Sonnettics

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Alexandra. Only she wasn’t just a little girl, she was a Princess. Princess Alexandra loved to sit by her window in Light Manor Castle, which is where she lived, and listen to the birds sing and watch the clouds go by. She especially liked to watch the clouds as they formed into different shapes. Sometimes they were sailing ships or dragons or even a beautiful pony. She liked so much to sit and watch the clouds and listen to the birds singing in the big, beautiful maple trees which stood next to the clear, burbling brook which watered the emerald-green grass-she liked this all so much that she often forgot about her chores and lessons.
One day she told her nursemaid, Miss Kate, that chores and lessons were a waste of time for a Princess.
“A Princess should not work like a servant,” she told Miss Kate. “Princesses were made to appreciate all the delicate beauties of the land. The birds’ songs, the wonderful shapes of clouds, the great shady maple trees, the clear, clean, burbling brook, and the emerald-green grass.”
Miss Kate nodded her head wisely and replied, “Princess Alexandra, you are right-partly.”
“Partly?” Cried the Princess, indignantly.
“Yes, partly,” repeated the wise nursemaid. “Princesses should spend time appreciating all the beautiful things of the land. The birds’ songs, the wonderful shapes of clouds, the great shady maple trees, the clear, clean, burbling brook, and the emerald-green grass.”
Princess Alexandra smiled and nodded.
“But,” said Miss Kate, “There are things that Princesses must learn in their lessons, and there are things that only Princesses can do. Only a Princess can weave the magic fabric which is used to make the flags which protect our land from the Beast Beyond.”
Princess Alexandra wasn’t listening very carefully to Miss Kate’s lecture, she was too busy daydreaming near the window of her room in Light Manor castle, wondering what it would be like to be a bird flying high into the clouds above and singing beautiful songs to make young girls happy. When Miss Kate mentioned the flags made of magic fabric, however, Princess Alexandra noticed the ring of flagpoles far on the horizon.
“I know it’s important,” the Princess sighed, “I will try harder.”
The border of the kingdom, which was called Solitude, was protected from the Beast beyond by these flagpoles which flew flags sewn from magic fabric made by every Princess who had ever lived in Light Manor Castle. In order to keep the Beast from Beyond outside of the land, Solitude, the Princess had to weave enough fabric for one new flag each month. By paying attention to weaving lessons and working hard, most Princesses were able to do this task in two days by their tenth birthday. Princess Alexandra had just turned ten and it still took her a full week to make the fabric. Last month she spent so much time watching the birds and the clouds from her window that it actually took two weeks to weave enough magic fabric to make the monthly flag. This displeased her parents, the King and Queen of Solitude, very much.
The queen had to sew the flags once the fabric was woven. The King had to place the flag at the proper place on the border once the Queen had finished sewing it. Both the King and the Queen had very busy schedules and so Princess Alexandra’s dawdling created a lot of scheduling problems for them.
“If the fabric isn’t done by the end of the first week of the month,” said the Queen, “I have to cancel my Saturday riding lesson, shift my card game from Wednesday to Thursday, rearrange the visits from the courting ladies, and send Matilda to market with only half a shopping list. Honestly Alexandra, You must try harder. We are all counting on you.”
Princess Alexandra’s Father, the King, was even more stern with her. “We can’t have this dawdling anymore, young lady,” he barked gruffly at her. “If the fabric isn’t woven on time, the flag doesn’t get made on time. Then I have to create a hole in my soldiers’ training schedule so that I can get the flag out to the border. Troops can’t be kept waiting! Rank and file, Alexandra. Precision and bearing are crucial. Drill and ceremonies must be preceded by counsel and order. Duty! Honor! Country! Do you understand what I am telling you?”
Princess Alexandra hadn’t the foggiest notion what her Father was saying, but she looked him straight in the eye, gave her best military salute, and in her deepest voice (which wasn’t very deep at all) she shouted, “Yes sir!” That was the way she saw the soldiers respond to her Father and it seemed to please him when they did so.
The King frowned slightly, then smiled ever-so-slightly and said, “Just try harder, Princess. We are all counting on you.”
