Slight prose for a Monday

Pixie Sticks
Flashes of light, like the spray of embers from a campfire make crossing patterns across my window.
The sparks burst in neon colors.
Every so often, there would be a bump at the window, a burst of light. Even through the shades, the luminosity exploded across dark walls.
A muffled argument, a door closed a little too earnestly and I rise from bed and creep into the hallway. My mother stands near the back balcony, a hand on her hip, a large spray can in her hand.
Across the railing were pixies, hundreds of them, flittering, waiting their turn at the glass urn that my father had filled with sugary contents of thousand Pixie Sticks.
Tears filled her eyes as she brings the can forward, tries to decipher the directions by pixie light.
“This is all your father’s fault,” she said, shaking the insecticide.


Anonymous said...

Oh please, not more prose??! Get serious!!!!!! --- Snarky Pants

Anonymous said...

Insecticide and pixies. What a wonderfully imaginative piece. Thanks for posting the link.

Kara Chipoletti Jones of GriefAndCreativity dot com said...

Oh, sad, all I can see is a whole vista of little dead pixie bodies, tiny corpses waiting for ritual. Ah, well... Z:

susan said...

The opening image is so vivid and the undercurrent of the parents' rift is palpable. Well done.