Fairy Poison

I kept it long after the Gypsy caravan rode away, swaying over the uneven path like a colourful boat on a stormy sea.
It was supposed to summon fairies; that's what the woman said. Promised, even.
I opened it on the moor, with you and the rest back on the precipice, sitting on the picnic blanket with glasses of burgundy and trays of cucumber sandwiches.
The Myst came out right away, frothy and pale like a thin layer of icing on a dark cake. It filled in all the cracks of the landscape; the skeletal branches of the scraggly trees, the bent swamp weeds and brown pools covered with sickly lily pads.
When it had settled over everything like sugar dusting, They rose.
They were graceful, like sylphs and ballerinas. They have no toes, only points at the end of their transparent feet, which they balanced on like the eyes of needles.
They were beautiful one by one, yet altogether, with every grey eye on me, they were terrifying.
Their eyes turned to the empty bottle in my hand, made of their own fae glass and chases with gold they mined. Filled with poison.
I cleared my throat and demanded my wish. It was the way the story went. I opened the bottle, I summoned the fairies, I was granted a wish.
Wishes aren't all gold and glitter. That's what they taught me in the Myst on the moor.
I went back to the picnic, and they did not notice for the longest time that I was Changed. I wouldn't ahve noticed myself, if I hadn't looked in my distorted reflection on the teapot and seen a grey-eyed shadow looking back.

Text by Lucie MacAulay