The airport hangar is a strange, liminal place. A threshold. I like being out there. It's quiet. And windy. Makes me want to fly.
Don't be taking too many pictures, he warned. The people out here are kind of weird. He wipes clean oil from the dipstick.
And don't make deals with fae folk either, I think randomly. No worries. Lots of iron.
Smoothly returns dipstick to the little grey pickup.
But there aren’t any people out here, right?
Suddenly I like being out here less. The emptiness now feels threatening, like I'm being watched by hidden eyes.
I notice a rusty looking switch on the wall. Flipping it makes the heavy hangar door rattle downwards, enclosing the classic cars and sleeping airplanes safely in darkness. It also has a warning: unlock the door first. I'm not sure what door this is referring to, but my imagination takes off.
Lots of iron.
Airplanes cloaked in darkness.
All magic, I've heard, is a shift in perception.
There's nothing I love more than freedom
All perception is a shift in story.
There's nothing that scares me more than being trapped.
And as my skin crawls up and down underneath a red flannel shirt, it is clear that stories bend perception toward many different shades of magic.
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