Stephane Perez
Bio
I hope you like my story
Stories (70/0)
Fox Demon Short Story | Flowing Water Floating Lamp 3
The little one holding the big one's horn, looking blearily at the big one's hand that string of sugar phoenix, but the big one does not give, deliberately raised high to tease the younger brother, angry at the little one flung the brother's horn, tiptoe to reach, but how can not reach, anxious on the fire look very interesting. The young man could not help but playful, turned to the little fox who has turned back into a child smiled and said, "Tonight you will be my brother." The little fox weighed the pros and cons of being a brother and pretending to be a grandfather, quickly made a decision, tilting his head and smiling a flattering face: "Brother, I want to eat a whole roast chicken." Happiness came more than the little fox wanted, it not only got a whole roast chicken, but also was led by the young Taoist priest from the street to the end of the alley back and forth several times. Although there is no shortage of teasing to blow up, but at least there are all kinds of candy man, pills, pastries stuffed full of a belly, no matter what look on what crave, the young Taoist priest are not stingy to buy. It's really like a brother with a brother. The little fox patted the round belly, happily burped a full, hand movement a shake, the net pocket of small goldfish "flutter" planted back to the water basin, the palpitations of a big bubble. "Oh, look, look, you didn't get it again." The young Taoist priest came over, at the moment he also squatted with the child in front of the large water basin filled with small goldfish, two wide sleeves fished to the upper arm, holding a skewer in one hand, a hand holding a net pocket, the duster pinned to the waist are dragged to the ground and stained with ash, not half of the so-called immortal bones to speak of. "Look at me." Said, so used to the whisk's wrist deftly turned, spinning across the water, before the small goldfish that escaped by a fluke did not realize what had happened, has been netted up Sheng, thrown into the small bucket next to it. "Awesome." The little fox said this only two points of fake horse's ass, the remaining eight points are true admiration. "Brother I am going to be a master in the future." The Taoist priest fished out a few coins from his pocket and paid the vendor across the water basin, lifting the small bucket and handing it to the little fox, his eyebrows all smug, "You learn something from me." "I can't learn this from you." The little fox took the bucket, happy to see the little goldfish fluttering in the water, "I am a demon, can not be a celestial master." The young Taoist priest took advantage of its preoccupation with watching the goldfish, finally touched the hairball-like little head, smiling with a satisfied face: "Then become a powerful fox demon." The little fox hurriedly shaved each other's hands away from the top of his head and pouted: "That's for sure." A small and a large and strolled in the street for a long time, can eat are eaten, can play are played, finally can no longer eat, play can not, all the silver money through spent. Can only find a stone bench on the river bank to sit silly and look at the sky. The moon on the eve is not round, but fortunately it is a clear day, full of stars decorated with the canopy shining bright. The wet wind on the river bank is rampant through, there is a kind of late summer will be slightly cool. The little fox first buried his head looking at the small wooden bucket in his arms, and then look up at the young Taoist priest sitting next to him, and then steal two glances at the other side of the waist that does not look good dust, stammering half a day, before asking in a small voice: "How do you do not want to take me?" "Why should I take you?" The Taoist priest's eyes glared. "Previously heard from other demons in the mountain, the Taoist priests are trying to take demons." The little fox answered honestly. "Master taught that we collect demons to collect not the form, but the heart." The Taoist priest explained, and seeing the little fox's bewildered face, he changed his words, "Do you think the city is good?" The little fox hurriedly responded, "The city is very good." "Hmm?" The Taoist priest raised his eyebrows, "Why?" "There are so many delicious and fun things to eat."
