Ты wake up under a shady willow with a vague semblance of what Ты had dreamt.
Ты have dozed off again. And no wonder, there is a good book in your lap and your Избранное songs are still crackling through your earbuds. Ты ought to replace them, they are going bad. Ты pull them out and decide to listen to nature’s Музыка instead. The soft gurgle of the pond coupled with catkins rustling against each other has always been your Избранное blend of sounds. Every now and again your ear is filled with the nearly undetectable buzz of a cicada humming past. Ты aren’t quite sure, but Ты think that the last bug to flitter by may have been a bumblebee in Поиск of a цветок to land upon. The springtime has brought a host of such flowers—lilac, daisy, honeysuckle, a sprinkle of nannyberry, and a dash of virginia rose add pops of color to the lawn. Beneath the дерево clover and dandelion grow in dense clusters, growing еще sparse as they span away from the tree. Further off in the rolling field is a host of meadowsweet and steeplebush just getting ready to sprout. Ты pluck a clover and twirl it between your fingers.

A белка scrambles down the дерево and flicks his tail at you. And when Ты go to snap a photo, he has the audacity to toss an acorn at Ты with a chitter before frantically scuttling off. For that reason, Ты preferred the rabbits.

Ты lean back against the дерево and look at the sky, soon the sound of children laughing overpowers the bird calls and pond babble. Two boys fly kites shaped like dragonflies as a younger girl with blonde pigtails and a сарафана, сарафан blows a облако of bubbles. She calls for the boys to come try to catch them before they pop. The boy with the red hair and dinosaur t-shirt tells her that they are too busy. The older boy with the blonde hair tells her to ask Katie. Sooner или later she’d invite a friend over to help her catch Бабочки as she does every Saturday afternoon. But until then she could use some company, so Ты offer to Присоединиться her. She smiles cheerfully and tells Ты that her name is Louisiana-Piper. Ты tell her yours and say that you’ve never met a girl named Louisiana before. She giggles and hands Ты a bubble wand, instructing Ты on how to use it. Ты keep her entertained until Katie arrives. Just as Ты start to leave, they ask Ты to help them catch бабочка that has flown out of reach. Ты lose track of time. Eventually the blonde boy, who Ты have come to know is her brother, Parker, calls her to follow him home. Faintly, Ты miss being that young.

Ты pick up your book and watch a sneeze of dandelion seeds take to the air. They coast lazily about, seeking good places to land. Ты mark your page and tuck it safely away in your bag. It is nearly eight thirty but it still not quite dark yet, the days are growing longer and Ты know now that spring is fading away. Ты will miss it of course, but the summer solstice has its own glories that Ты enjoy almost as strongly as vernal ones.

Ты stretch your arms and decide that your time at the park is done for the day. Ты walk Главная with the twilight in its секунда stage. There is a deep blue in the sky, pushing the Цвета of the sunset down. A few clouds cluster near the drooping sun as a few stars pop into view. Ты feel bad because your parents are probably worried, Ты always seem to spend too much time at the park and arrive Главная when there’s еще navy in the sky than oranges and golds.

When Ты get Главная Ты see your mother and her friend just beginning to fold up a picnic blanket. Fleetingly, Ты wonder why they didn’t accompany Ты to the park, the scenery over there was much еще suitable for an outdoor lunch. Your neighbor is also packing away his лимонад stand, he offers Ты a cup. Deciding that it would be a nice way to end a fine May evening, Ты flip him a quarter and take a cup. Ты watch the sun dip completely below the horizon as sugary citrus explodes on your tongue. As the neighbor kid retreats into his house—no doubt rushed by his father calling him a fourth time—you wander into your back yard. A week или so from now, fireflies will dance in between бабочка bushes and garden gnomes. Ты think that Ты might catch a few if Ты find the time, but Ты have promised your father that Ты would help put up some summer décor. Your grandmother has been particularly adamant about trying something she’d seen on Pinterest. She has been asking your father to save small jars and bottles so that Ты can make strings of lights of them. She tells him that your grandfather has a knack for such things and can help put it together. Though Ты don’t fancy actually putting the lights up, Ты think that they will add a nice, almost rural, touch to the yard. Ты finish your lemonade. Though the night is early, Ты can hear the yip of a coyote.

