erin

of boxes and blame

It was the box’s fault. That is, if boxes can be faulted for such things.

And perhaps it was not the box itself to blame as much as the fact that the box was locked.

Which would make it the fault of the lock.

Or more precisely, the fault that it could not unlock itself at will.

Had it been able to perform such a feat, the entire ordeal might well have been avoided.

The bench was the one to suffer, though, left horribly bent and broken.

They can never resist a locked box, even when the locked box is placed on a bench that cannot possibly hold their weight without buckling under the pressure of curious claws.

The box remained intact but traumatized.

No one knows what became of the lock.

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

muses

What are you doing? they ask in earnest, curious unison.

Writing, I reply, answering automatically even though they ask the same question every day and they often sit directly on the typewriter so it should be rather obvious.

Writing what? they chorus with their typical giddiness.

A story.

There should be a bear! one suggests.

No, bears are scary! the other insists.

That’s why they make a good story, the first argues, because scary stories are exciting stories and exciting stories are good stories!

You’re not helping, I tell them, but they don’t listen. They never listen to me.

They argue about bears and relative levels of scariness (digressing into a lengthy debate as to whether dragons could be scarier than bears and who would win in a dragon versus bear situation, including caveats as to age of dragon, type of bear, landscape the fight is taking place on and both competitors psychological motivations) and what makes a story properly good while I continue to type.

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

bridge use restricted

We reach the bridge on the third day, in the late afternoon with the sun just starting to sag into the trees. We are tired and hungry, having eaten the last of the almost-stale scones with honey hours before, and overjoyed to have finally reached our next landmark.

We whoop and shout enough to scare the nearby birds but we fall silent when we notice the sign.

No one warned us of this part, though few had set down this path before and returned to share the particulars. We did not expect the bridge, this fabled bridge we had heard about that seemed solid and eternal in our imaginations, to be so narrow and flimsy and have formally posted restrictions.

“Do Not Run” seems understandable given the rickety construction, but “Limited To Three Pedestrians” gives us pause, leaving us shuffling our formerly eager feet in the dirt with four pairs of eyes refusing to make contact.

We decide, after some debate, that it is likely not an enforceable restriction and we should all cross, but one at a time so that there are never more than three of us at once.

No one wants to be last, just in case, so we break a stick and draw straws and I am only slightly surprised to find the short one in my hand when I open my eyes.

My companions cross slowly, it seems an eternity before the third begins to walk, and when she is almost halfway with the other two safely on the far side and watching nervously, I shift my pack on my shoulders and prepare to step forward.

Before I even lift my foot the bridge has vanished, leaving me standing alone next to another sign that instructs me to continue west to the other bridge, and beneath the sign is a warm honeyed scone.

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