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I am a serious story; my plot is intricate and right and wrong are not always black and white.
I am a recording device. I am becoming all that I record.
As I scroll through my life, the ink smells wet on my pages.
I wear my story on my head; I keep a secret journal behind my ear. My left arm tells its own story, but you’ll have to speak to it directly; we haven’t communicated in years.
p.s. I was going to name this character I. Ball because of the magnifying glass around the one eye, but decided the name had too many other connotations.
I will bewitch you with my moooo-ving story; you may never leave my field of dreams.
Genie Ology
I am Genie…Genie Ology. I contain the records of all that came before and all that will come after. Speak with me and I will write your fate in my pages. Beware, though…if you come too close, your fate may be written more quickly than you anticipated.
I am The Wall. You will come across me many times in your journey. Sometimes you will think you have broken me down. But I am many in one. You will run into me again.
I am one in many and many in one.
I represent the infinite possibilities of parallel universes.
All things are possible. All things will happen…somewhere.
I represent the infinite possibilities of parallel universes.
All things are possible. All things will happen…somewhere.
I was once a renowned educational system.
But I have been beaten and robbed by Ignorance,
my sworn enemy.
My foundations have been rocked;
I am no longer well-stacked.
Bits and pieces of my knowledge are being blown to the winds,
never to be reassembled as me again.
I alone stand between you and Ignorance,
the eater of souls, the extinguisher of light.
Help me, Page Turner and Dona Read, Help me.
The story is scrambled; the path between Eggcentricity and Eggistential is strewn with the shells of those who cracked on the journey. Will she Eggsist much longer?
We are A. Castle. My sister Castles and I send messengers back and forth daily, but our real mode of communication is kept secret from the messengers and all others who would read of our books and use our knowledge for unsavory purposes.
Are you taking eggsactly the right steps and reading eggssactly the right books to become eggsactly the cosmic yolk you want to become?
Give me a name. Give me a story. Give me existence.
The sunny side of an eggsacting skyline, captured immediately before the hard-boiled buildings became toast.
I am a genie with many bottles that contain genies with many bottles that contain genies….
As she shook her head from side to side, her scrolls scrunched up instinctively into wads of paper, the words unreadable to anyone other than immediate family.
Her dull story scrolled listlessly across the landscape, then produced a golden plum which made it all worth while.
The moon rEyes over the tomed cities of eggs-is-tense.
I am a private personality with pendulous pouting appendages. It’s a problem.
My family is attached to me at the eyebrow and earlobe. They aren’t heavy; I shrunk their heads 4 centuries ago to make them lighter. To this day, they still complain about the shrinking. I say after 400 years they need to let it go.
I am a snail town. Some characters believe I move too slowly, but I lay down a trail wherever I go and this takes time, which I digest slowly.
I am an urban character, a city slicker, a golden girl with fantasies of fruit growing in my streets.
I am a closed book, made up of many stories. Come closer and I will capture your story in my library.
We are the Potheads. Our name has been stolen and we are planning a campaign to get it back.
We are Oz…the great and terrible. What pack of lies have you to tell that we might grant your wishes?
Traveling Journal
I am a traveling journal. My story is written as I roll through life; just like yours.
I am your ride. I will take you between worlds of words and dreams. We shall soar through the heavens together. Careful, though…the return flight is not always on time.
This obstacle must be crossed to reach Bookstock. Each stair is lined with the books which contain the information needed to pass this challenge.
The fabo festival for book people where Page Turner, Doña Read and others will be inhaling words, phrases, entire paragraphs, trying to reach an unparalleled intellectual high. Ideas will be flying through the air and thoughts will be exchanged randomly.
Bea’s head was a buzz of thoughts and ideas…she changed her hairdo to reflect her hive mentality.
I know I left my book wide open, but please tell me you didn’t see my story.
They were sisters. They shared the same beginning to their story. But a small difference in the second paragraph has led to very different tales.
She was Sly and she was Brare. She wore her mysterious personality on her head in a closed book.
Page Turner waited until the small purple clerk was free, then inquired about using the Bubble Sceletope to contact Ms. Tree. The clerk squinted its one eye sharply and walked toward Page, horn lowered, wings spread threateningly. What do you know about a mystery, it growled. A voice from the back trilled softly. The clerk became silent, but maintained the body language of a carnivore about to feed. It was then that Page noticed the giant pigeon toes sprouting underneath the purple pants. OMG, was it a One-Eyed-One-Horned-Flying-Purple-People-Eater? Thank the Librarian, Page isn’t purple, she is a read book.
Read is not just a ‘Hood, she’s an entire suburb millions of times larger than her inhabitants, Page and Doña.
If time is relative, then this is my ancestor…a village of myth and mystery, moving from verbal to written and producing me at the end of the day, wrapped in these stories in ways which can no longer be unwrapped. If you peel away my mythology, like an onion, I am no more.
Her head felt like an egg shell…ready to break at any moment and give birth to multiple personalities. Some of them were already seeping out of the cracks in her very fragile head.
