"Come on Glistle, they're catching up to us!"
A blur of tousled blonde ringlets framing a beaming expression of rosy cheeks and sapphire eyes, flew through the field of overgrown dandelions and creeping clover. It was a beautiful, spring afternoon and Jewel wasn't wasting any time in soaking in it's delight. She and Glistle, her dragonfly companion, had been soaring through the fairy village, teasing the ladybugs and playing hide and seek with the crickets (who didn't end up being very good playmates for this particular game). When Jewel would count to 100, the crickets quickly bounded off into hiding places; but, as we all know, they are very fidgety insects. Every time they began to fidget from their hiding places, they would give themselves away due to their inability to keep from chirping! Jewel grew tired of this game and its lack of challenge, so she and Glistle went on to find other playmates.
The inchworms were too busy measuring plots with the worker bees for the new garden being planted outside the fairy ring, and the snails were feeling a bit sluggish. They finally convinced the butterflies to race with them to the edge of the outer realm and back, but they proved to be no contest for this overzealous little fairy and her determined dragonfly friend. Once the butterflies caught a glimpse of their beautifully painted wings and slender frames in the reflection of the spring water as they flew overhead, they could not be tempted to play anymore fairy games, as they were perfectly content to sit lazily by the water's edge, opening and closing their wings, admiring the woven gossamer patterns, for hours on end.
Jewel and Glistle rested atop the largest mushroom in the deserted fairy ring of the outer realm and drank the last of the honeywater they brought with them in their clover pouches.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
2.3 : du 'Lanche
Then, on the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day of March, in the year nineteen hundred and thirty-one, Lizelle stumbled as she reached the eleventh stair leading up to her room. She reached for the railing, grasping for steadiness. Her hand slipped away, scraping her knuckles on the rusted nail, jutting outward from the side of the stairwell. She closed her eyes and winced with pain as she sat for a moment, pausing as she leaned against the railing. Her black boots were now scuffed with the traces of paint from the recently whitewashed baseboards. As she sat there regaining her composure on the staircase, she noticed that one of the floorboards was loose. Lizelle reached out and pulled at the wooden slat, wondering if she should remove it completely and have it repaired, or if she should jump up and down on it a few time in hopes that it would cram itself back into place. As she leaned in closer, she discovered something peculiar. The reason the floorboard on the stair was loose was because someone had fixed it to be that way. It wasn't to be permanently nailed into the staircase, but rather it seemed to have handmade grooves so that it was able to fasten itself to the other boards, but also be removed whenever desired.
This is peculiar, thought Lizelle. Everything in her life had a proper place and a necessary cause for efficiency in every which way. Her brow furrowed as she sat in an uncommon perplexity. Why would anyone want imperfection in something so ordinary as a wooden stairwell? Stairs are meant to lead you up and down. They serve the purpose of providing a common pathway from one room to the next, so why would anyone choose to alter the purpose for this piece of architecture? Lizelle placed both of her hands at the ends of the loose slat and carefully pried it from the stair.
This is peculiar, thought Lizelle. Everything in her life had a proper place and a necessary cause for efficiency in every which way. Her brow furrowed as she sat in an uncommon perplexity. Why would anyone want imperfection in something so ordinary as a wooden stairwell? Stairs are meant to lead you up and down. They serve the purpose of providing a common pathway from one room to the next, so why would anyone choose to alter the purpose for this piece of architecture? Lizelle placed both of her hands at the ends of the loose slat and carefully pried it from the stair.
Friday, January 8, 2010
2.2 : du' Lanche
Children were not children as we know them to be today. There were no such thing as playmates and fairytales. Little girls didn't play dress up or believe in the poetry of fairy princess tea parties, and little boys didn't know of the adventures of seeking monstrous creatures of the haunted forest or of the swashbuckling pirates on the open sea. They knew how to make use of their hours and minutes outside of their mandatory education and there was no such thing as an idle moment.
***
Lizelle grew weary of these endless days, for she felt as though the second her life began, her daily moments melted together and that her life since then has never paused long enough for her to truly understand its value. She counted the grey stones that defined the path from the street to her home. Twenty-three stones total - all perfectly shaped with evenly square edges and sharp corners. SHe counted the steps to her tiny room in the attic space above the spare room. Thirteen. Each one a wooden reminder of her desperate ascent to a place of undiscovered solitude. Thirty one leatherbound books on the bookshelf beside her bedside lamp. Each of her days were equally as dull as the one before, and quite unadventurous.
***
Lizelle grew weary of these endless days, for she felt as though the second her life began, her daily moments melted together and that her life since then has never paused long enough for her to truly understand its value. She counted the grey stones that defined the path from the street to her home. Twenty-three stones total - all perfectly shaped with evenly square edges and sharp corners. SHe counted the steps to her tiny room in the attic space above the spare room. Thirteen. Each one a wooden reminder of her desperate ascent to a place of undiscovered solitude. Thirty one leatherbound books on the bookshelf beside her bedside lamp. Each of her days were equally as dull as the one before, and quite unadventurous.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
2.1 : du' Lanche
The mortal world knew a palette of black and white; perhaps a smattering of grey and cinder. Sullen expressions, hallowed eyes, charcoal hearts and ashen faces spanned the earth. There was no light coming from these people, only darkness and shadows. They spent their days mathematically and scientifically, and there was no room left for artistic enlightenment or spiritual guidance. If they could not touch it, feel it, taste it, then there was no believing. The word imagine wasn't even in their vocabulary, for how could one possibly fathom imagining anything they hadn't already understood?
