erin

the last sunflower

They put a fence around the sunflower because it was the last one.

The point, I think, was to protect it so eventually there would be more sunflowers and when there were enough they would remove the fence but it’s been years now and there’s still only the one sunflower.

It blooms every year. It looked up at the sun back when there were still sunny days which I remember but my sister doesn’t and sometimes she says she doesn’t believe me. But she’s skeptical about the sun in general because she’s only seen it in old photographs and it doesn’t really look the same in photographs as it did, or at least not the way I remember it did.

(My sister says the sunflower should have a different name now that there’s no sun even though I’ve explained many, many times that the sun is there somewhere and we just can’t see it.)

She comes with me to keep the sunflower company so it won’t feel too lonely. We watch it through the fence and sing songs to entertain it and once we brought a lamp but the sunflower wouldn’t turn to look at it, I think it knew it wasn’t real sunshine.

The sunflower always just stares straight ahead and sometimes down.

We haven’t figured out how to cheer it up yet.

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

watchdragon

At first I thought it was a dog—a Pug, maybe—but now I’m pretty sure it’s a dragon.

I tried asking when it first appeared by the gate but it doesn’t talk, it only growls and coughs.

Every third cough or so results in a puff of dark smoke and once in a while the smoke is accompanied by actual flame, so it’s probably a dragon.

A very small dragon.

I invited it inside but it prefers to stay by the gate. I tried giving it water but it wouldn’t drink it, after a great deal of trial and error I discovered it will only drink dark roast coffee spiked with whiskey. I bring it a bowl full every morning, but I haven’t found anything it will eat yet.

I don’t think it sleeps. It paces all night.

Like it’s waiting for something.

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

dirty laundry

I let my laundry pile up for two weeks before I finally relented and took it to a laundromat, after leaving yet another message for the landlord about the constantly out-of-order machines in the building basement.

I had to look up the nearest laundromat and when I reached the address it wasn’t a laundromat any more, it had been converted to a hat store that still smelled a bit like soap but the hat guy told me how to get to this other laundry place that looks like it’s been here forever even though everything is really bright and shiny.

The machines are all modern and fancy and I can’t figure out where the coin slots are but there’s a lady with bluish-grey hair and cat-eye glasses reading Dostoyevsky behind a counter so I ask her how the machines work and she asks me what it is that I want to wash.

I look down at my bag of laundry and then back up at the lady. Her hair is so grey-blue it’s almost purple.

“Clothes?” I say, and her smile switches to something that looks condescending and pitying at the same time.

“You want the ones behind the blue line,” she says, using Crime and Punishment to gesture in the direction of the line of colored tiles between the rows of machines.

“What do the ones behind the yellow line wash, then?” I ask, pointing at the identical row of machines along the wall.

“Pasts,” she says. “Except for the ones down the end, those are just for sins.”

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