The Flood Fairies

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Near a recently flooded haunted inn called The Accomac, there was a recent disturbance involving some mud fairies. I have trouble believing that they were outright mean, but at least part of this story can be verified, so it must be at least partially true.

It all started with a soldier who died before his young lady back home had a chance to accept his proposal. His name was Stuart Cannabis, and fortune was only good to him once – the day he became The Unknown Soldier instead of poor old Stuey Cannabis.

Stuart died in his sleep in an apparent effort to avoid being shot at Gettysburg the following week. Upon his chest were a dozen mournful bubble rider fairies who would not leave him, even when some Union soldiers buried him where he was found. He is still there, sleeping.

For a time, Stuart Cannabis and his fairy sprites just lay there dreaming of the woman back home. The world had gotten used to knowing him as “C. S. A. Unknown”, and life went on and on. A curious but simpleminded son of the local ferry runner would sometimes visit. Junior was certain that there was something going on under the grass, because whenever he visited the grave, he would have wild dreams that night. This went on for several years as he and his father would travel across the river and back. The dreams carried him all the way through adolescence, until he could no longer be sure he was awake or asleep.

This is where the mud fairies enter the story, because there is no other explanation for what happened next. John D. Coyle, Jr. got it into his head that he should marry young Emily Myers and they would live happily ever after. In his dreams they would behave as honeymooners, with no responsibilities other than to tend to one another. Poor Emily Myers had no dreams at all, let alone the romantic and erotic ones described by Johnnie Coyle. And she told him so. Twice. This proved to be the end of her, and the end of Johnnie’s dream, for when she laughed at him for saying he saw fairy sprites on bubbles floating in the air, he shot her dead and she stopped laughing.

The fairies, who had stayed with their soldier to the end, would stand by Johnnie all through both of his trials and his eventual hanging. The plea was insanity, but he knew the dirty little fairies were real.

A river separates the burial sights of Emily in Marietta and Johnnie in Accomac, but they continue to argue at Coyle’s Ferry and she still can’t see any fairies, and Johnnie still can’t not.

I know this tale is true because during the recent flash floods, those mud fairies broke into my Facebook account and shut it down. They were in Hallam, a place I have never set foot. But I have been known to send my own bubble riders there on many occasions, and they see everything.

 

Cashmere and Silk

On the surface, this is a story about Shirley and Norman, but it goes deeper than that. It is also a story about a couple of fairy sprites called Cashmere and Silk.

As is the case with most romantic pairings, this bubble rider team of Cashmere and Silk complemented each other. They could not be more different individually, like root beer and mouthwash, but as a team, they were undefeated. Where Silk was young, slippery, and always behind schedule, Cashmere was wise and fuzzy and strangely punctual. While Silk would arrive by overshooting her target, Cashmere looked more like a poorly aimed bowling ball that was lucky enough to avoid the gutters.

One fall evening, the bubble riders began an unusual assignment in a senior living residence. Norman and Shirly had lived perfectly adequate but separate lives prior to arriving at the residence to maintain a social life. Norman had diabetes. Shirley was arthritic. They had met casually while line dancing and card playing and riding the little bus to the grocery store.

After the first visit from the bubble riders though, Shirley was compelled to confess that she had been having fantasies about Norman. His response was to laugh so uproariously that someone had to go get his inhaler. But later during a game of Skip-bo Norman kept poking Shirley’s shoe under the table, and a passion arose in him as well.

This unexpected turn of events was treated with wisdom and reverence, and a large dose of humor. Life is short, afterall, and precious. Over the next several weeks as the bubble riders kept visiting, Norman and Shirley began to contemplate the possibility of actually consumating this relationship with physical expression. Silk and Cashmere had worked hard at creating this eventuality and were longing for their own gratification.

Finally on the way to the dining hall, Shirley shoved Norman into a waiting wheelchair, scooted him into the elevator, waited until they were between floors to smack the emergency button, yanked out both of their hearing aids, and sat on him.

The Trouble With Angels

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Photo by Inna Lesyk on Pexels.com.

Never confuse a fairy with an angel. Angels are made in the Heavens. Fairies are grown from the Earth. Angels are sent to deliver God’s messages. Fairies are sent to deliver raw emotions.

This is not to say that fairies and angels do not share the same space here on earth, or that their responsibilities do not intersect occasionally. More than once, neither has accomplished her task because the other was such a distraction. Sometimes, the disputes over who wears the better wings have even called them home for replacements by others.

What they do share is an intense desire to provide some joy that will stick to you long after the feathers have faded away. Neither angel nor fairy has ever been human, so neither is capable of causing a negative response.

