“Crushed stardust,” Witchly says.

Fffftt. Like nettles under wing. Pixie dust, not stardust.

Witchly’s presence foretells of day’s approach. I gather my kin to stir the fog. Beneath the arched streetlamp, Sprites bide their time to strike. Harmless tricks to perform. She be fair game alone in the hours of darkness. Old Man, the tree, smirks behind her back. I hear his rustled snickers. She pretends not to listen. Pale skin shimmering in the moonlight as she beckons to the ravens. Ignores us.

A werewolf howls. Witchly’s back stiffens as night begins to shift. I watch from Old Man’s branches the first hint of dawn breaking. Playtime ends and the world comes to life with moon’s glow dimming. Soon sunbeams and the smell of heather’s blossom will show the way for humans. I flitter.

The brownies hiss a warning and fearful, we scatter like the disobedient children of fairy tales.

Fffftt. Pixie tales.

 

36th #SatSunTails prompt from Rebecca Clare Smith’s Journal.   “Crushed Stardust” was the line to use and the picture 

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