You shrug, not really knowing how to respond.

“I’ll take that as a maybe, then,” the man says. “An unfairly maligned response, in my estimation. In today’s world it’s all about the hard and fast, the polar opposites, the dichotomies. There’s no room for ‘maybe’ in a world of ‘yes’ and ‘no.'”

“I…I guess so,” you stammer, still not sure of what the man speaks or what he wants.

“Of course, it can also mean indecision, wishy-washiness, flip-floppery. A reasoned ‘maybe’ has its place in a complicat’d world, but a yearning to please all, to avoid notice, to make unrealistic promises, to overlook…well, that’s no good either. So what is yours, a reasoned and cautious ‘maybe,’ or a cowardly one?”

You take a breath, reasoning to yourself that perhaps playing at the man’s game will make him finish and leave you be. “A cautious one,” you say. “It’s always better to be cautious when you don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

“Maybe so,” the man says, chuckling softly. “Maybe so.”

Preston’s writing grew more elaborate as the pages wore on, even as his handwriting declined in quality.

I have finally begun to approach this with the correct conceptual framework. Dragons are merely the visible part of a greater–one might say inconceivable–organism. Like an anglerfish’s lure, they represent the barest part of a whole, but the only one we can comprehend. As for the larger organism…words like ‘magic’ and ‘pandimensional’ scarcely do the concept justice. My head aches as I think about it.

A variety of diagrams followed with intersecting parabolas and terms I couldn’t pretend to understand–then again, it’s possible that Preston, in his madness, had made them up. He reverted to prose some pages later:

As projections they have no inherent form. They’re no more giant lizards than I am. But you can see how such a monstrous visage would have proven useful, give the revulsion that people greet reptiles with even today. Primitive man could easily be frightened by such, or coerced into obedience, but the rise of nations and creeds that could seek to shun or slay such ‘monsters’ explains why such forms are rarely encountered.

It also explains why they’ve never been found. If a diver could see only an anglerfish’s lure through a cloudy sea, they’d perceive only a worm and go mad trying to locate it on the ocean floor. But if the lure could be anything it wanted to be, unbound by the laws of physics…the implications stagger me.

It so happened that the farm of Yuan Wei Tao grew prosperous in a fertile river valley. This prosperity gave Wei Tao the opportunity to indulge in his passions of basketry, pottery, and calligraphy. He was particularly adept at creating dolls out of reeds, which he would give small clay faces and wrap in a poem. Sold at the market in the nearby city, Wei Tao’s dolls were regarded as good luck charms and made particularly favored gifts for teachers, scholars, and firstborn sons. Despite success with his art, Wei Tao always considered himself a farmer first, and always worked his time in the fields before he would allow himself to indulge his fancies.

Wei Tao had a young wife named Xue Ying, and it was for her that the greatest and most intricate of the farmer’s creations were reserved. Though childless, they shared a great and noble love and could often be seen working the fields together alongside laborers and cousins. Xue Ying’s beauty was renowned throughout the river valley, as was the overwhelming devotion she showed for her husband and neighbors. But one day it came to pass that an ox broke free of its plow and trampled Xue Ying beneath his hooves, killing her instantly.

Distraught, Wei Tao withdrew himself from the world. He concealed Xue Ying’s death, convincing others that she was merely badly injured and under his care. In his despair, Wei Tao crafted the finest doll he had ever created and offered it to the Heavenly Grandfather with a poem begging to be honorably reunited with his beloved. His devotion moved the heavens, and a celestial doll appeared on Wei Tao’s doorstep wrapped in instructions.

Wei Tao created a reed doll in the shape and form of Xue Ying, and filled it with poems of the highest quality describing her life and nature. Then, using a process revealed to him by the Heavenly Grandfather, Wei Tao covered the doll in living clay. This new Xue Ying awoke, was to the eyes of Wei Tao as she had ever been. But the celestial doll had borne a warning: though possessing her form and imbued with her spirit, the new Xue Ying was still but straw and clay.

Wei Tao and Xue Ying lived their lives as they had before, but Wei Tao did not heed the Heavenly Grandfather’s caution and once again worked the fields with his beloved. As she carried heavy burdens, the living clay on Xue Ying’s back gradually thinned until a laborer noticed the bare reeds poking out from beneath her clothing. Thus was the doll’s nature revealed to the valley and also to Xue Ying herself.

You know, when I was little, one of my favorite games was ‘time travel.’ I’d get together with my brothers, of my friends, and we’d go up into the old hayloft of the barn. That was our time machine—it was cleverly disguised, of course. I’d push some knots in the wood—buttons—and make some noises, and then declare that we were two hours in the future.

