom. We have traveled in a circle, your majesty. We are back to where we started."

The king looked around and saw that the ruins were of his own castle and the burnt villages the villages of his subjects. "What has happened here? What happened to my kingdom?"

"What do you think?" the ashen man asked. "After their king went away, they were invaded and pillaged by their neighbors. Your subjects are dead or scattered now, their lives ruined by the wishes of their king."

"I did not mean this," the king said. "And why are we here? You promised me you were taking me to the Eternal Fountain."

"I did," the ashen man said. "And I keep my promises. Look there." He pointed and the king saw a small pool of muddy water. "This is your Fountain of Life. It will grant you everlasting life once you drink of it."

"You lie," the king said. "You have ruined my kingdom for mud and water."

"I do not lie," the ashen man said. "And you have ruined the kingdom yourself. The pool will grant life, I tell you. Just drink."

So the king lowered himself down to the ground and drank the muddy water, while the ashen man stood over him. "Everlasting life," the ashen man said, "all you have to do is drink, drink and let me in." The ashen man then collapsed to the ground, while the king rose. "Life," the king said. "Everlasting life. Of course."

And so the king walked away from the body of the ashen man, who had now embraced death. And the king discarded his crown and, after a while, his skin turned sickly and gray.

Did you like that story? Did it amuse you? Then my work is done. I will return to you your regular storyteller, but not before I leave you this warning: the Wandering King is still out there, still tempting people with eternal life. But eternal life does not mean you will not start dying; it merely means you will not stop.

Farewell.

The Kingdom of Heaven

Once upon a time there was a kingdom ruled by a king without flesh.

You find the entrance to this kingdom is a pair of gates, rusted and broken down. Beside the gates, there once was a sign that read 'IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE DEAD.' However, time has eroded the sign, wearing down so many letters that now it seems to read 'EMBRACE THE DEAD.' You walk through the ruined gates and into the kingdom proper.

At first, you see no buildings, just mounds of earth. Soon, the mounds of earth become larger and become mounds of earth and stone, tumuli, barrows for the buried. These barrows become bigger and bigger and then soon they are cairns, mounds of stones four feet high. The cairns go away, however, and become simple markers. Tombstones made of natural fieldstone, then soon granite, limestone, marble, sandstone, slate. There are no names carved into these tombstones, however -- no inscriptions, no epitaphs. Nothing to mark who was buried here or why.

Soon the gravestones start to become larger and change their shape, becoming more and more elaborate. They form into crosses, stars, anchors, crowns, horseshoes, skulls, laurels, hourglasses, and even angels, their hands covering their weeping faces.

The elaborate tombstones come to an end and beyond them is a field of urns. Row upon row of urns, the ashes within safely tucked away. Still no sign of names or dates of birth or death. There are urns made of wood, of stone, or metal. Iron urns and bronze urns and even urns gilded in gold. The urnfields end and after comes the vaults, the monuments, the crypts and shrines and sepulchres, row after row after row of them.

Astonished, you walk among this kingdom, where you have not yet seen one living soul, surrounded by stones and the dead.

The crypts get larger and larger as you walk past, growing into mausoleums and burial vaults and then, suddenly, they come to an end. No more buildings, no more structures, no more urns or tombstones or cairns. Instead, in front of you, are huge stones, megaliths, tilted so that they stand around creating a pair of triangles. How someone could have moved them into that shape, you do not know.

Inside the shade of the megaliths, you see something move. Curious about what would live in a place that seems to worship the dead, you walk forward inside the triangle that the megaliths have made. As soon as your foot steps within, he appears to you -- a man, around your height, wearing dark clothes strewn with dirt. He must be the one who digs the graves, you think. His face is covered with a strange mask, probably to help block out the smell of decay and rot.

He looks at you and you realize that you are wrong, so very wrong. This is no man. This is the Fleshless King.

You move backwards, trying to get away from the Fleshless King, but you trip over a stone and hit your head upon the edge of one of the megaliths. As darkness overtakes your vision, you see the Fleshless King approach.

You awake inside a wooden coffin as you hear the sound of dirt raining down. The Fleshless King has provided you with a single match and, as you strike it, you see the words etched above you: embrace him.

As the earth covers your grave, you feel the knife beside you and you realize: you are going to die. Now you can only decide how you will die - suffocating in the dark or by your own hand?

