flying. She sighed wistfully as she guided the car toward the museum on the ridge overlooking downtown. “I don’t think I’m going to accept the date Mom arranged with whatever his name is. It will be just like all the others: dull, embarrassing, and a disappointment for all concerned.”
Most days, when the weather was fine, she walked the few blocks to work. Today she wanted to look professional for the grant committee. Two-and-a-half-inch heels, hose, and a tight navy blue skirt did not take well to walking any distance. At least not for her.
A quick survey of the museum grounds told her that the herb garden planted in a knot design had been carefully weeded and watered. The signs on the outdoor exhibits looked straight, clearly visible, and legible. The City Parks Department had mowed the grass and raked it two days ago.
The sprinklers turned on their automatic timers as she bent down to reset the strap of her navy sling-back heels.
Fat droplets swished across her back and head. The spray of water passed on in its wide circle. The droplets hit in a distinctive rhythm. A tune, that might be the same one her old music box played but was catchier and brighter, caught the back of her mind in time with the sprinkles.
“Who reset the timer?” she shouted to anyone who might hear. Hastily, she rolled up the car windows and scuttled toward the sidewalk where the watering system didn’t dare threaten potential customers.
The tune seemed to dance along with her heels clacking against the cement.
Dum dee dee do dum dum .
The line of water followed her like a malicious and living monster. It broke every rule of high summer water conservation and plastered the sidewalk as she ran away from the museum grounds toward the place where the road dead-ended by The Ten Acre Wood and the curving cliff.
Chiming laughter followed her every step until it suddenly choked on a sob.
Dusty looked up, realizing the water had turned itself off, leaving her slightly damp around the edges but not seriously soggy.
There, where the parkland grass met the first line of trees and sword fern underbrush stood a lone figure in a wilted purple-and-cream sundress. Her long dark hair flared out from a very pale face.
“Thistle, what are you doing here?” Dusty wanted to yell at the woman. Something in her slumped posture and bedraggled appearance made Dusty soften her tone.
“I can’t go home,” Thistle whispered. “I ache all over, my tummy is upset, and the light hurts my eyes. I need to go home to our den and let Trillium take care of me. I need to grow my wings and be purple again.”
“You’ve got a hangover. No wonder, with the amount of beer you drank last night. Come on into the offices and I’ll get you some orange juice and aspirin. Dick swears that’s the only way to get over a hangover.”
“You don’t understand. I’m stuck in this ugly, lumpy body forever. I can’t ever go home.” Fat tears trickled down her pale face, blurring her fabulous purple eyes.
“Thistle, you are the only person alive who thinks that’s an ugly body. And most people admire the lumps. Stop whining. Come on. You can stay in the museum lounge today. I’ve got meetings and the parade and a bunch of scheduled tours today. But tomorrow you need to look for your own place to live and a job. I can’t afford to support you.”
Though life would be duller and less bright without Thistle around. Years ago, all the color had drained from Dusty’s life when she got sick. Thistle had been the only bright spot in her life for many years after. Gradually, as Dusty grew older, Thistle stopped coming. She checked in once in a while, but it had been years since the tiny Pixie had graced Dusty with her presence.
She deliberately called up her dream and the feeling of carefree flight. When she opened her eyes, the world seemed a bit brighter and less threatening.
“Pixies don’t need to work,” Thistle sobbed. “A Pixie’s purpose is to befriend
Most days, when the weather was fine, she walked the few blocks to work. Today she wanted to look professional for the grant committee. Two-and-a-half-inch heels, hose, and a tight navy blue skirt did not take well to walking any distance. At least not for her.
A quick survey of the museum grounds told her that the herb garden planted in a knot design had been carefully weeded and watered. The signs on the outdoor exhibits looked straight, clearly visible, and legible. The City Parks Department had mowed the grass and raked it two days ago.
The sprinklers turned on their automatic timers as she bent down to reset the strap of her navy sling-back heels.
Fat droplets swished across her back and head. The spray of water passed on in its wide circle. The droplets hit in a distinctive rhythm. A tune, that might be the same one her old music box played but was catchier and brighter, caught the back of her mind in time with the sprinkles.
“Who reset the timer?” she shouted to anyone who might hear. Hastily, she rolled up the car windows and scuttled toward the sidewalk where the watering system didn’t dare threaten potential customers.
The tune seemed to dance along with her heels clacking against the cement.
Dum dee dee do dum dum .
The line of water followed her like a malicious and living monster. It broke every rule of high summer water conservation and plastered the sidewalk as she ran away from the museum grounds toward the place where the road dead-ended by The Ten Acre Wood and the curving cliff.
Chiming laughter followed her every step until it suddenly choked on a sob.
Dusty looked up, realizing the water had turned itself off, leaving her slightly damp around the edges but not seriously soggy.
There, where the parkland grass met the first line of trees and sword fern underbrush stood a lone figure in a wilted purple-and-cream sundress. Her long dark hair flared out from a very pale face.
“Thistle, what are you doing here?” Dusty wanted to yell at the woman. Something in her slumped posture and bedraggled appearance made Dusty soften her tone.
“I can’t go home,” Thistle whispered. “I ache all over, my tummy is upset, and the light hurts my eyes. I need to go home to our den and let Trillium take care of me. I need to grow my wings and be purple again.”
“You’ve got a hangover. No wonder, with the amount of beer you drank last night. Come on into the offices and I’ll get you some orange juice and aspirin. Dick swears that’s the only way to get over a hangover.”
“You don’t understand. I’m stuck in this ugly, lumpy body forever. I can’t ever go home.” Fat tears trickled down her pale face, blurring her fabulous purple eyes.
“Thistle, you are the only person alive who thinks that’s an ugly body. And most people admire the lumps. Stop whining. Come on. You can stay in the museum lounge today. I’ve got meetings and the parade and a bunch of scheduled tours today. But tomorrow you need to look for your own place to live and a job. I can’t afford to support you.”
Though life would be duller and less bright without Thistle around. Years ago, all the color had drained from Dusty’s life when she got sick. Thistle had been the only bright spot in her life for many years after. Gradually, as Dusty grew older, Thistle stopped coming. She checked in once in a while, but it had been years since the tiny Pixie had graced Dusty with her presence.
She deliberately called up her dream and the feeling of carefree flight. When she opened her eyes, the world seemed a bit brighter and less threatening.
“Pixies don’t need to work,” Thistle sobbed. “A Pixie’s purpose is to befriend
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