Princess Alexandra didn’t like to disappoint her Mother and Father, so she set about learning to weave faster until she could weave the magic fabric faster than any Princess had ever done before. Each month for the rest of the year the fabric was finished by noon on the second day of the month. This made the King and Queen immensely happy and they gave Princess Alexandra a beautiful pony for Christmas. Then Spring came once again. The big, fluffy clouds came out in all their wonderful shapes. The birds returned to sing in the great shady maple trees by the clear, clean, burbling brook which watered the emerald-green grass which Charley Horse (that was the name of the Princess’ new pony) loved to eat.
Princess Alexandra would ride Charley Horse out to the trees and the birds and the brook and the grassy fields every day. Then she would lie on her back beneath a great, shady maple tree and watch the clouds as the birds sang to her.
“If I were a bird,” she said to no one in particular, “I would fly up to those great, fluffy clouds and make big ice-cream scoops of them to eat all day long.”
Princess Alexandra was surprised when someone spoke back to her. “And if I were a little girl, I would wish for the exact same thing,” said a little voice above her. “But I would dearly love to ride through the countryside on a beautiful little pony.” The voice that spoke to her belonged to a blackbird who was sitting on the lowest branch of the maple tree Princess Alexandra was lying under.
The Princess was quite startled to be spoken to by a blackbird, but she was also very curious about this bird. “Riding a pony is very fun,” she admitted to the bird, “but, I imagine it is not as thrilling as soaring way up in the blue sky and flying right through the great, fluffy clouds.”
“Through the clouds!” exclaimed the blackbird. The suggestion seemed to upset the bird, who jumped form branch to branch with his feathers ruffled. It took a moment for him to settle back down. When he regained his composure he spoke with a little, nervous laugh. “Ha, ha. No, Princess, soaring through the clouds is terribly boring. Ha, ha. It can be dangerous, too. You can’t see where you are going very well, and your feathers get all wet so you have to flap harder. Ha. Ha, ha. It is much more exciting to fly around them. Ha, ha.”
“Hmm,” said the Princess, “I hadn’t thought of all that. I suppose you are right. But it’s all very pointless to discuss. I shall never be able to fly through or around anything at all.
“I could teach you,” said the bird. “I could show you how to soar as high as the clouds.” As he said this he jumped into the air, did a small loop and landed right back in the same spot as before.
The Princess started laughing and she began to flap her arms furiously to pretend she was trying to fly. “Oh, it’ll never work, you silly bird,” and she laughed some more.
“Well,” said the bird, “that’s a very dim view of things. I don’t suppose you’d even be interested in giving it a try my way.” The blackbird jumped up to a higher branch and set his wings to fly away.
Princess Alexandra was afraid she had upset the bird. She had never met a talking bird before and didn’t want him to fly away so she called out, “Oh, please don’t go. I’m afraid I’ve been terribly rude. I haven’t even introduced myself. I am the Princess Alexandra from Light Manor castle, and I should like it very much if you would stay and teach me how to fly.”
“Well, Princess Alexandra, my name is Scotch and I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Princess Alexandra curtsied politely and replied, “I’m pleased to meet you too, Scotch. Can you really teach me how to fly?”
“Well,” said scotch, “it’s not so much a matter of teaching you to fly as it is convincing the air that you are a bird. You see, if we can trick the air into thinking that you are a bird, the rest is easy.”
“How do we do that?” asked the Princess, who wasn’t sure if she believed this.
“You must give me a strand of your hair. Then I will pluck out one of my feathers. Next, you must wrap the hair around the feather. I will then take them up high into the sky and let them go. When the air smells them together it will become confused and not be able to tell the difference between you and me, and you shall be able to fly as freely as I do.”
Princess Alexandra thought that Scotch was loony and was making this all up, but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings again, so she agreed to give his plan a try. She plucked a long strand of hair from her head and Scotch plucked one of the feathers from his wing. The Princess wrapped the hair around the feather and tied it at both ends so it wouldn’t come loose. Then she gave it to Scotch, who disappeared with it in his beak, away up into the sky.
