flax-golden

lament of the wooden dragon

It is a terrible thing, to ache to destroy oneself.

And with it comes the constant struggle between destructive desire and the instinct of self-preservation.

Alas, there cannot be breathing without burning.

And it is so difficult to resist.

It is in a dragon’s nature to breathe in flame.

Regardless of the technicalities.

Not even a dragon can hold its breath forever.

Breath that is life and death tied together in fire-air.

When they finally give in, it is bliss, it is perfection, and it is still terrible.

As the flames consume them, each wooden dragon loses itself forever, smoldering in phoenix dreams.

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

fragile vessels with invisible contents

It wasn’t a very difficult technique to learn, though it took a lot of practice. And also some trial and error and a very soapy sofa before I figured out that practicing outside made for easier failure cleanup.

There’s a trick to it, beyond getting the size right or launching them so the wind helps with the carrying.

I should have realized it sooner, but it’s almost counterintuitive.

You would think that the contents would have to be lighter than the bubble by necessity, but that’s not the way it works.

The vessels are fragile, but the wishes inside them need to be strong.

Strong wishes are heavy things.

But the stronger the wish, the longer they’ll stay afloat. Halfhearted, wistful wishes pop almost immediately.

A heavy wish, properly supported and contained, can float long enough to come true.

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

the magic number

Math has never been my strong suit, but I do love numbers individually when they don’t require addition or subtraction or complex calculations. When they can just be what they are and not change.

When I learned them in school I gave them all personalities. 4 was the peacemaker. 6 had an attitude problem.

3 was always my favorite.

Partially because of the shape, the way it looks like a backwards E, but mostly for the things it evokes.

Trios of bears and little pigs and Shakespearean witches.

Third-time charms and trilogies and trinities and past, present, future.

It is the magic number, after all.

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

sunken ships & siren songs

They say the sea is filled with nothing but claw-snapping creatures and danger. That it should be avoided at all costs, that it is something to fear.

I can’t be certain, but I think they’re wrong. I have glimpsed gardens of coral through rippling waves, explored stately sunken ships in half-remembered dreams with seaweed tangled in my hair.

Even when I’m awake I hear the siren songs that no one else can discern, their ears too full of air to interpret the water sounds.

They tease me when I try to explain. Joke that my long-dead mother must have been a mermaid. Sometimes I wonder if it’s true.

I sit alone on the forbidden shore, drowning my longing in salt-tinged wine and listening to the songs in the waves as they fall against the rocks, begging me to come home.

Wishing I could drink myself to the bottom of the sea where I belong.

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

precarious

There are more birds who cannot fly than you might expect. And those who simply choose not to, for their own personal reasons.

Grounded by choice or broken wings or lousy magnetoception.

Though only occasionally is such a phenomena based on fear of heights.

So many flightless birds still climb to tops of buildings or trees, sit happily on electrical wires or water towers.

The perches are sometimes precarious.

But they always have the best views.

And even broken-wing birds are able to see for miles.

Observing astounding sights in feather-ruffling breezes.

Closer to the clouds.

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

hotel story

It used to be the kind of place that bubbled with stories to the point of overflowing.

Guests could hardly keep up with the gossip.

Every night another happening.

Another scandal.

The things the walls in Room 419 might say if they could talk.

(The walls on the fourth floor are mute, a quality coveted by certain guests, though the light fixtures have been known to whisper.)

But that was back in the day, or the night, rather, it was always more story-filled at night.

Most of the rooms are empty now.

Storyless.

Waiting impatiently for new ones.

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