This never happened before. I don’t know if this story belongs in the reality blog or the fantasy blog. I keep them away from each other, just as I do in my life. Fairies actually don’t belong in tiny houses, and my pleasant life demands that they stay on their own side of the river. […]
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
There are times when a seven year old is just not capable of understanding the joys that can be associated with the bubbles in an adult beverage. This is why our friend Lady, who was six and a half years old now and sporting curly red hair and an abundance of freckles, was left to stir the potions meant for very young people in playgrounds.
Wiser witches of more advanced experience were left with the manufacture and distribution of Love Potion Number Seventeen. The carbonation provided by Seventeen created bubbles that were smaller and stronger than the other potions. Specialized bubble rider sprites directed these bubbles to private parties in undisclosed locations. These bubble riders were the ones responsible for the dreams that awoke people at dawn with a smile on their faces and a strange sense that they had not been alone in their dream. The potion is provided almost exclusively to women who have a longing to describe their feelings to a man but don’t have the words. Alternatively, the recipient, almost exclusively a man, may not have the comprehension to understand the words if spoken.
Many of us have known a person in our lives who provides that spark of heightened liveliness. There is often no logical explanation for it, only a solid conviction that life has been elevated to a higher, nearer and more approachable plane. It is an awakening and a sensual experience that lasts many months beyond the initial taste. Even the sprites are forever changed after one of these experiences. Some of them refuse to leave and get themselves or their host in hot water, flattening the beverage and leaving them stranded without transportation home.
These are the sprites to watch out for, because they are highly educated at this point and can get bored sometimes when they have nothing exciting going on around them. These are the fairies that play tricks on you, not because you deserve it, but because they insist that you remain joyful until death.