The Princess sat down beneath the maple tree to wait for Scotch to return. Soon, however, she fell asleep. As she slept, she had strange dreams of falling and floating and flying. She dreamed that the wind was tossing her through the air like a leaf. She awoke to someone calling her name.
“Princess Alexandra. He, he.” It was a funny looking small man sitting on her pony.
“What are you doing on Charley Horse,” she demanded.
“You had better get up before the cats come around. Ha, ha.” There was something familiar about his laugh.
“Who are you?” the Princess asked.
“Why, I am your old friend, Scotch. He, he.”
Princess Alexandra jumped to her feet, but found herself fluttering in mid air. Her body was much lighter than she expected. She stretched out her arms to steady herself and saw, to her surprise, instead of arms she had two black feathered wings. Scotch had tricked the Princess and he rode away on Charley Horse laughing aloud. “Fly away Princess. Fly away before the cats find you. He, he. Ha, ha.”
Princess Alexandra fluttered up to the highest branch in the tree and watched Scotch disappear in the distance on her little pony, Charley Horse. Suddenly she realized, “I’m a bird. I can fly!” And she took to the air and flew toward the castle.
The day was ending and night was coming on, and so it was difficult to see where she was going. In the distance the Princess saw a light. She thought it was a light in a window of Light Manor Castle, but as long as she flew, it never seemed to get any closer. Soon she became tired and landed in a tall tree to rest.
When she awoke in the morning she was completely lost in the middle of a forest. Light Manor Castle was nowhere in sight. She sat there in the tree and cried for a while, but instead of making a crying sound it came out as “Cheep, cheep. Chee-cheep.” A voice whispered in her head, “If you keep making noises you may attract cats.” And so Princess Alexandra did her best to stop crying and be brave. The voice in her head spoke to her again-she thought it was her own thoughts, although it sounded a lot like her nursemaid, Miss Kate. “Perhaps if you fly high into the sky you will be able to see where you are.”
Princess Alexandra knew that the best view of the land Solitude was from the highest tower of Light Manor Castle, so flying higher to get a better view made sense to her. Up into the air she flew, higher and higher. She flew up in a great big spiral until she could see all the way to the edge of the forest and beyond.
To the north were mountains she had never seen before. To the south was a great ocean. To the west she could see a broad prairie and to the east was a desert. The forest was still right below her, a great sea of green trees. But for as high as she had flown she could still not see her home, Light Manor Castle, or anything familiar from the land of Solitude.
As she was looking at the land below the Princess flew higher and higher until, suddenly, she couldn’t see things quite as clearly. Everything was getting misty and she realized she was in a cloud.
Suddenly, a large booming voice like thunder surrounded and shook the Princess. “You! How dare you come back here to ruin my artwork again!”
“Please,” the Princess called out, “I’m l-lost. Pleas help m-me.”
A large man with wings walked out of the mist and stood before Princess Alexandra. She wondered how he could stand on a cloud. He had a chisel in one hand and a hammer in the other. He also had wings on his back. He looked angry, and when he spoke to the Princess it was with the same gruff tone that her father, the King, used when he was upset.
“What sort of game is this? You say you are lost and need help.”
“Please, sir,” said the Princess, “I would greet you properly, but I do not know your name.”
“Don’t know my name, eh? Well I know yours-Scotch. You mischievous little gnome. I warned you that if you ever came back here I would . . .” the man shook his tools even harder in the air.
“Oh, no,” cried the Princess, “I’m not Scotch. He tricked me. I’m a Princess from Light Manor Castle in the land of Solitude. I’m not even a bird, really.”
“Princess? Bah! I don’t believe it. Prove it.”
“But how,” she asked?”
“Well, everyone knows that a gnome like Scotch can’t make rhymes. When a gnome tries to make a rhyme, his tongue gets tied in a knot and he can’t talk for ten days. So, if you really are a Princess and not that troublesome gnome, Scotch, you just make me up a rhyme for me to prove it.”
“Oh, dear,” said the Princess, “I’ve never made up a rhyme before. What should I rhyme about?”
“Ha! Quit stalling you little gnome. I knew it was you. You won’t fool me this time.” The man started toward the Princess.
“Wait,” she cried, “I’ll make you a rhyme about clouds:
When the sky is blue and bright
And filled with fluffy clouds of white
Then I close my eyes and dream
Of all the shapes that clouds can seem”

