When Daphne Gave Scrappy Doo the Keys to the Mystery Machine

Oh dear. It seems Lorraine's unexpectedly handed me the keys to the van, as she's had to run off to tonight's gig (where I'm told she'll be playing the bagpipes). Yes, I'm as baffled as you are. But she really wanted to get all the night garden pieces posted tonight; in my capacity as the Backup Fairy, I'm pleased to oblige in her absence. Many thanks to Phiala, Spacedlaw, Ariandalen, and Stacy: you've shown us your hearts, and rewarded us with beauty. It doesn't get better than that.

Fireflies & Stardust
by Nathalie Boisard-Beudin

***

Untitled
by Phiala

The garden is not haunted.
Leaves rustle only from the cool night breeze.
Those flowers bloom at night for moths, not pixies.
No gnome lives in the hollow tree.
A row of garlic keeps the nonexistent vampires at bay.
Those glowing eyes definitely do not belong to a zombie.
I will go in to bed now, the bed without the monster underneath.

***

Green Moon Garden
by Ariandalen

There was a light breeze among the roses. The garden was lit only by the stars. It had been a long day, and tomorrow would be even longer. I desperately needed sleep, but there I was, out in the garden, trying not to dwell on the next day's events.

There was a sudden sharp scent of rosemary, so I turned and saw her walking towards me.

"Isn't it lovely how the limestone path glows in the starlight?" she asked calmly, her long white dress shifting ever so slightly in the breeze. "Yes," I said.

She walked softly along the path, stopping at one rose before moving to the next. Without looking at me, "There will be a new moon tonight. Did you know that? The second for this month, a green moon." I stood where I was, unable to move toward or away from her. "Hunh. Now that you reminded me, yes. A good time for new beginnings." I thought I saw a soft smile play across her lips.

She moved to the next rose bush, softly cupping a white single rose in her hands. She bent over so that her face was right next to the blossom and inhaled deeply. Her brows knit together as she stood and looked at me. "I know you chose your roses for their scent, but I don't know why I cannot smell them. I can only detect a hint of their fragrance. Can you tell me why?"

Before I could say a word, the tiniest sliver of a moon appeared in the sky. A single moonbeam landed between us, creating a hazy opening in the air. We both stared at it in wonder. A stronger breeze seemed to come from the opening, at least enough of one to move her hair slightly off her shoulders, though I felt nothing.

Her face became radiant with a smile as she moved towards the portal. "There! That is the scent I remember. And music. Such music!" Still I stood, riveted to my spot. She placed one foot through the now glowing portal, turned and asked, "Won't you come with me?"

I shook my head, "No. I can't right now." She stepped on through, waving, then the portal closed with a sigh. I fell to my knees, and the tears that would not come earlier that evening began to fall.

***

Untitled
by Stacy Hurt

darkness finally~
     peace and cold,
 
now I can work,
     freely and with ease,
 
I do not practice
      for perfection,
           only function:
and that; I have perfected.
 
unborn mouths to feed
      all are restless, confined.
 
I pass a single elegant appendage over it
       soon my darlings...
 
beyond~
 
something stirs
 
something panics
 
something dies
 
we shall dine
 
by the glow
 
of my red hourglass
 
shhhhhhhh

***

Evening Prayer

by Nathalie Boisard-Beudin

Answering a knock on the door, he was surprised to find a tree on his door step.
You just don’t expect firs to show up on your porch in the middle of the night and this one had spread fresh earth, needles and worms all over the porch too.

So he could not help being a little curt in his response.

Yes? What was it? What did it want?

WHAT ?

The fir had asked him – in a rather high pitched falsetto - if he did intend to walk the dog that night.

Now, because the tree has sounded a little like Terry Jones doing Graham Chapman's mother in the “Life of Brian”, he had right away suspected this to be some sort of practical joke. After all, why would a fir care if he did walk the dog or not? Did it need watering? But when, as a test, he had plucked a needle from the creature's branches a storm of wails had answered the insult and he'd been called all sorts of things that a well brought up fir really had no business knowing about.

Hasty apologies sheepishly presented, he then explained that his dog had to be kept at the vet overnight, for a routine operation. For tonight, there was therefore no plan to go "walkies". The fir started to shake. Wringing its branches, with noises of “how awful!” and laments, it told him that this could not be possible, that he just HAD to go out. Wouldn’t he come out, please, and make the world happen?

The what?

The world happen.

The night life and scenery around the house had only developed because he’d started to walk the dog. Previously there had been no need for an outside world to be there at all in the evening and – in order to cut costs of maintenance and operation – the area around his house had been kept void at night. With him starting to go out regularly, things had to be changed and although some – it would not name names – had grumbled about the hassle and expenditure, there was now a whole wild nocturnal setting out there for him to experience whenever he came out with the dog.
But it would only remain in existence if he did indeed came out every night. Otherwise, the auditing services would close down the whole operation and creatures like owls, fireflies, and fellow trees – with their dryads – would be sent back to some dank storage room.

And they quite liked it here.

They loved being in the open for once and the way the set designers had organised the place with twinkling stars and lovely mist ribbons. And the smells! The flowers fragrant after a hot day, the earth so rich, the mushrooms coming out in the moss. Why it made an old fir like him feel alive!
So would he - please - come out and play?

***

(and this is the bit where Lorraine always says)
Love and Guest Blogging,
Jess