erin's emporium of discount dreams & well-worn wonders

preamble to an unwritten fairy tale

She buys the rose from a traveling merchant selling all manner of wares, likely plundered from pirates or stolen from other more reputable merchants. A twitchy sort of man, glancing nervously over his shoulders and ready to pack up his cart at any moment.

Normally, she would not do business with such a seller, but the rose itself is irresistible.

Not a real rose. A contraption of softest fabric and gears that blooms with a twirl of the hand and closes back in on itself with another twirl, moving from bud to blossom and back again.

But its scent is that of a perfect, garden-fresh rose, real and rich and deep.

She spends her last coins on it, though it is a foolish, unnecessary purchase.

She twirls it as she walks, smiling as the petals close and unfurl.

Not yet knowing that the rose’s proper owner wants it back, and has the means to track it down.

Eventually, there will be a love story, but that is a tale for another time.

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

technicolor enlightenment

We always drive without a destination. Destinations are overrated.

The most interesting places are never found on purpose.

Or they don’t seem interesting unless they’re unexpected.

Decaying mini-golf courses. Laundromats. 24-hour diners that consent to grilling bagels.

Mundanities in daytime made mystical by moonlight and neon.

As we search for technicolor enlightenment at 3am.

Wondering if we’ll remember it in the morning should we find it.

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

maxfield parrish sky

She asked me if you could take the train to heaven, because that’s where it looked like the tracks were going. Disappearing into the horizon below a Maxfield Parrish sky.

When I was her age, I thought you could reach the sky if you walked far enough.

That somewhere there was an edge to step off, into the clouds.

I think I tried, once or twice, walking until I was too tired or bored to continue.

Those Maxfield Parrish skies were always the most tempting, the ones that caught the light just right so they looked like so much more than clouds and sky and sun.

No, I told her. The train stays on the tracks.

How do you get to heaven, then? she asked, staring at the clouds.

I didn’t know what to say.

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

tiny cathedrals

I will build tiny cathedrals in your name.

Constructing each by hand to be certain that their foundations are sound.

Time may weather them.

It will not matter.

If one falls, I will build another to replace it.

And another and another and another.

At night, I will illuminate them so they may shine like beacons in the darkness.

I shall write you hymns and sing your praises to the leaves, so they can remember.

And carry the thought of you within their veins.

They will spread like gospel when the autumn winds come.

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

mightier than the sword

There is a movement happening, a quiet one.

A low-profile, low-resolution revolution.

Comprised of writers and dreamers, of guerrilla artists and thought-ninjas.

Those with something to say.

They communicate through text inscribed on true public spaces, rather than blogs and forums.

Choosing fewer words, even without being bound by 140 character limits.

Using ink instead of pixels.

Sending messages in living, breathing space.

Pens scream louder into the void.

Even if permanent ink is not aptly named.

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

back in the day

My grandmother tells me stories about the way things were when she was young.

Mostly they’re about all the things that I have that she didn’t have, or how things were different. How big the computers were and how phones had wires.

Sometimes she tells stories that her grandmother told her.

Her grandmother lived in a house with a yard. A yard is like a private park, I think.

I wonder what these things looked like, sometimes. I’ve seen pictures, but they’re not the same. I wonder what it would be like to look out a window and see poles and wires that connect conversations.

To see the sunset and the clouds.

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

strength in numbers

The first day there was one paper robot and my little brother said it was an invasion.

I told him one paper robot doesn’t count as a whole invasion. There would have to be like, three, at least, to be an invasion.

The next day there were three paper robots.

“I told you it was an invasion,” he said.

The day after that there were at least a dozen of them, and the day after that there were hundreds.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of little paper robots in all sorts of colors, in different boxy paper shapes, spread out over the sidewalk and the street, covering the subway platform while we waited for the train.

People just ignored them, walking right on them like they were left over confetti from New Year’s or something.

“They shouldn’t do that,” my little brother said. “They’re going to make them mad.”

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

game of chance

Pick a duck, any duck.

But first, you have to close your eyes.

The colors matter, but don’t bother trying to remember which ducks are which color. They spin the bowl as soon as your eyes are shut.

They all feel the same, so you won’t know what color duck you’ve chosen until you open your eyes, and there aren’t second duck-picking chances.

(Some of the blue ones aren’t actually blue, by the way.)

And it looks like there’s a decent percentage of yellow ducks, but hardly anyone ever gets a yellow one, which is too bad.

Really, you’re pretty safe unless you get a pink one.

Then, well…

Pick a duck, any duck.

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

the horse collector

The horse collector lives at the end of the street. He only pulls the curtains back on Tuesdays, from half-past seven in the morning until half-past four in the afternoon.

The horses in the windows are different each week. Different colors, different poses, different sizes.

It’s been going on for years. As far as anyone can tell, each horse displayed has never been displayed before, and after its particular Tuesday, it will not be displayed again.

Sometimes the neighbors wait outside on the street to see them when the curtain opens, pretending that they just happen to be there, walking dogs or out for the morning paper, pausing in front of the horse collector’s house, terribly interested in the overgrown hedge or the cracks in the sidewalk. They don’t often talk to each other, as if they are embarrassed to admit that they are out on the street so early on a Tuesday, waiting for such a silly thing.

The day the rocking horse appeared in the window, one of the waiting neighbors couldn’t help but giggle, and another smiled back, and they discussed the horses for awhile.

Somewhere during the conversation, they realized that no one had ever seen the horse collector himself.

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