“Oh, that’s good,” said the winged man as he lowered his tools. “Keep going. Tell me ‘all the shapes that clouds can seem.'”
Princess Alexandra continued with her rhyming:
“Once I saw a cloud ride high
On the highway of the sky
‘That,’ I said, ‘looks like a horse
Although it is a cloud of course.'”

The winged man laughed. “Oh, yes! I love to make horses. They’re one of my favorite subjects. Go on, go on. Tell me what else you see when you look at the clouds?”
The Princess really felt like she was getting the hang of making rhymes and she continued with this one:
“A long, thin cloud once floated past
Its teeth were first, its tail was last
‘A crocodile,’ I cried, but realized later
That long thin cloud was an alligator!”

“Ho, ho,” the winged man laughed again. “One more, one more. You’re quite good at this game, I must say!”
The Princess rhymed for him again:
“The clouds were piled up so tall
I thought that surely they must fall
But, they must have had as good a planner
As the builders of my home, Light Manor.”

At the name of her home, Princess Alexandra burst into tears and began sobbing in the bird voice that came out as “Cheep, ch-cheep. Chee-cheep.”
“There, there,” said the winged man. Don’t cry Princess,” his voice suddenly lost all its thunder and became as soothing as Miss Kate, the nursemaid. “How is it that you came to be a bird, little Princess?”
Princess Alexandra told him the whole story about how she had been tricked by Scotch and how she had lost her way trying to get back home.
“Are you an angel,” she asked?
“Well,” said the man, “that depends on how you define ‘angel.’ I don’t guard anyone or grant wishes or play a harp or anything like that. I’m a cloud sculptor. By the way, what is your name?”
“My name is Princess Alexandra,” she answered politely.
“I am honored to meet you, Princess Alexandra of Light Manor Castle,” the man said as he bowed, “My name is Ali-sharif.”

( 1997 Scott Ennis

Once there was a farmer who lived at the edge of a quiet village. Every morning, he woke with the dawn to tend to his fields, his chickens, and his crops. His most faithful companion was his rooster, who crowed at the first light, signaling the start of the day.
One year, a traveler came to the village, bringing with him a wondrous invention—a mechanical rooster that crowed precisely at sunrise. Intrigued by this new contraption, the farmer bought it, thinking it would save him from waking early and make his mornings easier.
The first morning after the farmer set up the mechanical rooster, it crowed exactly at dawn, just as promised. The farmer smiled and went back to sleep, confident that his days of waking up early were over.
But as days turned into weeks, the farmer noticed something strange. The fields were no longer as vibrant. The crops didn’t grow as quickly, and the chickens were more sluggish than before. The farmer spent his days tending to the mechanical rooster, making sure it stayed in perfect working order, but he forgot to pay attention to the land, the animals, and his own rhythms.
One day, a neighbor came by and asked, “Why do you rely on that machine so much? The old rooster crowed because he was connected to the earth. You used to know when the day began because you felt it.”
The farmer was puzzled, “But the mechanical rooster is flawless. It’s never late. It never tires. Isn’t that what I want?”
The neighbor nodded slowly, “It’s true that the machine does its job well, but it takes away something essential—the connection between you, the earth, and the world around you. The rooster wasn’t just a signal; it was part of your life. When you relied only on the machine, you forgot to listen to the winds, feel the sun, and hear the quiet wisdom of nature.”
The farmer thought deeply, and the next morning, he rose early, just as he had before. He heard the birds chirping, felt the cool air, and saw the first light creeping over the horizon. And in that moment, he understood. The mechanical rooster had done its job, but it had also detached him from the pulse of his own life. He put it away and returned to the simple, imperfect but real connection he had with the world around him.
From that day on, the farmer woke with the dawn, tended to his fields, and listened to the sounds of the earth. His crops flourished, and his chickens, though imperfect, were healthier. And most importantly, he remembered that while machines could assist, they should never replace the wisdom of one's own senses and instincts.
Moral of the Story: Reliance on technology can bring convenience, but it should never replace the connection to our own experience, intuition, and the world around us.

