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the sheep know all your secrets

“They seem expensive,” I said to the pink-haired girl running the booth who looked like she should be somewhere other than a craft show, or at least selling something more punk than small fuzzy sheep.

“They’re actually on sale today,” she told me. “Normally they’re thirteen but I knocked them down to nine since it’s the last day and there are so many left.”

“Still seems high for a sheep that doesn’t do anything.”

“Oh, they do something,” she said, half-giggling and tucking her hair behind her ear while she leaned closer to explain. “Each sheep knows a secret, that’s why I have to paint each mouth with a little x, so they won’t tell until after they’re paid for.”

“What kind of secrets?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure she was either joking or flirting with me or both.

“Some of them know those deep dark past secrets you think no one else knows and others know future stuff like the name of your one true love or the day of the month your life will change, things like that but each one is different.”

I bought six sheep including the one that was staring at me because I only had enough cash for six and I still thought she was just flirting with me since she tucked her pink hair behind her ear three different times while she was wrapping them, but she turned me down when I asked if she wanted to get a cup of coffee or something.

Once I got home and figured out how to get the sheep to tell me their secrets, I wished I’d bought more of them.

 

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

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