The first time Wilson saw them was when he opened the
medicine cabinet one groggy morning in search of aspirin and his
toothbrush. Between the familiar can of shaving cream and the plastic
tumbler that held his toothbrush, lying on his crushed and twisted tube
of toothpaste as if it were a luxurious pillow, were two tiny people.
They were no bigger than his thumb, and a little pinker, lounging in a
tangle of spindly limbs. One of them lifted its head from the
toothpaste and he slammed the door shut.
The Oologist’s Cabinet, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet #20, June 2007
It was a mahogany chest almost as tall as me, with
intricate scenes of birds in flight and willow trees sighing beside
winding rivers inlaid in teak and ivory. When the doors swung open and
folded back against its sides, they revealed a warren of drawers and
slots and yet more doors, many with yellowing index cards affixed to
them behind gold-colored plates.