flax-golden

mr. buggy bear

My little sister has this bear, this really grumpy looking teddy bear that she pushes around in an ancient baby carriage she found at a yard sale. She calls him Mr. Buggy Bear, even though I’m pretty sure she had the bear before she had the buggy to push him in, but whatever.

I had this really lousy day the other day and she insisted that I push Mr. Buggy Bear around. She said it would make me feel better.

Normally I wouldn’t be caught dead pushing a teddy bear around in a baby carriage, but we were in the backyard and no one was around and she seriously never lets anyone touch the bear or the carriage, ever.

So I pushed Mr. Buggy Bear around the backyard in circles while she sat and made daisy chains.

I don’t know how long I pushed him for; I kind of lost track of time.

When it got dark she put a daisy chain on my head and said Mr. Buggy Bear had to go to sleep and then she pushed him into the garage.

And you know, I really did feel better after pushing that creepy bear around. Weird.

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

the oracle tower

The oracle tower sits in an otherwise empty field, a looming monolith of wood and metal and whatever else oracle towers are made from.

It doesn’t move unless it’s being consulted, or it happens to be a particularly windy day.

People come from all around to consult the oracle tower. For guidance or instructions. For something to point them in the right direction.

As far as I can tell the oracle tower doesn’t actually do anything. Sometimes the arrows spin around or the sunlight reflects off the hubcaps in a sparkly sort of way, but that’s pretty much it.

Some people stand and stare at it for hours, inspecting it from every angle. Others only remain in the field for a few minutes.

But everyone seems satisfied when they leave.

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

perpetual teatime

My grandmother is a bit on the eccentric side. My father always says it’s because she has too much money, but he gets weird about money things so I’m not really sure that’s it.

I love to visit her house. When I was younger I’d play for hours in the backyard. In the garden there’s this table set for tea but everything is bronze, cups and books and teapot and even the tablecloth. When it rains the cups fill with rainwater and I remember it looked almost like tea to my younger self. I think I tried to drink it once, with some difficulty considering the cups don’t come up from the table.

I asked her about it recently, having gotten old enough to wonder where the table and its contents came from instead of just accepting it as it was. She told me that once it was a regular table and she and my grandfather would sit there and read with their tea every afternoon. After he died she couldn’t bear clearing it away and she hired someone to cover the whole thing in bronze, so their last teatime would stay there, always.

When I visit now I leave roses in the teacups.

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

sentinels

At first there were complaints about the noise. Not that anyone knows what the noise is, precisely, even though it is rather loud. Whatever it is inside the building, echoing and humming and clicking, remains a mystery.

The bits that spill out onto the surrounding lot are made of stone and glass and wood, pieces without any easily discernible function, sitting quietly while the echoing hum rumbles continuously on.

After a bunch of kids threw stones at the glass the noise stopped for about a day.

The next morning the odd-shaped glass bits that had been shattered were intact again and the eagles were there, keeping watch.

The stone throwing stopped. Everything stopped, really. The graffiti, the robberies, any sort of crime within several blocks just stopped that day and so far it hasn’t started up again.

No one complains about the noise anymore.

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

heart-shaped cage

Sting told me if I love somebody I should set them free.

I doubt Sting ever loved anyone with wings. If he did he might rethink such a stupid sentiment.

I suppose the point is to wait for your love to come back to you voluntarily.

I wonder if there’s a difference between setting something free and letting it go?

I probably did it wrong.

I should stop taking advice from my radio.

I worry that you’re lost.

I keep a heart-shaped cage unlocked for you, out on the street where it can easily be seen.

So if one day you return at least you’ll have a place to stay.

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

prelude to the hunt

The jewellery is a distraction. Distraction is a key element of the prelude to the hunt.

They never realize that. Shiny objects are highly effective.

Perhaps some buried instinct tells them to run. To hide. But instinct and wisdom are always lost under infatuation and sparkle.

They don’t even notice the arrow until after it leaves its bow. Flying swift and true and impossibly fast.

By then it is far too late.

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