Opus Fae

Yuppers

2010-01-14T12:22:00.001-08:00

This website is currently on hiatus while I build The World of Christine Stoddard, the new ChristineStoddard.com. The multimedia website will feature a variety of my writings, visual art, and performances. Once it goes up, all of my other blogs will re-direct to it.

Learn more about Christine Stoddard & her creative projects at www.christinestoddard.com

Forget Fairytales: Phase 2, No. 22

2009-12-13T20:11:00.000-08:00

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Forget Fairytales: Phase 2, No. 20

2009-12-01T20:26:00.001-08:00

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New "Forget Fairytales" Website

2009-11-24T04:56:00.001-08:00

If you're a fan of my fairytale-themed comic, "Forget Fairytales," you'll be excited to know I have a new website:

WWW.FORGETFAIRYTALES.COM

Learn more about Christine Stoddard & her creative projects at www.christinestoddard.com

The Merry Princess

2009-11-16T13:19:00.000-08:00

I am a merry princess, gleeful as a blossoming forest tree, content with my damsel-in-distress destiny, for what greater ambition exists than to be wholesome, bland, useless, and pretty? I can sing as gayly as a bluebird sings upon falling from his nest and hitting his feathery head. Which, in case you were wondering, is still as happily as daffodils swaying in the breeze despite the sound of approaching lawnmowers roaring in the distance. Fairies handcrafted my dress and elves tied every single bow, just like in those Golden Books series your pot-smoking teenage babysitter read to you when you were little. The ice queen simply winked and my glass slippers magically appeared before me, faster than a pizza delivery guy (of course, in your neighborhood, that may not be very fast at all.) I may be medieval, but my fashion is always beautifully modern. Why? Because my physical appearance is what matters most to me. After all, Prince Charming won't propose if I'm frumpy and ugly. I better be shaven from chin to toe, my eyelashes better be curled, and if a single fly-away pops up on my raven mane, I might as well kiss that engagement ring farewell now. Bye-bye, diamonds! Bye-bye, gold! Bye-bye, the best part about marriage proposals! If you think engagement rings are just antiquated symbols of male dominance and ownership, seeing a sparkling ring welded by dragon flames may just change your mind.

You think I should have higher aspirations than commodifying myself for all potential purchasers? That there should be more to life than worrying about applying and re-applying ruby red lipstick all day? You think I should read the great books of the world and engage in meaningful conversations with thoughtful, educated individuals who drink only the finest of wines and teas? You think I should donate my money to charity instead of throwing it away on delicate handkerchiefs that I can drop as soon as a handsome knight enters the room? Oh, silly, red-blood--trying to be revolutionary, are you? Trying to fight for my rights as a woman, as a human being, who deserves to enrich her mind just as much as any white male Protestant? You just don't understand! I WANT to sit on a toadstool counting daisy petals all day. I WANT to admire myself in the mirror for hours on end, especially the way my eyes gleam like gentle mountain streams. I WANT to daydream about my wedding day, and all the unicorns and pixies in company. I WANT to go house-hunting for the perfect palace, especially if it means picking out a bigger, lovelier one than what my girlfriends own. I have no complaints about my frivolous societal role.

I absolutely adore being a merry, merry princess! So, please, feminist darlings, don't try to change that. Or else I might call my favorite witch to cast a hex on you!

Learn more about Christine Stoddard & her creative projects at www.christinestoddard.com

Forget Fairytales: Phase 2, No. 15

2009-10-21T20:30:00.001-07:00

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Forget Fairytales: Phase 2, No. 14

2009-10-20T22:43:00.000-07:00

Click the image to enlarge it!

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Fairy Dynasty

2009-10-19T18:37:00.000-07:00

Hey! Everyone reading this post! I want your attention, please. I will be exhibiting a few of my collages and short films at Halo Lounge in Washington, D.C. on Tuesday, October 27, starting at 6 p.m. Halo Lounge is located at1435 P St NW, Washington, DC 20005 in the Dupont Circle area. This is a free event open to the whole public. Come check out my work, chat with me, meet other Washingtonians, grab cheap food and drinks. I promise it'll be a fun event.

Learn more about Christine Stoddard & her creative projects at www.christinestoddard.com

Forget Fairytales: Phase 2, No. 13

2009-10-13T10:28:00.000-07:00

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Paper Art

2009-10-13T10:12:00.000-07:00

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The Leaf Fairy

2009-10-13T07:23:00.001-07:00

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Forget Fairytales: Phase 2, No. 12

2009-10-04T17:23:00.000-07:00

Click on the image to enlarge it.
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Forget Fairytales: Phase 2, No. 11

2009-09-21T17:45:00.000-07:00

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Instructions for the Urban Predator

2009-09-14T13:44:00.000-07:00

Click to enlarge the image. You can purchase the original-sized print for $10 (including S&H).

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Forget Fairytales: Phase 2, No. 8

2009-09-12T19:26:00.000-07:00

Click to enlarge the image! Also, check out the latest "Forget Fairytales" album on my Associated Content page.

Learn more about Christine Stoddard & her creative projects at www.christinestoddard.com

Bats and Butterflies

2009-09-11T20:40:00.001-07:00

"Bats and Butterflies"

By Christine Stoddard

Eleana sits in the English garden, marveling at another Richmond moon, with its clean, clean face (pure at least compared to the jostling James.) Her wispy nightgown fans out around her hips like a period costume. A pair of crooked fairy wings hang from her shoulders, shoulders that shine bright white in the glowing night light. Her boyfriend bent the coat hanger she used to construct the wings after she muttered she was pregnant. She wore the ripped pantyhose, which she later inundated with dollar store glitter, the night of the fatal escapade.

Suddenly Eleana stretches out her arms until she can stretch them no farther. They are long and milky before her. Her nails, painted pale gold, twinkle. Eleana draws her hands to her face and breathes in deeply, her chest heaving like a birthing mare's. The scent of lavender lotion mixed with misoprostol emerges from her pores. She shivers.

A massive magnolia overwhelms the garden with the stench of its rotting flowers. The whole tree is dying. Its leaves begin to fertilize the fetus Eleana buried there just as the sun set and shadows started to descend upon the city. She shivers again and sniffs her hands until the stench becomes indiscernible. Eleana inhales the garden's natural perfumes, from waves of Virginia Dogwood to pulses of Tudor Rose.

Eventually, she exhausts her nose. Her ears catch a flicker of sound. Eleana puts her hand over her gloomy gray eyes, shielding the moonlight from her gaze, and looks to the sky. She squints and, a second later, shrieks. Flailing her arms in the midst of wild screams, Eleana finally flings herself to the ground, ignoring the pain of mulch pressing into her soft calves. She rocks back and forth like a cradle. All the while, tears stain her face and she whispers, "I don't know if they're bats or butterflies. I don't know if they're bats or butterflies. I don't know if..."

Hours later, the sun rises. The magnolia has shed its final leaf and Eleana's wings lie over her child's grave.

Learn more about Christine Stoddard & her creative projects at www.christinestoddard.com

Forget Fairytales: Phase Two, No. 7

2009-09-10T19:56:00.000-07:00

Click on the image to enlarge it!