Ты look towards the forest just beyond your backyard. Windchimes tinkle behind you, somehow coaxing Ты to recall the days when Ты would chase fae and sing with elves. The days when Ты would swim with nixies in the pond and catch glimpses of Единороги in the sunrays that filtered between the leaves. The days when faeries awakened when Цветы opened their petals. Just like that Ты remember your dream in full.
Suddenly it doesn’t feel like a dream at all.
Ты look at your hand expecting to see a rope bracelet.

***

Ты leave your bedroom window open with the curtains billowing and casting shadows, the night time has never bothered you. Some people are jarred by the concept of a forest looming in the background, they think that an open window is an invitation for the shadows to crawl in and wreak havoc. Ты can understand how that would be daunting for some, the forest is a host of odd noises and weird night creatures—uncanny foils to their morning counterparts. But Ты are used to them all.
In fact Ты couldn’t imagine a night without such sounds.
They have lulled Ты to sleep since your coloring book days.

Ты listen to the distant night calls until Ты are almost asleep and just on the brink of a dream. Ты hear a tapping at the window, it doesn’t set in right away that the tapping is not the beginning of a new dream. The tapping persists, but your visitor doesn’t invite itself in just yet. Though pale green fingers curl around the frame, and when Ты come to full wakefulness Ты catch, on the tip of each finger, the teeniest emeralds glistening under the moonlight. The fingers drum against the pane again. Perhaps this is what many fear. But Ты don’t, Ты go to the window as if answering the call of an old companion. The half-imp, half-dryad looks at Ты with eyes of gold, his mossy hair flutters like the curtains. His wings twitter frantically, during their upstrokes they Показать a gossamer оливковый, оливковое color and beating down they display yellower hues. He looks like a день rising faery and Ты wonder what he is doing up so late. He drifts away from your window and Ты decide that such is your cue to follow.

Ты consider that Ты are in fact in a dream, that Ты must not have realized that Ты fell asleep. That makes it easier to grab your iPod and slip through the window. The moon is in a late waxing phase, the месяц will end with a full moon. Under its light Ты can see the sparkle of dew drops, they wet the soles of your bare feet. The cricket chirps are a lot clearer now, there is a choir of them but Ты can’t decipher the lyrics. Every now and again a дерево frog или two will chime in. Ты breathe in the night air; it is fresh, mostly. Mixed in with the damp smell of old leaves is something еще acidic. Just at the border of your yard, where the трава begins to grow taller and intermingles with clusters of rye, Ты spot small twinkles of light. At first Ты think that they might be fireflies, but it is still too early in the год for that. Even if it wasn’t, these tiny orbs glow teal. A long time назад when Ты still sat on grandmother’s lap, listening to her sing lullabies Ты heard a story. It was a fairy tale that had been passed down for generations, from here is where Ты know what those softly luminescent orbs are.
Despite the stories Ты trek up to the tiny wisps. Once upon a time, in a story far away, these creatures were malevolent, leading the unsuspecting into traitorous parts of the forest. But like most of the faefolk, they have mellowed. There are no еще forlorn creatures and no еще Зачарованная beings, no light nor dark; Ogre and elf, troll and pixie, vampire and stayer, they just want to stay alive and vibrant. Ты hear the windchimes jingle on your patio again. The will-o-wisps buzz around, zipping towards the дерево line. The imp-dryad seats himself upon one of the wisps and eyes Ты just as curiously as Ты eye him. It must have been centuries since a human older than twelve has acknowledged him или a being like him. Curious indeed.
But the things Ты acknowledge in dreams are different than the ones Ты acknowledge in waking.
As languid as can be, the wisp carries the imp-dryad towards its companions.

So you, after one last peek at your slumbering house, head in the same direction. Ты Любовь the forest after all. It isn’t frightening in the slightest, it is a comfort.
It is home.

Ты pass under a natural arch of old oak. Cedar and pine intertwine with the oaks making the forest diverse and inviting. Their scents mix together and Ты cannot tell which odor belongs to which tree. Ты see a beetle scuttle over the bark and decide not to touch any of the trees. The wisps light your way as Ты traipse about. Ты have been in this very forest for many years—your mother is fond of reminding Ты that she used to take Ты for walks here when Ты were just a babe, she of course, did all of the walking. But this is the first time Ты can think of that Ты have ventured here during the night hours. Under the moon it is familiar in a surreal sense. The trail is accented by the same sizable rocks that have been there for ages. They didn’t have as much moss when Ты were a child, as they do now. The collection of fungi poking out from under them is new too. From somewhere within the branches of a cedar, an owl hoots. It is mysterious enough and darkly alluring but it is not eerie nor mournful. It is followed by a higher hoot and then a deeper one that sounds much closer. Ты think that, that third call might have come from the oak Далее to you. Ты squint up at the дерево but can make out nothing. Ты wish that Ты had brought your flashlight, your iPod’s light will do just well, but it feels somehow less appropriate.

