It’s quiet in my room.
I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed, moonlight streaming in. My quilt is wrapped around me, heavy and warm. Like a hug from my older brother, except my nose isn’t crushed into an armpit.
I can’t sleep on full moons, it’s too bright, too alert. It’s exactly the kind of night that fairies would dance through. The night is awake.
So I can’t sleep.
I am tired though, inwardly berating myself for being such a light sleeper with a deep imagination. My sister doesn’t have that problem. I could scream bloody murder into her ear and she wouldn’t move a muscle. I know this for a fact, because it’s happened.
Many times.
The clock on my bed stand says it’s 2:13, and I’m staring at the moonlight glinting off the broken edges of my mason jar. A stupid fly has gotten in it and has been bouncing off the sides for a couple of minutes now. Mom says I should throw it away; that it’s broken and should be replaced.
But I like it better broken.
It’s been used, and dropped, and treasured.
It’s exactly the kind of object that belongs in a fairy garden.
I sigh, propping up my chin with a fist. The night is so much longer when you aren’t unconscious for most of it. I’m pretty sure the clock has gone backwards a few times. And paused.
Perhaps night doesn’t follow the normal rules of time.
It wouldn’t for fairies.
My Ink Stained Fingertips 