flax-golden

character reading

“Are you sure you really want to know your future?” he asks as I dig through my bag in search of appropriate amounts of loose change for the rather mundane looking machine hanging on the wall.

“No,” I answer honestly. “But I’m curious and it’s cheap.”

“That’s because it’s just a trick to steal your money.”

The coins make a hollow clicking noise as they fall through the machine, followed by something like gears turning though nothing moves, and then a small piece of paper like a faded business card falls into my hand.

Someone close will betray you.

“Well, it won’t be me,” he says, reading over my shoulder.

I flip the card over to see if it has anything else to say.

He is a liar, it tells me. He already has.

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

clandestine coffee

Suburban witches meet in secret. Or as secret as suburbia allows, with its nosy neighbors and their curious, narrow-eyed stares. Jokes are made about broom closets, but it is easier this way.

No Sabbat circles on soccer fields. They turn the wheel of the year in living rooms and basements, under the guise of book clubs or knitting groups. (Though they do have a proper book club that meets on alternate Tuesdays, and several of them knit.)

In October, post-trick-or-treating, when sugar-sated children are tucked in bed, they wander through the veil-thin night in ironically worn pointy hats. Using disguises to be themselves.

Though circles and spells are kept at home, concealed behind closed plastic window blinds.

Punctuated by spice cake and candy, gossip and mugs of coffee.

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

witness to the crime

They took countless precautions, accounted for every possible variation. Everything was meticulously plotted down to the last detail and after that they even waited until the weather was absolutely perfect. Clear and bright, with no wind to carry screams and convenient rain forecasted for the evening to wash any remaining evidence away.

Everything went according to plan, so smoothly that there were jokes made about the ease of the thing, that perhaps they over-planned. There were no mistakes, no missteps. The crime was carried out so quickly that there was not a single scream left hanging in the air by the lack of wind.

Of course, they also thought there were no witnesses, but the pigeon saw everything. No one saw the pigeon, as the pigeon was not an accounted-for variation in the weeks and months of planning.

Pigeons have no loyalties, and they keep no secrets. Before the rain came every bird in the city knew what had happened, their own plans already formulating.

glitter never fades

She was warned, so many times. Cautioned in soft-spoken admonishments and harsh annoyed cries.

It is dangerous to play with such permanent things. Temporary matters make better playthings, providing no long-term damage.

But she was always an impulsive child.

The easily popped soap bubbles held no appeal, nor did water-soluble paints or erasable markers.

Only glitter served her purposes. Shiny, shimmering glitter that sticks and holds and never, ever lets go.

Now she is older and wiser and more conservative in her glitter usage, when she dares use it at all.

It makes one cautious, having a past permanently dusted with sparkling regrets.
 

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

borne back ceaselessly into the past

I chose this hotel because it has author themed rooms, though which author you end up with is a matter of luck. To my delight we end up in the Fitzgerald room. There’s even a worn paperback of The Great Gatsby on the table by the bed, sitting next to a green-glass lamp.

I say something about the green light and he just stares at me.

“What are you talking about?” he asks after the pause has gone on too long.

“Gatsby,” I say, holding up the book.

“Isn’t that one of those boring books they try to force you to read in high school?” he asks. It’s more dismissal than question, he’s already turned his attention to the rest of the room.

“Boats against the current,” I murmur to myself as he tries to figure out the buttons on the television.

It is in this moment that I realize we’re not going to last.

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

journey without a destination

I just needed to get away for a while.

The train wasn’t the cheapest option, or the most expensive for that matter, but it felt like the right choice.

Maybe it sounded romantic.

And it was the only mode of transportation that didn’t require a set destination. I paid the highest listed price at the station and no one asked any questions.

There aren’t that many stops anymore, now that we’re so far from the city. Long stretches of trees line the tracks, the scenery hasn’t changed much.

I keep telling myself I’ll disembark at the stop that feels right.

So far none of them have.

And I can’t help wondering, in the back of my mind, how far the train might take me.

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