Lately, more so than usual, I’ve been creating stories about the people I don’t know.
I’ve always done this to some extent. Many writers do. We look at the world around us, and tell stories to tie it all together. But I’ve been doing it more and more frequently.
Behind my apartment, there is a man who waters plants. He is a reedy giant of a man, and he has the greenest thumb in the world. He grows South American ferns and vibrant lilies on his porch in the middle of winter. He has tried to repress his magical talent since he was a boy, you see, because the world isn’t kind to those who are different. He has mostly been successful, but tendrils of power still sneak out to woo the plants. He knows this. He doesn’t try particularly hard to stop it.
Then there are the spies. They…
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