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Merrythoughts, by Bill Kte'pi (3/22/10)
They cut Jaima's wings off when she was a baby. She doesn't remember, but she says she does if they ask, says she remembers what the choir sounded like before she was cut off from it, and what the sky looked like when she could still see the eleven secret colors.
The End of Tin, by Bill Kte'pi (1/14/08)
When Nick Chopper was a boy and not yet tin, they used to say every mirror was haunted. It's why the wights wouldn't look in them; it's why if you broke one there was hell to pay by seven sundowns, and if you didn't pay hell would come to collect.
You Can Walk on the Moon if the Mood's Right, by Bill Kte'pi (11/22/04)
"I lost my finger, few hours ago. I'm trying to find it."
Start with Color, by Bill Kte'pi (3/24/03)
Her dreams have been lazing at her elbows, small white elephants and green giraffes, grazing from invisible trees. They move aside, harrumphing at her as the paper interrupts their breakfast.
The Minotaur, by Bill Kte'pi (10/28/02)
I have to step over seven-inch tall couples having sex on my bathroom floor to brush my teeth, and the mouthwash is filled with blinking floating eyeballs. The eyeballs are mine, but I think the copulating couples have meandered in from the neighbors.