flax-golden

hallowed halls

I had a dream last night that I was in college again. Not college-as-it-was, but college-as-it-might-have-been.

With old wood and ivy and bricks and the paper-musty smell of books that have been read over and over and over again.

Frozen in that time when graduation would never come, stalled in coffee cups and GPAs and Times New Roman twelve point possibilities.

Stained with ink and oil paint and tears and laughs and lack of sleep.

Measuring by semesters instead of seasons and it would never be over, never be older.

The way it always never was.

In between classes. In between worlds. Sitting on stairs bathed in golden light.

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

gingerbread army

Momma said they wouldn’t grow, but I planted them anyway. They were my cookies that I baked all by myself. I could do whatever I wanted to do with them.

I planted them in the garden.

I watered them with tea mixed with lots of sugar even though it made the watering can all sticky.

It took a very long time and a great deal of tea, but they grew! First the heads popped out of the dirt and then the arms and then the chubby bodies with sugar buttons.

The birds tried to nip at them but I chased them away when I could. Though one day there were feathers stuck to some of the sugar frosting mouths and not so many birds around after that.

I wonder what will happen when my gingerbread army grows tall enough to climb out of the ground?

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

in tandem

Shall we sail then, you and I? Upon a glass-still sea with no land in sight? With you in your boat and me in mine, waiting for the wind to take us where it wishes?

If we are separated I will send up flares and write you messages in bottles until we are reunited.

If there are vikings or sea monsters we shall evade them, for we are clever and resourceful. We will resist the honey-sweet songs of beautiful sirens. We will steal rum from pirates.

Should there be tempests we will ride them out on glorious waves. Or if the storms are too strong we shall wash up on some distant shore together to drink from coconuts and tie seashells in our hair.

And when the storms have passed we will sail once more, with you in your boat and me in mine.

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

unexpected architecture

They build the castles everywhere. They sneak out at night and in the morning there’s a castle sitting in an empty lot or on someone’s lawn, and no one can say exactly where it came from or how it got there.

They are guerrilla castles, elaborate three-dimensional graffiti.

Sometimes they’re torn down. Once in awhile the owner of the property a castle has sprung up upon will leave it standing for a reasonable period of time before taking it down, but they are always taken down.

The castles are temporary things.

No one has figured out who the unseen architects are. People assume it is a group. No single person could build such things in only a matter of hours and be gone before their work is discovered by the rest of the world.

Whoever they are, they haven’t been caught yet.

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

mystery street

Mystery Street is a good place to find what you’re looking for, if you can find Mystery Street itself.

There’s a sign, of course. And it is somewhat near Illusion Square, which you can see only if you face it from the east. (From other directions Illusion Square appears to be a park full of small dogs catching large frisbees.) Once you cross Illusion Square, you take two left turns and two right ones (not necessarily in that order) and then you should be able to see the sign.

If you get hopelessly lost you can ask a cat for directions. Blue-eyed cats will only speak in half-truths, but half-true directions are better than no directions at all.

You’ll know you’ve found Mystery Street when you see the sign. After that, well, you should be able to find whatever it is you’re looking for. You can find pretty much anything on Mystery Street, once you get there.

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

sweet oblivion

They line up for it, in eager rows. It is an honor to be chosen. They are extremely patient and on their best behavior.

It is what they were made for, what they anxiously await with unblinking eyes.

One voice of dissent mutters that four dollars is too low a price, but he is ignored.

It is an honor to be chosen, regardless of price. They all know that the price is just a formality.

To have all thought, all cares obliviated by sticky sweetness.

Nothing matters after that. Nothing at all.

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