Each story was a reality unto itself
5 stars
Deep pink on black, the book cover featured a strange figure both in and out of this world. Hands outstretched, an expression of fear or wonder. 'Come in, come in, things are different here'
I found myself drawn to the book as if by a mysterious force. On opening the cover I was immediately drawn /into/ a myriad other worlds, a short step, or lightyears, from what I knew. There was a infinite dark corridor. Doors led off, left and right, above and below. Behind each door was a story. There was a feeling of age around the stories. A century or a millennium might have passed since they came into being.
Each story was a reality unto itself and I found myself inside places that behaved differently from our own space, and from each other. I watched with quiet astonishment. Otherworlds where our dead might reside, they could be …
Deep pink on black, the book cover featured a strange figure both in and out of this world. Hands outstretched, an expression of fear or wonder. 'Come in, come in, things are different here'
I found myself drawn to the book as if by a mysterious force. On opening the cover I was immediately drawn /into/ a myriad other worlds, a short step, or lightyears, from what I knew. There was a infinite dark corridor. Doors led off, left and right, above and below. Behind each door was a story. There was a feeling of age around the stories. A century or a millennium might have passed since they came into being.
Each story was a reality unto itself and I found myself inside places that behaved differently from our own space, and from each other. I watched with quiet astonishment. Otherworlds where our dead might reside, they could be ghosts in our world or maybe we are ghosts in theirs? There was a place where space itself was also be solid, and why not? People returned from other dimensions with their own dimensions irrevocably transformed. Time and space collapse. Everything is here now, and also not. Mirrors don't reflect, but make gateways to other spaces. A library contains all possible books. It's all there, if you can find it. A hypercube house folds in on itself, upstairs is downstairs, and also not. People slip into other dimensions and hope to find somewhere to call home.
I wandered the corridors for a million years sometimes holding onto a wall to keep my balance, when the wall was a wall, and not a floor, a mirror, or space itself. Eventuality I found myself outside seemingly back where I'd started. The book was closed and on the table, with all its dimensions held safely between its covers.
But the world was subtly changed. Dimensions could no longer be trusted. At any moment I might see space in solidity and solidity in space. The mirror in the hall could show another place entirely. And didn't the bedrooms used to be upstairs?