I decided to do something new: write a short vignette about the image below, similar in style to Erin Morgenstern’s flax-golden tales (I love them!). The difference? The shorter vignette fits into a larger story, which I will continue to write until the characters tell me I’m done.
Feedback always appreciated.
Several of the pumpkins rotted already. It takes us the better part of an hour to find one that is edible. Father tells me odd, old stories, like one about a maid who became a princess with the help of magic, a pumpkin, and a glass slipper.
“Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo,” Father trails off.
“Tell me real stories,” I plead. “I don’t want to hear fairy tales.”
“But fairy tales have happier endings,” Father counters, “and real stories can be more sad.”
Our fire crackles, and the log configuration Father worked so hard to perfect crumbles. Sparks fly up, dancing and cavorting in the dusk. I hand him a small log, and he manages to use it and a long stick to salvage the fire, or at least give it a couple more hours.
“There are enough sad stories, Grey,” Father shakes his head. “The world got too full of the stuff, and it spilled over into bedtime stories and woven words.”
We did not speak any more, and when the fire died down and we curled up against the trees I thought I heard him cry, tears echoing under a starless sky.