erin

a room of your own

I built you a hideaway.

Well, fixed more than built since it was already there, but it’s for you. I hope you like it.

I suppose it’s like a room of your own only it’s a room in a tree.

I have asked the squirrels not to bother you, but squirrels are not good listeners so I apologize in advance if they prove disruptive. They can be distracted with nuts or pieces of string, I’m not sure why they like string but they do.

There’s also a flag that used to be yellow but has faded in the sun to a color like butter but you can still use it, you just string it up on the roof when you want company.

(The squirrels do not seem to care about the string with the flag for some reason.)

So now you can have your alone-with-squirrels space and leafy quiet to work or read or dream in.

And if you put the butter-colored flag outside and I see it through the trees I shall come to visit you and I shall bring tea.

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

a time machine is not a clock

Everyone thought it was a clock, but everyone was wrong.

It had numbers, large ones of the Roman variety arranged in a circular fashion which gave it a clock-like impression, but it had no hands, a fact no one noticed until it was fully assembled.

It arrived in pieces without instructions.

It stayed in pieces for quite some time before someone suggested putting it together.

After the layer of dust was removed it did not take as much time as anyone expected to restore it to working order, and they wondered afterwards why they had let it sit abandoned so long.

(Truly, it had been there for such a time that no one could recall where it came from.)

The lights seemed decorative in their excess: scrolled sconces with delicately paneled glass shades, though each lamp was in fact vital to proper function and calibration.

The most difficult part was aligning the lights with their proper astrological symbols, as the lamps were not labeled but would not illuminate unless they were mounted near compatible signs.

Once all the lights were happily aglow and the missing hands were noticed they stared at it in mild confusion and annoyance at the refusal of what they thought was a clock to tell the time.

It was quite a while before someone realized that the square in the center was a door.

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

dangerous games

They play games of chance when the boredom sets in.

The boredom comes often, settling like heavy fog over seemingly endless time.

So they play.

There are complex systems and penalties but rarely rules, and if they do add rules for the sake of variety those rules are often broken.

Not that any rules matter much to them, since they do not wager anything they hold particularly dear.

They risk only the possessions of others. Dreams and wishes, accomplishments and hopes and treasured memories.

If they become what they consider extra bored, the stakes are raised. Wagering fears and loves, trumped only by souls or lives.

There is but a single firm guideline: they never choose their victims, the choosing is always left to the dice.

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