flax-golden

broken-wing butterfly

I worry hope will crush me, the way love has so many times before.

Are they so different, hope and love? O & E in the same place, half of the other in each word.

Both swimming in unknowns.

I’ve been through the big changes. These ones should seem easier in comparison, I should be more prepared, but they don’t and I’m not.

Sometimes I feel like a broken-wing butterfly, clinging to a window screen.

Afraid to let go. Afraid to stay.

Wondering how much wing is enough to fly.

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

the happiness store

The Happiness Store does not have a permanent location. It travels from place to place on wheels, like an extremely large ice cream truck.

(Ice cream is not available at The Happiness Store.)

When it arrives, it sets itself down and with the wheels folded up into its foundation it appears as steady and solid as any brick and mortar store, though it is one that can and will depart at any time.

The thing that sometimes catches customers by surprise is that everything inside the store is wrapped. The contents of the shelves and displays are meticulously covered in paper or sealed in opaque bags.

Nothing may be opened until it has been paid for.

There are no refunds or exchanges, and nothing ever goes on sale.

But free samples are available (one per customer), in tiny boxes tied with ribbon.

Though the management recommends that such samples be passed along to others, to those who are unable to visit The Happiness Store themselves.

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

polar

I was three when I fell in the polar bear pool at the zoo.

My parents say it’s a miracle that I didn’t drown.

Always that I didn’t drown. Not that I didn’t get eaten by the polar bear. Maybe they don’t like to consider that possibility.

I don’t remember much of it. I’m not even sure how I managed to fall in, and everyone else’s recollections of the actual air-to-water transition vary.

I remember how bright and blue the water was.

I remember how desperately I wanted the polar bear to be friends with me.

Sometimes in my dreams I am back in that impossibly blue water, and sometimes it feels like home.

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

enjoy your stay

The Hotel is a place that is stumbled upon, often unexpectedly, by anyone who is in need of a stay.

There is already a reservation in their name at the desk.

A suite awaits with wrapped chocolates poised precariously on perfectly fluffed pillows.

Room service brings anything a guest might desire, completely free of charge.

(And they do mean anything.)

The light in the hallways is soft and pleasing to the eye, no harsh fluorescents casting twitching shadows.

The entire Hotel, from the lobby to the penthouse, is glowing and serene.

It is an oasis from the outside world. A respite in which anything can be accomplished.

And still, guests spend most of their time in the bar.

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

this is not twue wuv

You send me all these roses.

Every time I think the last bouquet has arrived, finally, another turns up.

I’m running out of vases.

I didn’t know roses came in so many colors.

You say they’re the perfect symbols of love because they have thorns and love is pain.

I say life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.

And you don’t get it.

You say you love me, but you don’t speak my language.

You don’t even realize I’m an orchid girl.

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

backyard uprising

I help the guy next door with his garden sometimes. He gives me a few dollars a week to keep the flowers watered and stuff like that. I offered to trim the hedge but he says he likes to keep it like that to camouflage his workshop.

He builds these, I don’t know, robot-looking things like the Tin Man from OZ in there. Some of them turn their heads or wave their arms, and when they move they make this really horrible squeaking sound.

The first time I saw the inside of the workshop I was surprised I hadn’t heard the noise before, but he plays really loud classical music and that mostly drowns it out.

The music stopped this morning.

And then the robot things started walking.

Luckily, they’re kind of slow.

I locked the door, but the squeaking is getting closer.

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