Berta got me a book for Christmas by Neil Gaiman called Fragile Things. Fragile Things is a collection of Gaiman’s (who at once I feel weird calling “Gaiman”, because of my familiarity with his writing, or “Neil”, because I only met the guy once at a book signing) short stories, in that strange genre that there isn’t a good name for but has been called “fantasy” by those who try.
This book made my Christmas list because of a section that I read in the book store. In it, there was a circus of sorts, complete with ringmaster. I don’t have the book in front of me, and I wasn’t expecting a quiz, but the story title was something like, “The unexpected disappearance of Mrs. Twitter.” I’ll regret trusting my poor memory later, but I thought it quite an unusual title for a story about a circus. I should have read more.
And I did. But only just a couple of nights ago from my fresh gift copy when I couldn’t get to sleep. That was kind of a mistake.
The stories I read weren’t “scary” in that traditional sense, but just peeking their way through the shroud between reality and fantasy enough to really freak you out.
The whole story - about the “Mrs. Twitter” - was such a thing that could happen in reality until blam, it’s not. But not so far gone that you couldn’t see it. Maybe not so unrealistic, see?
And the one about the months and the runt? It’s certainly fantastic, but it lingers with you like Gaiman’s writing tends to do, and unlike many typical fantasy authors’ attempts.
So I eventually resolved to read the rest later (as opposed to putting it down forever), and went off to bed. Anyway, the result - two nights of insomnia, and a need to leave some lights on while walking around the house alone that late at night.
Darn it, I’m a kid again. Wait… Cool.
