A Fairy’s Tale
Here I will be adding to a story that I began at the start of this blog. I shall add to it on an irregular basis, but I shall notify people when it has been added to. The most recent section will have the first word in bold, so your place is easier to find.
Blue is the colour of the house I turn my back to. Blue is the sky and white are the clouds that are swirled by the eastern wind. Brushing past overreaching branches I dislodge a bee from its perch upon an apricot rose. The bee buzzes in acceptance, fluffs itself together, and bumbles off to dance for its colony. Looking down below a magnolia I see pale green leaves lying dismantled by the aphids and little ‘pillars. In their time they will turn brown and feed those that grew them.
Pushing thoughts of the crushing vastness of life I walk on past nine houses and turn right into a tunneled passage. In here it is colder, damp, dark, uninviting. I feel I like it. A crunch sounding beneath my right foot causes a halt in my progress. Tilting my foot over I inspect the damage. A broken shell and what looks like the remnants of snail lunch, mucus, and snail eye are splattered onto my trainers sole and the path. I bet it loved its home here, and its family. Sorry about that, little one. Plucking moss from the wall I wipe the mess from my sole, cast natures tissue to my left, and regain momentum.
Quickly I come to the end of the tunnel and emerge into the clean white light. Before me is a wired railing overrunning with ivy and climbing weeds. I look left and immediately spin on my heel. Three men are walking in my direction, speaking in loud voices, but I hardly catch a word. I hurry back down the tunnel as quickly as stealth allows.
I look down to where I trod on the snail, simply out of distraction, and notice its lack of presence. It’s gone. Not only is the lunch and eyes gone, but the shell, the mucus, every last splatter wiped clear. I look to my right. The moss isn’t there. I spin my head to the left so fast the muscles in my neck burn in pain as they often do. There it is. I pick it up and continue walking, forgetting my stealth at this time. I hear an indistinct shout behind me. I flee back the way home.
The slam of my feet echoes off the surrounding houses. Can’t let them catch me. Can’t let them see where I live. I rush up the once calm path. Crash into the door. Fumbling hands tumble into crunched pockets. Clasping the key in shaking twigs of fingers. Put in the key. Turn the key. Push the door. Slam the door. Turn. Run rapidly up the curving stairs. Slow down to enter my room and put the moss on my desk. Take a breather. I turn and I face the problem.
It lies there. Brown and rough at the base, because of the dirt it dug in to. Green and springy are it’s tendrilled leaves. Outwardly it seems as if I only just pulled it from it’s nest. The moss is clean, but it shouldn’t be. Why is it clean? Such a small thing, but it seems to hold so much.
I step forward and raise the moss before my eyes. It holds steady before my amateur scrutiny and yields nought that I sought. Sighing I sit in my plastic chair, surrounded by my wooden, white walled, draft ridden room. I lean back and gaze up at the white, slanting ceiling. I’m not in a ward, but it feels I should be with the scheme of the room and the thoughts that are right now going through my mind. I rest awhile.
When I awake it is dark. I open the curtains by my bed and see that a heavy, ghostly mist has descended on the early hours of the morning. If there were a time for evil to walk the earth this would be it. I rush to grab my coat, my sturdiest trainers, and the moss. I open my creaking door and gently pad down the stairs; not wishing to disturb any of my family. As I reach the front door a light flicks on upstairs and I hurriedly whisk myself outside and shut the door behind me.