My love and gratitude to Nimupara, faerie of inspiration. She is the Watcher of Worlds, the Great Storyteller. Her tales may not always hold facts, but they have Truth. She places obstacles in your path to change your course, because she watches the big picture from her reflective pools that gather among the roots of her tree, and often sees factors of which we remain unaware. She watches and whispers stories in my ear, and I do my best to write them down. She loves balance and harmony, and sometimes knocks you over so you can see from another perspective.
The two butterflies bobbed through the air, swerved clumsily around a breeze, and stumbled into a patch of asters. “You’re drunk,” accused the clear one. “Not,” slurred the solid one, “just had one apple.” “It was pure brandy when you got to it.” “You’re brandy.” “I’m not flying with you when you’re like this.” “You’re not flying, you’re on a flower.” “You’re right, and I’m going to stay on this flower.” “I’m going to stay on this flower too. Have a little nap.” A shadow flicked over the butterflies. The bird swooped and returned home. “You’re drunk,” accused its mate.
Note: I don't condone or condemn safe use of alcohol, but do think it's a bit funny that sometimes butterflies eat rotten fruit that turns into alcohol in their bellies. (Inspired by the book I'm busy writing)
One young osk had not mastered his ability to sing imagination into reality, and accidentally sang his fancy up in a tree. Now, a turtle might have had better climbing abilities, but this youth saw no choice. He wanted to play. The toy was out of reach. The osk persisted, and somehow clambered to the branch that held his toy. He shuffled along the limb that bent with gravity. One foot slipped, balance broke, and the ground approached with alarming speed. The osk yelped a sound that popped him out of physical reality and into a strange yet familiar plane. All I could hear was the laughter of birds and the wind as a flute through the pass. A cloud approached until it turned the trail dark and cold. Its wisps kissed the flowers and left dewdrops. I followed a new sound. Someone, unseen, sang in a language mysterious to my ears. I searched, but the fog tricked my senses, and I wondered how wise it was to leave the trail. So then I sang a song of my own, lilting, lithe, full of love. It mingled with the hidden singer’s, and soon we smiled into each other’s warm words.
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StretchesThe brain needs to stretch before working out just as much as the body. Welcome to my stretch zone of stories in 100 words, and perhaps other bits. Archives
September 2019
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