Ты would like to gawk some еще but the swarm of wisps are waiting, Ты don’t know where they are going to lead Ты but Ты don’t want to leave them waiting for too long. For a moment Ты long to dash into the swarm and let those beads of light dance around you, but Ты guess that doing so might be seen as invasive so Ты keep your distance as they lead Ты deeper into the forest. The trees pack themselves еще tightly as Ты trail further in. One might think it would be oppressive, but Ты feel as though the trees in their density offer Ты better protection. By the time the wisps stop moving Ты find yourself in a clearing. What Ты see throws Ты right back into your childhood and for the first time in ages your imagination has fuel. Dream или not, Ты find yourself in the midst of something Ты know is very special. Ты don’t know the occasion, but celebration is all around you. There is decoration all around. Most of it consists of тис and floral garland. Ты see it dangling from branches and wrapped around дерево trunks, розовый Розы and маргаритка climbs all the way up. In other places wisteria clings to the trees; this spectacle can’t possibly be real as Ты have never seen wisteria in these parts before. But then, you’ve never seen an imp-dryad either. Golden glitter seems to hang in the air, leaving a fine dust on your clothes and in your hair. Everywhere Ты look there are hovering paper lanterns mostly in greens, purples, blues. Upon giving one a gentle tap Ты realize that they are not part of the décor. The delicate being nips at Ты and bobs away, taking its light with it.

Ты find yourself dazzled by fairy music. A fairy with a harp, a satyr with a pan pipe, and an elf with a hurdy gurdy. There is also a centaur playing an instrument you’ve never seen before that moment. It is silver in make and has a tube-like body. Ты may have taken it for a flute if not for the spindly spines that rise and fall with each note. Many of the pixies, elves, and faeries spin and twirl gracefully to the beat of the song. Bells tied around their ankles tinkle as their dresses of шнурок, кружева and flora swish fluidly about.

Ты can see so many different creatures gathered about. There are a few gnomes intermingling with dwarves and goblins. Further into the forest a few witch covens make conversation with vampires. The Волколаки huddle near the faun. A cluster of talking mice with iridescent мех skitter at the feet of a winged dog. Ты even glimpse a few miniature dragons. Though lacking in size their scales are magnificent, splayed over their bodies like shiny tie-dye. Most of them boast the Цвета of the most breathtaking sunset, some of them ripple in blues, greens, and teals like that of untainted pond water and others have scales of pure silver dipped at the edges in Золото dust. Oh, but there is such a variety Ты can’t possibly keep track of it all.

As Ты marvel at the dragons, the elven kin offer Ты berries and diced mushrooms on platters bordered with pinecone scales. Others offer Ты a chance to dance with them. Ты take them up on their offers and dance until Ты are ready to return to your bed.

***

Ты want to go back to the park, but daily tasks call Ты away from it. Ты have a Список of mundane things to do from the laundry to some vacuuming, each task is as dull as the next. Between loads of сказал(-а) laundry, Ты find yourself picking up some of the clutter Ты let accumulate in your room—better to do it yourself than to wait for your mother to cause a stir over it. As Ты do so, Ты cast longing glances at your book shelf. A few of your Избранное titles are calling you. The voices of the ones you’ve been meaning to read cry louder. But Ты are forced to ignore them for now. Ты promise that Ты will come back for them when Ты get the chance, even if it’s only a page или two before bed.

Your relief today comes in the form of your father reminding Ты that Ты still have to help him string the lights out around the patio and the in the trees so that your grandma will have something to smile upon. At least with this chore Ты can go out and get some fresh summer air instead of remaining cooped up in your house. So Ты tell him that Ты will be downstairs in just a moment. Ты change from your pajamas into your shorts and your Избранное summer tee. You’re dad is already outside, getting a head start on the task, by the time Ты have finished dressing.

As Ты work to put up the first strand, Ты peer into the forest. Your dream from about a week назад comes back to the surface.
A swarm of gnats play in the tall трава near where the forest opens up. And a family of Бабочки flutter around its natural oak entrance, where vines and something that looks like wisteria dangle down. A generous amount of sunlight casts itself upon the spot. It looks simply enchanting and as majestic as a forest ought to. Ivy curls around trumpet vine and creeps up the bark of the oak. Those little оранжевый Цветы are exactly the kind that would house a teeny fairy baby.
And for a moment Ты believe again.