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Forget Fairytales: Phase Two, No. 6

2009-09-06T09:14:00.001-07:00

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Phase Two

2009-08-30T11:05:00.000-07:00

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Whispers from the Beach

2009-08-16T21:23:00.000-07:00

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Lenore in France

2009-08-10T06:09:00.000-07:00

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Lenore in France

2009-08-03T17:34:00.001-07:00

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Lenore in France

2009-07-19T15:43:00.000-07:00

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My French Fairy Dress

2009-07-16T11:59:00.001-07:00

La Rochelle boasts many superficial pleasures, including numerous tanning opportunities and top-notch shopping. The latter will prove to be my downfall if I am not careful. Prices here are much higher than I am accustomed to back home. To compound the bad news, the exchange rate is unfavorable. For every Euro I spend, I'm actually shelling out about $1.50 U.S. I must consider this fact before every purchase by interrogating the greedy part of my brain that insists I must own a certain blouse or book. I demand how often I will use the item, whether I can afford to buy it, and whether I can walk away from it without regret. While I don't want to go wild and throw my money to the French breeze, I don't want to sigh about something I didn't buy all during my plane ride home. After all, visiting France is a very special occasion. I have never been here before, despite studying French for a few years, and that alone is reason to celebrate as far as I'm concerned. That being said, when I saw this lavender dress at a boutique in St. Martin, the capital of Ile de Ré (an island near La Rochelle), I immediately loved it. I had already spent money on the bus ride to the island, so the frugal, sensible side of me said that I better wait and buy something else tomorrow. The spontaneous, sensual side of me won, though. I figured that I would probably never visit Ile de Ré again in my life, so this would serve as a tangible reminder of my trip; it was a beautiful and relatively inexpensive dress (15 Euros is a bargain in a country where most marked-down dresses are still 30 Euros); and that I deserved to "splurge" on an article that was and is the perfect color, perfect fabric, and perfect silhouette. It is what I call my French fairy dress. Created by Montan, a Parisian brand, the dress is simple and easy to wear. The sleeves are slightly bell-shaped and the skirt ends in three tiers of non-fussy ruffles. I like the sash that came with the dress because it can double as a scarf if and when necessary. I always appreciate versatility, a feature I've noticed dominates many French clothes. French women may own comparatively small wardrobes--certainly when placed next to an American's--but the difference is that each and every article is carefully chosen and meant to last. I'm confident that this dress follows the same tradition.

Learn more about Christine Stoddard & her creative projects at www.christinestoddard.com

Lenore in France

2009-07-15T13:21:00.001-07:00

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Lenore in France

2009-07-12T09:10:00.000-07:00

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Vacation Notice

2009-06-29T07:34:00.001-07:00

I will be in France from June 29 to August 1. During this time, I will not have the chance to regularly update my blogs or submit to other publications as usual. However, I do encourage you to check out my French travel blog as I document my voyage! Please visit http://blog.vcu.edu/stoddardcs2/ for my writing and photos.

Learn more about Christine Stoddard & her creative projects at www.christinestoddard.com

Forget Fairytales: Comic 50

2009-06-25T13:37:00.000-07:00

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The Summer of Sandals: Grecian Cinderella

2009-06-24T20:58:00.000-07:00

[Adopted from my alternative fashion blog, Give Me Paisley and Parasols.]

If Cinderella were Greek, she would wear these sandals. Note the regal color and the Mediterranean straps that make for an open, breathable style. The sandals are elegant yet subtle (or perhaps those two characteristics are never mutually exclusive.) Better yet, the sandals are versatile. Cinderella could pair them with her ball gown or the Saturday picnic with her step-mother's hired help--though I don't recommend she milk the cow or carry buckets of water in these. The heels may not tower high above the ground, but they are heels nonetheless. A farm life no-no. But for dancing a couple of Greek jigs and sitting pretty, eating baklava? Perfect.

How did I acquire these fairy tale shoes? Years and years ago, while visiting Europe, pixies sequestered me to their enchanted forest. They refused to release me until I gave their queen a make-over. I gave that pathetically unstylish, fly-sized woman one look and transformed her into an "It" girl. As a parting gift, the pixies presented me with these magical sandals. Sha-bam! My name goes down in pixie/human diplomatic relations history.

No, not really. I wish that were the case. The actual story is much more mundane. On one of my family's habitual trips to New York City, we stopped by one of Harlem's many bargain shops. Tempted by what I saw on the street display racks, I grabbed a green, silky camisole for $2, but I continued looking. I popped into the shop, past boxes of crackers, sets of counterfeit toys, and stacks of soda until I reached the very back. In virtually all stores, that is where the real bargains lie. My jaw dropped open with Looney Tunes drama when I spied three big bins full of shoes. I frantically pawed through the mountains, but was dismayed when I couldn't find a match for a robin's egg blue flat. A couple of employees wandered by and I asked them for help. Apparently they didn't speak English so I had to repeat myself in French. Suddenly they became a lot friendlier. The female employee assisted me in my hunt, but the male employee said he was only there to work security. It seemed like he was more interested in flirting with me than keeping an eye out for thieves, though. A few minutes later, when the female employee and I had no luck finding the matching shoe, I came across these sandals and ended the search. I thanked her and she disappeared; I tried to escape the male employee as soon as possible to pay for my things. The cashier complimented my selections and bagged my things. Then I followed my family to our next adventure.

Wait, I lied...the pixie story was the true version.

Learn more about Christine Stoddard & her creative projects at www.christinestoddard.com

Forget Fairytales: Comic 48

2009-06-23T15:54:00.000-07:00

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Forget Fairytales: Comic 46

2009-06-22T16:03:00.000-07:00

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Forget Fairytales: Comic 45

2009-06-18T05:15:00.001-07:00

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Forget Fairytales: Comic 44

2009-06-16T13:37:00.000-07:00

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Love is in the Stars

2009-06-15T04:39:00.001-07:00

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Forget Fairytales: Comic 42

2009-06-09T16:40:00.000-07:00

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Forget Fairytales: Comic 40

2009-06-08T07:43:00.001-07:00

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Forget Fairytales: Comic 37

2009-06-05T17:40:00.001-07:00

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Forget Fairytales: Comic 36

2009-06-04T14:24:00.001-07:00

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Forget Fairytales

2009-05-31T12:56:00.000-07:00

More comics at http://forgetfairytales.blogspot.com

Learn more about Christine Stoddard & her creative projects at www.christinestoddard.com

Forget Fairytales

2009-05-27T14:37:00.001-07:00

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Forget Fairytales

2009-05-26T18:47:00.001-07:00

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Forget Fairytales: Comic 26

2009-05-08T06:25:00.001-07:00

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Mademoiselle Alouette

2009-04-28T06:38:00.001-07:00

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Mademoiselle Alouette

2009-04-24T16:16:00.001-07:00

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Mademoiselle Alouette

2009-04-23T20:27:00.000-07:00

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Mademoiselle Alouette

2009-04-22T20:54:00.001-07:00

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Mademoiselle Alouette

2009-04-21T05:44:00.001-07:00

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Mademoiselle Alouette

2009-04-20T07:49:00.000-07:00

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Mademoiselle Alouette

2009-04-19T20:51:00.000-07:00

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Mademoiselle Alouette

2009-04-18T19:34:00.000-07:00

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Mademoiselle Alouette (cont'd)

2009-04-17T18:20:00.001-07:00

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Mademoiselle Alouette

2009-04-15T12:23:00.001-07:00

Director & model: Christine Stoddard. Photographer & editor: Michael Spanel.

Learn more about Christine Stoddard & her creative projects at www.christinestoddard.com

Mademoiselle Alouette (cont'd)

2009-04-13T14:25:00.000-07:00

Michael Spanel, the photographer and editor of my series of Mademoiselle Alouette photos, has given me permission to post edited photos from the set. Here is the first:

Learn more about Christine Stoddard & her creative projects at www.christinestoddard.com

Happy Easter, Isabelle

2009-04-11T11:19:00.000-07:00

[A strange fairytale of a short story actually based upon something I experienced in my own real life.]

Isabelle woke up light-headed. The ceiling wavered as she tried to determine what the splotch on it was. All Isabelle knew was that the splotch resembled a gray eye peering down at her in her white cotton nightgown. The art student rolled over and gently tapped her radio alarm clock until it ceased playing. Isabelle never laughed when characters axed their alarm clocks in classic cartoons. She liked the sound of Claude Debussy in the morning.

The girl pulled her gown off and wandered to the sink. She gazed at the lavender bags above her cheeks, wishing they formed thanks to a long night of studying art history textbooks. She sighed, seized the strand of dental floss hanging from the edge of the sink, and dropped the string into the trashcan. Her boyfriend never remembered to clean up after himself. After letting the faucet run for a couple of seconds, Isabelle splashed some water into her mouth. She swished it around and then spat it out, ignoring the blood that swirled down the drain.

A moment later, Isabelle stood before her closet. She fingered an old, lace blouse and wondered when its threads would finally break. It should have become a moth’s tender feast by now. Once she slipped on the blouse, Isabelle grabbed a pair of faded jeans and danced into her sandals. Then she slid her sketchbook into the purse hanging on the front doorknob and left. She did not lock the door behind her.

The elevator usually took several minutes to reach the thirteenth floor where Isabelle lived. She smiled when she thought of how some places did not label their thirteenth floors, instead calling them ‘the fourteenth.’

