In the market they are talking about last week’s linens, still strung across the garden beneath skies dazzling blue. The butcher’s wife does not like the cats with their black cloaks, stalking the briar patch at night, bright eyes like guttering candles. Her husbands claims superstition, but distrusts the foxglove purple swords, the nightshade, the mistletoe, the cut stems by the hedgerow. Forgets who birthed their last child, almost blue and so brokenly quiet. Breathed that first cry into him when they though him too far gone. But there’s the girl and her tears, and her husband raging for some sort of explanation as to why the seed won’t take. And why this year’s harvest failed, and the Harlow’s pig got sick, and the men from the church came and hung a witch out. I’m going to admit, this poem got away from me somewhat, and I’m really not sure how I feel about the ending. Still, I hope you like where I took tonight dVerse prompt. I only …
One sip to poison a prince, his teeth sunk into forbidden fruit, while one-true-love stands waiting, patient, the perfect good girl all fairy-tales and smiles, alone. Drinks her own potion, steps free of skin crafted from paperbound volumes brittle with age. Breathes. Finally. Screams.
Have you ever seen the Spider Fairies? No, I suppose you haven’t. They slink about about on winter mornings just before the frost has time to melt, spinning the frozen spiders’ silk into balls of yarn to take back to their hidden homes. There they weave window frames and doors. You see, only frozen spiders’ silk can hold magic properly, if a fairy enchants anything else the power ebbs away until all that is left is the ordinary. Spiders’ silk however holds onto magic and so they use it to make their homes. To keep the humans from peeping in.
The click of heels matched the leaking faucet. Scowling, Aurora wrenched the cold tap anti-clockwise and cursed as the drip continued to splattered into the sink below. “For fucks sake!” She turned her back on the traitorous sink. “Does anything in this flat work?” Boyfriend’s head remained slumped, the rest of him sprawled across the settee as commentators screamed over the rugby. Aurora glanced at her watch and then the suitcases by the door. The taxi was late. She turned her attention back to the boyfriend. “Dam.” she muttered, striding over and straightening his blankets. “You’re supposed to look asleep!”
Watch for the cracks in the pavement, Watch for the monsters waiting below. At midnight they’ll rise from the darkness and slip through the gaps in the stone. So watch for the cracks in the pavement And keep your sword close at hand. Just because you’re no Prince Charming Doesn’t mean an escape from this fairy-tale land.