By Stephane Perez2 years ago in Fiction
Fox Demon Short Story | Flowing Water Floating Lamp 2
The child to a shiver of fear, turned around to slip, anxious between the feet tripped next to the stone steps, two large tails from the hem revealed. The young Taoist priest was quick to grab one of them, and I do not know what law was cast, the child instantly turned back into a small fox, was grabbed with one hand a tail hanging upside down in the air, four small paws in the air desperately shaved, but also tried to open his mouth to bite people, but all in vain. The Taoist priest waited for the little fox to shake himself dizzy to stop before he said: "Demon, dare to come to the city to do evil, but the courage is not small." Listen to that voice, is obviously holding back a laugh. Although the little fox is a little dizzy, but the temper is still there, angry retort: "Who is a demon! I did not do bad things! Not doing bad things is good demon, no one can touch me!" This is a world where people and demons coexist, the heavens have the virtue of good life, even if they are demons, as long as they do not do harm to mortals, people who are capable of catching demons have to follow the rules, they can not be touched. "How dare you argue." The young man grabbed two big tails, a pair of translucent eyes are because of that comfortable feel and smile narrowed, "I can see with my own eyes you do bad things." "You nonsense! You stinky Taoist priest blood mouth spitting!" The little fox has not given up the struggle, the mouth is not idle, "Oh, no, blood mouth spitting demon!" The young man finally couldn't help himself and laughed out loud, "Then who just tried to steal the chicken leg?" Being punctured by the crime, the little fox immediately wilted, nor speak, nor struggle, resignation like closed eyes, hanging in mid-air to play dead. This miserable look triggered the sympathy of the young Taoist priest. In fact, he sneaked out of the Daoist temple on Lianhe Mountain tonight behind the back of his master, just want to get together this Tanabata Festival, not at all hold any serious thoughts of subduing demons, but happened to see this little fox demon trying to steal food, just to catch a little. Now the little guy put on this pathetic look, he also can not bear to be difficult. Just himself in the city alone for half a day, also quite boring, this little fox looks fun, since they are wandering, but can be a companion. I thought I was going to be unlucky, but the little fox felt like he was put back on the ground. It rolled sensitively, stood up and looked up at the young Taoist priest, his slithery eyes full of confusion. "This is a holiday, I also have a holiday, too lazy to take you." The young man bent down, still want to reach out and touch the little fox's head, was forced back by its exposed small fangs. Seeing that the little guy was still wary of himself, he pointed to the eatery next to him and laughed, "Want to eat a chicken leg?" The little fox proudly turned its head to the side. It had a backbone. But it is so much less tempting than a chicken leg. See the little guy while straining his posture, and at the same time can not help but sneak out little paws to grind their heels, the young man laughed more happily: "All right, do not end the stand, want to eat, come with me." The young man then tentatively took two steps forward, and sure enough, the little fox followed closely. He looked up at the street, thinking, stopping his steps: "You can not follow me in this way, or change back to a child." While talking, the young Taoist priest just saw a young boy with a young boy walking across the water street, the older cool, the younger lively, looks like two brothers.
By Stephane Perez2 years ago in Fiction
Fox Demon Short Story | Flowing Water Floating Lamp 1
After nightfall, Cloud City is instead more lively. Today is the seventh day of the eve. The city's central market along the river is still open, and there are many more vendors selling snacks, stalls to solicit customers. Young men and women are guarding the river bank in twos and threes, putting water lily-shaped lanterns into the river, orange lanterns floating on the water surface, converging into a band of light, like the Milky Way sinking in the water. The downstream of the river leads to the forest outside the city, and tourists hardly ever go there. The water carries the lanterns gradually into the reeds in the distance, but the reeds suddenly shake slightly, and then a small fiery red animal leaps out of it, staring at the lanterns, with a pair of slithery eyes reflecting the light dots. It turned out to be a small, furry fox. Two big tails behind it swinging restlessly around. A lantern was pushed offshore by the water very close to the location, the little fox hurried to reach out paws to shave, but paws are too short to reach. He watched in exasperation as the lantern drifted away again. After a while, the little fox retracted its gaze on the river and turned to look at the night market in the distance, its little nose twitching, as if it had made a great determination. In the reeds, there was another flurry of activity, and the original fox was gone, replaced by a small child in red with no hair in a bun. The child rubbed his nose and took two steps forward, sensing that something was not quite right, turned his head and found two large tails still following him. The little guy tilted his head and thought for a while, picked up the tails and tucked them into the hem of his shirt, and then happily walked towards the city. The more you go to the city, the more lively it is, the crowd is bustling, everywhere laughter, the lanterns under the eaves of the stores along the street will reflect the paving slabs of green stone are orange. Children mixed in the crowd, see everything curious, each stall to stop on tiptoe to look at. Those shiny strings, soft dolls, and ringing wind chimes, all look so rare. But they don't add up to the appeal of the aroma of roast chicken in the air. The child followed the smell all the way and stopped at the end of the street in front of a restaurant selling cooked food. The store is doing good business this evening, customers in the case full of various types of meat surrounded by several layers of dense. And the boy stood a few steps away from the position, observed for a while, found that want to eat meat, have to take something to exchange with the boss. Some of the things in exchange for meat are small round pieces with small holes in the middle, and some are broken stones, silver shiny. Do not understand, do not understand, the child did not see, but the grunt coming from the stomach is real. The little guy swallowed hard, and finally his eyes fell on the row of temporarily supported grills on the side of the store case, smiling a little thief. The shopkeeper was busy cutting meat and collecting money, the customers were busy grabbing seats and ordering food, no one noticed a small hand sticking out from the crowd, and was about to reach the chicken leg hanging on the bottom of the grill. But in just a little bit when suddenly grabbed by another hand wrist. The child was startled, before he could react, he had been dragged out of the crowd, and was led by the other side to stagger to the edge of the corner with fewer people. It was only then that the child came back to his senses and looked up. The one standing in front of him is a young Taoist priest with a sharp smile. The body is long, white clothes and white robes, the waist is also pinned with a duster to remove demons.