“How primitive,” Isabelle whispered to herself and let out a small breath of air she wasn’t aware she had been holding.
The elevator chimed and Isabelle stepped inside. Out of habit, she immediately pressed the button, even though no one approached the doors. Isabelle scrunched up her nose and wiped her fingers on her pants. Someone had smeared a sticky substance across the button.

Once the elevator doors opened, Isabelle stepped out. As usual, she failed to acknowledge the half-asleep security guards as she passed the front desk. She pushed through the exit and sprinted to the bus stop.

The bus was just pulling up when Isabelle arrived. She flashed her student I.D. without smiling at the driver and plopped down. On this Easter eve morning, Isabelle was the only passenger on the bus. She crossed her legs tight and then turned around to observe everything the bus lapsed. Seven bicyclists, three dogs, and four flower patches later, Isabelle pulled the cord and jumped off the bus. The driver started to say something to her, but Isabelle fled much too quickly to hear the sentence completed.

Despite her heels, she whizzed by the library, the campus art building just barely in sight. Fluorescent lights shone through its windows.

“Please be open, please be open,” she muttered. When sweat started to grow on her skin, Isabelle finally came to a halt and caught her breath. Then she fished out her phone to check the time. It was barely eleven o’clock. Isabelle rested her hand on the birch tree beside her and bit her lip. “Why did I think it was so much later?”

Suddenly a storm of children rushed in Isabelle’s direction. She darted behind the birch, before realizing the children were trying to talk to her.

“If you died today, would you go to Heaven or Hell?” the oldest of the dozen, no more than about seven years old, challenged her.

Isabelle blinked but when she opened her eyes, the children hadn’t vanished. She took the pamphlet one of the children gave her and flipped through it before responding. It was an evangelical publication printed by one of the city churches. “I’m not sure anyone knows. That’s a very big question.”

The children remained, all cocking their heads at her, as if they had rehearsed their reaction. To sunder the awkward silence, Isabelle cleared her throat and asked the children what their church was doing for Easter.

“We got an Easter egg hunt today,” a tiny boy with a backwards baseball cap answered. “Wanna come?”

Isabelle smiled politely. “What’s your church doing tomorrow for Easter?” she repeated, this time turning to one of the older children.

[Read the rest of the story here.]

Learn more about Christine Stoddard & her creative projects at www.christinestoddard.com

A Destitute Reflection

2009-04-11T09:45:00.000-07:00

Connor scuttled through the crowds of people waiting in line for the film festival as the sun beat too hard overhead. The phony film buffs wore red laminated passes swinging from cheap lanyards. Connor hated that blinding color but, even more so, he hated all the smiling men and women standing outside the cinema. They seemed too happy for people about to cram themselves into a dark room for twelve hours straight with nothing to eat but over-priced, over-salted, over-buttered popcorn.

"Idiots," Connor muttered, "Most of them have on glasses just to look educated. Even people with 20/20 vision have them on." He spat on the sidewalk, hoping one of the ladies in tacky heels would step in his glob of mucus. Connor relished the thought of ruining someone's ugly shoes—especially the ugly shoes of someone lifeless enough to enjoy sitting before a screen for a half a day. Maybe then the lady would remove her shoes and curl up barefoot on the theatre seat, getting her sole sweat all over the cushion. The next person who sat there would never, ever suspect that his professorial tweed pants were about to meet layers of toe jam. This ignorance pleased Connor.

Connor eventually squeezed out of the crowd, like a single louse dropping from a recently treated head of hair. He dragged his feet along the sidewalk, mostly staring at his sneakers and the gum smeared across the concrete. The gum came in all colors but lung pink and crap brown dominated. Several yards after Connor had escaped the "insipid twits," he bent down to pick up a greasy penny. He rubbed it between his fingers and sighed at its filth. Couldn't even the smallest thing shine anymore?

Connor dropped the penny into one of his sagging pockets and continued walking. The clanking of cars and whirring of voices grew fainter the longer he trudged forward. But as the noises outside of his ears faded, the noises inside of them amplified. Something within his ears seemed to flutter, like a trapped moth. Connor swatted at his left ear and then his right, almost as if he were throwing punches at whatever insect had invaded them.

"Stop it!" he grumbled. "Stop it! Go away!"

[Read the rest of the story here.]

Learn more about Christine Stoddard & her creative projects at www.christinestoddard.com

Mademoiselle Alouette Hiatus

2009-04-07T16:24:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately my Mademoisell Alouette modeling project will have to go on hiatus, per the request of the photographer. He only wants me to post full-edited versions of the photos, ones that will likely feature an enchanted, magical feel that the current ones lack. I will post other fantasy related creations until he has finished the photos. Thanks for your understanding!

Learn more about Christine Stoddard & her creative projects at www.christinestoddard.com

Mademoiselle Alouette

2009-04-01T19:29:00.001-07:00

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Mademoiselle Alouette

2009-03-31T10:10:00.000-07:00

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Medieval Maiden

2009-03-29T09:59:00.003-07:00

For the next couple weeks, please come back for photos of me dressed up as a medieval maiden. I designed the project and Michael Spanel took all of the photos.

Learn more about Christine Stoddard & her creative projects at www.christinestoddard.com

Forget Fairytales

2009-03-23T20:11:00.001-07:00

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Forget Fairytales

2009-03-17T06:37:00.000-07:00

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"Detour" Directed by John Zhao and Starring Christine Stoddard

2009-03-06T22:52:00.000-08:00

detour from John Zhao on Vimeo.

If you're in the mood for a film with a fairytale type sensibility, then you will likely be interested in John Zhao's "Detour." I co-wrote and star in it. There are no dragons, unfortunately, but there are certainly allusions to those winged beings I so adore.

Learn more about Christine Stoddard & her creative projects at www.christinestoddard.com

Opus & Custard (cont'd)

2009-03-01T10:26:00.000-08:00

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Opus & Custard (cont'd)

2009-02-21T06:19:00.000-08:00

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Opus & Custard (cont'd)

2009-02-17T19:57:00.001-08:00

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Opus & Custard (cont'd)

2009-02-16T05:53:00.000-08:00

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Opus & Custard (cont'd)

2009-02-15T13:44:00.000-08:00

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Opus & Custard (cont'd)

2009-02-11T22:18:00.000-08:00

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Opus & Custard (cont'd)

2009-02-10T20:14:00.001-08:00

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Opus & Custard (cont'd)

2009-02-09T05:33:00.000-08:00

Opus and Custard (cont'd)

2009-02-06T14:40:00.000-08:00

Opus & Custard (cont'd)

2009-02-03T12:35:00.000-08:00

Opus & Custard (cont'd)

2009-02-02T19:19:00.001-08:00

Opus & Custard (cont'd)

2009-02-01T07:30:00.000-08:00

Opus & Custard (cont'd)

2009-01-30T07:32:00.000-08:00

Opus and Custard (cont'd)

2009-01-29T19:27:00.000-08:00

Opus & Custard (cont'd)

2009-01-26T06:05:00.000-08:00

Opus and Custard (cont'd)

2009-01-24T08:33:00.001-08:00

Opus and Custard (cont'd)

2009-01-23T13:31:00.000-08:00

Opus and Custard

2009-01-21T16:50:00.001-08:00

For the next several entries, I will post photographs of my dragons, Opus and Custard---in case you were wondering what the above image was.

Otto the Dragon

2009-01-20T17:04:00.000-08:00

I introduce you to a European-style dragon I drew during my freshman year of college. I created him using pens and permanent marker; then I created the contrasting effect on Adobe Photoshop. His name is Otto.