Accept their gifts wholeheartedly, even if you aren’t a hundred per cent sure you believe in them.

Moondance

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from Pinterest

At a hundred beats a minute. Eyelids closed. Arms outstretched. Palms up. Feet flat. Chin skyward. The full moon rises.

At a hundred ten beats a minute. A slow whirling dervish. Clockwise. Three-count. Arms backstroke through the air. Bare feet draw Mother Nature up from the earth.

At a hundred twenty beats a minute. Eyes wide open. Stars dance. Drumbeat quickens. Forehead glistens. Clouds disburse.

At a hundred thirty beats a minute. The sky opens. The torso sways. A moonbeam reveals the naked soul. Moon Goddess applauds.

At eighty beats a minute. A cooling breeze dries the sweat. A smile rises from tiptoes. Arms encircle.  Head bows.

At seventy beats a minute. Head bends low. Arms reach down. Clothing is gathered up.. Blessed be.

Twilight for Leda

Fairies and witches work together in The Veil. Elara and Leda were two such partners, creating and transporting magickal moments for only the most deserving human lovers. These lovers were often without physical partners, and this is what made them so deserving.  To speak a language nobody hears is a heavy load to carry in this world filled with so many other burdens.

Elara was named for one of Jupiter’s moons and Fate conspired to introduce her to the fairy sprite named Leda, another of Jupiter’s moons.  They were once both young enough to laugh about this, but now they were older, wiser, and funnier than that.   Elara in particular had developed a long list of experiences which made her as wise as a crone without yet burdening her physical body with the consequences of age.   Leda was unlikely to ever fully mature as long as she had any choice in the matter.  Together they gifted the world with their talents and took a good deal of joy for themselves.

Once upon a time there was a special man in Elara’s life, but he was gone now.  They had conceived a child together under a cold Ice Moon, and she had given birth under the Hunters Moon.  Both were Friday the 13th, and her son was given over to Mother Earth as soon as he was weaned.  She missed him terribly.  She was grateful, however, that she learned more about love in that short time with her son than in the rest of her years put together.

Leda, on the other hand, had no inclination toward love.  What she enjoyed was anything that was fun.  Laughing.  Playing.  Floating.  Teasing.  Tether Ball.  She was in awe of her friend’s wisdom, but she was happy to stick with what she knew.  She could ride a bubble farther and higher than anyone else.  She could do back walkovers on a single blade of grass.  She could sing the alphabet backwards.  She could braid the roots of a dandelion together.  But she could not picture herself in a relationship.  No Not Ever.  At dawn and dusk, she could be found doing what was the most fun she could imagine.  Sneaking into the beds of men and tickling them with her wings and her kisses.

 

Lady Has a Dream

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Lady didn’t realize she had fallen asleep beside the cauldron. In her dream, she was wide awake, still carefully stirring clockwise and testing the temperature. She never saw the sprites on the bubbles that rose from the pot and drifted over the garden wall. She didn’t know that one sat on her forehead and watched her eyelids flutter.

Now we have said before that Lady had not yet reached the age of reason, and she was not mature enough to realize that when they called her “Lady” they were teasing her for believing she knew the first thing about love potions. In fact, Lady was under the impression that “love” was that feeling you get right before you sneeze. It was no use trying to set her straight, and it turned out that her formula was actually quite effective.

And so when the moon was at its peak, the bubble rider decided to come down from Lady’s forehead to play. After sliding down Lady’s nose several times, she found the fingerpaints.

When Lady woke up at dawn, she was staring cross-eyed at the tip of her nose. There stood a pair of tiny fairies, covered in paint, and dancing. Eventually Lady realized it was just one fairy who had done the damage of two. There were little footprints all over her face, and her hair was now red.

And she couldn’t stop sneezing!

Lady and the Veil

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While Lady and the gnome slumbered in the garden, dusk quietly blanketed the day. In the veil of time between light and dark, the unattended cauldron bubbled over. Unseen by all, the bubble rider sprites perched atop the bubbles, one to each, and floated away. Three stayed in the garden; two by the gnome and one near the sleeping witch.

The sprites that landed on the gnome’s big nose were nearly sniffed up into his right nostril. In the nick of time they were blown back out, laughing as if in the middle of an arcade game. When one tried to ask the other how he managed to breathe so funny, it came out in such a way that ever after, the gnome would be called “Howie”.

For many nights, and mornings too, the bubble riders visited Howie in his sleep. They explored elsewhere but always returned to his nose, and they always laughed at it. All Howie ever knew was that sometimes he would startle himself into wakefulness with a loud sneeze. If the sun hadn’t risen he would return to dreamland with ease.