By Stephane Perez2 years ago in Fiction
Messenger Goblin 4
In fact, this reason could not be more common. The person I sent this postcard and I had broken up completely in a phone argument years ago, and had been cut off from contact all these years, and had long since ceased to be even friends. "I'm really sorry." My fingers grazed the surface of the postcard. "This return trip has been cancelled because of the long delay." The little guy's expression immediately switched from being owed money by me to being at odds with me. "How!?" It growled shrilly and gouged its cheeks with both hands, expressing its complete inability to accept such a reality, "It used to be obvious that it wouldn't expire for years!" "The world is changing fast now." I said softly, "No one has the patience to wait anymore." It stopped screaming and looked up at me, its little nose twitching. Like it was about to burst into tears. *** I didn't completely leave this helpless little messenger behind. After all, I myself used to viciously curse those always unreliable airlines and such. "We can try changing our tickets." I bought back a stack of blank postcards and looked very carefully through my address book to see if any of my friends could suddenly receive a handwritten letter from my apartment without being too abrupt. At first the little guy was a little tempted by my offer, but unfortunately another postcard arrived and changed his situation. That postcard was from another old friend, with a little messenger in a round hat attached to it, and an acquaintance of my little messenger in a pointy hat. Once the round hat messenger came, he greeted the pointy hat messenger with familiarity: "Hey, friend, how's your luxury return trip going? Everyone is very envious of it." The little messenger with the pointy hat looked embarrassed and first laughed bashfully and said that the return trip would start soon, then he changed the subject in a variety of rambling ways and winked at me eagerly, obviously not wanting to be exposed. So I pulled one out of the stack of blank postcards, quickly wrote a reply to that old friend, and sent the little round-hatted messenger away. The little pointy hat messenger then told me embarrassingly that because it was so rare to get a first class flight nowadays, and the round trip was a rare double, it had been "showing off" a little in its circle of friends. But now it seems to have made a bit of public knowledge, not easy to step down. The consequence of this unexpected situation is that it decisively refused my offer to send it away with another letter. After all, it's hard to go from luxury to frugality, and it's even worse when you fail to pretend. The inability to lift the return reservation left it stuck in my apartment. *** There were many arguments between me and it over the next many days. Just like with the guy who sent the postcard back then. As much as I loved it, there were always some wishes that I couldn't force myself to fulfill. That postcard that was somehow so late for so many years, even if it was returned to the same person, could not be first class anymore. *** The last time we argued, the little messenger was rolling all over the floor in anger. I was also embarrassed to the point of not understanding why it was so persistent, insisting that there was no substitute for whichever close friend or family member I proposed. "If you can understand how this is scheduled ......" it got up from the table, a small face held red, almost gritting its teeth in speaking, "... ...you'd know that this is something that can't be cancelled." It then showed an expression of epiphany. Before I could react, I saw it suddenly run towards the postcard, stand in the center of the card screen, and make a hug gesture towards me. I was a little confused by this image, and seeing how anxious it was, I could only try to put my finger over first and let it hug me. The moment it hugged my finger, the picture on the postcard expanded from its feet until it filled the whole apartment room. I saw the back of a man standing on the ice-covered rocks at the end of a cold continent for millions of miles, looking up at the glorious aurora borealis, eternally changing in star space. Full of beautiful scenery, but no time to raise the hands of the camera. Because, such a beautiful, only want to share with that one person, only. After a few seconds, the picture disappeared. The little letter writer, who at first was holding my fingertips, blinked and blinked before releasing his hand, became unusually excited and ran around on the desktop with his hands in complete forgetfulness: "So this is our mission!" Guarding the heart that the letter writer really wants to convey and handing it over to the recipient. I felt happy for it. Unfortunately, this time, it was too late. Even if I don't want to admit that I've actually been waiting all these years, I understand that the time has long since passed. Not only because the time has changed. More because, I don't want to be the one who can only wait in agony anymore. When the other person is full of