This bit of flash fiction below, formatted like screenplay dialogue, was inspired by a lovely post on X.
GRANDMOTHER
(sniffing the air)
Aye, the veil is thinning, you can be sure of it.
Next thing you know, they’ll be holding a fairies ball.
But don’t you even think of going, not even if a tiny
invitation just for you arrived, dropped off by a butterfly
or some other insect pressed into service.
CHILD
What sort of invitation?
GRANDMOTHER
Don’t you even look it. Throw it away.
CHILD
Then how will I know when they’re having a ball?
GRANDMOTHER
You’ll hear it: fiddles and flutes and stomping feet
faint as a whisper. When that happens, don’t listen.
Stop your ears with cotton. Then you’ll smell some
kind of sweet cider, better than any you’ve had.
CHILD
That’ll make me very thirsty. Can’t I have some water?
GRANDMOTHER
Yes, drink your fill and then hold a bundle of lavender
to your nose. You’ll see lights twinkling in the distance
as well. Pull the blanket up over your eyes, unless you
want to be dazzled and bewitched.
CHILD
What if I’m not in bed?
GRANDMOTHER
You will be. It’s always after bedtime that fairies hold their parties.
CHILD
Don’t fairies have a bedtime?
GRANDMOTHER
Fairies don’t have any rules.
CHILD
And then what will happen?
GRANDMOTHER
You’ll go back to sleep, or risk being
tempted to peek at the fairies ball.
That’s how it starts. Then you’ll want to go
out of the house and look at it up close, just for a minute.
CHILD
I’d never.
GRANDMOTHER
That’s good, because people who go to
the fairies ball end up dancing and feasting
and tarrying until time stops.
CHILD
I didn’t know time could stop.
GRANDMOTHER
It hasn’t stopped yet, has it?
It’s nine o’clock. It’s time you were asleep.
–Sarah Torribio
Read more flash fiction by Sarah Torribio HERE
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