***
Lizelle was the eldest of three daughters. Their home was built for function and practicality. Each daughter had a bed with precisely one pillow, one set of crisp cotton sheets, and a black, wool blanket to be used during the winter months. Lizelle spent her days carrying out the duties expected of her and she never faltered.
***
The clock in the city tower kept a strict grasp on time so that no one else had to. The hands moved metronomically froward, steadying themselves on the circular face of moments yet to come. Each person born within the city's confines could define most of life's happenings to the second. Instead of spending a quiet afternoon lazily taking in the summer winds, one born in the city of du'Lanche could be found sitting perfectly upright at the edge of their parlor chair; hands placed properly atop her lap, back straight and head positioned in complete awareness. The people of du'Lanche never had a meandering thought, for how could their minds wander if they knew not of a place to which they could close their eyes and let their thoughts creatively roam? Instead, their thoughts proceeded forward in perfect synchronicity to the ticking of the clock's second hand.
Through precision, one could remember everything unequivocally. In fact, Lizelle knew that she was born on the fourth minute of the eighth hour of the morning of the twenty-first day of May in the year one thousand, nineteen hundred and sixteen. She knew also that the first time she completed reading her first book from prologue to epilogue was on the seventh minute of the first hour of the afternoon of the fourteenth day of November, in the year one thousand, nineteen hundred and twenty. It was a book of numbers, letters and factual understanding of life's simple equations, but even at the age of four and a half, she understood the importance of this to her continuance of a heightened quality of life.
***
Lizelle was the eldest of three daughters. Their home was built for function and practicality. Each daughter had a bed with precisely one pillow, one set of crisp cotton sheets, and a black, wool blanket to be used during the winter months. Lizelle spent her days carrying out the duties expected of her and she never faltered.
***
The clock in the city tower kept a strict grasp on time so that no one else had to. The hands moved metronomically froward, steadying themselves on the circular face of moments yet to come. Each person born within the city's confines could define most of life's happenings to the second. Instead of spending a quiet afternoon lazily taking in the summer winds, one born in the city of du'Lanche could be found sitting perfectly upright at the edge of their parlor chair; hands placed properly atop her lap, back straight and head positioned in complete awareness. The people of du'Lanche never had a meandering thought, for how could their minds wander if they knew not of a place to which they could close their eyes and let their thoughts creatively roam? Instead, their thoughts proceeded forward in perfect synchronicity to the ticking of the clock's second hand.
Through precision, one could remember everything unequivocally. In fact, Lizelle knew that she was born on the fourth minute of the eighth hour of the morning of the twenty-first day of May in the year one thousand, nineteen hundred and sixteen. She knew also that the first time she completed reading her first book from prologue to epilogue was on the seventh minute of the first hour of the afternoon of the fourteenth day of November, in the year one thousand, nineteen hundred and twenty. It was a book of numbers, letters and factual understanding of life's simple equations, but even at the age of four and a half, she understood the importance of this to her continuance of a heightened quality of life.
1.1 : Trean b'llacdd
The purple leaves of the Indigo tree tumbled softly to the forest floor, settling into a quieted pile amongst the tree's entangled roots. The crimson sky whispered lullabyes through the midnight breezes and the hidden realm of woodland creatures drifted off to a world of dreams as they lay silently in a peaceful slumber. The land of Trean b'llacdd was a beautiful place more magical and bewildering than any mortal's imagination could ever comprehend. It was a kingdom so picturesque that no painted canvas or water colored parchment dared to recreate its beauty.
This world of pixies and fairies, gnomes and talking animals was invisible to the human eye. A world like this existed only in the fleeting thoughts of mortal imagination - except on the first full moon of spring. If any human ever ventured past the stone garden covered in apricot ivy and blushing moonflowers, and wandered down the brick pathway going westward through the sea of wildflowers, they might stumble upon a shadowed dwelling. And on that starlit evening, when the moonbeams push through the forest's meridian of branches, the shadows would disappear and this colorful world would momentarily be beholden to the mortal eye.
Some say that pixies are mischievous, that gnomes are too busy to notice a world beyond their humbled dwellings and that fairies are too caught up in their magic and playfully guided spirits to discover an adventure past their circle of flora, fauna and fair weather friends. But I ask you, can you truly understand a place which you have never visited, or comprehend those who you've never had the pleasure of meeting? With your permission, I'd like to tell you the story of a young fairy named Jewel and she changed the human world forever.
This world of pixies and fairies, gnomes and talking animals was invisible to the human eye. A world like this existed only in the fleeting thoughts of mortal imagination - except on the first full moon of spring. If any human ever ventured past the stone garden covered in apricot ivy and blushing moonflowers, and wandered down the brick pathway going westward through the sea of wildflowers, they might stumble upon a shadowed dwelling. And on that starlit evening, when the moonbeams push through the forest's meridian of branches, the shadows would disappear and this colorful world would momentarily be beholden to the mortal eye.
Some say that pixies are mischievous, that gnomes are too busy to notice a world beyond their humbled dwellings and that fairies are too caught up in their magic and playfully guided spirits to discover an adventure past their circle of flora, fauna and fair weather friends. But I ask you, can you truly understand a place which you have never visited, or comprehend those who you've never had the pleasure of meeting? With your permission, I'd like to tell you the story of a young fairy named Jewel and she changed the human world forever.
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