wanting to share this wide world with me, all I want is for this person to come back to me and stay in this small apartment. *** I finally decided to reply to a postcard. Although not sure if the address was accurate, after all, the location of the other party is always fluid. But when the little messenger took that card, it was obviously very satisfied with the conditions of the cabin. The only thing it had doubts about, this postcard, was that there was no return booking. On the way downstairs it sat on the postcard and kept pestering me for a reason, which I didn't even answer. It wasn't until I arrived at the mailbox at the bottom of the apartment building that I smiled at it, "This time, you're free." And before it was put into the mailbox along with the postcard, it took off its little pointy hat to salute me and shouted, "You're free too." Yes, that's right. This time, I was free too.
By Stephane Perez2 years ago in Fiction
Messenger Goblin 3
This new term made me raise my eyebrows in confusion. So the next thing I learned was a lot of new knowledge about how they are treated on their trips. Given that postcards are their means of transportation to the world, the conditions of travel depend on the emotional messages contained in the letters. No one wants to send a letter with false sentiment because it's like riding in a stinky, stuffy car that's bumpy and suffocating all the way. If it is a good relationship between family and friends of the letter, the treatment will naturally be much better. As for catching a warm love letter, it is really good luck to hit the jackpot. I stared at the thin card and said I didn't understand how this thing alone could provide the little messengers with an "imperial privilege". The little guy threw a blank stare: "You wouldn't understand if I told you." But soon it sighed again, saying that according to the descriptions of the seniors, there used to be quite a lot of opportunities for first class, but now the whole industry is in the doldrums, and good cabins are becoming less and less available, not to mention love letters, even ordinary cabins are not easy to get, and any job opportunities should be cherished. "So even after starving for so long, I still earned it." It said this with a cockeyed smile. I looked at the words on the postcard and tried to squeeze out a smile. But it seemed a little difficult. *** The next morning I woke up on time according to my long-established biological clock and was almost scared off my bed when I found the little messenger crouched on the bedside table, staring at me with burning eyes. His eyes were a little too bright in the dark. "Good morning!" It looks like this guy has completely recovered from the exhaustion of the previous trip and shouted with full vigor. And I could only change and wash with a black face. I do not know if it is my illusion, this guy's attitude as if ...... a little flattering? Sure enough, while we were guarding the desk together and eating cookies, it couldn't help itself and asked me periodically when I intended to write a reply letter. "Letters sent with anticipation are automatically brought with a return reservation." It pointed to the postcard on the desk and explained with a smirk. Ha? How dare this little guy think he has a return ticket? It's a shame I have to be cruel and shatter its unrealistic fantasies. "I don't like to write letters." I crunched the last cookie and replied dryly. Immediately his face changed, angry, but not the kind of anger that comes from being rejected, but the kind of anger that comes from being lied to. The little one waved his hand and pointed to the big dusty cardboard box on the stand in the corner: "You lied! You wrote back all the postcards in the cardboard box! I checked last night, every single one of them was marked with a reply!" Faced with such a straightforward revelation, I was embarrassed and didn't know how to answer, and finally I could only use the excuse that I was late for work and fled. When closing the door, I didn't even dare to look back at it. I'm afraid it will chase me again and ask the reason for not returning the letter. ***This whole day was not as routine as usual, because I interrupted the rhythm I was used to and spent a lot of time rehearsing a convincing reason. But by the end of the day, I was dismayed to find that the time spent was not only futile, but ridiculous. Making up a lie ten times more complicated to cover up a common fact is not even a good idea to think on your knees. Today I came back to the apartment from work at the same time as usual, and the process was the same: check the mailbox, unlock the door, change shoes, and tell myself welcome back. The only difference is that the little one is still there. Just like when I left this morning, he still has that stinky face like I owe him a lot of money. --It would have been more convincing if he hadn't eaten the fried rice I made. I couldn't stand to see the pathetic way he wanted to ask questions but had to keep it up, so I put the bowl down and told him why he wasn't answering his letter.