You grip the knife and decide.

Above you, the Fleshless King stands and waits for the dead.

The Valley of the Dolls

Once upon a time there was a kingdom ruled by a queen that was made of wood.

You walk into the small kingdom, which is situated in the middle of a valley. There are decorations all around, with streamers and lanterns strewn everywhere. You see a young woman placing a lantern above a doorway and ask her why she is doing it. "It is for the festival," she said. "It's nearly dark -- the festival will soon begin. Come, stranger, join us in our festivities."

Others come out of their houses as the sun dims. When it finally goes below the horizon, there are crowds of people outside talking and laughing. Someone lights the lanterns and suddenly the night is lit up and the evening becomes beautiful. Music begins playing and the talking turns to singing and dancing. You smile. Your recent travels had been very difficult, but this is the kind of place you could see settling down. Someone passes you a wine jug and you take a hearty swig before passing it on.

As the night draws on, you meet the young woman again and ask her what the festival is celebrating. "The festival is for drinking and singing and dancing," she says. You ask what the festival is supposed to represent. "Must it represent something?" she says. "Can we not simply dance because we like dancing?" You ask her if they do this every night. "Every night She lets us," is the reply. You barely hear the quiver in her voice.

The night wears on and eventually you join in the dancing with the young woman. You are enamored -- even though you do not even know her name yet -- and you consider that perhaps your journey is at an end. Then, when the dance is over, the woman says, "The night is almost over. You must leave now, stranger." You try to ask her why, but suddenly a man in a red mask stands up in the stage and addresses the crowd.

"Everyone gather round!" he shouts, his voice booming. "It is time for the story of our Wooden Queen. Bring out the Punch and Judy!"

The woman you were talking to has disappeared, but you approach the stage. It has been a long time since you have seen a Punch and Judy show. The red-masked man laughs as he pulls two puppets onto the stage. He snaps his fingers and the puppets sit up -- and you realize that they are not puppets at all, they are people dressed as puppets. One man and one woman -- and the woman is the one you had been talking to. You realize this must be some sort of tradition.

The red-masked man waves his arms and the man and woman dressed as Punch and Judy stand up. There are strings attached to their limbs leading somewhere, but you cannot see where. The red-masked man does not appear to be making them move, but their movements don't appear to be made by them. Each limb is pulled by a string and made to move -- even the movements of their faces is tied to a string.

The red-masked man appears to be telling a story of how their Wooden Queen founded their kingdom from discarded dolls. As he speaks, the man and woman dressed as Punch and Judy move in a series of synchronized steps, like a dance. The man dressed as Punch trips over his strings, however, and sprawls on the ground. No one helps him and he doesn't move. He looks unnatural, as if a corpse. The woman dressed as Judy dances around his body gracefully, but mechanically.

Finally, the red-masked man's story has ended. He gestures upward as you realize the sun has risen and light is shining across the stage. "The night is over!" the red-masked man declares. "Now is the day of the Wooden Queen."

The woman dressed as Judy suddenly stops and you can see something in her eyes -- a pleading, a helplessness. You want to run up to the stage and help you, but something is stopping you. The strings that are attached to the woman start moving and writhing and twist around her. Men walk up to the stage with pieces of wood and they place them like armor upon the woman and they become a part of her body. Finally, the red-masked man raises up a mask made of wood and painted white. He places it on the woman's head and she slumps to the ground. Her eyes close.

Then her eyes open. You notice there are lines in her eyes -- they look like strings surrounding her pupils. She stands up and raises her hands. Her strings stretch out from her and now you know why you couldn't move, why you still can't move. You couldn't see them before, but now you can. You can see the strings.

The Wooden Queen walks forward towards you. You wanted to stay, she seems to say, so stay. Laugh and drink and dance.

The red-masked man hands you something. You look down. It's a green mask.

Be mine, she seems to say.

You stop fighting and place the mask on your face. Why would you ever leave? The festival hasn't even begun yet!

The Progressed Land

Once upon a time there was a kingdom ruled by a king who learned.

You enter the kingdom and immediately notice something is off. There are people around, but they are preoccupied. They don't notice you. They don't notice anyone around them. They look lost in thought.

Towards the center of the kingdom, you enter a large amphitheater. Inside, there appear to be ten concentric stone circles.

