Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2273253-Snow-Fay
by Ives
Rated: E · Other · Fantasy · #2273253
A poem flash-fiction hybrid about being small, a mite or fairy, about snow, winter, death.

~Ivy E Nowosad

What if fairies are microscopic? Mistook
for whirling motes of dust in sunlight,
bacteria or some floating particles,
or colored flecks in the air at night?
What if fairies are winged microbes or mites?
Smaller than a whisker, the Demodex mite.
What if you were a fairy mite, shed in the wind?
Clutching a flake of dead skin, softly falling
in your exoskeleton, your crystal shield,
you're a shored jelly, the sea still calling.
How would the world appear if, tonight,
you were an enlightened mite, seeing snow fall
for the first and last time. How does it feel,
that flicker, passing into the unknowable?

If I had a name, it would be Fay. Something small, evoking flight, almost invisible. My condition in a few words: shocked or shook loose, unmoored, and lost in air.

My carriage was separated from its natural place in a rush of wind, and I was transported by the surge into the wide-open gray of space. It was a long time adrift, clutching a torn rug from home like it was my life raft.

Finally, I have landed in soft mulch, shadowed by branches. Safe, for now. It’s almost dark, and the cold nips my feet. I burrow, as is my nature, into marbled soil and the brown lattice of what was once living. The translucent veined cells remind me of home, minus the warmth.

I’m not alone, but the others are just clumps of empty shells, all dead. I consider eating one and sample its belly-up husk. Dry, tasteless. It’s been gone too long. Murmurs of future beings reverberate in a hidden network far below me. This place will crawl with life if it is ever warm here. Thinking of warmth fills me with longing to be nestled in that pocket of hide once my home, and I huddle, shivering in my carpet scrap.

Outside, something has quietly shifted, softening the air. Beyond the tangled thicket, magic falls from the sky. Like bands of angels, gently descending from heaven. They fan out and multiply, landing one after another, legions of crystalline spirits falling, gracefully. Falling in grace.

Feathery, starred messengers, they resemble saucers, sprays, dandelion glass. Each angel is unique and hypnotizing the air, lifted by wind in a ballet. All falling eventually, just as I fell, all blanketing the ground as one. The sight captivates, like a happy memory returning. Once settled on the ground, in the near dark, they seem to make their own light.

I abandon my burrow and crawl toward them, can’t help myself. Of my eight limbs, one has gone numb, another is broken. They trail behind me, will not hinder my journey much longer. With the last of my strength, I join the messengers in the dreamscape.

Once, I was a dreadful mite, like a miniature troll burrowing amongst dead skin and sebum. Now my body is a thread, dispersing and slowly, intricately weaving into the fabric of something vast and brilliant. All complexities fall away, meaningless in the perfect brightness of snow on the last night of winter. The night, everlasting.
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