erin's emporium of discount dreams & well-worn wonders

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.

unexpected delivery service

They always show up at the right time, even though they are most often unexpected.

They always know precisely the right thing to bring. Chocolates or caramels or skeins of technicolor yarn. Glass bottles of cherry-flavored soda. Long stems of bright blooming flowers.

They do not tell you who your gift is from. There is never a card.

They refuse any offer of payment.

They simply hand the flowers or sweets or tokens to you, request politely that you add your name to the list of signatures they carry on a well-worn clipboard, and wish you well.

Then they ride off on their bicycles to brighten someone else’s day.

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

advice to follow

I find advice in all sorts of places.

In fortune cookies. On street corners. Sometimes even on the internet, but mostly out in the world.

The universe has creative ways to get its points across, in filtered bits of text.

Fleeting pieces of information to decipher.

Some of it, I’m sure, was not even meant for me to find, but if it crosses my path I try to pay attention to it anyway.

I follow it whenever possible.

So far it hasn’t let me down.

You find what you need to hear sometimes, if you keep your eyes open as well as your ears.

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

excerpt from a notebook found in the woods near what used to be I-93

Things I Didn’t Expect About The Zombie Apocalypse, a numbered list.

1. Everything kind of stopped before anything really happened. You’d think things would stay pretty normal until the undead were knocking down your door, but everyone panicked way before that. As soon as it was even mentioned on the news people up & left.

2. There are a lot more ways to die, beyond the classic eaten by zombies bit, which I’m not sure should really count as a way to die. Is it a way to undie? I don’t know.

3. People I thought totally had it together were the first ones to flip out. If I’d have bet on who would still be here at this point back in the day I would have lost big time.

4. It’s been a really long time since the apocalypse and I still haven’t actually seen a zombie yet.

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

secret wishes of stuffed tigers

The kids that play outside make fun of the tiger in the window simply because it is there, and thus fodder for amusement.

Stupid fluffy baby toy.

And the tiger cannot move from the window, so it is forced to watch and listen. It accepts their taunts with unblinking plastic eyes.

The neighbor glares from her window across the way. It is impossible to tell if she glares at the children or the tiger or both.

The tiger doesn’t mind. The tiger is patient.

It knows that if it wishes hard enough, someday it can be a real tiger.

Then they’ll be sorry.

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

seasonal technicality

The equinox has come and gone but winter didn’t seem to pay it any mind. Perhaps it likes it here and wants to stay. An extended holiday.

So there are no singing birds. No crocuses pushing up anxiously through the dirt.

Not yet.

The ground is still mostly frozen and boot-crunchy underneath the leafless sketchbook trees.

Bare branches reaching for blue sky.

Longing for spring.

When technically it’s already here, as far as the movement of the sun is concerned.

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

fairy trap

All you need to catch a fairy is an old birdhouse and some shiny stuff. You know, like glass and glitter, or pieces of colored plastic or metal things that’ll sparkle when the sun hits them.

You can paint the birdhouse, but it doesn’t really matter what color. It’s not like how hummingbirds like red things, fairies aren’t that picky.

So you take your birdhouse and shiny stuff and just hang it somewhere. High but not too high. Trees are good but fairies are everywhere so trees aren’t like, a requirement.

You don’t even need to put anything over the birdhouse entrance. Once they get in they won’t be able to figure out how to get out.

Fairies are kind of stupid.

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