flax-golden

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.

warning sign

There was indeed a warning sign, as people mentioned repeatedly after the fact.

In her defense, it was difficult to read.

The sign had once been clear and foreboding, though perhaps over the years it tired of its assertive manner and as fewer and fewer people passed by to read it stopped trying so hard.

And perhaps it is only a coincidence of erosion that the letters spelling out the key word “not” were the first to fade, leaving “do” and “drink” and “this” and “water” mostly legible.

(If it was a purposeful deceit, the sign will not confess.)

But whether she followed the legible instructions instead of the original posted warning or simply didn’t notice the sign at all and drank to quench a thirst, she can no longer say.

Her own voice is gone, vanished as soon as the water–clearer and crisper than any she had tasted before–touched her tongue.

Now her head is filled with thousands of other voices whispering secrets and confessions, answers to unsolved mysteries and long-lost truths since replaced by lies.

The authorities (likely the same ones who posted the sign so long ago) put her in a locked room while they decide what to do with her.

She continues to clearly indicate that she would like a pen, but they are all too afraid of what she might write.

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

relics

My grandmother started the collection but my father kept adding to it once he inherited. He’s already explained the key rule to me in case I want to continue it myself someday: they have to have been used.

There are antique hand-painted porcelain ones and cheap plastic versions with muddied features. Some are exaggerated cutesy cartoons while others are properly proportioned with highly detailed suits and gowns. Tiny top hats. Minuscule lace.

A few have traces of long-dried frosting clinging to hems or dusting shoes like sugar snow.

I wonder what each pair’s wedding was like. What they saw through unblinking eyes before being taken down from their tiered cake watchtowers.

I know realistically it’s unlikely that each miniature couple’s life-sized counterparts lived happily ever after, but I hope that they did.

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

do-it-yourself centerpieces

I worry that they won’t get it.

I half-heartedly ask if maybe we should include instructions but everyone frowns.

But I’m relieved when the consensus is no.

And still a teensy bit concerned that they won’t know what to do.

Or worse, that they will find it silly.

We place the bouquets of white flowers at the center of each white-covered table.

We make sure the crayons are close enough to the flowers to be clearly connected.

When the guests arrive there are whispered questions and curious glances that are soon are replaced with thoughtful color choosing and tentative experimenting.

The delighted laughter follows.

Before long blooms burst with color on every table.

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

i have heard the mermaids singing 

My sister says it must be mermaids, but I don’t think the stream is deep enough for mermaids.

We get in an argument about how much water mermaids need and decide it depends on how they breathe and we agree they must at least be able to breathe air sometimes because if they couldn’t they wouldn’t be able to sing and we both agree that the mermaids sing.

We don’t agree about the rocks, though. I still say mermaids wouldn’t flop around our shallow stream just to build little towers of rocks but when she demands another explanation I don’t have one.

After a thorough investigation during which we accidentally knock one of the towers over we decide that mermaids must be nocturnal since the rocks were stacked overnight.

We ask if we can camp in the backyard and dad asks why and I don’t have a good non-mermaid answer but my sister says we want to commune with nature and he laughs but says it’s okay and we can come inside if we get tired of communing or if there are too many bugs.

The moon is bright enough to see fine from the yard but we put the tent in the shadows of a tree so the mermaids won’t be able to see us from the water and we take turns checking from the shore to make sure it’s properly camouflaged.

While we wait in the dark we whisper about what the rock towers might be for because we didn’t discuss that earlier and we decide they might be for directions, like a mermaid map signaling system.

We wait and wait and wait and nothing happens and my eyelids get heavy but I don’t realize I’m mostly asleep until my sister shakes me to get my attention.

She covers my mouth to shush me before I say anything and points to the water where a hand is reaching up from the dark surface and slowly re-stacking the rocks we knocked over and then I can hear the singing.

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