“Can you help me?”
Charles blinked several times to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. He was proud to be among the skeptics who placed fairies into the same category as little green men, ghosts, and the Man in the Moon.
Yet there she was, collapsed on the ground in the middle of the rose garden
Tag - fairies
“Can you help me?”
I found him by accident as I stumbled through the forest, cloaked in shadows.
The child was crouched in a patch of light, bare feet dusty against the packed earth. He was feeding the crows. They hopped about him, nipping at his clothing, brushing his face with their wings. He laughed.
Laurva was hungry. So very hungry.
Suffocating darkness encased her. She was completely sealed in. Instinct overruled her uncertainty, and the gloom diffused as she gnawed the walls.
Chomp. Chew. Gulp. Smack. Swallow. She emerged, surrounded by sickening sounds of others feeding.
I’m not alone. This awareness wasn’t comforting, but hunger drove her out.
By the time she reached the age of fourteen, the rest of the faefolk knew that she would not get any stronger.
Such a shame, they’d whisper as she drifted through the square. She’ll never find a trade, they’d mutter as she meandered through the market. It must have been her mother, they declared, infrequently caring if she could hear them or not. Was her mother a windfolk? Probably not.Read it now
Lase sighed. She hated doing this, especially with her brother.
“Yuck!” More banging.
“Tim, quiet! We’ll get caught,” she hissed.
“What do you even take from an apota…apot-a-carry?”
“Apothecary, you dolt. We’re here for healing ointments.”
“Is this it?” He emerged, reeking of a floral scent with swamp water highlights.
Vera’s air lasted just long enough to finish the song, and then her throat closed. Wheezing, she dipped a curtsy to sparse applause. Before she could faint onstage, she pushed through the hazy gambling hall and escaped outside.
A gaslight supported her as she fought to catch her breath. At least she’d finished her set, unlike last night.
Eggs are magic.
They seem simple: shell, white, yolk. Cook them scrambled, fried, boiled.
But separate the parts and find complexity. Whites may be whipped into foam light as cloud and stable as glass. Yolks, yellow as sunshine, whipped with oil and lemon juice turn white, or whipped into a bechamel of butter, flour, milk,
“In this town, folks know better than to lie.”
I peer at the scruffy, middle-aged man over the top of my sunglasses. “P-pardon?”
“No need to take offense. I was only giving you some friendly advice.”
“And what happens if I lie? The lie police come drag me off?”
The man grimaces and glances over his shoulder, as if expecting someone.