"I want more Coraline stories," I whined when the movie ended.

"There is no more," the Palinode said.

"But there should be more."

"Okay then. She grows up."

"No."

"And she gets knocked up when she's seventeen."

"Stop it," I protested. I never think to step out of these stupid conversations.

"Yep. And she marries the guy. It's Whybe."

"No. Uh-uh."

"Yep. And he owns a car dealership."

"That's depressing." I don't know why I've always thought that owning a car dealership is depressing, but there it is. "She can't have the same lame life that everyone else has."

"She doesn't, because she kills him."

"What?! Why?"

"I don't know. She probably found him irritating."


I would still want more Coraline stories, even if she did turn out to be a murderous single mother who inherited a car dealership. Mr. Gaiman, can you help a person out?

Labels: the conversations