Gigantalargo was no ordinary caterpillar. While most of his kind were plump and fuzzy, he was enormous—so large, in fact, that the leaves he munched on trembled under his weight. He was round and jolly, but his size was a bit of a problem.

One day, he felt a deep, instinctual urge: it was time to transform. So, he wobbled his way up a sturdy branch, picked a nice spot, and began to spin his cocoon. The silk wrapped around him in layers, tighter and tighter, until—CRACK! The branch snapped clean off, and Gigantalargo plummeted to the ground.

“Oops,” he mumbled, sprawled on a bed of crushed leaves.

Determined, he tried again, this time choosing the thickest branch he could find. He spun, he wove, he secured himself—and then, just as he felt safe, his heavy chrysalis gave way. POP! The silk ripped, and he tumbled down like a tiny green meteor, landing with a thud.

As he lay there, dazed, a bee buzzed down and hovered above him.

“Whoa,” the bee said. “That was quite the fall.”

“Yeah,” Gigantalargo groaned. “I don’t think this transformation thing is working out.”

The bee scratched his fuzzy head. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but, uh… even if you did make it into a butterfly, wouldn’t you be kinda… heavy? Flying might not be your thing.”

Gigantalargo’s tiny heart sank. “You mean… I wouldn’t be able to flutter gracefully through the sky?”

“More like… you’d flutter straight down,” the bee admitted. “But hey, not all bugs have to fly! You’ve got something special going on here.”

“Like what?” Gigantalargo sniffled.

“Well,” the bee said, thinking. “You’re the biggest caterpillar I’ve ever seen. You could be a legend! Maybe you’re meant for something different—like being the world’s first walking butterfly.”

Gigantalargo blinked. A walking butterfly? That was definitely new.

And so, when the time came, instead of floating through the air, Gigantalargo proudly strutted across the ground, his wings shimmering, his steps confident. Sure, he couldn’t fly, but he could explore the world in his own way. And to his surprise, he found that being unique was its own kind of wonderful.

