Fairy Moon


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.



A pawn in the great game, that’s who I am.

My skill lies in pressing forward, and only forward.  There are many of us, so many we have become faceless, easier on the conscience to kill.  Another will spring up in our place, what’s one more?

My odds are small.

Slimmer than a papercut.

I cannot confront my enemy.  Only on occasion can I throw off my enemy in passing.  That kind of fighting is not my skill.  I fight for stamina.  I fight for the will to go on.  I fight for the heroes behind me.

If I fail, another will take my place.

They do not know how we continue on, how we face our odds.  It is only something they ponder on briefly as they send us out.  To sacrifice.  To misdirect.  To aid.

It is our purpose, but it is not my goal.

I run through the terrain, heaving for breath.  I am not fast, I can barely fight, I am weak.  I am one of many.  But I do not plan to stay so.

Because one of these days . . .

One of these days . . .

I am out in the open, hoping to go unnoticed.  Hoping to make it across.  Fighting to put the next foot in front of the other.  I feel their eyes on me, from both sides.  They are busy, they watch us all, they have the endgame in mind.

So do I.

If I can make it. . .

It is what drives us all.  It is how we continue on.  It is where we draw our strength.


If I can make it, someday, somehow, if I can reach the other side . . .

A smile spreads across my face.  Hope flares in my chest.

I could become more than a faceless pawn.  I could rise from my position in a formless crowd.  I could turn the tide of this war.

And they would call me queen.