Chloe Introduced -Once Upon A Bed Again (Fairy Prose)

Once Upon A Bed Again  (Fairy Prose)

Fairies are very difficult creatures. They mean well and, with their wings all a flutter, they do try to make do with our world and our words and our ways. Sometimes, though, fairies actually need the help of us mere mortals. For instance, they are fairly dreadful at telling stories. Here is one example:

Once upon a bed there lived a magical pillow and its case. The other could never be certain which controlled the magic and so they lived happily lumped together often visited by fairies and other spirits of the night. Whatever it took to fight off the demons of the day.

Here is an attempt to add detail to the story:

Once upon a bed, besides a magical pillow and its case, there lived a white kitten with soft pink paws. The kitten liked to crawl under the pillow and its case then stick its head out just a bit from under and observe the production of getting ready for bed, after which all concerned would be visited by fairies and other spirits of the night. Whatever it took to fight off the demons of the day.

And a similar attempt to clear things up:

Once upon a bed, besides the magical pillow and its case, there lived a white kitten with pink paws who befriended several demons of the day. All were often visited by fairies and spirits of the night.

And that is where I come in. Or rather, that is when I was summoned.  I will try my best to be of service but…fairies, as I’ve said, are very difficult creatures.


(This is a continuation of a piece I began in June.  I may add to it now and then.  If interested the first tiny piece is here:  )

Lids (A Poem)

Photo Sharing


Some things make more sense
tied with a lace bow
and placed in a pretty box
with a closed lid
– lost places
visited in night’s confidence
where luminous pink shadows
of steel black illusions
sweep down like the sweet arms of rescue. But
I want to find that place
where the lid lifts
and the shadows sleep
and the lace
blows in the wind.


Slumbering On The Moon (Postcards from Camp)

Photo SharingI‘ve arrived at Camp Nanowrimo and am awaiting my cabin assignment.  The trip was exhausting – especially since I was traveling with the Scrivener monster from hell whose conversational/instructional skills leave much to be desired.  It doesn’t seem to understand that I’m used to writing my own way, and keeps trying to be my friend.  I hate to be rude but…I eventually had to tell Sir Scrivener-Writer’s-Aid-Thingy that I was headed to the moon for a short nap.  Once I got there and found a comfy spot, I fell asleep and had the most wonderful dream:  My novel, Flirting With The Moon, had become an overnight sensation and was being made into a movie!  Hahaha!


Fairy Prose

Fairy Prose

Once upon a bed/there lived a magical pillow and its case/The other could never be certain/ which controlled the magic/and so they lived happily lumped together/often visited by fairies and other spirits of the night/whatever it took to fight off the demons/of the day.


Flirting With The Moon (That Kiss – Ana IV)

That Kiss

The time Conn spent healing wasn’t lost time.  It was needed time and found time.  He didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave and my father, hoping for another man to help with the farm, used Conn’s healing days for slow walks together.  My mother, too, seemed more cheerful than ever she had since we first set sail for Soto Valley.  She and I would sit out in the front yard watching Conn and my father walking the road down to Wide Creek.  I could see my father waving and pointing just beyond where they stood, and I could sense Conn’s deep respect for what had been planned and built and made into fields and homes and barns.

All of this I saw through moments of greens and browns and fields of wild blue-eyed grasses and purple Butterwort that ended, most always, with Conn’s now often smiling face and the gentle way he’d touch my father’s shoulder as they spoke.

Suppers were spent discussing the next planting season.  Listening to my  mother.  Up and down.  Looking in her storage bins of beans and grains.  Not listening to me wanting beets except to wonder why and me saying I needed red coloring for my card painting.  I was seldom taken seriously during planting discussions and was always promised, by my mother, that she would help me make the paints I needed right from our small house garden.  And the wild Hawthorne and blueberries.  It was important that I had my plant pastes for the picture cards I was learning from a recent islander to settle in the valley. The ways she described nature and life and outcomes…I so wanted to paint those sorts of cards.

