The Fairy on the Painting

Melody was sitting on her favorite bench at the art museum and writing, as she always did. She liked to look at the paintings and then close her eyes and imagine them coming to life. Sometimes she watched the people, especially children, and how they responded to the paintings. One day, she saw a couple come in with a little girl, about four years old. The little girl was wearing fairy wings, and she was lagging behind her parents a little, seemingly overwhelmed by the grandeur of the room. Suddenly the little girl stopped in front of Melody and stared at a painting in the corner of the room, her eyes wide.

“Do you see her?” Melody asked. The girl nodded. “Would you like to meet her?” Melody offered. The little girl looked at her in questioning amazement and nodded carefully. Melody walked slowly with the little girl over to a painting of a brightly-lit path under an archway of trees. They stopped a few feet away and looked up at the top of the painting where a tiny fairy sat. Melody said, “Her name is Silva. She loves to come to the art museum and look at the art and watch the people, like I do. This is her favorite painting.”

“What’s your name?” Melody asked. “I’m not allowed to tell my name to strangers,” the little girl replied. “That’s usually a good idea,” Melody agreed. “That’s okay. Do you hear her?” Melody asked the little girl. The little girl nodded again. “It’s like she can speak directly into our minds.” Melody paused, listening. “Is she right? Do you like telling fairy stories?” The little girl lit up. “I LOVE to tell fairy stories!” Melody said, “You should record your stories or ask your parents to write them down. Then, when you’re bigger, you can write them down yourself!” The little girl asked, “Can I write a book?” “Of course you can!” Melody encouraged. “Silva believes in you, and so do I. Silva says your parents are looking for you. We’d better get back.” Melody smiled down at the little girl. “Bye, Silva!” The little girl waved to the fairy.

When the pair returned to the bench, the parents eyed Melody curiously until the little girl exclaimed, seemingly all in one breath, “We went to talk to a fairy! She’s sitting on that painting right now! It’s her favorite! Her name is Silva, and she thinks I can write a book about fairies!” The parents looked surprised but smiled.

While the little girl was telling the parents of her adventure, Melody had taken her book The Storyteller out of her bag and began to write a message in it. “Is it okay for you to tell me your name now?” The little girl looked up at her parents, who nodded back, and she said, “Emily.” Melody extended her hand and said, “Emily, it is a pleasure to meet you.” Emily proudly shook her hand. Melody then wrote in the book, “We believe in you, Emily! Love, Silva and Melody.” She gave the book to Emily and said to the parents, “She is going to be a wonderful writer someday.” The parents smiled and thanked Melody and escorted Emily to the next room in the museum.

Melody packed up her things and headed for the exit, but not before waving “see you next time” to her friend, the fairy on the painting.

Riding a Falling Leaf

Snap drop glide

  

Stall drop whoosh

 

Drop glide fall

 

Sway sway sway

Swing

I pump my legs back then kick them out and face up to the clear blue sky. I fly up, up, up, through the clean air, into the vast blue. I fly higher and higher, my back to the ground, face to the sky. The air around me gets cooler. The chill air quickly moves past my face, feeling like wind blowing from heaven down to earth. I fly so high the sky turns from blue to black. Soon stars appear in front of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the glowing blue curve of Earth's atmosphere. I can't tell if I'm slowing down, or if space is just so vast that I lose all perception of speed. Soon I slow to almost a stop. I turn myself to face the Earth. It grows smaller and smaller, an illuminated blue sphere with speckles of white and brown. Where am I going? I float farther and farther away until suddenly I'm snapped back like a rubber band, hurling toward earth so quickly I can't make out the stars around me. As the Earth approaches, I see only a hint of the blue glow before I see the land moving toward me impossibly fast. My body feels the sensation of falling, and my limbs start flailing on their own as if they possess the power to slow my descent. I close my eyes because I don't want to see my death. I turn my body to face the blue sky so I see its beauty as my life is snuffed out. I feel something catch me, holding me from underneath. It grips my backside and seems to all but stop my fall. I feel it jerk and then suddenly I'm swinging backward. I see the ground underneath me. The creaking screech of the chains brings my consciousness back to my surroundings. I don't move, allowing my pendulum swings to get smaller and smaller until my body comes to a rest, still hanging a few inches above the earth, my journey done.

quicksand

i'm stuck

in the muck

of writer's block



sucked in

by the viscous

love of words



writing looks

so pleasant

a sandy beach



but the deep

waters below

form a trap



i can't resist

the sensation

of flowing words



but when flow

mixes with dry

i can't escape



being a writer

is balancing

on quicksand