In the traditions I was raised in, dedicated storytellers were always off under some psychic hill, up to their knees in story dust, brushing away centuries of dirt, digging under overlays of culture and conquests, numbering every frieze and fresco of story they could find. Sometimes a story has been reduced to powder, sometimes portions and details are missing or rubbed out, often the form is intact but the colouring is destroyed. But even so, every dig holds hope for finding an entire body of story intact and unbroken.
— From Women Who Run With the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes
So they waited until a portcullis of slate blue cloud hung in the west, ready to fall, and then they walked out together. All raspberry and apricot, blueberry and vanilla, the sky melted softly in soda fountain colours over the city, a huddle of roofs, chimneys, spires and bone-white skyscrapers winking their windows redly on the sunset side, and the sweetness drawn from the green fields on the horizon hung in the warm air.
— Angela Carter, Shadow Dance