Aqut awoke slowly, his eyes blinking against the dim light filtering through the cracks in the stone above. The air around him was cool, damp with the weight of centuries. For as long as Aqut could remember, the stone walls of Gungywamp had been his home. He had lived in the shadows, in the quiet spaces where the wind whispered through the trees and the stones hummed with old secrets. Time, to him, was a hazy thing. It passed slowly, sometimes in the blink of an eye, other times in the heartbeat of an eternity.
It had been a long sleep, longer than any sleep he had known. The last thing he remembered was the soft rustling of leaves outside as the world had changed, as people from distant lands came to the shore and changed everything. Aqut had retreated into the depths of the earth, into the crevices of the stone, where no one could reach him. There, he had waited.
But now, the time had come again. Something stirred in the air—a shift, a presence. Aqut’s sharp senses tingled with the unfamiliar. Something, or someone, was close.
He crawled out of the stone chamber, his small, mischievous form moving silently through the brush. His skin, the color of earth and shadows, blended perfectly with the world around him. He could feel the cool breeze, the scent of moss and damp stone, and the distant sounds of the world beyond the walls. The trees were different now, the land had changed, but the stones… the stones remained the same.
Aqut crept toward the center of the site, where the old stones stood in quiet reverence. He paused, listening. There, in the distance, he heard the sound of footsteps, crunching through the undergrowth. Someone was coming.
Aqut’s heart raced with curiosity. It had been so long since he’d seen another soul, let alone a human. He darted behind a large stone, peering around the edge.
The figure that appeared before him was a teenage boy, no older than sixteen, with shaggy dark hair and a worn navy jacket. He didn’t look like the locals Aqut remembered. This boy was different—there was a sense of something not quite belonging, a sense of displacement in the way he moved. His eyes scanned the area, and for a moment, Aqut wondered if the boy had any idea he was standing on sacred ground.
“Hey,” the boy muttered to himself. “Anyone around here? Anyone to talk to?” His voice echoed slightly in the cool air, but he didn’t seem to notice. He continued walking through the site, as if searching for something, or someone.
Aqut’s curiosity got the best of him. He stepped out from behind the stone, making a soft noise. The boy froze, turning toward the sound, his eyes wide as they scanned the brush.
Aqut smiled mischievously, feeling the old thrill of causing a little bit of confusion. He didn’t show himself fully, only letting his small form peek from behind a stone.
The boy, startled, took a step back. “What was that?” he whispered to himself.
Aqut stepped closer, this time revealing just enough of himself—a small creature with a round face, large dark eyes, and skin that seemed to shimmer like the shadows between trees. His features were subtle, his body light and agile, and the tips of his ears peaked slightly.
The boy blinked, unsure of what he was seeing. “Whoa,” he breathed. “What are you? Some kinda… fairy or something?”
Aqut tilted his head. "Fairy?" He didn’t quite understand the word, but the boy’s meaning was clear. Aqut took a step forward, his tiny feet silent on the ground. He sensed something in the boy—loneliness, a yearning for connection, a sense of not quite fitting in.
“I’m Aqut,” the creature said, using the name he had long carried. His voice was a soft, melodic whisper, barely more than the rustling of leaves. “I live here, in the stones.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Wait, you live here? But, I thought… this place was abandoned?”
Aqut flicked a hand dismissively. “Abandoned, forgotten, but not gone,” he said. “I’ve been here longer than you can imagine. Longer than your kind has walked this land.”
The boy stood still, his brow furrowing. “I don’t know much about this place. I just moved here. My family’s Navy, we travel a lot. I’ve been looking for someone to talk to… somewhere to belong.”
Aqut studied the boy closely, sensing his uncertainty. “Belong?” Aqut’s voice softened. “You are already part of this land. This place doesn’t care where you come from. It only cares who you are.”
The boy scratched his head, still unsure of whether he was dreaming or not. “I’m Sam. Sam Carter. I guess I’m kinda used to moving around a lot. People are always different wherever I go.”
Aqut gave a small chuckle. “The world changes, Sam Carter. It always does. But there are things that stay the same, things that are constant. Like the stones, like the trees. Like me.”
Sam glanced around the Gungywamp site, his eyes falling on the strange stone walls. "You said you live in the stones? What… are you, exactly?"
Aqut’s eyes twinkled. “I am what your people might call a pukwudgie. But names are not important here. What matters is that you have come, and that you are searching for something. Perhaps I can help you find it.”
Sam considered this for a moment, looking down at the ground as though unsure whether to believe his own senses. But there was something about Aqut—something ancient and wise, yet playful and kind—that made him want to stay.
“I guess… I could use a friend,” Sam said slowly. “I mean, I don’t know anyone here. And I don’t really fit in with the other kids at school.”
Aqut smiled, his small form flickering in and out of sight like a shadow. “Then you shall not be alone, Sam Carter. Not here. Not with me.”
And so, amidst the ancient stones of Gungywamp, a bond began to form—a friendship between an ancient spirit who had slept through centuries and a lonely boy searching for something he didn’t know he’d been missing. Together, they would walk the land, discovering the secrets of the stones and the stories they held, and perhaps, in the process, finding a little more of who they truly were.

It was the kind of night that hummed with the electric charge of autumn. The air was crisp, laced with the faint scent of fallen leaves and pumpkin spice, and the campus quad was alive with laughter and footsteps crunching over gravel.

Tucked into a corner of the student union, past the bustling tables of pumpkin-carving contests and cider stands, sat the Candy Corn Oracle.

She was a vision of dark velvet and moonlight. Her long, wavy hair cascaded over her shoulders, catching the faint gleam of fairy lights strung above her booth. Her eyes were the color of molten gold, sharp and knowing, and her lips curved into a mischievous smile that made every college boy think, Maybe she knows something about me I don’t.

Her name was Mara. Or at least, that’s what the hand-painted sign leaning against her table said: Mara the Mystic: Your Fate in the Flick of Candy Corn. Beneath the sign was a carved pumpkin, grinning lopsidedly, and beside it sat a bowl piled high with the triangular candies.

One by one, the boys came, some with skepticism, others with grins full of bravado. She greeted them all with the same mysterious smirk.

“Five bucks for a fortune,” she’d say, her voice low and velvety, “but if you’re scared, I’ll understand.”

Ethan, a junior with a mop of curly hair and a perpetual smirk, was the next in line. He leaned casually on the table, trying to appear unfazed.

