flax-golden tales: friends for hedgehogs

friends for hedgehogs

I made you a hedgie friend! she says, handing me a spiky, beady-eyed ball of some sort of bark and artfully composed twig slices.

Thanks, I say, putting him down on my desk. I turn him so he faces the printer, but he still looks like he’s staring at me with those glossy little eyes.

I already have a hedgehog, I tell her when she brings me another the next day, attempting to give back the almost identical… thing.

That one needs a friend for when you’re not around, she says. They get lonely.

The day after that, there’s a third one on my desk, sitting alongside the other two.

The next day there are six.

No matter how I arrange them, they’re always staring at me with those unblinking eyes.

They look like they’re plotting something.

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

flax-golden tales: implements

implements

I made the keys first. They were easier. Then each one needed a keyhole and escutcheon and set of doorknobs or handles to match, ranging from simple to ornate.

Victorian and Art Deco and others of my own stylistic invention.

Each one unique.

Each one correlating to a different place.

A different time.

Made to unlock and open into their own worlds.

I could go anywhere.

If I had a door.

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

flax-golden tales: the short, sad life of a faceless snowman


the short, sad life of a faceless snowman

He wasn’t leaning when they built him.

(Is it presumptuous to assume all snowmen are male?)

Anyway, he stood up pretty well those first few days. He would have looked almost impressive if the snow had been proper white marshmallow-colored fluff instead of dirty grey parking lot snow.

He started to lean yesterday. He probably would have toppled completely if the tree wasn’t there.

He wasn’t a particularly cheerful snowman to begin with, he never even had a carrot nose or anything, but now he just seems sad.

I suppose anyone would be sad, to have such a cold, temporary life.

Sooner or later he’ll melt.

I think he’ll welcome it.

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

flax-golden tales: attendants

attendants

No one told them that their jobs were finished. They were never properly dismissed or let go.

Informed that their necessity had waned.

They continued to attend. Even after temples were shut and shrines dismantled.

Always faithful, always devoted.

Incapable of being anything less.

Now they sit in corners of musty shops.

Paint peeling and gathering dust.

Collecting offerings for forgotten gods.

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

flax-golden tales: frames for nature

frames for nature

Nature doesn’t need frames, I say, but she insists on finding them anyway. Running around like a cameraless photographer as she composes each shot. Leaving to find another when she’s satisfied.

I ask her why, not really expecting an answer.

It’s too much to look at all at once, she says.

Maybe she’s right.

Maybe it’s better to have tastes of it, a narrower focus.

I do it myself now, too. Finding lines of bare trees and glimpses of blue sky.

Nicely contained within decorative arches.

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

flax-golden tales: silver bells

silver bells

Listen, and you’ll hear.

In the snow-quiet. In the cold that envelops bare branches and evergreens alike, winding around sleds and mittens and waterproof boots.

The bells are ringing. Even if they don’t appear to move. Even if you can’t see where they are hung. Even if you have to listen very, very closely while your fingers and toes go numb.

Be patient.

They need the cold and the snow-quiet to sing so sweet.

Listen carefully, and you’ll hear everything.

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