The fishbowl sat on the notebook. The notebook sat on Charlie’s dresser. Above Charlie’s dresser, mounted on the wall, was a mirror, a big one, big enough that from where he was standing, Alistair could see a reflection of the upper half of his body. The fishbowl, filled with water almost to its cracked rim, was lined up with his torso. In the mirror there was an optical illusion at work. The fishbowl was his heart. It was his stomach. It was his guts, complicated and essential.
He tipped the bowl and pulled the notebook out from underneath it. He examined the cover:
GODS OF NOWHERE
It was the title to a collection of tales, each tale more disturbing than the one that came before it. They told of kids who’d created worlds in Aquavania, kids whose souls had been stolen, kids whose worlds had been captured. There appeared to be no end to it all. There were more souls to steal, more worlds to capture. These tales were a work in progress.