By Stephane Perez2 years ago in Fiction
The Witch in the Kitchen 1
I have a little secret that no one knows about. Although my family is average, my job is ordinary, and my appearance is plain and unimpressive in every way, this secret is what makes me special. I'm a witch. Shhh, keep it to yourself, this secret only works in the kitchen of the apartment I live in. That's where all the secrets of my spells are hidden. Don't be surprised, in today's scientific society, every witch can master a limited number of spells, some because no one teaches them, some because they are too lazy to learn, and from one generation to the next, the subtle and complex spells have long been lost, and more are small tricks for living at home. For example, my mother will let the clothes wash themselves clean, while my aunt can make the wet clothes quickly become dry. But when the washing machine with drying function is on the market, the two of them immediately seem to have a lot of extra magic power, regret the grandmother straight sigh. I should have known that I should have taught the two girls to use magic cooking skills. Grandma is chagrined every time she talks about it. But the daughters have grown up, each married a human husband who can cook, have their own work, fun and social circle, naturally is no longer willing to bother to learn the grandmother's hard-won skills. So the burden of inheriting the family skills all fell on me. Unfortunately, I was probably not enlightened as a child, and no matter how hard my grandmother taught me, the limit of the spells I could use was just to cook a cup of instant noodles. But Grandma was not worried, always said I was still young, and when I grew up, I would naturally use the good. At that time, I was still a child, I did not understand, all the way to college graduation, in the city thousands of miles away from home to find a job, rented the apartment where I live now, is considered to be enlightened. According to the experience of the witches' profession, which has been passed down from generation to generation, many spells need a special place to be performed. The kitchen of the apartment is where my spell is. Look, the kitchen is full of all kinds of magic tools, large refrigerator, oven, gas stove, small dinner plates and rice cooker. Of course, all kinds of magic medicine is also essential, Li Ji's soy sauce, Zhang Ji's vinegar, and Liu Ji's bean paste, all neatly yarded on the small dining cabinet against the wall. Hmm? Some people want to ask why these so-called magic weapons and medicines are all discounted goods that I found from the online shopping mall? Hey, what law says we witches can't keep up with the times? Come on, it's not the backward era where you have to prepare all the raw materials by yourself anymore. In any case, I usually have nothing to do in this small kitchen to learn and practice, the grandmother handed down to me at the beginning of the thick book of magic recipes until rotten, is considered to have worked out a lot of spell casting tips to. At least every time I come home for the holidays, my mother will no longer go out to play mahjong and not come home for dinner as an excuse to refuse to try my dishes. But I always feel that something is still missing. Otherwise, how could even Dad's handmade dishes not even compare to those of an ordinary person. *** My grandmother has been dead for many years, and my mother is a fake witch who has no interest in spells, so no one can give me the right guidance. Fortunately, when my aunt visited me on a business trip, she politely reminded me that a man is still missing to engage in cooperation with this kind of spell like I am practicing. Although I suspected that this was a ploy by my aunt in collaboration with my parents to promote marriage, a little flipping through the history books of the witch world - which are usually titled "so-and-so fairy tales" to confuse ordinary people who don't know spells - I felt that my aunt was right. -I think my aunt has a point.
