Posted on by JenniferShelby

that which does not define us

035

“All anyone wants to discuss are the holes in my petal! What about my stunning color, my ripening form, the seeds I’ve been growing all season? So I got nibbled earlier this summer, so what? Why must that define me?”

The man shrugged. “People are obsessed with appearances and there’s something different about you. There’s a lot they have to unlearn before they’ll see you for everything you are.”

“Ugh! Well, what do you know, you’re just a gardener.”

The man smiled to himself and offered the coneflower a bit of plant food before pushing his chair along the path to the next flowerbed. His garden was stunning this year.

Posted on by JenniferShelby

fried green tomato bullies

001

“Help!”

The voice sounded small and far away. He looked around, seeing nothing but a forest of tomato plants and a few rows of carrots.

“Down here!”

He knelt down. Something seemed familiar about one of green tomatoes: the way it bulged, the tilt of the wizard’s cap upon its head. He gasped. “Reginald, is that you?”

“Yes! That mean old hedge witch turned me into a tomato.”

“Reginald, what did you do to her?”

“It doesn’t matter! Just get me out of here!”

He thought it over. On the one hand, he loved a fried green tomato sandwich, and Reginald could be something of a bully. On the other hand, the idea of eating a friend, even a bad friend in tomato form, made his stomach twist in strange ways. “I’ll go get help.”

Posted on by JenniferShelby

who are these dandies of the intertidal zone?

002

It is a little known fact that certain rocks of the intertidal zone can be something of a dandy. The moment the tide begins to withdraw finds them whipping out their combs – often the backbone of some unlucky minnow – and combing flat their wigs of algae.

I’ve heard them brag they got the idea from adolescent mermaids and preening ducks. Others say they have to do it or their wigs are plagued with sand fleas. Since I’ve asked all I see are flea-ridden, preening stones who wish to look like little girls. I’m not sure of the appeal, but then again I am not a lady rock.

Posted on by JenniferShelby

the patchwork castle of the hobs

079

As the years went by, the castle began to show its age. A family of hobgoblins were put in charge of maintenance and then they and the castle were forgotten. Frost filled the towers, bats crept in to roost, and mice ruled the throne room. The land began to shift and cracks crept through the stonework.

The hobs did their best to keep abreast of the decay, filling the cracks with mortar and shooing the bats from the bedrooms. They invited cats into the throne room and lit fires in the tower hearths when they could. After the roof collapsed they knew no king would ever return. Their wages were lost, but they’d nowhere else to go and they’d grown to love the tumble-down place.

So the hobs gardened in the courtyards and hunted in the wood to survive. They grew herbs in the open kitchen and trained peas to climb in the cracks of the stone walls. The towers they planted with grape vines, and in a few short years the towers were filled with grapes which made the choicest wine.

They sent some to the current King, who raised his glass to their success. He was so impressed he gifted them the castle, and they stayed there forever while it tumbled down around them.

Posted on by JenniferShelby

etchings in the sand

tgb pkj

She walked along the beach, noticing at once the designs the waning tide etched upon the shore. Time and nature wrote their stories over everything. No one living long enough would be exempt. It’s not as if she expected to be, she just didn’t see why she must be confined to paper.

The wizard knelt by the sand, studying the image. The tides often drew these trees upon the sand as they ebbed. Never the same tree, but always an ancient, magical tree. The wizard lived his life by symbols and he could no more ignore these trees than he could understand them.

With a sigh, the tide began to withdraw, whispering out to her droplets to call them home. They balked, as children often do, lingering in the sunlight and delighting in the sand, until she pulled them, unwilling, out to sea. Their dragging fingertips left etches on the sand she did not have time to hide.

Posted on by JenniferShelby

secrets of the alabaster mountains

089

Deep in the Alabaster Mountains, there lay a secret cave. Few remain who still know how to find it, and those who do avoid it if they can. The cave is rumored to be home to a fierce dragon. Others say it is home to a family of gnomes who hired a dragon once upon a time, to scare away trespassers.

It’s hard to say which of the tales is true, though I like to believe in both the family of gnomes and the dragon. Dragons are lonely creatures, being both fearsome and fiery, and gnomes are small and subject to bullying. Working together would serve them well.

Sometimes I look up to the cliffs at night, and see their fire twinkling there. I like to imagine the dragon lights it for them every night. He warms his friends while they cook their dinner together and enjoy the stars from high up on the cliff. Every third bat who swoops across the moon might be the dragon, taking his pals for a joyride, or a quick trip to the grocery store so they can make more s’mores.

Posted on by JenniferShelby

wishes and grumpy goblin gardens

IMG_4494

A renegade wind stole a few wishes and whooshed them over the land. They bounced over meadows and tumbled through thickets before landing in a garden.

They set about making more wishes right away, much to the bane of the grumpy goblin gardener. He called them weeds and never thought to question why his dearest desires were always being met.

Meanwhile, the wind kept stealing wishes, thwarting goblin gardens, and making all their dreams come true. The goblins didn’t like it, but they all lived grumpily ever after, thanks to the renegade wind.

Posted on by JenniferShelby

the wagon fairies stole

IMG_4571

The fairies stole the wagon from the farmyard under the darkness of a moonless night. Perhaps they intended to return it in the morning, but as soon as they left they forgot where they found it in the first place.

The fairies hitched it to a dragon they hired for the occasion and went careening through the night. They tore down roads, cobblestone, paved, and dirt. When they grew bored of that, they gave the dragon full rein and she pulled them through the sky, scraping the wagon’s axles on the treetops, brushing past mountaintops, and narrowly missing the moon.

The old wagon had never had so much fun in all its life, and though it broke beyond all hope of repair, it didn’t much mind. When the sun rose upon their frolic, the fairies and the dragon abandoned the wagon in the forest and left for home. There the wagon sits still, telling wild tales of the crazy night it flew.

Posted on by JenniferShelby

not so lonely, after all

IMG_5557

When vines run out of room, they start reaching for the sky. It’s said to be lonely up there, but no one ever told a tree as it stretched for the sun, or a bird as it soared in the freedom of almost-endless space. I think, sometimes, these things are said to keep us from the disappointment of falling short of stars when we are reaching for the moon. Or, perhaps, some sinister emotional gravity to keep us weighed down on the ground and not obstructing someone else’s view. But who am I to say, after all, for I am just an owl, waiting for the night to fall to soar up in the sky and dive down for a mouse.

Posted on by JenniferShelby

moments of mermaid madness

IMG_7798

The mermaid didn’t like to admit the moments that made her feel jealous. She lived a carefree, solitary life, swimming in an endless sea. Once or twice a year she might another of her kind, and often that was enough, but of late she found herself wishing for a friend.

The barnacles crusted together in their community upon the rock, dying together as the whelks feasted upon them. Mermaids tended to die alone, their hair matted with seaweed, their bodies adrift on the tide. Even the marauding whelks had companions in their feasting.

Ugh, these dark thoughts. She tried to shake them from her mind. Such things led to mermaid madness and falling in love with two-legged humans who lived in cities or villages, locked up in houses. She shuddered, grateful for the freedom of the sea once more.