The waiting list

I have nothing to say today. The list lays empty.

I like to imagine it as a book, a great leather bound volume with vellum pages that creak when they're turned. The pages are stained with sweat and tears, ink blotted where the pages have soaked it up. There in the book, requests lay waiting.



Fifty. There have been fifty different people who have given me requests, fifty who have had tales spun for their pleasure. In the book, the list reads through their requests, with a single line drawn through each one in a hand far more precise than mine.

As a new request comes in, the ink appears little by little. First it's a blot, shapeless and without solid form. It crystallizes slowly, the words becoming more distinct as details begin to form.

I turn the page, take my quill, and let the story flow out. The words stain at first, then the pages drink in the ink. The ideas settle in, and the tale rushes free, soaring through the ether to come land upon this site, where all of you can see and read, can peruse at your whim. You can read the over and over again. Once they're here, they are gone from the book forever.

All that remains in the book are the names, fifty at this count, and the ink stained pages. Darkening vellum, thirsty always for more. Ready to feed upon the fetish and the fantasy that comes from my hands, that is inspired by your requests.

Right now, the ink is wet, the shapes still clouded. The list is a haze, but empty of words that I can read. I have no inspiration in myself today, and so I went to the list.

But the list lays empty.

Help me, then, if you love what I do. Help me fill the book, help me add a page. Add your name to the book of requests, to the running tally. Share with me the ideas you have, that we might write together in the book, that the words might find their way here online.

The book is thirsty, and must be fed.

Please. Ask away.