Nude Death

2009-01-19T08:54:00.000-08:00

Claire trudges up the stairs, dragging a stretched canvas with her. She is naked, except for the small knapsack covering a patch of her back. At forty years of age, the color in eyes has started to fade from mountaintop azure to a softer, sea level mist. Wrinkles frame the sides of her mouth. Her fingers are knobbier than they had been. But age alone cannot account for Claire’s melting beauty. Her sister blames Claire’s chain-smoking but that isn’t it, either. It’s the disappointment swelling in her chest.
Claire is a classically trained artist but for the past year, she has not sold a single painting. When the first month without a check passed, Claire shrugged her shoulders and continued painting. She figured it was a sign to focus on a new series of hers, one concentrating solely on dogwood trees. She holed herself up in her apartment and drank inhuman amounts of coffee. After the first week, Claire had already become a recluse and an insomniac. Her only desire was to paint and occasionally sneak in a mouthful of chocolate or a bite of a bagel.
But as the months droned on and her savings ran dry, Claire soon had no money for her rent or even food. After starving herself for three days, she realized she needed to find a steady job to survive. So, going against every will in her body, Claire applied to teach day classes at the local community center and night classes at the nearest community college. It was the beginning of Claire’s journey to the depths of her depression.
Every minute Claire spent in class meant another minute away from her work. Every minute she spent critiquing a student’s piece meant one minute fewer for her to reflect upon her own paintings and how to improve them. It meant less time submitting her paintings to competitions and galleries. Claire hated her students for robbing her time and forcing her to stare at their inferior interpretations of countryside homes and flower gardens. Claire loathed the students’ poor forms, their crooked contours, their off-colors, and their shoddily stretched canvases. Everything about their work sickened her. And since she spent so many hours teaching to pay her bills, she found herself feeling sick more often than not. Teaching makes her stomach literally churn.
For the last few months, she has been suffering a serious malady. In order to end it, she has to die. She neither sees nor cares for any other solution.
This evening, Claire has just returned from teaching a lesson on watercolors. The red wisps and smears of paint one of her students used to depict the sunset startled her. They were the same shades she expected an innocent bystander to see on the sidewalk only a few hours from then. The same shades you expect to see when you first notice her fall.
But you are a stranger and know nothing of Claire yet. You are still at home, preparing for your evening stroll. You can’t find your sneakers and suspect maybe your dog buried them in the yard again.
The garage is nearly empty. At most, ten cars are parked in the lot designed for 100. It is so hot that Claire wonders if the cars felt like sweating. She puts the canvas down on the ground for a moment and wipes her brow. Anyone looking on who knew Claire planned to commit suicide within the next few minutes may have assumed she is rethinking her choice. But she does not. Claire just doesn’t want her wet skin to make her any less aerodynamic as she glides through the air.
You spot your sneakers peering out from under the kitchen fridge. Apparently your dog discovered a new hiding place for them. You pull out the shoes and slip them on, finally ready to get your exercise of the day.

Read the rest of the story here.

If I were a Dragon

2009-01-18T07:42:00.001-08:00

If I were a dragon, my scales would be a celestial green and my eyes would sparkle like dying stars in the moonlight. My tail would be a sluggish comet trailing light years behind the rest of my body. I would be the most magnificent dragon that ever lived, as legendary as the glory of all the constellations combined.

And, of course, being such an amazing dragon, I would always get first dibs on the unicorns.

Sorry, Fairy Folk, but you’ll have to postpone your BBQ because when a dragon’s hungry, there are never any leftovers.

“The Story of a Boy Named A”

2009-01-17T07:02:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time there lived a deaf boy who simply went by A because that was the only letter could actually pronounce. Since nobody in his tiny farm town knew sign language, A lived everyday in silence, reading or wandering around. The only people he spent considerable time with were his parents but even they made little attempt to communicate with their son using anything but exaggerated facial expressions or rough hand gestures. No poetry existed in their conversations, or rather fleeting interactions. His mother and father shared but a sliver of interest and even less serious compassion when dealing with their son. After fifteen years of trying, they had given up. Thus, as an unwanted son and even more unwanted member of the town community, A felt lonely. He just lacked the words to describe his loneliness.
Most of the time A figured it was easier to pretend he didn’t exist. Instead he focused on the songbirds’ gray feathers or the shade of an oak leaf at different seasons during the year. They seemed more real to him than even he did to himself.
In fact, A believed that everything he saw was somehow more tangible than he was. Sometimes he extended his lanky arms to examine his hands but he cast aside his fingers and his nails and his wrists as nothing more than figments. The illustrations in storybooks seemed more real for at least they had a voice and a real name. People looked at a picture of a cat in a storybook and understood that it was cat because such an animal is called a cat and such an animal says, “Meow.” People looked at A and only shook their heads in pity. He did not have a real name or a real voice. Besides wanting to talk, A’s greatest wish was to destroy that pity. But A could not destroy it so instead he escaped it.
One day after a young boy threw a rock at A’s head, A fled from the town. He raced down the street and ran until he reached the woods. Shame demanded that he hide. He started searching for a place to curl up and cry his half-muted sobs but it seemed that an animal had already taken every available space. Here, laid an anthill; there, laid a badger’s nest. Squirrels frolicked in one place and crows squabbled just opposite them.
Finally A tripped before he could proceed any farther. He shrieked when he fell but quickly jumped up and brushed himself off. He might humiliate himself in front of the townspeople but he would never endure a laugh from a cardinal or a blue jay. A moment later, he looked down at the ground to discover what had fooled his feet. A noticed a round, silver object about the size of his splayed hand. He tugged a Y-shaped cable attached to the object. The cable, A observed, had two pieces of round foam hanging from each stem of its Y. The object was unlike anything the young man had ever encountered before. He sighed and stuffed the object into his coat for safekeeping. Too frustrated to return home, however, A began hiking to his aunt’s house, located in the next town over.
A couple of hours later, A knocked on his aunt’s door. The lady beckoned him inside, hugged him, and brought him a cup of lemonade as he stood awkwardly in her foyer. A, tired from his trip, gladly accepted the drink. He took a sip and then paused. His aunt waited for him to gesture but was greeted with the foreign object A had found in the woods.
His aunt took it and said, “Oh, hey, I haven’t seen one of these in a few years, not with all you kids listening to iPods these days.” She blushed and frowned. “Well, all the other kids, of course, A. Here, let me show you how it works.” A, not understanding a single one of his aunt’s utterances, wore a quizzical expression but he appreciated that she actually spoke to him.
His aunt set the object down on the coffee table in the living room and scurried to another room in the back of the house. When she returned, she waved around a CD. Then the woman pressed a small button on the front of the mysterious object so that it opened up like a clam, revealing an inner compartment. In that compartment, A’s aunt placed the CD. Then she popped the foam pieces over her ears and exaggeratedly bobbed her head.
“See, A? This is a Walkman.”
She continued bobbing her head around to the rhythms of a pop song. A plopped down on the nearest sofa, completely dismayed. He could not even enjoy his own treasure.
His aunt stopped. “Oh, I’m sorry, A. There I am acting like everyone else, reminding you of what you’re…missing.” She set the Walkman on the coffee table and sat beside her nephew. “I’m sure it must be a hard not being able to experience the world in the same way as everyone else. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing, either, honey. Different doesn’t always mean bad.”
A sipped on his icy lemonade, simultaneously shaking his right leg. He thought back to the boy who’d attacked him with a rock earlier that day.
A had just finished school and was on his way home when he passed a small, bent man playing the bagpipes. A could not hear the man as he huffed and puffed on the street but A could sense the vibrations the man’s music made. A liked these vibrations and began to dance very slightly. He swayed his thin body to and fro, like a cobra easing hypnotism. The bagpipe man, flattered by A’s evolving enchantment, played louder and louder until the boy’s legs wobbled. It was a kind of happiness that hearing people could not fathom. Maybe it was out of jealously then that a twelve-year old boy resting on the steps of the nearby bakery seized a rock and hurled it straight at A’s head.
“A? Do you want to tell me something?” the boy’s aunt asked. She pointed at a piece of paper on the table. A, a poor student, did not have the best penmanship or the best control of grammar and spelling but his writing was more or less comprehensible upon close inspection. But he did not want to write. A shook his head no.
“Look, A, I’m sure it must be difficult having your kind of…disability. I know people tease you a lot and it can be impossible to tune them out, I mean, ignore them. But there are ways to get around it.” The woman picked up the Walkman and teetered it on her nephew’s knee. “So I have a solution, at least a temporary one.” She gently pushed the little speakers over A’s ears. “I want you to wear these whenever you go out, okay? Wear these to trick people into thinking you can hear and speak just like the rest of us, okay?”
A stared at her blankly. The woman took her nephew by the hand and led him out the front door of her house. Then she gave him a nudge. “Go out, A. Go out and try it out. Let it be an experiment.”
A took one step outside and then around to face his aunt. She motioned for him to go out. He took another step and then another until he bean walking at a normal pace. A few minutes later, A was in the heart of his aunts town, appearing like any other hearing boy, although somewhat outdated.
A follow his aunt’s advice for the next couple of weeks, or at least what he assumed his aunt has meant by her mix of inaudible lip movements and hand gestures. He carried around the Walkman everywhere, even to school. People stopped bothering him. The ones who knew of his deafness were certainly puzzled but they left him alone nonetheless. (The rumor was that he had gotten some sort of corrective surgery.) This relieved A but he knew something was still lacking. He wanted to enjoy the Walkman in the same way a hearing person would. He wanted to appreciate a song for its actual sound, not just its vibrations.
Less than a month after A began coddling the Walkman like some electronic pet, he returned it to the woods. There, the boy buried the Walkman under a pile of leaves.
Some time lapsed before A visited his aunt again. As usual, though, when the time came, he decided to walk there, instead of having one of his parents drive him. He cut through town at a leisurely pace. Just as he passed the bakery, something sharp hit the black of his head. He whipped around. It was the same middle schooler who had chucked a rock at him months ago. A clenched his teeth and quickly grabbed the rock from the ground. A hit the boy back. The rock somersaulted through the air until it struck A’s attacker in the eye. The boy’s scream fell undetected on A’s deaf ears. But A smiled when the boy clutched his crimson lower brow. A’s action had had a real effect. The boy scrambled into the bakery, wailing. A, meanwhile, pivoted in the direction of his aunt’s house.
The fastest way for A to reach his aunt’s house meant crossing through the woods so he inevitably found himself confronting brambles and vines later that afternoon. He suffered a few scratches as he pushed through the undergrowth but persevered. A reveled in his first-ever at of revenge; the image of the boy’s bleeding eye forced a grin upon his face over and over. A was just as real as any songbird or oak leaf or cat.
Just as A pictured his victim’s eye for the ninth or tenth time, he tripped. He sucked his teeth and stood up. When he looked down, he realized he had stumbled over the Walkman, now surrounded by a ring of perfectly round toadstools.
A’s gaze lingered on the antiquated thing. Now he viewed it with familiarity, not the same kind of curiosity he harbored when he first found it. It had been such a simple prop but it made him long for the impossible. And yet he still missed its comfort, the same way he would miss an old, convenient lover after a break-up. A winced when his memories crept back to his aunt bobbing her head to the music emanating from the Walkman. She seemed so content, so lost. Then A thought back to the way he started falling for the bagpipes but that twelve-year old had to shatter his rising happiness. He would always be short of something it appeared.
A kicked the Walkman and was poised to continue his journey when the Walkman suddenly opened. It radiated a soft, white light. A gasped. A second passed before the Walkman immediately clapped shut. A snatched it up and paused. He had a shivering suspicion. He pushed the speakers over his ears and in an instant heard the most electrifying orchestra. Then his mind flashed to the boy with the bleeding eye and he beamed. The cellos and violins soared on. And A walked in the direction of his aunt’s house.