By Stephane Perez2 years ago in Fiction
Messenger Goblin 2
But when I think of the postmark time, my heart is moved, and then I look at it, I just feel sorry for this little guy: "Hungry for so long, no problem?" At this time it has gradually gnawed a round cookie into a crescent shape, should be slowed down from the previous hunger, wiped the mouth: "okay, there have been times before when it was hungry longer than this." In the past, when technology was not developed, letters were transmitted very slowly, and a journey was often very long. So they are born with the ability to endure hunger, the least of which is the ability to sleep halfway. Well, no wonder when I asked it how the postcard was delayed so long and how it was delivered to my new apartment, it was the same attitude of asking three questions. "But the world was changing slowly even then." The little messenger sighed, "Even if the journey is a little longer, you can always get to the station." Probably this tortuous journey gave it a considerable psychological shadow, which I could understand, but I still couldn't help asking it what to do if a letter was delivered and lost in the middle of the journey. A trace of trepidation flashed across its pretty face: "If a letter has no one waiting for it, the messenger attached to it will disappear sooner or later." After saying that, it will be in the hands of a crescent moon like cookie remnants stuffed into the mouth, heart palpitating pat small chest: "I had thought I had to disappear this trip with those little friends before." I just laughed and handed it another cookie without saying a word. It may have mistaken my perfunctory attitude, some anxious: "If everyone stopped writing letters, we will not be able to find work for too long, and will not be able to live." It sounded as tough as the human workplace competition. I nodded empathetically, reminding myself to hurry up and push away the pot of noodles, turn on the laptop on my desk, and several work emails popped up immediately. This gave me inspiration: "While people are writing fewer letters by hand now, there's plenty of email, can't you guys evolve along with it?" The little messenger condescendingly stated that their clan would not abandon their traditions. I scare it while browsing emails, "Sooner or later, species that do not adapt to the environment will be eliminated by the times." But it asked in return, "Are all those eliminated necessarily bad?" I shrugged noncommittally. *** After that, I ignored it for a while because I was busy with some urgent work report. It wasn't until late at night that I closed my pen drive and stretched out. The little one has pulled a tissue over his body, lying on the desktop asleep. The little arm outside the tissue was still pressed against the postcard. I gently pulled the postcard away from him and picked it up to look at it again and again. Hey, things are so coincidental, the sender wanted to write to me to read the message really can not read a word, only the postcard on the front of the crumpled picture is still beautiful. The aurora borealis under the stars above a long ice field. It matched the postmark address. I forced myself to take my eyes off the postcard and move to the night sky outside the window. The city neon overshadowed the bright starry sky, and the warm light was lush and banal. I pressed my head on my arm against the desktop, feeling tired. Perhaps affected by my movements, the little messenger woke up and sat up rubbing his eyes: "What?" I looked at it: "It must be hard to be out there all the time." "It wasn't that bad this time." It actually denied it, smiling cheerfully, "It's rare to catch a first class flight."
By Stephane Perez2 years ago in Fiction
Messenger Goblin 1
I received a postcard from years ago. When I got back to my apartment from work, I habitually opened the mailbox at the door and found a crumpled postcard lying inside, the front side of the picture still dirty and looking like it had come a long way. I felt a little strange and picked up the card. The handwriting on the message on the back had been soaked with water that it was illegible, but fortunately the handwriting in the recipient information column was still legible. The name of the recipient written on it was indeed me, but the address written on it was not this apartment, but the old house on the same plot of land before this apartment was built a few years before. The postmark was also from when the old house was still standing. I'm pretty sure this is the postcard that was sent to me, although it seems to have arrived several years late and even the sender's name is blurred out. Because the door number on the address happened to be the one I used to live in in that old house. Besides, I couldn't mistake the sender's handwriting. I was about to close the mailbox when I suddenly heard a sharp shout from it: "Don't close it!" Then a small humanoid dot poked its head out from the shadows deep inside the mailbox. My hand froze in mid-air as I looked left and right. The late postcard, the strange little dot, compared to the latter should be a little more bizarre. *** Given that this kind of strange encounter is not common in my uneventful life, it took me a while - enough time to boil water, boil noodles, beat eggs, put vegetables and finally serve the pot together - to accept that it was the messenger attached to the postcard. setting. "It's not surprising that you haven't seen it." The little one was very delicate looking, wearing a pointy little hat and sitting on his knees on the postcard I had placed on my desk like a flying carpet-riding elf. "Our clan is indeed becoming less and less common these days." Still sounds like an endangered species? I couldn't decide whether to take out the cookies I was going to feed it for breakfast tomorrow or to call animal control right away. Luckily, he made the choice for me, eyeing the cookie box next to the table and leaping up to grab it when I opened the bag and pulled one out, gnawing on it like he was starving. "That's a long time for a letter to be delivered." It whined as it ate, "I'm starving." My curiosity is not strong, but when faced with such a strange guy, all kinds of questions can't help but pop out of my head. So in between eating dinner together, I asked some questions and heard more unbelievable answers. This little guy in front of me is a member of the parasitic - although it insists on using the word "guardian" - race of handwritten letters, a long and secretive race that in the past In the old days, when information could only be transmitted by letter, their clan used to flourish, and everyone roamed the world by letter. "Just like we humans travel around?" I asked as I took a big bite of noodles. It first nodded, then immediately shook its head: "We are working, each time with a mission, not like you humans silly play!" This sounded familiar, and I flinched before asking what kind of work it had to do. But it stammering answer, a vain face nibbling the big cake in his arms: "Anyway, the seniors said this is work, to do to get food as a reward ......" Hey, this little fool of the human cloud.
