Fragile Things: Short Fictions and Wonders

If I were young as once I was, and dreams and death more distant then,
I wouldn’t split my soul in two, and keep half in the world of men,
So half of me would stay at home, and strive for Faerie in vain,
While all the while my soul would stroll up narrow path, down crooked lane,
And there would meet a fairy lass and smile and bow with kisses three,
She’d pluck wild eagles from the air and nail me to a lightning tree
And if my heart would run from her or flee from her, be gone from her,
She’d wrap it in a nest of stars and then she’d take it on with her
Until one day she’d tire of it, all bored with it and done with it
She’d leave it by a burning brook, and off brown boys would run with it.
They’d take it and have fun with it and stretch it long and cruel and thin,
They’d slice it into four and then they’d string with it a violin.
And every day and every night they’d play upon my heart a song
So plaintive and so wild and strange that all who heard it danced along
And sang and whirled and sank and trod and skipped and slipped and reeled and rolled
Until, with eyes as bright as coals, they’d crumble into wheels of gold…
But I am young no longer now; for sixty years my heart’s been gone
To play its dreadful music there, beyond the valley of the sun.
I watch with envious eyes and mind, the single-souled, who dare not feel
The wind that blows beyond the moon, who do not hear the Fairy Reel.
If you don’t hear the Fairy Reel, they will not pause to steal your breath.
When I was young I was a fool. So wrap me up in dreams and death.

OCTOBER IN THE CHAIR

October was in the chair, so it was chilly that evening, and the leaves were red and orange and tumbled from the trees that circled the grove. The twelve of them sat around a campfire roasting huge sausages on sticks, which spat and crackled as the fat dripped onto the burning applewood, and drinking fresh apple cider, tangy and tart in their mouths.

April took a dainty bite from her sausage, which burst open as she bit into it, spilling hot juice down her chin. “Beshrew and suck-ordure on it,” she said.

Squat March, sitting next to her, laughed, low and dirty, and then pulled out a huge, filthy handkerchief. “Here you go,” he said.

April wiped her chin. “Thanks,” she said. “The cursed bag-of-innards burned me. I’ll have a blister there tomorrow.”

September yawned. “You are such a hypochondriac,” he said, across the fire. “And such language.” He had a pencil-thin mustache and was balding in the front, which made his forehead seem high and wise.

“Lay off her,” said May. Her dark hair was cropped short against her skull, and she wore sensible boots. She smoked a small brown cigarillo that smelled heavily of cloves. “She’s sensitive.”

“Oh puhlease,” said September. “Spare me.”

October, conscious of his position in the chair, sipped his apple cider, cleared his throat, and said, “Okay. Who wants to begin?” The chair he sat in was carved from one large block of oakwood, inlaid with ash, with cedar, and with cherrywood. The other eleven sat on tree stumps equally spaced about the small bonfire. The tree stumps had been worn smooth and comfortable by years of use.

“What about the minutes?” asked January. “We always do minutes when I’m in the chair.”

“But you aren’t in the chair now, are you, dear?” said September, an elegant creature of mock solicitude.

“What about the minutes?” repeated January. “You can’t ignore them.”