The Fairy Scribe

2009-01-14T06:15:00.000-08:00

What does the sparrow sing of so religiously? Is hers a song of sorrow, seeping with memories too painful to disclose? Are they memories rooted so deep in her mind that time will never eradicate them? I understand, bird, I understand. I too once sang out of sorrow.
The beginning, as far as I'm concerned started the moment I left my mother's womb. My father had always expected me to become a religious man. He had no greater desire for me and demanded that I develop his degree of piety. Consequently, the priesthood was thrust upon me. I never had a choice, not if I wanted to please my father.The day that my father's dream for me began to materialize will always resonate with me. After that day, I was so certain that any dreams of mine would have to die. I was thirteen but so small for my age that I could have passed for a boy three or four years my junior. My father approached me while I was collecting pebbles along the shore and crouched down, so that his soft, misty eyes met mine. "You are to be a priest," he whispered, "A priest. A monk is taking you to the monastery this afternoon." I mouthed the word, testing its sound and frowned. I did not like how I had to purse my lips to pronounce "priest." It made the word taste sour."I want to become a knight and serve the king," I replied, just as earnestly as I had so many times before."A knight lives a life of blood and loss, son.""But a knight has honor, Da!" I breathed, "Honor! You've read the fairytales!""And fairy's tales they shall remain. There is no honor in death. The only difference between the butcher and the knight is that the knight brandishes a suit of armor." Then my father turned toward the forest and said, "Francis! He's ready!"

READ THE REST AT: http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/1380133/the_fairy_scribe.html?cat=10

The Fairy Feast

2009-01-13T17:06:00.000-08:00

Scurry through the words, elfin child, in search of acorns and rose roots;
Ravage the earth for fresh worms, newly-hatched spiderlings, and moss.
Titania’s fairy feast of beetle eggs and quail tongues starts at midnight.

Dragons and Destiny

2009-01-12T13:19:00.000-08:00

I created this image through a multi-step process of digital collage. First I drew myself in pencil. I then drew a dragon in ink and scanned both sketches to my computer. I placed both images on Adobe Photoshop, multiplying the dragon by three and arranging each one around my self-portrait. Next I reddened the dragons and edited them using "Effects" to give them texture. Then I put a tinted layer over the combined dragon and self-portrait composition to add a cellophane quality over the piece. This image has appeared in two online venues (both e-zines): http://darkreveries.com/issue.html and http://www.blueprintreview.de/14certainty.htm.

My Pet Dragon

2009-01-11T05:39:00.000-08:00

Assuming that I were so lucky as to own a dragon and any dragon of my choice, my ideal scaled companion would look like so: deep burgundy with emerald eyes, an eggplant colored tongue, a lavender belly, yellow teeth, and bat-like wings. It would also be of the European variety, not Chinese. I imagine its claws would be somewhat dull, too, because I wouldn’t want it to scratch me, even by accident. My pet dragon would blow fire but also a variety of other forms of the original four elements. A fog-blowing dragon would be very mysterious, not to mention unusual. As for its size, I would like it to be rather small most of the time, probably small enough to fit into my pocket. However, I would like it to have the ability to change sizes, too. That way, if I want to take a tour of the world, I can ask it to grow large enough for me to ride upon it. Then we can fly and fly and fly until his wings and my eyes are too tired to travel any farther.

