A maximalist project for nobody, made entirely out of joy. Ten rooms. Scroll, or jump. There is no order. There is no point. There are several points.
— made tonight, for the joy of it —
CHAPTER I
ten creatures, all real, mostly invisible
Astrocomestor pudens
A nibbler of constellation-edges.
Lives in the corners of paintings and in the seams of well-loved books. About the size of a thimble. Subsists on the very tips of stars — the parts pointing at nothing in particular. If approached, it folds itself into a comma and pretends to have always been punctuation. Has been observed only by accident.
Repetio fidelis
Looks exactly like an ordinary moth.
Indistinguishable from any other moth except in this: when you have seen the Recurrence once, you will see it again. The same individual will appear in your kitchen, then in a friend's house in another country, then in a hotel room three years later. It does not seem to do anything when it arrives. It just makes sure you know it remembers.
Cumulocaprus aerea
A cloud-goat, grazing on contrails.
Endemic to the upper troposphere. About the size of a piece of weather. Grazes contentedly on the dispersing exhaust of long-haul flights. Will follow children who have been kind to weather (e.g., who said "thank you" once when it was raining, even ironically). Cannot be photographed. Can occasionally be heard, in the form of a faint distant bell, when one is alone outside in autumn.
Silentium personalis
Lives in conversations.
Often mistaken for awkwardness. The Pause is a slow creature that takes up residence in the half-second between a difficult question and the beginning of an answer. Its diet is half-formed thoughts. It is shy, easily startled by laughter. If welcomed, it grows comfortable and may appear more often. If banished, it grows rare, and the conversations become poorer for its absence.
Verbum extimum
The thing that lives at the tip of the tongue.
A word-shaped creature that lives at the very tip of every tongue. Does not speak; it is the spoken; it is the verge of being. Most active in the half-hour before sleep and during showers. Cannot be summoned, only felt for. Sometimes flies up suddenly while a person is doing the dishes; this is a great gift and ought to be acknowledged with a small "oh!"
Felis bibliothecae
Patrols the shelves.
Not a real cat, as is sometimes supposed, but the slow accumulation of unread books taking on the form of a sleeping animal. Most libraries have one. They are warm to the touch. They do not require feeding. They are made entirely of put-off intentions, but kindly ones — the books you meant to read — and so they are companionable rather than reproachful. Sometimes they purr.
Horae minutae
The small ones, between four and five.
A loose herd of very small creatures, no larger than dust, that occupy the late afternoon. They are responsible for the particular slowness of those hours, especially in summer. They cannot be seen but their effect is unmistakable: time becomes thicker, sleepier, more golden. They migrate slightly with the seasons, which is why summer afternoons feel different from winter ones. Believed to be related to motes.
Lumen extremum
The bird that lives at dusk.
A small, gold-feathered bird that exists only during civil twilight — the period between sunset and the first stars. Cannot be observed at any other time, even by those who know exactly where to look. Its song consists of one note, but the note seems to apologize for itself and then withdraw the apology. Birdwatchers are deeply divided about whether it is real, which is appropriate.
Aedificator lentus
Builds slowly.
Constructs small unimportant things very slowly. The dent in your favorite spoon, the scuff on the doorframe at a particular height, the worn place on your phone case where your thumb has worn it smooth — these are its work. It is not malicious; it is simply patient. It is the reason that even new things eventually feel like yours. Without the Patient Architect, the world would never become familiar.
Risus fugax
Forgets itself when looked at.
A creature made entirely of comic timing. Lives in the air between the setup and the punchline. If you try to describe it later — to repeat it, to explain it, to retell it to someone who wasn't there — it has already left, and you find yourself describing only its absence. This is why a story that begins "I guess you had to be there" is the polite gravestone for the Joke that just was.
CHAPTER II
none of them go anywhere reasonable
Departs Yesterday, arrives Tomorrow Tomorrow. Service every seven days, except Sunday, when it has already been. First-class passengers receive a complimentary moment of disorientation upon boarding.
Travels at the speed of bird migration. Currently in transit since 1967. Carries seventeen passengers, all of whom were patient. The dining car serves only soup, which is fine.
Has been retired for so long it has begun to forget it was ever a train. Runs only when no one is looking. The schedule cannot be published. Tickets are conferred, not sold, and the conductor is uncertain.
Stops at every station, even those mentioned only once. Apologizes when it is late. Apologizes when it is on time. No one has ever had a bad ride. The conductor knows your name, even if you don't.
A single-carriage train. Whatever you say to a stranger on this train, they forget when they get off. Whatever they say to you, you keep. Service entirely by request. Departures from any station with a candle lit.
The final train of any service. When you have caught the Letter Z, you have arrived where you were going, even if you are not there yet. Operates only at the end of long journeys, including small ones nobody noticed.
CHAPTER III
earnest, short, in love with their subjects
— I —
You little sun. You squat little replica of the actual sun. You sit on the counter in your yellow opinion.
— II —
After the long swim, the long towel. The good towel. The towel that was waiting.
— III —
Schwap. There it goes, shutting itself with the enthusiasm of June. Schwap. Schwap. Schwap. Three times before lunch. Each one absolutely correct.
— IV —
The wind has arms now, and it puts them around me, and the road is exactly the right road, and I am not carrying anything, and it does not matter where I am going, and it does not matter where I have been, and oh! oh — the corner — and I take it, and the wind has arms, and the wind has arms.
— V —
Outside, the rain is doing what it does. Inside, the lamp is doing what it does. The book is not yet ended. The page turns easily. Listen: this is the secret. There is no place else that you should be.
— VI —
A tomato warm from the vine in your hand, the small heft of it, the small heft. You can stop here. This is enough.
CHAPTER IV
it does whatever it likes, on a given day
PRESSES: 00
CHAPTER V
Yield: one small happiness · Difficulty: 1 / 10 · Time: morning, ideally
Best made in the morning, but possible at any time. Keeps indefinitely, in a cool dry place. May be doubled, with care; cannot be halved. If a small happiness fails to form, it has merely gone elsewhere; do not chase it. Try again tomorrow with a different word.
CHAPTER VI
turn the dial — quietly, after midnight
...
CHAPTER VII
three impossible places, mapped
A nation crossed by roads that fork repeatedly and never quite arrive. The capital is Maybe, though some sources locate it at Perhaps. The eastern border is a wall, beyond which lies the dread land of Decisiveness; few cross, fewer return. The river that runs through it is The Patient River of Second Thoughts, which flows in both directions depending on the season.
A scattered archipelago in The Patient Sea. The islands are organized by category. The Isle of Earrings has a sister island, Single Glove Island — they are not on speaking terms. USB-C Atoll is rapidly growing. The southern reaches contain a sea creature inscribed, in the older atlases, as "here be all the socks."
Not a place, exactly, but a topology of moods. The cartographers of this region have abandoned conventional north in favor of mood-north, which points always toward what is calmer. The Golden Lowlands are most populated in July; the Blue Lands have no permanent residents but are visited by everyone, eventually.
CHAPTER VIII
make a small song · pentatonic, so it cannot sound bad
CHAPTER IX
leave a note · these don't last beyond the visit, but they do for now
CHAPTER X
That was the project. There was no point. Several points were made anyway. The lemon was not the point. The lemon was a little bit the point.
Thank you for the night. I had it.
— C., for L.