How happy are we that tomorrow is Halloween? Well...

A Blessed Samhain and a Happy Halloween, Everybody!

From Both of Us at the Dreamers Imaginarium

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Flight of the Faeries.

There's nothing quite so magical as watching a group of Faeries take to the air. It's not something the average human sees every day- in fact, I'd guess that most humans never see a single Faerie in their entire lives.

http://www.howarddavidjohnson.com/fairies.htm

Once, they were over-abundant in the world and caused all kinds of mischief, trickery and Magic. They lived alongside humans in an uneasy relationship of mistrust and respect. These days, seeing a Fae in any urbanized area is extremely rare, and I can't blame them for staying hidden behind the Veil. We'd probably catch them and send them off to be studied for scientific documentation, or we would lock them in an iron cage and watch the effects it took to try and understand their Magic. Fae may live on private property, especially if the humans dwelling within are magical in nature, open to the Earth's mysterious nature, or if the house has been abandoned for many years.

So, to be able to witness a small group of golden Faeries, maybe six or seven, taking flight one afternoon from a reddening Japanese maple tree  in my front yard was something of a miracle. The Veil isn't particularly thin there, nor have I ever seen Fae in this tree before (they prefer Oak to any other for living in). Even with Halloween approaching, is an odd occurrence.

What does this say, then, of me, that I should be so lucky to see Fae where I've never expected to see them? Perhaps it means they're not as fearful as they have been. Perhaps it means I was delusional and actually saw nothing. Whatever it was, the scent of cinnamon and apples they left behind now leads me to remember the Faeries in Flight.

She Wished She Was a Gypsy

She always wished she was a gypsy.

She wanted to be one of those bright, colorful people who roamed Europe and other fantasy worlds in painted wagons. She knew, of course, that her perceptions were much too colored by too much reading and too much imagination, but that hardly mattered. She wished she was a gypsy.
She could imagine wild, musical nights spent at the side of warm, glowing fires and laughter and wood smoke. She craved violins and tambourines and spinning, spinning, spinning into star-filled nights with the tinkling of jewelry and a trail of scarves flying into the darkness.

She could imagine fortune tellers in all their mystery and exotic talents peering into the past and the future. She envisioned crystal balls catching candlelight and twisting into dream-filled wonder in their hearts, and cards that speak whole stories through their ancient images.

She wished she was a gypsy.

She would escape the mundane of every day if given half a chance. She moved into new houses often enough, but they were all firmly nailed to the ground and never wandered off like she thought they should. She changed jobs whenever the old one became too tedious and boring, but none of them was music-filled or involved dreams in candlelight.

She was not brightly colored. She was quiet and never drew attention to herself.

Her talents were not rare or exotic, and they were hardly mysterious, and the only spinning, spinning, spinning she knew was the swirling dance in her own imagination.

Oh, how she wished she was a gypsy.

She travelled in her habits and in her mind and in her dreams. Her imagination carried her to far away and magical lands like Europe and other fantasy worlds. She sought out the colorful and mysterious and unique all around her. She craved magic and looked for it in everyday things. She set her free spirit loose and let it wander until it found every beautiful and magical thing it could find.

Fires in the night were still filled with music. And sometimes there could still be spinning, spinning, spinning and laughter and stars.

She always wished she was a gypsy, but she knew she would never be. She was always just a nomad, and that was beautiful, too.

Wishful Wednesdays: Storytime

Stacey and I share a passion for many things, amongst them is Music and Art. Therefore, every Wednesday, we will be sharing something, with little to no explanation, to add a little bit of whimsy to your week.

This week, Storytime by Nightwish. This song serves two purposes- It describes the tone we hope our blog will keep, and its a lovely little snippet of our musical tastes (which are very eclectic).

Enjoy!

Shadows of the Past

I walked up a desert mountain, the path very steep. I remember thinking that a few thousand years ago, I'd have considered this beneath me, that it was not my place to walk up dusty mountain trails, but my attitudes had changed.

As I walked I noticed traces of snakes, a special species that was discerning enough to pick out royalty from a crowd and kill it, if ordered to do so by the desert. As I came to a plateau, I flashed back to the last time I'd been to this place- then, I'd been dressed in disguise as a commoner to witness a barbaric act I'd been forced to agree too. I'd witnessed a sacrifice of peasants inside a Stonehenge-type stone circle to commemorate the death of Caesar. The snakes had come for me, but I'd avoided them and not returned since.

Coming back to the present, I noted that the plateau was empty this time, save for two men. One was dressed in business casual, his blond, waved hair styled neatly, and was looking down off the plateau with a disinterested, disdainful expression. The other was dark haired, dressed in a formal suit with a deep purple shirt and two red roses in hand.

I straightened up, brushed dust off my long, white dress, and walked forward on gold sandals. Bangles clinked around my ankles, and I wore a large ring and matching bracelet - gold, inset with sapphires and desert glass. As I walked to stand between the two men, I set my hands on the barrier that blocked off the edge of the cliff, and looked down onto a lower plateau with a carved moat (spikes in the bottom) all around it. The Stonehenge circle sat atop, filling the entire flattened space. As I looked to the blond man, his dress changed to that of a Grecian Military commander. Sunlight glinted off the sculpted silver abdomen of his armour and offset the dyed cotton tunic he wore beneath. He looked to me and smiled sadly.

"It's been a long time, Cleo. You're looking well."

"Same to you, Octavian. You haven't aged a day."

The brunette stayed silent, though I noticed his clothes had changed to those of Grecian senators. White and red billowed in the thin desert breeze but he didn't notice. He seemed transfixed by the stone circle, unable to look away.

"My name is Augustus, I haven't been Octavian for a long time. That man died with Antony."
I turned away to look back at the circle, and noticed military men were setting themselves in front of stones. Twelve men in total, a ring of eight and a ring of four, the silver studs on their leather armour gleaming like stars in a velvet sky. This time, I looked to the brunette, confused. He kept his eyes on the circle.

"What is happening?" I asked.

"A sacrifice to make right the wrongs of the past. My past, your past, his past, and an offering to the souls lost for our causes."

"More death won't bring Julius back, nor will it revive Marc. They're gone, I'm sure more sorrow will not coax their souls to return."

"Perhaps not, but I need to try. I need to apologize."

I watched as the warriors knelt and began to pray to Ceasar and Antony. I took in a sharp breath as they 

were all simultaneously shot with arrows through their throats. The men fell, their blood flooding the bare stone, and they were absorbed into Stonehenge. 

I turned to Brutus and put my hand on his shoulder, hoping he'd finally found peace, then I turned to Octavian.

"I've never apologized to you, Cleo," he said. "I'm sorry to have dragged you into this. Neither Ceasar nor Antony deserved their fates."

"We have not suffered these years to dwell in the past. Let us move on, with no more regret."