I really should be paying @edgothboy for giving me leave to use his stories…yeah right! 😛 ENJOY!


I like the sunshine. It makes the leaves greener and the streaming water warm as it rushes over my feet and tickles my toes. It seemed like spring would never end and all that rain just made the roads muddy and me ma wouldn’t let me come out and play. But its finally summer. No school, no annoying pigtails cuz I burnt off my hair with the lighter again. Ma was so mad, I thought she was gonna cut it off but instead she braided them into pigtails and made me wear them to school everyday. But that’s over now.

I love everything here, the little pebbles from the brook that feels like a robin’s egg when I put them under my tongue, the Elm tree with the swing I made all by myself from an old tyre and me pa’s sailor rope, the pretty carpet of grass that stays green even in winter. *sigh*. It’s so beautiful here. I just wish ma would believe me when I tell her we could live here forever. She goes “Pah, Nessa. I’ve never been the kinda lass to run away from her problems and I wont be starting now. Now off with ya!” and shoos me off. Mommas never know what’s good for ’em.

Nobody’s but me’s been here in a long time, at least that’s what they tell me and I think they aren’t lying. I’m not supposed to talk about them but I told Seamus and they didn’t seem to mind. I wish he’d stop being a chicken and come see it, just for a little while. But he still hasn’t yet. The day I asked him, He said his mam won’t let him, that she doesn’t think the dark woods is a good place for children to play, and then he said he said his ma doesn’t think my meadow is real. I sure told him off. Just cause older people say stuff isnt real doesn’t make it so, look at Guy Fawkes. They think he isn’t real, yet every year we celebrate him. Pah!

Papa’s coming here soon though. He’s asked ma where I’m always running off to, says a twelve year old girl should have her head in her books and not in the ‘clouds’. But ma’s never told him cos she knows he’d freak out. Maybe even curse me out like he does to ma whenever she forgets to iron his shirts or make him pudding pie at 2am, even though he knows she works 16 hours cos he won’t get a second job. I want him to come, look for me, find me. Maybe I’ll be sure he cares if he does.

OUCH! He bit me again, harder this time. It’s not how you think, he didn’t mean to. Barbie fed the last time and Pa was home all day yesterday so Ken didn’t have anything. Poor thing, he’s so hungry. Their names aren’t really Ken or Barbie, they are way older than that. They just let me call them that cos they’re so tiny and perfect. He’s feeding from my right thigh, Barbie fed from the left last time and it still aches but I don’t their teeth leave perfect little hickeys. Once, the slaggy seniors saw one on my neck after gym class a while back and called me slut for getting ‘head’, whatever that means.

Pa’s here, I’d recognise the way he walks from anywhere. All the other pixies are scattered in the trees and in the lake waiting for Pa. They want to show him how to be a better man to ma and a better pa to me. I thought Ken would never agree to help me, show Pa the beauty of this place and how it can change you. I’m so happy, Pa’ll change and we’ll all be happy, and it all be perfect again…


Tn’ashleiyak flits on his tiny wings and kisses the emancipated child on the lips and the glamour washes over her once more. She limps to the dry husk of the long barren Elm tree and slumps behind it, the force of her fall opening a number of the little scabs of freshly healed bites. He summons Arenilahe and the other pixies, and they gather like a malevolent cloud. A concerned father with a cocked handgun marches their way, preternatural instinct and concern guiding him through the darkness in the direction of his dying child.

“No more shall we ration ourselves to the meagre portions our loyal acolyte offers, Tonight we feast!” Tn’ashleiyak screams in Elvish and bares little scalpel teeth, glittering white and sharp enough to split hairs and spreads little fingers tipped with talons. The others follow suit and together they swarm.

In the darkness infernal shrieking can be heard, interjected with the sound of gunshots. The neighbours sit in their living rooms, the din of their televisions unable to suppress the evidence of the horror that lurks in the shadows of postcards of their picturesque Irish hamlet. He’s an idiot, they say to themselves, she’d been in the woods for almost two weeks, as good as dead. They cross themselves and pray what they hear isn’t what they think it is. All at once the keening stops and one final muffled shot rings out. Silence…

Just as they are all about to heave in relief, a lone voice, saying one word, reverbrates through the silence and their flimsy walls and pierces their cowardly hearts.