By Stephane Perez2 years ago in Fiction
Grandpa
My grandfather, 86 years old, Alzheimer's disease, can not remember anything, sometimes Dad asked him, who am I ah? He occasionally stares at me for half a day and says I'm the third oldest in the family and you're my little brother, so Grandpa Pat (his little brother) laughs. Most of the time, he remembers my dad, after all, he is in front of him every day. My mother asked him, what about me? He looked for half a day and said you are my oldest daughter-in-law, my mother said not bad, serve you every day, still remember. These are the people he sees every day, I left home a thousand miles in 2014
By Stephane Perez2 years ago in Fiction
Witches in the Kitchen 2
In the distant past, the forefathers of the witch world usually needed the lives, honor or hearts and lungs of young men to do some great and powerful spells. Given the shallowness of all the spells we can use now, it naturally doesn't cost that much. I hurriedly turned to the last page of the magic recipe book left by my grandmother, and found an extremely insignificant line of small print notes. Want to play these recipes to the limit, but also need a man who smells just right with the recitation of the incantation. Another note: Once the witch who cast the spell sheds tears for it, the magic will fail. Unfortunately, the last page was chewed out by the rats hiding in the kitchen, and the simple incantation is no longer available. This problem made me agonize for a full minute, the next second, I dash decided, or first go to find the man who smells just right, as for what the spell is, take your time to test it. But there are so many young men who show their faces in my life every day, which one should it be? I had no choice but to invite them one after another to this tiny apartment for dinner, birthdays, job changes, pay raises, lottery wins, all sorts of excuses, and each time I had to bring along a group of friends to make it look like a big dinner party, lest my secret as a witch be revealed. Witches and young men are most likely to reveal themselves when they are alone. I don't know if that's true or not, but it's been around for thousands of years, so it's better to be careful. As for the consequences of being seen as a witch, I'm not interested in knowing. *** In feast after feast, my spells worked and didn't work, sometimes stunningly, sometimes darkly. The young men, who came many times, said a lot of things, in order to find out exactly which words had worked, I even opened the data processing software to do a correlation analysis of everything. So often a bunch of people in the living room, shouting, laughing and playing, but I was bored in the kitchen, according to the recipe left by my grandmother, in the pot stove precise magic, while the use of modern technology, computer software to continue my data analysis. But no matter how I deduced it, it didn't look like the spell I wanted. What's even more annoying is the reckless young men who are always trying to find ways to peek into my kitchen, my territory. You look good when you cook. Some of them say so. But I sneered in my heart and shooed all the prying eyes out of the kitchen. They all misunderstood, I am neither beautiful nor good at cooking, this is just a self-seeking witch in the spell experiment. And so the days passed, most of the dishes remained uneventful, no different from before, and the small apartment was filled with the teasing and laughter of my friends. Only a very few times, I will gradually narrow the scope of the feast, as far as possible to exclude interfering items. But no, this man smelled too sour, that man was too bitter, and what a good cook can tell by moving her nostrils, a good witch can do just as well. Once or twice so rare, I even thought I had stepped on the threshold of success, but the rotten smell of the next dish pulled me out of my happy visions again. Neither the smell nor the spell met my expectations. *** Just when I was about to give up, another young man barged into my kitchen. And by mistake opened a jar of magical ingredients disguised as a can of Swedish herring, containing bat blood, fly feet, cockroach droppings, and 10,000 concentrated, powerful stink spells.
By Stephane Perez2 years ago in Fiction