flax-golden

not in narnia anymore

They kept saying that it would stop, making predictions based on patterns in the wind and unseen stars and archaic interpretations of the behaviors of woodland creatures.

Just a few more weeks, they said. Months ago.

This storm shall be the last, they said.

And then there was another, and another.

And another.

The branches are breaking from the weight.

I keep looking for a lamppost, but I can’t tell east from west without the sun anymore, so I don’t know if landmarks would help.

Even the horizon disappears into the snow.

And there’s nothing in the endless cold to point me home.

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

friends for hedgehogs

I made you a hedgie friend! she says, handing me a spiky, beady-eyed ball of some sort of bark and artfully composed twig slices.

Thanks, I say, putting him down on my desk. I turn him so he faces the printer, but he still looks like he’s staring at me with those glossy little eyes.

I already have a hedgehog, I tell her when she brings me another the next day, attempting to give back the almost identical… thing.

That one needs a friend for when you’re not around, she says. They get lonely.

The day after that, there’s a third one on my desk, sitting alongside the other two.

The next day there are six.

No matter how I arrange them, they’re always staring at me with those unblinking eyes.

They look like they’re plotting something.

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

implements

I made the keys first. They were easier. Then each one needed a keyhole and escutcheon and set of doorknobs or handles to match, ranging from simple to ornate.

Victorian and Art Deco and others of my own stylistic invention.

Each one unique.

Each one correlating to a different place.

A different time.

Made to unlock and open into their own worlds.

I could go anywhere.

If I had a door.

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

the short, sad life of a faceless snowman

He wasn’t leaning when they built him.

(Is it presumptuous to assume all snowmen are male?)

Anyway, he stood up pretty well those first few days. He would have looked almost impressive if the snow had been proper white marshmallow-colored fluff instead of dirty grey parking lot snow.

He started to lean yesterday. He probably would have toppled completely if the tree wasn’t there.

He wasn’t a particularly cheerful snowman to begin with, he never even had a carrot nose or anything, but now he just seems sad.

I suppose anyone would be sad, to have such a cold, temporary life.

Sooner or later he’ll melt.

I think he’ll welcome it.

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

attendants

No one told them that their jobs were finished. They were never properly dismissed or let go.

Informed that their necessity had waned.

They continued to attend. Even after temples were shut and shrines dismantled.

Always faithful, always devoted.

Incapable of being anything less.

Now they sit in corners of musty shops.

Paint peeling and gathering dust.

Collecting offerings for forgotten gods.

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

frames for nature

Nature doesn’t need frames, I say, but she insists on finding them anyway. Running around like a cameraless photographer as she composes each shot. Leaving to find another when she’s satisfied.

I ask her why, not really expecting an answer.

It’s too much to look at all at once, she says.

Maybe she’s right.

Maybe it’s better to have tastes of it, a narrower focus.

I do it myself now, too. Finding lines of bare trees and glimpses of blue sky.

Nicely contained within decorative arches.

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