“Candy corn, huh? What’s next, reading fortunes from Skittles?”

Mara didn’t flinch. She picked up a handful of the candies, her slender fingers pale against the orange and yellow. “Candy corn is ancient,” she said, her tone carrying a hint of playful rebuke. “Each stripe holds a secret, and the way they land tells me everything I need to know.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow but slid a crumpled five-dollar bill across the table. “All right, Mystic Mara. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Mara closed her eyes, muttering something under her breath—words Ethan didn’t recognize but felt in his chest. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she tossed the candy onto a black velvet cloth.

She leaned forward, studying the pattern with a furrowed brow. The room seemed to hush around them, the distant chatter fading as if the air itself were holding its breath.

“Interesting,” she murmured, tracing the edge of a candy corn with her nail.

“What?” Ethan asked, his bravado slipping.

“You’re at a crossroads,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “Two paths. One is safe but unremarkable. The other is dangerous, but it leads to something extraordinary.”

Ethan blinked, unsure whether to laugh or take her seriously. “That’s pretty vague, don’t you think?”

Mara smiled, a slow, knowing smile. “Maybe. Or maybe you already know which path you’re on.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but she wasn’t finished. She pointed to a single candy corn that had landed upright, its white tip gleaming like a tiny flame.

“That one,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It means someone’s watching you.”

Ethan glanced over his shoulder instinctively, but there was no one there. When he turned back, Mara was already scooping the candy back into the bowl.

“Next!” she called, dismissing him with a flick of her hand.

Ethan walked away, the smirk wiped clean from his face.

All night, Mara read the candy corn for boys who came seeking answers. Some left laughing, others quiet, their hands stuffed into their pockets as they walked back to their dorms.

But Ethan couldn’t shake the feeling that her words weren’t just for show.

Later that night, as he walked home through the darkened campus, he felt it—the faint, unmistakable sensation of being watched.

And in the distance, just beyond the halo of a flickering streetlight, a figure stood perfectly still, its golden eyes glinting like molten candy corn.

In a quiet village nestled at the edge of an ancient forest, a curious girl named Elira loved to wander through the trees. She felt more at home among the whispers of leaves than in the bustling marketplace where her parents worked.

One warm afternoon, as the golden sunlight filtered through the canopy, Elira stumbled upon a flower unlike any she’d ever seen. Its petals shimmered with iridescent hues, shifting like a living rainbow. Drawn to its beauty, she carefully plucked the flower and carried it home.

Her grandmother, a keeper of old stories, gasped when she saw it. “That’s the Luminara Bloom,” she whispered. “Legends say it grows where the veil between worlds is thinnest. But beware, child—it carries strange power.”

Intrigued by her grandmother’s warning, Elira decided to experiment. She dried the petals and rolled them into a delicate herbal stick. That evening, under a moonlit sky, she lit the flower and inhaled its sweet, otherworldly fragrance.

Suddenly, the world around her shimmered and dissolved into a cascade of lights. When the brilliance faded, Elira found herself in a place of wonder. The sky was a kaleidoscope of stars, and giant trees with glowing fruit lined her path.

At the center of this magical realm stood an ancient creature, half-elk, half-human, with kind, luminous eyes. “Welcome, traveler,” it said, its voice resonating like music. “I am Thalorin, keeper of truths. What brings you here?”

Elira hesitated before replying. “I… I want to understand why we’re here. What’s the meaning of life?”

Thalorin smiled knowingly and gestured for her to sit. “The meaning of life,” he began, “is not a single truth, but a tapestry woven from countless moments. It is in the joy of discovery, the love we share, and the courage to face challenges. It is the journey, not the destination.”

As he spoke, visions of her own life appeared around her—the laughter with her family, the thrill of exploring the forest, the warmth of her grandmother’s stories. Elira felt a profound sense of connection and understanding.

When she awoke back in her bed, the flower’s petals had turned to ash, but the lessons remained. Elira carried Thalorin’s wisdom with her, finding magic and meaning in everyday life. Though she could never return to the alternate world, the Luminara Bloom had gifted her a new perspective—one she would cherish forever.