He had words in his head. He had worlds in his head. They arced in white-hot streams, constellations of words, galaxies of unfettered thought, fueled by the very levinfire of Creation itself.
It was a struggle to keep them all inside, but he dared not loose them, lest they fade and die. In the end, he passed wordless into the night.
His nephew had just discovered the light of his own words. Grasping his pencil in stubby fingers, he sat and began to write.
The words leapt onto the page, free at last to leave their embryonic state and grow...
Tools of the Trade: The Perpetua Pencil
1 day ago