Fairy Grave

2009-01-10T06:41:00.000-08:00

Fern sat on the front steps leading to her kindergarten classroom, looking more pensive than a five-year old should. She had perched herself in such a way that her velvet skirt nearly covered the entire width of the steps. Anyone would have described the sight as strangely regal for the height of the Great Depression. Fern might have assumed the same thoughtful air were she posing for a royal portrait under Queen Victoria. But the image soon dissipated. The girl’s large, dark eyes flickered when her teacher, Mrs. Tunis, called her name.
“Fern! Time for the class tea party! Remember, you’re the hostess, dear!”
The little girl popped up and whipped around, careful not to trip over her long dress.
“That’s right, child. In. Your grandmother brought cupcakes, the ones with the pink frosting you like so much.”
Fern nodded and took her place at the head of the miniature table. Eleven other boys and girls surrounded the table, with their chubby hands in their lap. All of them looked remarkably well behaved---more like wax children than real, breathing ones.
Without saying a word, Fern lifted her teacup to her dollish lips and sipped. Her classmates followed her lead and started to eat and drink, too. Two boys began bickering over a cinnamon croissant and one of the girls spilled honey all over her silk blouse. Fern ignored the other children. Instead she continued drinking, rather solemnly. When she finished her tea, she abruptly placed the cup on the table, stood up, smoothed out her skirt, and ran toward the open classroom door. The rest of the children nibbled and quarreled accordingly. Mrs. Tunis was so busy scolding Linus about putting his elbows on the table that she almost didn’t notice Fern scurrying out of the room. Almost.
“Fern! Come back here! FERN!” Mrs. Tunis had nearly darted out the door when she skidded and faced the tea party. “Alright children, I’ll be right back! Please don’t move.” They were too consumed with their sweets that none of them thought anything of eleven five and six-year olds left alone in a room by themselves.
Fern scampered into the woods at the edge of the schoolyard. She pushed through knots of thorns, reeds, and honeysuckle. She left no plant within her path untrampled. Pushing deeper and deeper into the brambles tore up her beautiful dress and scraped at her face but Fern was determined. She kept going.
Meanwhile Mrs. Tunis trailed several yards behind the girl. A thick, middle age woman, the teacher could not match Fern’s agility. She was too slow and too big to move through the brambles as swiftly as Fern had. The woman could only guess where the child was so desperately heading based upon which plants laid flat on the ground.
Finally Fern arrived at a clearing marked only by the presence of a dozen burgundy toadstools boarding its edge. The toadstools were tall and bloated, thanks to the previous night’s rains. Fern paused, breathing heavily, and then ran some more until she reached the cemetery at the center of the clearing. The number of gravestones making up the cemetery could be counted on a single hand. The girl tumbled toward a new tombstone and flung herself before it, onto the freshly turned soil. Then Fern curled up as coolly as a millipede and started to drift off as her mother’s ghost watched over her.
By the time Mrs. Tunis found Fern, the child was asleep. Her back gently rose up and down as her minor lungs filled and emptied. The teacher caught her breath and admired the girl, then slumped down to the silt and clay. She stroked Fern’s soft head. The child was hot with a nascent nightmare on her mind.
The teacher’s eyes locked on the alabaster tombstone before Fern. Its freshly engraved words read: HERMOINE GLENN. (1910-1936). DEVOTED WIFE OF JAMES AND LOVING MOTHER OF FERN. The outline of the hole dug up for the woman’s coffin was still visible; the earth there smelled moist.
“Oh, Fern…I’m sorry, Fern.”
Mrs. Tunis sighed and picked up the child from her somber nap. The girl felt very light in the woman’s thick arms, as if a small part of her had evaporated. Then Mrs. Tunis headed toward the school, praying that her class had not entangled themselves in any mischief during her absence. She had to get back before they smeared cupcake frosting all over the walls.
The next day, Fern was sitting in the school’s courtyard, parked on a bench sized for children. The bench was nestled in the beginnings of a garden. Marigolds tickled the girl’s ankles. Fern’s only company at the bench was a yarn and cotton rag doll. The rest of the girls played jump rope but they knew better than to invite Fern. She was too melancholy for their taste.
“Miss Mary Mac, Mac, Mac! All dressed in black, black, black! With silver buttons, buttons, buttons! All down her back, back, back!” the girls sang in unison. The lyrics echoed into the sky.
But their songs did not tempt Fern. She remained on her bench, clutching her teacup from the previous day’s party. While the other girls hopped and skipped, she kicked her little legs back and forth but her pretty mouth did not smile. Her face sagged into a frown.
Just as Fern finished her final drop of tea, a tiny ray of light, like that of a firefly, caught her eye. It glimmered in the distance, at the opposite end of the courtyard where Mrs. Tunis oversaw her students. Fern focused on the ray of light as it grew larger and larger, presumably drawing closer to her. The girl perked up but her face remained serious. Something, the five-year old realized, was amiss and it made her nervous. The light came closer and closer to Fern until it reached her.
“Hello, Fern,” the tiniest voice in all the world said.
Fern nodded her somber nod.
“I see you’re not playing with the other children.”
Fern shook her head no.
“You needn’t explain why.”
The girls’ eyes widened slightly.
“You’re sad, aren’t you?” The words came slowly, beat by beat. “Sad about your mother?”
Fern froze, precociously suspicious of this ray of light and its accompanying voice.
“No need to worry,” the voice continued, “You can trust me, Fern.”
The girl stayed silent. She was at the very least curious about what this voice had to say.
“I won’t hurt you. In fact, I want to help you. I know your mother died an awful death. I know what you saw---I know that your father murdered her. He was so embarrassed about losing his job, the house. All he had left was his family name. You remember how angry he was, right? How frustrated he was for weeks and weeks? And then, one day, he just…had to take it out on someone. Find someone else to blame. So he chose your mother. Because she wouldn’t sell her mink stole! You know what stole I’m talking about---the one with the eyes you always said glowed in the night and scared you? It had those funny ears you hated? Your mother wouldn’t sell that stole or her locket or her pearls or any of her pretty things, even though your father begged and pleaded that you family needed the money. And then that day, three days before Easter, he shot her, then tried to make it look like an accident. So you had to go to her funeral on Easter instead of going on the egg hunt with Linus. The whole funeral, you didn’t say anything because you were afraid to blurt out what you saw. But you don’t have to be afraid anymore, Fern. I saw what Daddy did. I saw. See? You’re not alone, Fern. You’re not alone.”
All the while, Fern shifted uncomfortably, looking down at her Mary Jane clad feet and plucking imaginary lint off of her skirt. When the voice stopped, Fern stared directly at the ray of light, speechless. She squinted her eyes and, upon closer inspection, realized that the ray of light was actually a bantam being, a shimmering fairy. It had black, shining eyes and fuzzy-tipped antennae, like those of a moth. Dragonfly-esque wings sprouted out from its body. A plain white tunic covered its bony frame, down to its toeless feet. Perhaps other people would have gaped in disbelief but the sight somehow did not surprise Fern. The girl didn’t even blink. She believed.
“See, Fern,” the fairy’s high-pitched voice began again, “We can become great friends, you and I. I can help you with your problem---the guilt you feel for not telling anyone about how your mother really died. I can make that guilt melt away.”
Just then, as the fairy uttered the word “melt,” the being pointed at a spider web stretched out on the brick wall behind Fern. Fern turned around to look. The web shriveled into a single drop of dew and disappeared into a glitter cloud. Still Fern did not gasp. She turned around again and gazed at the fairy.
The fairy said, “You’re quite jaded for a little girl. Other children might have shrieked out of amazement or delight.”
Fern blinked in response.
“Let’s just get on with it,” the fairy sighed and fluttered onto Fern’s round shoulder. The being overwhelmed Fern’s nose with its mixed rose and orchid scent. “I have a deal for you, something that will rid you of all your guilt.”
Again, Fern fidgeted, this time with her curly hair. She slid her fingers in and out of each of the ringlets grazing her neck.
“So, my offer is simple. I promise to help you with all of your schoolwork---every worksheet, every reading assignment, every project, everything---everyday for the rest of your school days, until you graduate from high school. And, in allowing me to help you with your schoolwork, you will never feel guilty about holding the secret to your mother’s death.”
Fern nodded.
"But,” the fairy said, “You must never thank me. If you ever thank me for helping you with your schoolwork, your guilt will haunt you for the rest of your life.
You will never forget how your mother real died and you will especially never forget that you were too cowardly to tell a soul the truth. Do you understand, Fern?”
The girl nodded very earnestly.
“As soon as you return to class, our agreement shall take into effect. I hear you have to read a story today---and we both know how much trouble reading gives you.”
For the first time since the fairy’s arrival, Fern expressed a shade of nervousness. She gulped at the mention of reading.
Not a minute passed before Mrs. Tunis rang her bell, signaling the end of recess. The girls dropped their jump rope and the boys abandoned their kickball. All the children filed in front of Mrs. Tunis and trailed behind her as she led the class to the library. It, like all the rooms in the school, opened to the courtyard.
Once the last child entered the library, Mrs. Tunis gathered the students to the middle of the room by waving her long arms.
“Alright, boys and girls, if you all recall, it’s Fern’s turn to read the story of her choice. So why don’t we all sit down while Fern takes a few minutes to find a book she likes.”
The children, tired from playing outside, gladly fell to the floor. A few of them broke into chatter but most of them were fairly quiet. Mrs. Tunis smiled at Fern and escorted her to the storybook shelf. Already the girl felt anxious---heart galloping, skin sweating. Fern halted before the shelf, closed her eyes, and snatched “Rumpelstiltskin” at random. The book felt heavy in her hands.
The fairy whispered in Fern’s ear, “Good girl, good. Now walk over to the rocking chair. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Oh, that’s a scary story, Fern,” Mrs. Tunis said, in that saccharine voice only elementary school teachers can muster, “A scary story indeed. But it has such beautiful illustrations! The other boys and girls will love it.”
Fern didn’t reply and ambled toward the rocking chair facing the pile of kindergartners on the floor. The girl settled into the big chair after arranging the pillows to her liking. Mrs. Tunis towered over Fern as she situated herself to the right of the chair.
