erin

still waiting for prince charming

I found a princess in the woods.

I was pretty sure she was dead, but she’s asleep. She looks dead, with wrong-colored clammy-slimy skin and a decaying gown, but she has a pulse. It’s faint, but it’s definitely a pulse.

I know the proper thing to do in such situations is to wake her with a kiss and I don’t want to, her lips are covered in dirt and moss and she looks like she’s been out here for a good long time. There are bugs in her shoes. She’s clearly been rained on. Her hands were probably folded at some point but one arm has fallen to the side and the fingers are mostly buried in the mud.

I shook her and yelled but that didn’t work, not that I expected it to. I could try to drag her out of the woods, but she’s heavy.

I should probably just call the police.

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

poor unlucky lucy

When Lucy died—at that precise moment—everything changed.

She used to say she was just a k away from lucky, that was always the joke though all things considered it wasn’t particularly funny. No one ever wanted to point out that what she really meant she was unlucky.

I had a three AM conversation at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey with someone who told me in a whisper her theory that Lucy’s death unleashed all that unluck out on the rest of us again. It sounded reasonable at the time but questionable in the hungover morning light.

Other people say she’s a classic vengeful spirit, bitter and annoyed by her passing to the point of harassing the living about it out of spite.

It probably doesn’t matter what the cause is, though, since there doesn’t appear to be a solution.

We leave her notes and pearls and almond cakes, but nothing works.

There’s talk about needing larger sacrifices. It must be done, they say, but so far no one has volunteered.

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

written in the leaves

Leaf reading is a skill not easily learned, as there is such a limited time to practice it each year. It is a temporary thing. Glimpses of image and pattern carefully translated into meaning.

Traditionally it is taught, passed down from reader to student through years of autumns spent in intense instruction, calling attention to the variety of the leaf, the level of decay, the size and shape of each void and the way their meanings impact each other. All layered over to form their messages, their last cries to the world before the wind takes them away with a sound like mice scampering across the pavement.

But now the students, when there are any students, do not have the patience for it, becoming frustrated with the wind rather than working with it, easily distracted by less arcane methods of communication.

Their instructors try each year with slowly diminishing effort, but the teaching time is fleeting. The patterns stay for only moments before they are lost, messages in brief whispers that require straining and concentration to hear.

Every year there are fewer teachers, and even fewer students barely receiving passing grades.

Another language almost lost.

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