flax-golden tales

death awaits you all








Most of them stand on the steps in front of the doors for some time before making their decision.

Marking the the obvious differences and missing the subtle ones.

(The bunny is the most obvious difference. The hand-drawn bunny sitting patiently beneath a shining sun, distracting from the fact that the doorknobs do not match, that only one door has a mail slot, that the doors themselves are painted two slightly different shades of black, one glossier than the other.)

Most take their time, but some choose quickly, as though they already knew which door they wanted before they arrived.

There are all kinds of seekers, drawn to the doors for their own private reasons, on their own personal quests.

Businessmen in suits and small children in striped socks.

Bike messengers and conquistadors and leaflet-carrying proselytizers.

But they always choose the bunny door.

And they’re always wrong.


Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
About flax-golden tales.

shadow angels








Angels lurk in shadows.

Not many people know that.

They like to think that angels hang out on clouds with harps and constant sparkling sunshine bouncing off of their halos.

Sure, a few of them are sun-dwellers, but most angels are sneaky.

They’re hiders by nature. They blend the rustling of their wings with the sounds of nearby pigeons to disguise it.

They wait in shadows and darkness and the bleakness of winter to drop blessings and luck and wonders on passersby.

Preferably the people who think that there are no angels anywhere, in shadows or in sunshine. Those wandering souls who don’t believe in such things.

Because angels like it best when they’re unexpected.


Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
About flax-golden tales.

ideas







Where do you get your ideas? people ask, as though they want the address of a store where they can buy Ideas in bulk, wrapped in plastic for durability.

With “IDEAS!” in eye-catching lettering on the package and a 40% discount.

But as far as I know, there is no such store.

So the inquirers are always disappointed by my response.

And truly, I don’t get my ideas anywhere. They find me.

They sneak in through windows and wait for me on street corners.

They hide at the bottoms of teacups and in between glasses of wine.

They harass me in the moments before sleep, curling up on my pillow like demanding cats and whispering in my ears.

They grow like weeds in my head and there is no escaping them.


Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
About flax-golden tales.

meetings about nonconformist trees to which the trees themselves are not invited









They grew from the ground that way, so anyone who suggested that it was creative vandalism or a trick of some sort was immediately dismissed for being uninformed or unobservant.

The meetings were held so people could argue about what to do about them.

Someone suggested they might not even be real trees, but no one wanted to get close enough to check.

One person was dragged from a meeting by the guards after yelling that they were a Gift from Above and should not be touched.

It was a topic of heated conversation afterward, over coffee and stale cake, whether he meant god or aliens, which led to a debate about which god, but not which aliens. Someone pointed out they were more likely a Gift from Below since they grew out of the ground.

There were a lot of meetings, followed by a lot of similar conversations and more stale cake.
Eventually, they put up a fence.

It didn’t really do anything, but most people seemed to find it a satisfactory enough solution to stop having meetings.

The trees still change colors, though.


Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
About flax-golden tales.

zombie snow squirrels on the rampage









“There is no such thing as a zombie snow squirrel,” I say, even though he has his serious eyebrows on. Normally the eyebrows are a good indicator as to whether or not he’s kidding.

“You don’t get out much, do you?” he asks, rhetorical because he knows the answer. “The squirrels go mad from lack of acorns and too much snow and when they can’t take it anymore they go into this sort of undead coma thing and then they rampage.”

“They rampage?”

“Yeah. Rampaging zombie snow squirrels are always a problem this time of year. I can get you a slingshot if you don’t have one. It’s a halfway decent way to fend them off unless you get ambushed.”

I wait for him to laugh, but he doesn’t.


Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
About flax-golden tales.

carousel elephant










No one ever wants to ride the elephant on the carousel.

Even though he moves just as gracefully as the horses.

The choosing is done before the ride is put in motion, out of necessity.

And first impressions are all the riders have to go on.

The elephant looks heavy, despite the impressive trunk held aloft and sturdy legs poised mid-gallop.

It’s usually the slowest runners, the last to climb aboard that end up on the elephant, with frowns of disappointment looming over his golden tusks.

But when the tempo of the music changes, when the space between feet and floor increases exponentially and the carousel spins ever faster…

Then the elephant riders are pleased with their good fortune.

No one is ever thrown from the elephant on the carousel.

The same cannot be said for the horses.



Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
About flax-golden tales.

friends for hedgehogs









I made you a hedgie friend! she says, handing me a spiky, beady-eyed ball of some sort of bark and artfully composed twig slices.

Thanks, I say, putting him down on my desk. I turn him so he faces the printer, but he still looks like he’s staring at me with those glossy little eyes.

I already have a hedgehog, I tell her when she brings me another the next day, attempting to give back the almost identical… thing.

That one needs a friend for when you’re not around, she says. They get lonely.

The day after that, there’s a third one on my desk, sitting alongside the other two.

The next day there are six.

No matter how I arrange them, they’re always staring at me with those unblinking eyes.

They look like they’re plotting something.


Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
About flax-golden tales.

the short, sad life of a faceless snowman







He wasn’t leaning when they built him.

(Is it presumptuous to assume all snowmen are male?)

Anyway, he stood up pretty well those first few days. He would have looked almost impressive if the snow had been proper white marshmallow-colored fluff instead of dirty grey parking lot snow.

He started to lean yesterday. He probably would have toppled completely if the tree wasn’t there.

He wasn’t a particularly cheerful snowman to begin with, he never even had a carrot nose or anything, but now he just seems sad.

I suppose anyone would be sad, to have such a cold, temporary life.

Sooner or later he’ll melt.

I think he’ll welcome it.


Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
About flax-golden tales.

frames for nature








Nature doesn’t need frames, I say, but she insists on finding them anyway. Running around like a cameraless photographer as she composes each shot. Leaving to find another when she’s satisfied.

I ask her why, not really expecting an answer.

It’s too much to look at all at once, she says.

Maybe she’s right.

Maybe it’s better to have tastes of it, a narrower focus.

I do it myself now, too. Finding lines of bare trees and glimpses of blue sky.

Nicely contained within decorative arches.


Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
About flax-golden tales.

solitary contemplation








There’s a saint in the window of the building across the street.

I don’t know which one, I’m not good with saints.

He faces the window, but he doesn’t look out. He looks down, like he’s distracted. Lost in his thoughts rather than watching the street or the trees.

The building used to be a school, a Catholic one, I think, but it’s closed now. I doubt whoever put him there even considered how he’d look from the outside.

People walking by stop if they notice him. Sometimes they keep looking, long after they must realize he’s not a real person, like they’re wondering what he’s doing.

Meditating on the unknown thoughts of a lonesome saint.


Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
About flax-golden tales.