flax-golden

the light at the edge of the world

I walk to the edge of the world every day at four o’clock in the afternoon. I didn’t always have to leave so early but the terrain keeps getting worse which makes the journey longer.

The pier itself is in terrible shape and the fence is falling apart in the spots where it’s still standing. I have to watch my footing carefully but I haven’t bothered to fix anything yet. I suppose someday I’ll have to, possibly soon, in order to reach the light.

It’s not a proper lighthouse, just a red light on a post at the end of the pier, but it serves its purpose. It marks the edge. Every evening I wind the generator enough to let it glow softly through the night, even though I doubt there’s anyone left to warn.

Old habits.

I always watch the waves roll in for a while before I head back, listening to the sound of the waves as they slowly eat away what’s left of the world.

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

the recondite times, a non-periodical

I painted my front door purple mostly on a whim. I had purple paint (in two different shades) and I figured it was a cheerful sort of color that might help brighten up the winter grey. Not that I spend much time looking at my own front door, but it made sense at the time.

I thought it looked rather nice when I finished and didn’t think much of it until the newspapers started arriving.

They appear on the front steps wrapped in translucent pink plastic, but I never see who delivers them. At least one turns up each day and sometimes I get three or four at a time.

At first I thought it was just a mistake and I dropped them in the recycling without reading them, but then I noticed that they have my name on them so I started reading.

They look more or less like regular newspapers, but the contents are a lot more interesting, and after I read through an entire issue I found the door information, color-coded by subscription.

Apparently my lilac trim accidentally put me on their favored subscriber list.

I know it would be safer to just repaint the door, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

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

tools to build the stars

I’ve used the same set of tools as my father ever since I was little, even though they’re heavy and sharp.

They don’t feel as heavy now, but they’re still sharp.

They were my grandmother’s tools, and her mother’s and grandmother’s before that. After they were my grandmother’s they became my father’s, because she didn’t have a daughter and some people said she should take an apprentice instead but she taught my father because she thought it was silly to only teach girls. Now my father has me, but I think he would have taught me even if I’d been a boy because he tended to agree with grandma about most things except how long to keep his hair.

He lets me try different tools to see which ones work better for me. He says the ones that work best for him might not fit my hands the same way and ones that are perfect for me may be nearly useless for him, though I haven’t found any that work perfectly for me yet.

He calls this trial and error. I call them mistakes, but he says mistakes are how we learn.

That’s why he leaves the not-quite-right stars around the workshop, as reminders, but I think he also does it because they sparkle just as brightly as the proper ones.

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

wisdom for the new year

Only three people per year get to consult the frog, so they have to hold a lottery. People used to try to line up outside his fence before the end of the year but once they started camping out earlier and earlier the city council decided to have a lottery instead.

Everyone submits their name and the council choses three at random and on the last day of the year those lucky three people have their private session with the frog, one at a time in reverse alphabetical order.

I used to get so excited about the choosing of the names, crossing all my crossables that maybe this year would be my chance for frog-bestowed wisdom. But you can only hold out hope with such small odds for so long, and eventually I only put my name in the lottery out of habit.

This year my name was picked.

A reporter came to ask how I felt (“surprised”) and someone else took my photograph and I had to sign non-disclosure forms promising never to reveal what wisdom the frog chose for me and me alone.

I was last, reverse-alphabetically, so I had to wait most of the afternoon, until the sun was preparing for the final sunset of the year, casting long shadows over the frog’s courtyard.

The guards left me alone and the frog stared at me in silence for a very long time, frowning.

Then he told me to stop waiting for permission to be happy.

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

the beginning of the world again

We hang the new worlds on the tree until we need them. We could keep them in drawers or boxes but they look pretty hanging from the branches, especially when it snows.

It’s nice to be able to look at them, too. They’re blue and swirly and round, though the roundness is an illusory construct since in reality they’re shapeless and infinite, but the tree is a construct, too. So is the snow, for that matter.

We make more new worlds all the time, the old ones don’t last more than a few centuries without changing. They need to be refreshed.

Sometimes the inhabitants fret and cry about the end of the world, but they never even notice when we give them a new one.

We suspect it’s better that way.

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

grab the holiday cheer

The sign makes claims of FUN (twice, with exclamation points) but it’s far too stressful to be fun.

The timer starts on a delay: a randomized silent countdown followed by a deafening buzzer.

Once the game starts the lights flicker on and off so quickly that it’s difficult to stay focused on the target.

The exclamation points keep multiplying and I do my best to ignore them.

Something brightly colored with a Santa hat and fake beard keeps laughing maniacally when I miss. I don’t know what it is but I think it’s mocking me.

Every round my migraine gets worse.

It’s so tempting to just give up.

But she really wants the pony.

There’s no other way to get the pony.

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