For no other reason than to humor yourself, Ты stray from the strand of lights and motion to peel a petal back. But before Ты get the chance to peep into the цветок your father beckons Ты to stay on task as your grandparents would arrive any минута now. Ты sigh, the цветок and the fantasies it brings will have to wait. A lady bug with a shell like a dotted red pearl springs from the trumpet flower. As a child Ты used to chase them around the yard, letting them crawl along your fingers. Ты climb back atop your ladder and finish weaving the strand of homemade lights through the branches. Ты step down to admire your work. Between yourself and your father, the new decorations are looking pretty spiffy. The two of Ты keep up until all of the trees in your yard get their share. In the daylight they look like ordinary jars but once Ты plug them in, they will look as mystical as everything else in the garden. Ты are eager for night just so that Ты can see the full glory of your work. Briefly Ты consider that it would have been еще suiting to set candles in each jar instead of a bulb, Ты vocalize this to your father. He disagrees, stating that doing so would be too tedious and time consuming anyhow. As Ты are about to leave, he asks Ты if Ты will help him clean the gutters. It is a task he has been neglecting for months now and your mother has been arguing with him to get it done. Deciding that Ты don’t want to hear it again, Ты agree. Ты might as well seeing as most of today has been eaten up by housework anyhow.

The Далее morning is even less thrilling. It starts with the bleating of your alarm clock, stealing Ты away from a pretty dream and thrusting Ты harshly back into real life. It would be less irritating if a long день of work wasn’t in store for you. Ты tug your uniform on and have a quick breakfast of two блины and some яблоко juice. Ты grab your car keys and head out. Your car is nice enough, Ты suppose, it treats Ты well and gets Ты where Ты need to go. That’s all Ты can ask of it. Ты arrive at work, a quaint little local coffee shop. Mostly it isn’t bad but there are some days when Ты would rather curl up under one of those gaudy розовый and оливковый, оливковое green striped tables and never come out. On those days Ты yearn for the simplicity of childhood. The time when Ты didn’t have to worry about Matilda and her ridiculously complicated orders and the hissy fits she throws when her latte isn’t done exactly right. Ты have never come across someone so picky. Today is one of those days where she is screeching at Ты because your coworker ‘didn’t heat it properly’. Your boss intervenes offering her a new one on the house, if for no other reason than to calm her tantrum. Ты wish that she wouldn’t cave like that, but Ты don’t say anything lest Ты precure Matilda’s wrath again.

It is late when Ты get home, so Ты go upstairs and try to write. But no stories come to your head, so Ты opt to surf the web instead, that comes naturally. Such is how it has been for a while now, all of your soul wants to put the pencil to the paper but no words seem to come and when they do they just don’t sound right. They don’t flow how they used to. Ты click around for a bit and try to recall past ideas that Ты never got around to Письмо but Ты can’t think of any. Ты check your emails and watch a few videos. Ты have another idea, Ты begin flipping through your journal for stories that Ты have never finished. No inspiration comes from there either, though Ты have some pretty solid stories started Ты have no idea where to take them. Ты also fear that your Письмо has become lackluster and will ruin something that looks so good. Finally frustrated out of your mind, Ты put the journal away wondering where your Muse had fled to as Ты frantically give one last attempt to collect the visages of your past creativity. When that fails too, Ты retreat to your постель, кровати with a faint hope that perhaps your dreams will offer Ты some new material, but lately Ты have been struggling to recollect their content.

Work keeps Ты busy for the days to come and Ты don’t get a chance to go to the park until the секунда week of June. It has been too long, watching fireflies blink in your yard just doesn’t cut it. So at the first chance Ты get, Ты grab a book, your journal, and your bike and Ты set off. Despite the summer crowd, your Избранное spot under the willow, the spot where you’d first put your journal to use, is unoccupied. Maybe sitting in your Избранное spot again and enjoying nature’s energy will kindle your creative vibes. The field before Ты now shows off delicate розовый azalea, white tri-petaled trillium, and the sunny yellow of daffodil. Near the свинг, качели set, before трава turns to woodchip, a viburnum shrub has finally exploded with teeny white blossoms. The air is pleasantly hot as Ты tap Ты pencil onto the paper of your journal.

