Hamlet, fresh prince of denmark

Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours’ time by Mrs. Dursley’s scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley… He couldn’t know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: “To Harry Potter - the boy who lived!”

to write, draw, or whatever. have people choose a number and perhaps a character, or proceed however you wish and invent it all. 

The 11th. 

Lost at the creek. 

Above, there is an attic.

The tree is very old. 

A figure at the edge of the woods.

Horses anticipating a storm. 

One foot in another world. 

Face on the other side of a dark window. 

Driving for many hours through mountains. 

The photograph. 

In search of sea life. 

A blue tin kettle. 

Wanderer on a scorched path. 

It had no eyes. 

Please, let’s go home. 

Small birds, dry grass. 

A hero in the wrong. 

Unearthed bones. 

The sensation of falling as experienced in a dream. 

How far can you carry this?

Conversations with the crows. 

A book infested with ghosts. 

Forgetting why it mattered. 

The protection of laughter. 

Each time we climb the stairs, something changes. 

Wildness on the loose. 

The passage of time as it varies by season. 

Sunlight on rumpled sheets and the smell of pine.

I love you, they said. I love you. 

covered in mist