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.

7 thoughts on “Fairy Moon

  1. I CANNOT get over this metaphor: “Like a hug from my older brother, except my nose isn’t crushed into an armpit.” So perfect and sneakily hilarious- you’re not expecting it and then BAM you’re laughing out loud. I’m literally delighted.

    Liked by 1 person

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