When the Night Burned

I awoke to a lipstick message scrawled across the mirror.

“You. Were. Meant. To. Burn.”

Then I noticed—
my fingertips smudged pink and red.

By the door—
muddy, grass-stained shoes.

Around my fingernails—
blood, dried and caked.

Definitely not mine. 

Opening the door to let in fresh air, I could feel the forest humming.

The woods were still exhaling, still drunk on smoke and song.

The air was still heavy with their scent of lavender and ash.

Mind melting and body reeling, I sat on the bench next to the door and emptied my breath, but the spinning continued. And underneath the spinning, a sliver of sly smile danced. Because I know this is where the good shit started.

Then, flashes of remembering…

Laughter rising like cinders.

A blaze of fire dancing across the stars.

The wind singing songs that shouldn’t be sung. 

The moon watching, knowing, remembering everything.

Nothing is ever normal where the Sprites are concerned. They’d been their usual happy fucking heralds of holy havoc—the price of their wisdom. Slippery tricksters. All of them. They keep their bargains, but always find ways to bend deals in their favour.

You’d think I’d have learned by now, not to do business with those seductive fuckers.

Another broken memory…

“You begged for this darling.”

But whose voice? Hers? Mine? The Sprites?

Hard to tell. Hard to care. Hard to put together a mental jigsaw puzzle when half the pieces are splattered in paint and the other half are on the dark side of the moon.

Making coffee seems like a good idea. 

I like practical steps at times like these. I went to the kitchen, but the grinder snarled at me on sight, feral, on edge. Resigned, I backed away, returning to the bench.

Another remembering:

“When you make demands,
don’t be surprised when—
the opposite happens,
in a blaze of glitter—
and fire.”

A sentence from an unwritten book? A piece of wisdom from another realm? 

A wicked warning hidden in poetry? A prophecy from those who run the world?

One can never be sure where the Sprites are concerned.

With love from the forest,

~ Alexander

P.S. While individual details may be true, this Whimsie is a work of fiction, an exploration of voice, and experiment in crafting stories from thin air.

Thank you for reading. Feedback is welcome, not expected.

P.P.S. If this is your first Whimsie, welcome. Not everything will be unhinged.