And thus another story begun in the same manner as all stories that have had Anita Papaano as their solitary witness. The hairless earth-prisoner woke to whispers of sunlight roughhousing across her weather-worn curvature caked with eons-old radioactive jet powder. Her vision sharpened yet her head remained planted firmly on her bed of rock. What new story awaits me this time, her thoughts escaped her pores in slow-vibrating frequencies. But this story was one unlike the rest, for long as she waited, her cave entrance staged no shadow play, foregrounded no foreign silhouette.
For the first time since her incubation, she ventured to lift herself off the ground, a feat which she thought too daunting to perform without the sweet cajoling of obsolete magic. Spirits burst forth from her center crevice and extracted mundanity from three-dimensional time-space to unseal long-lost magic, once named many things: Cross-mechanical vibration, Anti-gravity, Willpower.
Making one gargantuan step that made ripples across the Intergalactic Newton’s Cradle, Anita realized that the vines that had once bound her ankles and wrists to the Pillar Supporting the Universe have now been severed and lay limp and unmoving, stretching over hills and moors and abandoned cityscapes.
The sun sped across the horizon like the blade of an electric fan. Anita breathed in alien magic, fresh and new, tingling with scientific ingenuity. The Inter-verse spread out before her, its knolls of stardust, its pools of nonexistence, and somewhere, in other caves littered about The Realms That Be, were other earth-prisoners like her, who lay dormant, unexpectant of the new stories that surround them.