We’d go exploring, and the idea that we were somehow out of phase gave loafing around the same old places a new sheen. My parents were good sports about it, feeding the hungry time travelers juice and cookies. When they asked why we chrononauts weren’t running into ourselves, I’d always say that we simply hadn’t gotten back yet—we’d gone two hours into the future, and our trip lasted two hours, so it all worked out perfectly as far as I was concerned.

After all, how much can a lazy summer afternoon change in two hours? The shadows get a little longer, the air a little cooler, but what’s that to a kid who’s been running all day? I think I secretly wished it was that simple, and in many ways it was; we kids believed in an innocent sort of way that we were in the future, and one had only to look as far as Uncle Walt to see someone stuck in the past.

Sometimes the game was interplanetary travel to a planet that was, by an astonishing coincidence, just like ours. That was even more exciting; my eyes tear up with nostalgia when I think of our journeys to Htrae. Would that it were that easy. Even then, deep down, I knew I’d never make it into space for real—eyesight too bad, expenses to great.

Still, that was the last time I felt anything like this—like things were malleable, like there was a world waiting to be explored in every dandelion’s shadow or twinkling point of light.

Isn’t it wonderful to sit out, late at night, and watch the stars?

Of course, you probably haven’t.

Few have, anymore.

The night sky is one of the things modernity has taken away from us, and the ever-lit nature of our lives is not going away. Let’s face it—darkness is frightening and dangerous. But like many such things, it is also beautiful, a windswept wonder spelled out by celestial candles.

After a fleeting glimpse of what few glowing points make it through the humming fluorescent veil, who hasn’t wished they could lay out in an open field away from everything? What a simple pleasure it could be, watching the night sky spin overhead with no distractions save those found in nature and a soft piano tune in mind?

A certain young man once bought a video game, despite its glowing reviews and rabid fans on the inter-web. Putting it in, he soon noticed a curious occurrence–the hour and minute hand on his wristwatch seemed to spin somewhat faster than before, and the cosmic ballet above his humble abode proceeded to dance doubletime as night followed day dar quicker than it ought. The young man was as a starving man at a banquet, ever craving more until the last drop was savored and done.

Upon finishing and feeling the solemn pride that comes with victory (as well as the bittersweet taste that comes with the end of many things), the young man went outside and spoke of his experience to friends.

“You have wasted your time!” said they. “While you lolled about in front of a screen, you could have been composing a sonnet, or painting a picture. We have been reading great works, and singing songs, and living, while you have been shackled to your set with the vacant stare of a simpleton?”

The young man thought on this. At length, he replied: “The worlds I have visited are no less unreal than any I could read or create myself. They are all equal in their untruth. And I am as inspired as I have ever been; a dozen new worlds may have their origins in that which I have seen, those for whom I have cared, though they be not real.”

Some were swayed by these words, others not. But the young man soon acted on them, and proved, at least to himself, that he had spoken truly.

He continued reading:

“Day 144. I placed an old newspaper over the railing in the stairwell to my office because I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s not being cleaned, which dates back to the mummified cockroach I found up there a few months ago. It may have been roach royalty, placed there to maintain the use of his body in the afterlife, but it was still incredibly disgusting, and I had to clean it.

Since I’m practically the only person who takes the stairs rather than the elevator, I’ll time the janitorial crew to see how long it takes them to discover and remove the paper. If my suspicions are correct, it will be here longer than I am.”

The next block of pages had been torn out, and the writing continued on Day 288.

“The newspaper is still there, having yellowed imperceptibly over the course of my experiment. I find it astounding that the stairwell hasn’t been cleaned in so long–the janitor’s assertions to the contrary notwithstanding. Perhaps it’s emblematic of my time here, which has often seemed like a hamster wheel. Didn’t I process these same reports some time ago? I feel like the neverending torrent of paper passing through my life has begun to twist in on itself like an Ouroboros. That’s not a good thing to feel, that one is as disposable as that newspaper and just waiting for a clean-up to realize it.”

As he turned the page, a loose sheet fell out. It’d been rudely shoved in and bore a date too far beyond the last one in the book (which cut off just short of 900).

“Day 2018. The paper is still there. THE PAPER IS STILL THERE. It should be ribbons by now. I know a thing or two about paper and it should be disintegrated but it’s not. It isn’t! I’m beginning to wonder if it isn’t lightening, reverting to its new state, and if I won’t soon be compelled to remove it while descending the stairs backwards. I…I need to get out…”

I’ve always loved stories that start small. A little thing, a chink in the armor of the universe that lets some light in, a butterfly flapping its wings, builds into something bigger, something grander, until before you know it you’re off, sailing for parts unknown while each stop on the way brings new twists, new characters, and you wouldn’t have expected any of it when you began.

