secrets in the sea
You may whisper your secrets to the sea
And the sea will keep them for you
Cover them with crashing waves
Carry them out on retreating tides
Pull them under
Tuck them into coral-adorned recesses and between the curves of seashells.
The sea will hold your secrets in its depths
And if you need them back, you need only ask
They will be returned to you
Damp and salt-kissed and safe.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
the story trees
They string histories and myths and fancies and fables together and hang them in the branches of the story trees.
The garlands of tales catch the light and shimmer in the branches, half-hidden in the leaves.
If you listen closely, you can hear fragments and quotations repeated by the wind.
They add new stories and old stories and retellings often.
Daydreams and nightdreams and wishes and lies.
Fairies rub story-shoulders with murderers and innocents and lawyers.
Happy endings lead to new adventures and lost loves and never-there loves and new loves and back again.
There are always more stories to add.
But the branches are strong.
There is room for them all.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
sunset-colored death in a temporary cage
I caught Death in a cage in the backyard.
It was mostly an accident.
The cage was supposed to be a trap for ghosts but it didn’t work the way I expected it to.
Death looks like a sunset that got torn up by the cat.
I thought death would be darker, or heavier. Bits of sunset float and curl around the bars and almost glow, but not quite.
At first Death was very quiet, then it started making a low humming sound but after awhile the humming turned into words that felt like music in my head though I could never remember what they said.
The cage didn’t last long since it was made of paper, the wind and a little bit of rain pulled it apart until it looked more like streamers than a proper cage.
I couldn’t tell when Death left exactly, it was there and then it felt like it was still there but it wasn’t anymore.
Even though Death is gone I can still hear it in my head.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
zombie lawn pirates
We tried vinegar and baking soda and chili pepper and citrus, a whole grocery list of alternative pesticides and they didn’t even blink, not that they have eyelids. Some of them have parts of eyelids.
They seemed to like the limes.
There was some debate over trying something stronger but wine keeps them from causing too much trouble, even cheap wine. And they only show up in October, though once one shambled across the lawn in the winter, dragging a tattered flag and looking confused until it disappeared under a snowbank.
They’re annoying, but it’s a manageable sort of annoyance.
They flop out of the shrubbery and yell “Arrggghhh” and one of them sometimes says “Avast!” but other times his jaw falls off before he can get the whole word out and he slinks embarrassedly back under the leaves.
They sing songs we assume are supposed to be shanties but it’s difficult to discern any words so we can’t be certain.
They’re only really problematic on Hallowe’en, because of the trick-or-treaters.
We warn them that the pirates bite, but they don’t always listen.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
the leaf painters
Sometimes the leaf painters are overly enthusiastic.
(They only get to paint once a year, after all.)
Sometimes fragile leaves are covered with so much color that it overexcites and overwhelms their already temporary leaf natures.
Some freshly painted leaves let go too soon, seduced by the promise of a dance with even the gentlest breeze.
For other leaves the new colors are so bright and hot and strange that they burn out like flames.
They fall to the ground, crisp and brown, faded and exhausted and confused.
(Leaves are sensitive things.)
But once in awhile the painters get everything right.
Reds and russets and oranges and golds gently applied and perfectly balanced, dancing with the lingering greens, not too much or too bright or too fast.
And the painted leaves just glow, warm and surprised and delighted.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
pumpkin picking
You must pick a pumpkin.
You are not allowed to leave without one.
(And trust us, you don’t want to stay here.)
The pumpkins are more or less identical, relatively similar in size and shape with subtle deviations in stems and shades of orange.
Their contents… vary.
Three contain fulfillments for wishes which must be wished immediately or the previously pumpkin-contained opportunities will vanish into the autumn air, forever lost.
A few are occupied by tiny creatures, each unique and some more tamable than others.
One holds instant death.
Take your time, but you have to pick one.
That’s the rule.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.