Sunday, Sep 27, 2009
Look! Pixie Dust!
It's a glorious, late September afternoon, one of the last days of summer, and the dog and I turn off the grassy bridleway into the bowers of a medieval wood. The grass takes it leave, to be replaced by dust - dust that today is flecked with sparkling blue and gold and red.
I bend down.
Tiny paper crescents, stars, ovals and rectangles--a couple of millimetres in diameter--are mixed in with the beige dirt. It's shiny paper too.
They've been spilt, I suppose; after a few yards of intrigue they'll vanish.
However a dozen yards on and the trail's still strong. Suddenly I'm piqued: what's this about and where will it lead? (Two of life's profoundest questions.)
Fifty yards later I round the corner and the trail vanishes. No, it doesn't - it's just a gap. But it's thinning; waxing and waning.
The path forks. Right goes the waxing trail. The dog and I follow.
At the bottom of the hill is a lump of black of charcoal and a new patch of grey ashes - a small campfire, presumably from last night. The trail dust doesn't carry on beyond it. This was the destination.
There are no elves or brownies to greet me at the end of the pixie dust. They've long gone. As always, I've missed the party. So life goes.
It's a glorious, late September afternoon, one of the last days of summer, and the dog and I turn off the grassy bridleway into the bowers of a medieval wood. The grass takes it leave, to be replaced by dust - dust that today is flecked with sparkling blue and gold and red.
I bend down.
Tiny paper crescents, stars, ovals and rectangles--a couple of millimetres in diameter--are mixed in with the beige dirt. It's shiny paper too.
They've been spilt, I suppose; after a few yards of intrigue they'll vanish.
However a dozen yards on and the trail's still strong. Suddenly I'm piqued: what's this about and where will it lead? (Two of life's profoundest questions.)
Fifty yards later I round the corner and the trail vanishes. No, it doesn't - it's just a gap. But it's thinning; waxing and waning.
The path forks. Right goes the waxing trail. The dog and I follow.
At the bottom of the hill is a lump of black of charcoal and a new patch of grey ashes - a small campfire, presumably from last night. The trail dust doesn't carry on beyond it. This was the destination.
There are no elves or brownies to greet me at the end of the pixie dust. They've long gone. As always, I've missed the party. So life goes.
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Posted Sep 28, 2009 3:35 am PT
fascinating just a shame it disappeared.
Posted Sep 29, 2009 3:02 am PT
That's so neat. Well written spod as always.
Posted Sep 29, 2009 1:33 pm PT
illegal I think you're right - human nature to follow it. And see below.
fangle I think it was a trail to the fire - I'm sure it would have reflected torchlight. But given the local tabloid's stories about what goes in that wood, it might have been devils congregating, rather than pixies. :-(
BriannaIf only I could right the stuff I want that well. *sigh*
fangle I think it was a trail to the fire - I'm sure it would have reflected torchlight. But given the local tabloid's stories about what goes in that wood, it might have been devils congregating, rather than pixies. :-(
BriannaIf only I could right the stuff I want that well. *sigh*
Posted Oct 4, 2009 11:35 am PT
Your story I read was awesome too spod 
Posted Oct 12, 2009 3:16 pm PT
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illegalferret
ps, let me know if u do find fairys tho!