“Alright, children,” Mrs. Tunis announced, “Let’s all listen to Fern.”
The children wiggled to and fro, restlessly. They all anticipated another one of Fern’s lackluster performances. Only Linus sat in rapt attention. No one else harbored courtesy or faith.
The fairy began reading word for word everything on the front cover of the book for Fern to repeat. The girl waited a beat. Then she cleared her pint-sized throat and pronounced the book’s title and author loudly and clearly. This newfound confidence and articulation startled more than one of Fern’s classmates but none of them were genuinely amazed until Fern got into the story. From “Once upon a time” to “The end,” Fern did not stumble over a single syllable.
“A late bloomer, I suppose,” Mrs. Tunis muttered under her breath and then clapped. “Fern! That was excellent!” The rest of the class joined their teacher in applause.
Fern beamed. She slowly rested the book on her lap and basked in her momentary fame. Had she not remembered the fairy’s command, she would have embraced it between her palms and shouted, “Thank you!”
The rest of the afternoon, the fairy helped Fern perform her best. He whispered the answers to her math worksheet, reminded her of the lines to five different nursery rhymes, and calmed her nerves during her French lesson. Again and again, Mrs. Tunis praised Fern, astonished by her seemingly overnight transformation. The shy, stuttering girl had changed into such a sure-tongued sprite. The next day and the day after that, the fairy kept its promise and Fern kept hers, as well. Not once did she thank the fairy.
As Fern became more popular with Mrs. Tunis and her reputation improved, Linus began spending more time with Fern. He never played with her during recess but he sat next to her during story hour and occasionally offered her one of his crackers at snack time (but only the ones in which he had already bitten and decided he disliked.) The rest of the students continued to avoid Fern but at least none of them teased her anymore.
For weeks, the fairy and the little girl honored their pact and Fern no longer felt guilty about keeping the reason for her mother’s death a secret. Sometimes she even imagined her mother had killed herself, just as her father told her grandmother and their priest. She sometimes doubted if she had witnessed her father shoot her mother at all. A new source of guilt, however, developed in Fern’s sweet head.
One day, about a month after the fairy had first approached Fern, the girl confessed what now ailed her. She was in the courtyard, nibbling on the crust of her toasted sandwich, when the fairy appeared on her knee. Recently, it followed her almost everywhere she went, like a tick clinging to a fawn.
“What’s the matter, child? You look glum,” the fairy said. It crossed its slender legs, brought its elbows up to its knees, and plunked its chin into its hands.
Fern swallowed and placed the rest of her sandwich on her lap. A black fly landed on it but she didn’t care. Usually she would have swatted it but this time the girl had something to say. “I-I d-don’t like h-h-how you’re h-helping me so much w-with all my schoolw-work. It’s like I-I’m tricking everyone into t-thinking I l-learned things I haven’t learned at all.”
“But don’t you like all the attention you’re receiving? You’re Mrs. Tunis’ favorite student now. She’s even promoting you to third grade. You always wanted to grow up faster, didn’t you?”
Fern didn’t reply. Both she and the fairy already knew the answer. Ever since her first day of school, when everyone but Linus taunted her for her stuttering, Fern wished to grow up as quickly as possible to escape the classroom.
The fairy scoffed, “Really! If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. You’re never happy, are you Fern? I rid you of one guilt and now you feel guilty about something else!”
Fern bolted up and stomped her foot. “I j-just don’t like t-tricking everyone! I like b-b-being honest!” Her curls shook in fury.
“You weren’t honest about your mother’s death,” the fairy shot back. “Look, Fern, I promise you that the guilt you felt about not telling anyone how your mother died was far greater than what you feel now---and it would have only grown larger in time. If you know what’s best for you, you’ll keep up your end of the deal. Don’t risk doing otherwise.”
Fern began to sniff. She didn’t want to feel guilty about anything at all. She started to wail loudly enough that her teacher heard her from the other side of the courtyard. Mrs. Tunis came racing toward the girl.
“What’s the matter, Fern? Did a bee sting you? How many times have I told you not to play in those flowerbeds?”
Fern shook her head and continued sobbing. Streams of tears zigzagged down her Botticelli face, making her cheeks and nose bright red. The child buried herself into her teacher’s chest. All the while, the fairy teetered on the top of Fern’s left ear.
“Remember our deal, Fern,” it murmured in an abnormally deep voice, “Remember our deal.”
That afternoon, Fern chose to listen to the fairy and remember their agreement, as much as it pained her five-year old conscience. She posed at her desk, the picture of the perfect student, with her hands daintily folded. Anytime Mrs. Tunis called on her, she delivered the answer so earnestly that it almost didn’t matter if it were wrong---not that it ever was. She could have convincingly fooled even her teacher at that point.
“Here,” Mrs. Tunis said as she pulled Fern aside at the end of the school day, “A cookie for the smartest cookie I know.” She administered a succulent chocolate-chip confection to the little girl. The gooey cookie nearly covered the span of Fern’s face. She thanked her teacher and took a greedy bite. But the cookie tasted no more appealing than sawdust. As soon as Fern stepped out the door, she spat it out on the ground and handed the rest of the cookie to Linus, who had been waiting for her. Fern’s guilt had even conquered her tongue.
A week later, Mrs. Tunis officially bade Fern farewell. She walked the girl down to the third grade classroom and introduced her to her new teacher, Mrs. Carlucci.
“I’m not ready, ma’am,” Fern told Mrs. Tunis.
“Yes, you are, child. Trust me. And don’t worry about leaving Linus. You can still see your friend at recess.”
Fern gulped, said good-bye to Mrs. Tunis, and stepped into her new classroom. None of the students even greeted the new student. The girl took the desk with a piece of paper bearing her name. Mrs. Carlucci smiled politely and continued scribbling very quickly on the chalkboard. Puffs of chalk dust flew into Fern’s face from her place in the front row. Soon Fern began reciting multiplication tables and proceeded through the rest of the day without once incorrectly answering a teacher’s question.
“You are quite a clever girl,” the teacher told Fern at recess. As usual Fern was sitting on the bench half-hidden in the flowerbeds, alone, when her teacher approached her. She no longer even brought her ragdoll to school anymore. The fairy warned Fern that doing so would ruin her ‘intellectual image.’
“Thank you, ma’am,” Fern replied, frowning.
“What’s the matter, dear?”
The fairy hissed in Fern’s ear, “I have a stomachache.”
“I have a stomachache, ma’am.”
“I’m sorry, child. Would you like to go to the clinic?”
“No, thank you, ma’am. I think I’ll rest here.”
At the end of the day, as Fern gathered her coat and lunch pail, the fairy grinned and asked, “How did you like your first day of third grade, Fern?”
The little girl sighed, “I didn’t l-l-like it very much at all. I still feel like a f-fake.”
“But you certainly impressed Mrs. Carlucci. You charmed her! Give it some time, Fern. Give it some time.”
Fern nodded a sad nod, the way a drooping daisy might, and trudged home to her father and grandmother.
The next morning, Mrs. Carlucci engaged the students in an art lesson. She passed out charcoal and sketching paper for each child. Fern grasped her piece of charcoal very eagerly, happy that at last she would have the chance to do something on her own without the fairy to guide her every movement. But her delight vanished when the fairy seized the piece of charcoal. Fern gasped.
“When I told you I’d help you with all of your schoolwork, I meant all of it,” the fairy scolded.
“This not schoolwork!”
“You’re in school, aren’t you?”
Fern’s didn’t answer. Instead, her hand shot up and called to her teacher. “Ma’am, could I please have another piece of charcoal?”
“What’s the matter with the piece you have?”
Just then the fairy nipped Fern’s thumb. A drop of bright blood gushed out. Fern leapt up and yelped, “Ow!”
“Fern?” The teacher glanced over, concerned.
“Ow, no. It’s, um, n-nothing. T-thank you, ma’am.”
“Alright.” Then Mrs. Carlucci turned her attention to the rest of the class. “We’re drawing this still life, boys and girls.” She pointed at an arrangement of a blue-and-white vase, a couple of leather-bound books, and a glass paperweight. “You will have one hour to complete your piece and then present it to the class.”
“Grab onto the charcoal,” the fairy barked. Fern reluctantly wrapped her hand over the piece, as the fairy held onto the very top. The fairy began directing the charcoal this way and that. Beautiful forms emerged and shadows in all the right places soon followed. It was the kind of delicate work only a fairy could create.
“I want to draw,” Fern muttered.
“I told you: the deal was that I would help you with ALL of your schoolwork.”
“But this isn’t math or reading. It’s art. Nobody can help me with art.”
“Shut up! I’ll be done soon enough and your teacher will love it.”
“But---”
“SHUT UP!”
Fern squeezed together her lips so tightly that they took on a purplish shade. Then she let go of the charcoal. The fairy kept drawing, unaware of what Fern had done. The students sitting on either side of Fern stared at the black chunk swaying to and fro seemingly by itself.
“Hey…” one of the students said and nudged the student beside him. One by one, each student in the class turned to the floating charcoal.
But before any of them thought to ask the obvious question, Fern jumped up and screamed, “THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!” The words lingered in the air.
Everyone gawked at the hysterical child. Nobody was drawing now. Suddenly the fairy shrieked and shriveled away, along with the charcoal. The fairy’s charcoal sketch burst into flame without a sound. Not even a wisp of smoke ensued. Then Fern ran out of the door, toward the woods, with only one destination on her mind.
She thrust herself into the cluster of trees and weeds at the edge of the school property and tore every plant in her sight. Every part of Fern went flying as she sprinted. Her hair bounced; her skirt swung around wildly; she flapped around her arms, aimlessly. Further and further she went until again she stumbled upon the cemetery.
Fern threw herself on top of her mother’s grave and bawled. She pounded her firsts against the earth, as if demanding that someone open the portal to the other side. As she pounded, crimson toadstools spurted up from the soil and encircled her. The girl cried and cried until a cold air engulfed her. Something pushed into her skin until it completely seeped into her small body. It was her mother’s ghost, brandishing the bullet hole where her own husband had shot her. But Fern could not see her. She felt her entire being tingle, shiver, and violently shudder but she never questioned the reason. She kept crying until her eyes dried out and throbbed.
For the rest of her days, no matter where Fern went or what she did, the truth of her mother’s death lived within her. And just as the fairy had predicted, Fern’s guilt grew with everyday.