Imagine shearing off the cover of Alice in Wonderland and passing it off as a staid Victorian novel, and then reading in wonderment as the heroine steps down the rabbit hole and everything familiar recedes or is bizarrely reborn. Imagine turning on a movie after the credits, without any idea where it will go, only to end breathless two hours later screaming at the Statue of Liberty or as the savior of a distant planet.

Those are the stories I can’t get enough of, and they’re also the hardest to create. That sense of blissful innocence at the beginning is crucial—you have to look back and say “I can’t believe this all started in a rundown old tea store!” It’s hard to capture. I usually succumb to the temptation of reading the back of the book, or the back of the box. But once, every so often, it happens, and I’m utterly enchanted. More than anything, I’d like to create something that kindles that feeling in others.

I never got that chance, not yet anyway, but I did get to feel something like that firsthand once.

“Why do you think everyone is being so cagey? They’re protecting something.”

Kevin waved his arm, but the fever-addled could manage only a feeble swat.

Fiona continued, never breaking her gaze. “This is bigger than you realize. Maybe bigger than you can realize.”

“You…you’re just a fever dream…” Kevin mumbled weakly.

“Who’s that you’re talking to?” Marcia said in the next room. “You need your rest!”

“No. This place, that’s the fever dream. The tortured hallucinations of something we can’t comprehend.” Fiona approached, hand outstretched. “Come with me.”

“No…no,” moaned Kevin. “I’m not listening anymore. Even my own subconscious won’t give me a straight answer.”

Her stare didn’t waver, but Fiona began to grow agitated. “I’m trying to save you, can’t you understand that? What does the truth matter if you can’t understand it?”

“No…”

Marcia entered the room carrying a stack of hot towels. “These’ll have you right as rain soon enough. Who were you talking to?”

“F-Fiona…”

“Well, you’re in a bad state now, but not so bad as to be talking to the dead.”

Ellis Lincoln was born on February 21, 2003 at about 8:30 PM.

Amy Pongil, his mother, a few friends, and myself were seated in a semicircle, pads of paper in hand, scribbling furiously. After a few minutes, the professor told us to put our pencils down and share what we’d come up with.

My turn came first: “Frank Bossini, called ‘Boss’ by his friends and family. About 6′ tall, 49, with hair graying and thinning at the temples and a beer gut. He loved reading mystery stories, and frustrated his wife by telling her the culprits. He nursed a drinking problem that threatened to spiral out of control, and occasionally took the rage he felt over his menial and low-paying job out on the kids.”

Dr. Pon Gamily, writer and sage, nodded as I read. “Very good,” she said with a faint singsong accent. “A bit stock, perhaps, but that just means there are more possibilities. I especially like the fact that he’s a reader of mysteries; perhaps you can work him into a mystery of his own?”

There were murmurs of approval throughout the class. Gil Mopany was next, with a blind guitar player named Carlo, followed by Lia Pogmyn with steroid-abusing track star Erika With A “K”. Amy was sill writing when her turn came; Dr. Gamily hat to gently remind her that time was up.

“Okay,” she said, sounding out of breath and shaking her chubby hand to ease the writer’s cramp she no doubt felt. “My character is called Ellis Lincoln. He’s about 5’9” tall, with brown hair and green eyes. He’s farsighted, but sometimes takes out his contact lenses so he can see the world in a different way. 20 years old, from Rosemont Village upstate, studying to become an engineer. He loves to walk around looking straight up at night, counting the stars, and sometimes takes stargazing hikes out where there aren’t any lights to interfere. The only child of a single mother, he’s really devoted to her and wants to be able to take care of her when she’s old. That’s why he chose engineering, rather than creative writing, which he would have preferred. He…”

“Okay, okay,” Dr. Gamily said, chuckling. “You don’t need to read us the entire sheet, Amy. But it’s nice that you were inspired to write so much, to put so much detail into him. I think he would be good in a slice of life story, no?”

“I just couldn’t stop,” Amy gushed. “It just kept coming and coming and coming, and I think I might even have more than what I wrote down. Like…”

“Excellent,” Dr. Gamily interrupted. “Feel free to keep writing while the others share their characters, okay?”

“Okay,” said Amy. She wrote furiously while the others talked, filling up three sheets of notebook paper, front and back, and didn’t say a word for the remainder of the class.