***

Ты are lost, terribly so. It might not have been so bad except for the rain. The world around Ты has a grey tinge to it and Ты wonder if your family has noticed your absence. Really, all Ты intended was to have a quick walk. The family reunion has been pleasant enough so far, but it is crowded and Ты wanted to get a break from aunts with no sense of personal Космос and overly loud uncles made louder by a few cans of beer. The nature reserve the reunion was being held at is a charming place; the ground is lined with toadstools and clover. To the left a field of rye bobs up and down under the spell of the summer breeze. Your family had made good work of the small trees, tying white шнурок, кружева to their branches and sprinkling faux diamond scatter at their feet. Ты had watched dark clouds gather at the corner of the sky, all the while, the forest path was calling you. It had been calling Ты since Ты arrived. After an offhanded joke by uncle Marvin, Ты decided that it was time to make your get away. Ты probably should have told your parents Ты were stepping out for a bit или at the very least Ты should have invited your cousin to tag along, she knows the area well. But Ты didn’t think to do so and now Ты are Остаться в живых in some forest of red кленовый, клен and black birch in Connecticut, states away from your Главная in Maine. It was wonderful at first, the sprinkle hadn’t yet turned into an all-out rainfall and Ты remembered to take your camera along so Ты had managed to snap a few фото of the sweepy leaves of a hemlock дерево spotted with raindrops. The fluff of cottonwood fell upon Ты with the raindrops giving the forest a rather fantastical allure. And because of the drizzle, many of the еще annoying insects had fled. That should have been your first clue that Ты were walking into a storm, instead Ты felt relieved that Ты didn’t have to swat at gnats the whole time. Ты caught some of the fluff and put it in your pocket, Ты don’t yet know what Ты will use it for, but it seems like a nice thing to have. Something else caught your eye, a glistening in the bushes. When Ты stooped down to see what it was, Ты were disappointed to find a shard of a broken bottle. The rest of the thing like shattered a few feet away, marring an otherwise pristine view.
All of these things are what have distracted Ты to the point of not being able to find your way back to the reserve.

Instead Ты came out at the edge of an old steel mill. This is where Ты stand now, at the edge of the forest, gazing at the ugly thing that nature is trying its best to reclaim. Its abandoned and in shambles but it has already done its damage. The structure is a tangle of rusting metal tubes and pipes, the kind that had inevitably, during their running days, hacked out enough smog to anger even the smokiest dragon. As of late these tubes and pipes have been conquered by creeping ivy, Ты are pleased to see that the green tangle seems to be strangling the gaudy things. Rising from the вверх are smoke stakes of various sizes in various states of corrosion and decay. Ты can see cracks in the fixtures. It isn’t your usual material, but Ты take a quick picture regardless. As Ты wander closer the ground becomes progressively trashier. The mill had vomited up screws, cogs, and scraps of unused metal. Broken steel beams hang precariously in the entryway. Curiosity gets the best of Ты though and Ты are inside before your brain sounds the warning bells. The Космос is wide and ugly, the roof is a kaleidoscope of long dead pipes, crossbeams, and steel pillars with nuts and bolts bigger than your face. A few of the pipes that waterfall down the Стена sport pressure gauges and wheels used to open and shut the ventilation system. There is a power panel on the opposite Стена in which the ivy made its way in. трава burst through cracks in the decomposing floor and curled around levers and metal spokes. The windows too are cracked, some to the point where they have holes. Ты are most appalled though, by the miniature generator in the corner and its cluster of uranium fuel rods. Ты remove yourself from the industrial jungle as quickly as Ты had entered it.

Ты continue down the road, trying to put some distance between yourself and the daunting mill. The rain is coming down in sheets now, coaxing the mist to thicken. In no longer eddies around your ankles, but blots out a good portion of your vision. Ты hope that the rest of your family has made it inside safely. Ты see figures poking through the mist—wooden skeletons that range in height from waist level to towering above your head. They are trees, Ты realize, или what’s left of them. They jut out of the ground like jagged fingers. The ground beneath them is a mess of twigs, crunchy leaves, flakes of bark, and sawdust. The remains of something that was once so breathtakingly powerful. The mist flows from their husks mournfully. Ты take your camera out and hastily capture the somber display before the rain can damage it. Ты can see a saw blade burrowed into one of the trees, Ты walk closer intent on pulling the blade out.

As Ты edge nearer, the air seems to glimmer and distorted as if someone has draped seran заворачивать, обертывание over the landscape.