flax-golden

the friend factory

It’s the latest craze in dolls, so she simply has to have one.

I can’t really complain, I remember my own rabid Cabbage Patch days.

I told her to think about it, explained over and over that it would have to be her only birthday present but she never even waffled, it was all she wanted.

She carried the catalog around constantly. She even took it to bed with her.

I called six weeks in advance and I still only got an appointment because someone canceled, they said the wait was nearing three months but they tried to give cancellation spot priority to birthdays whenever possible. I joked that people probably lie to get them, then, and they told me I had to send a copy of her birth certificate for verification.

On appointment day, they gave us a tour of the facility before they took her to the lab for testing, explaining the manufacturing process and how “friends” (they never call them “dolls”) are uniquely calibrated and programmed to be exactly what each child needs in a playtime companion.

I thought it was kind of creepy, but she adored every minute. Especially the factory floor with row after row of empty heads.

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

death awaits you all

Most of them stand on the steps in front of the doors for some time before making their decision.

Marking the the obvious differences and missing the subtle ones.

(The bunny is the most obvious difference. The hand-drawn bunny sitting patiently beneath a shining sun, distracting from the fact that the doorknobs do not match, that only one door has a mail slot, that the doors themselves are painted two slightly different shades of black, one glossier than the other.)

Most take their time, but some choose quickly, as though they already knew which door they wanted before they arrived.

There are all kinds of seekers, drawn to the doors for their own private reasons, on their own personal quests.

Businessmen in suits and small children in striped socks.

Bike messengers and conquistadors and leaflet-carrying proselytizers.

But they always choose the bunny door.

And they’re always wrong.

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

a small, solar quest

We went looking for the sun today.

We started early and packed a lunch of fresh baked bread and cheese and apple cakes with honey.

We each brought a thermos full of mint tea.

We wore cloaks of proper colors to alert the wolves that we were only on a temporary errand through their woods and meant them no harm.

We sang songs as we walked and sometimes the birds added layered harmonies. We stopped several times to clear the path of fallen branches and once to give a piece of cake to a squirrel who gave us hazelnuts in exchange.

We saw no evidence that we were on the right path. No hints of warmth or tell-tale light playing over the trees.

Late in the day, the wolves brought us mittens and we shared our tea with them, but they couldn’t offer us any advice.

We were about to give up and go home when we found the sign.

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

shadow angels

Angels lurk in shadows.

Not many people know that.

They like to think that angels hang out on clouds with harps and constant sparkling sunshine bouncing off of their halos.

Sure, a few of them are sun-dwellers, but most angels are sneaky.

They’re hiders by nature. They blend the rustling of their wings with the sounds of nearby pigeons to disguise it.

They wait in shadows and darkness and the bleakness of winter to drop blessings and luck and wonders on passersby.

Preferably the people who think that there are no angels anywhere, in shadows or in sunshine. Those wandering souls who don’t believe in such things.

Because angels like it best when they’re unexpected.

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

sprinkles

A little girl stops at my table, eye level with my bowl of ice cream.

“You don’t have sprinkles,” she observes.

“The sprinkle station was too crowded,” I explain.

“I’ll get you some,” she says. She walks solemnly over to the no-longer-crowded sprinkle station, standing on her toes to peruse the selection.

After thorough consideration, she comes back with two glittering jars: one green and one pink.

“These ones are Happy,” she says, shaking the green jar delicately over my bowl of naked ice cream. “And these ones are Sad,” she says, repeating the gesture with the pink sprinkles, letting them fall like tiny rose petals.

“Thank you,” I say, though I’m not sure what she means.

“When you eat them both together, they taste like memories,” she tells me, before returning both jars to the sprinkle station.

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

ideas

Where do you get your ideas? people ask, as though they want the address of a store where they can buy Ideas in bulk, wrapped in plastic for durability.

With “IDEAS!” in eye-catching lettering on the package and a 40% discount.

But as far as I know, there is no such store.

So the inquirers are always disappointed by my response.

And truly, I don’t get my ideas anywhere. They find me.

They sneak in through windows and wait for me on street corners.

They hide at the bottoms of teacups and in between glasses of wine.

They harass me in the moments before sleep, curling up on my pillow like demanding cats and whispering in my ears.

They grow like weeds in my head and there is no escaping them.

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