An envelope was sitting on my doorstep today. No return address, just my name printed in block letters, stark and official. I cautiously opened it, and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

The pages were yellowed with age, stiff and crackling. The blue ink was faded and pale.

Puzzled, I began to read. The story was unfamiliar, the language flowery, prose-like, an ode to magic and mystery. The secrets of night and the glory of dawn, all wrapped into a few sheets of scribbled notes. Diagrams and equations filled the margins, complex mathematics beyond my comprehension. Theories of gravity and coincidence, planetary alignment, faerie magic and brain chemistry, the Answers were here. It was all here.

The handwriting was mine.

My hands began to shake, the brittle pages trembled. I had no memory of writing these words, filling the lines with such care.

How could I have written this?

The clumsy cursive was unmistakable, the smears from my left hand were an unequivocal signature. I still had ink blots from a letter I had written this morning, freshly marking my skin like a tattoo. The stains matched, mirror images. Like birthmarks, fingerprints; there was no doubt.

My words. How could these be mine?

I stood there for a long time, trying to make sense of it. With each reading, I felt farther away from the conclusion, farther away from what I was supposed to understand.

And then the pages began to crumble.

Disintegrating before my eyes, the fragile words turned to dust, leaving nothing but glitter and ash in my hands.

The Coronet

I lay by the pond on a sunny day, idly weaving a wreath of flowers.  

When it was done, I set it atop the water and gave it a gentle nudge.

It floated to the center, a golden halo on a swath of cold blue.

“A crown fit for a king!” I merrily called to no one.

Then something stirred in the depths.

The blossoms lifted from the surface, light on the brow of a water nymph.

“Fit for a queen!” She cried boldly, a regal smile on her lovely face.

“I accept your offering and claim my kingdom!”

Crown and pose inspired by Bloom Design Studios


Uncommon Rain

uncommon rain

I live in a rainy place.

Damp. Wet. Soggy.

Nestled in an isolated cove, my ocean-side village is one of the wettest places on the planet.

Rain, always rain.

Quite the weather we are having!

Looks like rain! (It always looks like rain.)

Is that a patch of blue sky- oh, no. Just a dark cloud.

Shrouded in mist, the eaves drip constantly.

We wake to the pitter-patter of falling water.

We drift off to the waves crashing, splashing against the shore.

Wet, always wet.

On rare nights, we wake when the rain stops.

So loud in our ears, so foreign and strange, we cannot dream through it.

The silence envelopes the village.

Even the waves cease their endless lapping.

It starts softly, a gentle tapping at the windows.

The tinkling of tiny bells, crystalline chiming on the roof.

Then the panes begin to rattle and shake.

Soon we hear glass shattering, thrashing bells, a cacophony of violent sound.

Dark, only in the dark.

No one sleeps a wink on those nights.

We don’t look out the window.

We don’t leave our beds, or even open our eyes.

We lie awake, eyes squeezed tightly shut and try to drown out the clamor with silent prayers.

It lasts until first light.

One would expect a mess, after such a night.

Piles of broken glass, shards of metal and wood, anything that could have cause such a discordant commotion.

It is all clear, though. So clear.

We step outside to clear stoops, clear roofs, and a clear sky.

We bask in the blue of it, in the sunlight.

We don’t make a sound, we don’t move.

Then the fog starts to roll in.

Drip, drip, drop.

Rain begins to fall again.

We pull up our hoods, zip our coats and get on with the day.

No one speaks of it, the Uncommon Rain.

It’s best not to draw attention.