There are people sitting on the first stone circle, but they're eyes are closed and they look asleep. Going past them, you near a second stone circle with more people sitting. These people have their eyes open and as you walk past them, they follow you. Their faces don't turn, just their eyes. You say, "Hello?" but none of them answer you.

At the third stone circle, the people begin to speak. "Hello? Hello. Hello. Hello?" they repeat. You try to talk to them, but all they say is "Hello."

At the fourth stone circle, the people are moving their legs, wriggling their fingers and saying, "Hell. Oh. Oh. Hell." You try to introduce yourself, but they just stare at you.

At the fifth stone circle, the people are repeating more of your words. "My. Name. Is. Name. My. Is. Is. My Name."

At the sixth stone circle, the people say your name over and over again. You walk hurriedy past them.

At the seventh stone circle, the people are walking around, talking to each other, trying out different tones of voice.

At the eighth stone circle, the people ask you questions. "Who are you? Where did you come from? Where are you going?" You try to answer as many as you can, but you have to move on.

At the ninth stone circle, the people speak normally to you. Their eyes are wide and their hair is wet, but otherwise, they look normal. You feel relieved and yet, somewhere deep inside, you are unnerved.

At the tenth stone circle, a small group of people is gathered around a large raised pond in the center. "Hello," you say. "Hello," the group says your name. "Come, meet our king." You walk forward, but cannot see anyone else, just the pond and the water inside. They motion you forward, but still all you can see is the pond and your own reflection. "Meet our king," they say.

The pond swirls, but no one is touching it. It swirls and swirls and then a thin tendril rises, growing larger and larger. You realize that the pond is their king. This is the Learning King. They grab you and hold you still as the tendril moves upward. They say your name again and tell you that your words have amused them. The tendril takes hold.

The group lets you go. They go their separate ways and the people on the stone circles move forward one circle each. You stand up and walk to the last circle at the very end and sit down.

And you close your eyes.

The Wilderness of Whispers

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom in the wilderness ruled by a wild king.

The Wild King did not sit upon any throne, but hunched himself on his hind legs in the middle of his court. He wore no clothes and had the palest white skin, with eyes as black as coal. When he opened his mouth, rows of sharp teeth could be seen surrounding his pale pink tongue. His fingers were long knives that could cut flesh from the bone.

Each citizen constructed their own home from the wilderness around them. Each day, they would toil in the fields or cut wood to build up their homes. They taught their children to be thankful when they awoke, for waking meant that you were alive for another day.

After the day's work was done, when night descended and the canopy of stars was overhead, the citizens of the kingdom in the wilderness would carefully look around and silently say goodbye. Then, they would lay in their beds and close their eyes and pray for sleep.

And each night, the Wild King would go from home to home and whisper. He would whisper to husbands and wives and children. No one knew what he whispered. If he found someone who was still awake, he would slit their throat with one sharp, quick cut and feast upon their flesh. And in the morning, when the citizens would find the body, they would declare the dead to be one of the Awakened, shades cursed to stay awake forever, unable to tell anybody what they know.

And the Wild King would sit hunched in his court waiting for nightfall, waiting to whisper once again.

The Cold Country

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom ruled over by a king who was a child.

The Child King was a little boy who giggled and laughed at things, like boys do. But his laughter often froze the hearts of those who heard it.

The kingdom he ruled was perpetually in winter. The snow never melted on the ground and piled up into walls, forcing the citizens to plow the snow day after day. Crops wouldn't grow, so to prevent themselves from starving, they made plots inside their homes and built up roaring fires near them, so the cold wouldn't seep in and kill what little harvest they could manage.

The Child King's castle was made itself of ice. If a person were to brave the castle walls, they would find ice statues littered around, made into various poses. If one were to examine these statues closely, they might even notice that they weren't statues at all.

Occasionally, the Child King would go skipping through the kingdom, passing door after door, until he came to a home seemingly at random. Then, he would knock on the door and start to sing:

               I'm not a grown-up, I'm not a crone, 

               I know you're in there all alone.

               I'll be your friend, the one and only,

              There's no more need to be lonely.

              Open up and then we'll play,

              We'll have fun, so with me stay.

              I'll be quick and you'll be clever,

             We'll be friends and cold forever.

The door always opens and someone (man, woman, child, it doesn't matter) steps out. They take the Child King's hand and he leads them back to his castle and throne room and they are never seen again.