I hold the worldseed in my hands. It is the beginning of every story, the possibility of myriad roads through countless lands under untold stars.
I hold my new child.
Today I have set aside the tall, tall hat of the showman and the cigarette of the worldstore salesman. Today I am simply me, a father holding his child, gazing into the face of the impossible.
She is not my first child. All my children were like this, though. Every child has this. So many possibilities that the chains of what-could-be stretch from her like bright threads in a web so thick it is hard to move her.
Do you see, can you fathom, how many stories lie here in my hands? Continue reading “Worldseed in My Hands”