flax-golden

the horse collector

The horse collector lives at the end of the street. He only pulls the curtains back on Tuesdays, from half-past seven in the morning until half-past four in the afternoon.

The horses in the windows are different each week. Different colors, different poses, different sizes.

It’s been going on for years. As far as anyone can tell, each horse displayed has never been displayed before, and after its particular Tuesday, it will not be displayed again.

Sometimes the neighbors wait outside on the street to see them when the curtain opens, pretending that they just happen to be there, walking dogs or out for the morning paper, pausing in front of the horse collector’s house, terribly interested in the overgrown hedge or the cracks in the sidewalk. They don’t often talk to each other, as if they are embarrassed to admit that they are out on the street so early on a Tuesday, waiting for such a silly thing.

The day the rocking horse appeared in the window, one of the waiting neighbors couldn’t help but giggle, and another smiled back, and they discussed the horses for awhile.

Somewhere during the conversation, they realized that no one had ever seen the horse collector himself.

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

overgrown

I tried cutting them back at first. I broke three pairs of garden shears before I gave up. I didn’t even know I had three pairs of garden shears.

Every vine that I cut grew back, sometimes splitting into two or three or more, curling around chairs and tables and up the walls. Leaves sprouted back instantly, bigger and brighter and greener than the ones I’d managed to rip off.

The ones near the floor are too thick to cut with anything. The thinner ones are so high now that I can’t reach them, not even standing on what’s left of the couch.

By last night I couldn’t find the door.

This afternoon the electricity went out.

At the rate they’re growing, I’m guessing the skylight will be covered before dark.

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

tiny love letter

You can say anything with a Post-It.

I’m not entirely sure why that is.

Maybe the friendliness of the squares makes it easier. A square is nicely compact and less intimidating than a full page.

And they come in cheerful colors. Non-white paper is kind of inherently festive.

Or maybe paper that sticks feels more important than paper that can blow away.

(Though you can move them, if you need to put them somewhere else.)

They might not be as lasting as words carved in stone, but Post-It thoughts will stay.

For awhile, at least.

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

restoration

My dad collects and restores these vintage machines, like a hobby. Maybe machine is the wrong word, they’re like, weird geeky contraptions you find outside supermarkets and at tourist attractions, gumball machines and those ones that squash pennies into miniature pictures of historical landmarks or whatever.

I can never tell what he does to change them, even though I’ve sat and watched him dismantle dozens of the things and then, um, remantle them again. He doesn’t add anything, not that I’ve seen.

But they’re all different once they’re working again. One of the gumball machines gives solid gold gumballs now. They’re rainbow at the top in the fishbowl-looking part, but the one that drops down after you put in your quarter is always solid, unchewable gold.

Gold gumballs I can deal with, but the latest penny-squashing thing takes your nice, normal penny and squashes it down into a printed copper oval that describes how you’re going to die.

I thought it was a joke until last week. Now I’m worried.

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

poppets

You don’t get to choose your poppet. Some people like to say your poppet chooses you, but that’s silly. They’re just dolls, after all.

Matches between poppet and person are made by chance, not choice. You receive the poppet that you’re meant to have, because there are no other options.

Poppets are often returned. This is not what I expected, unsatisfied poppet recipients complain before they depart again, poppet-less.

But most are accepted gratefully, brought to their respective new homes and treated kindly. Given places to sit and kept away from dogs.

Happy poppets are the most effective.

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