One late afternoon you sat beside me outside…

I was drawing under a poplar tree.  It’s green leaves were made almost transparent by the setting sun and the world seemed bathed in the finest of reds and golds.  In your silence, I did not hear you approach.

“Quite lovely,” you said quietly.

My papers were spread all out on the table.  Drawings of unknown rhyme or reason.  Rough suns and butterflies and fire circles.  Silver moons and golden stars. Fields of grain.  Circles uniting.

I leaned back against my chair.  Adding to the blush I felt, some sort of sweet rosy glow was framing your face.

“Which one?” I asked?

You pointed to the egret I was working on just then.  “They are beautiful resting in the trees around here,” you said.

“Yes!”  I shook my  head in agreement.  “Sleeping on some bare tree.  Making snow branches against a red sky.”

“But they are so small.”  You held a drawing up to examine.

“Yes.  Cards.  Tarot cards.  Story book pages.”  I pointed out the card showing the rock being overtaken by the swift current of a creek.

“And what does one do with these?” you asked.  There was a slight tone of exasperation in your voice.  That same tone my father used with mother when discussing the stars and the sun and the ways the moon spoke.

“Why…”  I shook my head side to side.  “One thinks upon them and wonders and lays them down to create a story.”

And then…I’m not sure…We both looked up from the cards.  Our faces so close together and intense.  I moved my head side to side again  just to see you so close and to feel your breath so warm against my face.  I’m not sure.  I may have, during some moment I could not possibly ever have imagined, leaned over and kissed you.

“And then, she put again upon me a spell.  And I kissed her and was bound to her even more and forever.” Years later, that’s how you told it.


Flirting With The Moon – Ana III

Sometimes people pass by a town or a chance or anything they don’t have their eyes set upon.  But not Conn.  His decision, to stay in the valley, was gradual.  His healing took longer than expected.

“You’ve taken a bad fall to your head,” my mother told him the morning after he’d fallen and spent the night resting on pillows scented with lavender and was eating sweet cakes for breakfast.

“I should get on Miss…Lady…”  Conn stumbled over what to call the woman I called mother.

“Emily,” my mother said.  “Feel free to just call me Emily. And why should you get on so quickly.?”

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

I passed Conn the plate of sweet cakes and the jar of warm syrup and a smile.  He smiled back.  My mother stood up and walked to the hearth.  My father cleared his throat.

“Have you something to rush off for that you would not stay a few more days for good healing?” my father asked.

I saw the grateful look Conn gave my father.  “I have no way to pay you.”

“We can talk about that when you are well.”  My father stood up.  “There is plenty of work here that needs doing.  Can you build fences?”


“Good then.  I may be in need of a fence soon and some land to be cleared.”


“There’s always something needs doing around here,” my father said.  “But the fence and clearing the land would make a good payment – once you’re healed, of course.”

Conn stood up and held out his hand.  He and my father clasped hands.  “Thank you, sir.”

My father grinned.  “Just call me Sam.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

It took several weeks for Conn to regain his strength and his balance.  He didn’t take well to being taken care of.  He especially didn’t like to hear my mother say he had no choice.  “You shall do as I say, Mr. Skelly, until you are again well.  I don’t see what other choice you have.  For another day or two you will rest.”

“But,” he began.

“Ana can show you the Runes and the cards and share the picture stories.  You can help us wrap the smudging sticks.  Plenty of work to do inside the house as well.”

In the late afternoons, Conn and I would sit on a fallen tree stump out in the back yard.  My mother would be there, too, picking herbs and checking her gardens.  Everything surrounding us was green and fresh and pure.  The sky was so blue and the clouds so white and his laughter so contagious.  He’d run his fingers over the rune symbols and gaze upon the tarot card pictures.  The scent of my mother’s freshly picked herbs seemed quite strong.  The lavender and mint especially.  Mixed with the sage.

Years later, he would tell people that a spell had been cast upon him and that he couldn’t have left even if he’d wanted to.  It would make me smile to hear him describe falling in love that way.

To continue…