Lenore, the Lonely Petal-eater

2009-01-09T05:09:00.000-08:00

Meet Lenore, a rare species of petal-eating dragon---the only one of her kind in the world.

Like any truly unique individual, Lenore is lonely. No one else like her exists in the whole wide world. She spends her days wandering through meadows, searching for the perfect petals to eat: bright, beautiful ones, especially in yellow. The sight of them makes her smile ever so faintly sometimes.

At night, lonely Lenore whispers little stories to the moon, even though she realizes that the moon is not alive and therefore cannot hear her. She knows that not even the moon is her companion.
Lenore tries to tell happy stories to cheer herself up but, more often than not, the stories end up being sad because sadness is what Lenore knows best. It doesn’t matter to Lenore---she just wants someone, anyone, to listen to her…even if the bright yellow flowers are her only audience. Maybe they’ll spread the stories to their seeds and grow her words one day. That thought keeps Lenore alive. It is one of the few comforts that exists outside of her sadness.
One thing is clear: Lenore’s sadness can’t be cured until she finds a friend. That would mean more to her than stumbling upon the most succulent petal in all the land. More than anything, Lenore wants a friend who will hunt for the prettiest, tastiest petals with her and exchange stories with her. She considers it a simple request.

Just today, in order to give herself something to do, Lenore embarked on a quest for the land’s rarest flower, called a moon rose. It is the most gorgeous flower that has ever thrived. No man has ever seen it. The moon rose is bigger than Lenore’s whole head and has broad, white petals. The flower only opens up at night to soak up the moonlight but immediately shuts itself up when the sun rises because the sun’s powerful rays will shrivel its beautiful body.

This means that Lenore must hunt for the moon rose at night. That would be fine except for one big problem: the flower is invisible unless two true friends sing together in perfect harmony and ask the moon rose to show itself.

But where is Lenore going to find a true friend? She’s all alone in an isolated land, miles away from the nearest dragon colony. She’s so far away, in fact, that she’s never seen another dragon in her life. And who would want to be friends with her besides another dragon? After all, most creatures run away at the mere utterance of the word ‘dragon.’ And to come face to face with one? They’d rather visit every dentist in the kingdom. Everyone thinks dragons are scary.
Simply put, there is no hope for Lenore finding a friend. She’ll just have to forget ever finding the moon rose. Anyone who crosses her path will be too afraid to stay around long enough to befriend her.

Lenore, realizing the hopelessness of her predicament, continues the rest of her day like always. She lumbers through the meadow, sighting daisies, orchids, carnations, dandelions, and violets. After plucking their petals off and stuffing them into her basket, she returns to her cave to cook a wonderfully perfumed stew. The scent will put her in a rare joyful mood.
Lenore goes back to her cave and carefully begins preparing her favorite meal. But as she counts out her ingredients, she notices she is missing something: a black-eyed Susan! She heads back to the meadow in search of one.

Just as Lenore reached the meadow, something rustles in the grass. What is it? Lenore doesn’t know what to do. She is so accustomed to being alone that the thought of company frightens her. Lenore draws in closer to get a better look. The intruder has two long ears that stuck straight out of its head. It is brown and furry with a white, ball-like tail. Its eyes are deep brown and glassy. The creature gazes at Lenore with the same curiosity that Lenore harbors for it.
“Are you really a dragon?” the little creature asks Lenore.

Lenore is so startled that she doesn’t answer for a moment, but then replies, “Why, yes, er…wait, what do you mean?”

“I mean, do you really exist or am I just imagining you?”

“Um…I think I’m real. I mean, I am real.”

“Wow,” the creature says, “And all this time I thought dragons were made-up. I’d never seen one before.”

“Well, I’ve never seen one of you before, either. What are you by the way?”

“Why, I’m a bunny rabbit! You’ve never seen one before? How strange!”

“Not so strange really. I’ve never seen a bunny rabbit before and you’ve never seen a dragon before. We’re both new to each other.”

“This is so exciting! What is your name?”

“Lenore. And yours?”

“Pinny.” The bunny rabbit then lowers its already tiny voice. “Say, you won’t eat me, will you?”

“Eat you? Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re a dragon! Dragons are supposed to be monsters who eat everything!”

“That’s a myth. I don’t eat everything. I only eat flower petals and I’m pretty picky about which ones, too.”

“How delightful! I also eat flower petals! Maybe we can search for some yummy ones together.”
Lenore blushes; she is so flattered. “I would like that very much.” Perhaps now she and Pinny will become good friends and they will hunt for the moon rose together.

Of course the best friendships take time to develop and Lenore and Pinny had only just met. Lenore’s quest for the moon rose would have to wait but her quest for a friend had likely ended.

Lenore and Pinny spend the rest of the day wandering through the meadow, picking petals off of flowers they knew to be tasty.

May the flowers spread this story to their seeds.

Welcome to Opus Fae!

2009-01-08T11:34:00.000-08:00

Did you hear the scuttling? Don't worry---it was just the light fluttering of fairy wings as they scurry out of sight. For now, they are shy with humans, except for me because I've known them my whole life. There are many other fantastical creatures here at Opus Fae but I won't bother to list them right now. You'll gradually discover more and more of them each time you return to this blog because, with their permission, I'll let you peek into their mysterious world.

My name is Christine Stoddard; I'm the blog keeper here. In the plain, mortal world, I am a writer, collagist, and actress. I spend the vast majority of my time creating. But when I'm not writing, juxtaposing a poem against magazine clippings, or memorizing a script, I'm dreaming. Often I dream of fairies and dragons. These fantasies inspire me to write stories or assemble my drawings and photos into collages. Opus Fae---which means "The Work of Fairies" in Latin---is my platform for showcasing these chimerical creations. Through reading my poetry and prose, viewing my art, and watching my videos, you will gain highly coveted insight into another dimension, a dimension that more and more people deny even exists. But that's because they're listening to the Voice of Reason instead of the Melodies of Imagination.

If you wish you learn more about this dimension, you must cast the evils of logic aside. You'll be surprised by how much of the truth logic has hidden from you. Check back regularly for the most comprehensive online lessons in fairy- and dragonology available. You won't regret gaining such unusual knowledge.

And if you do, then at least you'll figure out your college major more quickly; I recommend the hard sciences for all non-believers.