I was thinking I'd post things I've written... : )

Flower & Sprite

1.
Little sprite sleeps at night embalmed within the petals of little flower. Sometimes he wakes before even the early morning dew gathers on her coiled petal tips. In these peaceful, nocturnal moments, if he sleepily tilts his head upwards, he can see faint shimmering within her petal veins running a lazy path. He imagines that she forms an enclosed night sky heaven around him.
Little sprite chose to rest with little flower because he’d never yet seen a flower with traces of other worlds in her underbelly. He met her in a brilliant red dusk, after a spell of chilly, grassy nights and awaking with blushing, green cheeks. He remembered that he’d look around at all the other little sprites around him, peacefully braving the biting night air, but he swore upon a primeval knowledge within him whispering that something else existed out there.
The first time she unfurled her petals, after a morning droplet fell straight center onto his forehead and disturbed him, all he could see was the sunrised sky. He was surrounded by the boundless sky on one side, and by little flower on the other. A beautiful fragrance snaked around him. As the droplet dissipated off his forehead, a simple fact permeated him: perhaps he wouldn’t mind waking to mischievous droplets, for the rest of his little life.



2.
Every day, little flower would gracefully pirouette across blue, in perfect step with the sun. But as the shawl of light eventually slipped off heaven's nude, she became a dark voyeur. She always stayed up. She couldn’t help but to stay open and bloomed far too late for a delicate creature like her, just to count red moons and shooting stars. Maybe she was trying to peer into a mother tongue she once knew. But she only ever came up with soft mist. And when morning dew would arrive, like heavy, rolling fog, she’d droop. As exotic vapors seeped into her petals, the sun would come back out and scorch her.
Little flower chose little sprite to be the one, the one let in and held within her secret chambers. She found him at night, wandering among blades of grass, but eyes fixed upon Andromeda. She thought that little sprite looked a little ruffled, a little wild. She thought that little sprite looked a little lost. She thought that little sprite looked a little bit like magic.
When he softly settled within her core– without even asking!– into that warm space somehow already perfectly molded to his form, she found that an endless gold dust started siphoning up from within her roots and seeping through her tissue-flesh. Honey started dripping from her pores. Little flower thought that now the sun looked like the moon, the moon like the sun. The stars, she thought the stars simply looked like reflections of summer cricket chirps floating through the air. She could feel threads of warm air swirling between her and little sprite’s stardust created pockets, endlessly threaded, deep, dusted pockets.

Sometimes, a renegade droplet trickled down the length of one of little flower’s curled petals. It would stay in suspension for a shaky breath, before taking off, an ambered arrow aimed to earth. Its mother petal would shyly curl up from the loss of separation. But, the droplet always inevitably dissolved into light before ever meeting the ground. Like a honeyed kiss, stolen.

The little bandit, the little thief, the little insatiate giant, brushed in sugar and dust, never once more blushed anything but gold. He made sure of it.

3.
It was night. Little flower and little sprite peacefully slumbered. Well, little flower slumbered. Little sprite was being tickled by a petal tip as his flowerette softly expanded and contracted with the rippling moonlight. His senses were sharpening. He tugged on the petal. She sleepily shifted. He tugged a little harder. Little flower trembled a little. But then she stiffened, and dashed a pollenball to the little horned sprite. It missed, but made him pause. He sneezed, then resumed his caresses. So their nights went.

In the morning, little sprite always started fidgeting before even any light peeked out from under the horizon. All the excitement would wake little flower, and in response she would groggily unravel the coiled tips of her petals. Little sprite contemplated the petals opening above him, and to his eyes no petal could be more beautiful than the ones here enveloping him. And like that, oyster and pearl unfurled to the world.

Wait! Little flower shivered. The sun felt too bright. The wind too chilly. She could feel dewdrops rolling down her stem, and it was as if they chose the slimiest, most tickling paths possible. She turned away from the sunrise, trying to chase down the dark, and started curling back up. Little sprite, on the other hand, had delightedly scavenged a morning honey crystal from the edge of a petal. He was peacefully crunching when shade suddenly fell upon him. He sat straight up and scrunched his eyebrows. Not this again! He took his little arms and heaved against the offenders. Little flower resisted, and summoning momentary passion, swooped another pollenball at him. But, little sprite blew a gust with his lungs and dissipated it. Oh no! He realized this was serious. He swung up on an unsuspecting, angry petal, up up in an arc…. then back down, until springing off and latching onto her stem. He slid down while little flower wiggled in vain. Eventually, he plopped to earth and patted the ground. Just as he suspected. Little flower needed watering.

Little sprite spent the rest of sunrise collecting sunny dewdrops and bringing them to his blossom. He climbed back up her stem and she held him tight. So their mornings went.


Spider

A pale spirit lightly treaded along the floor of a cave, and her shadow gently illuminated stalactites gilding the ceiling. Here and there, a stalactite dripped a precious pearl droplet into one of those little puddles beading the edges of the ground. The spirit’s path trailed alongside these tinkling baby pools. Brume clouded her eyes and her ankles.
She felt her way deeper into the cave, then halted and tilted her head. She heard a heartbeat. And she saw a most very small spider scurrying down a lumping stalactite. Marveling at its speed and haste, she floated closer and unthinkingly extended a finger to the stalactite’s pinprick tip. The spider hesitated for a moment, then continued its path downwards until crossing over onto her immaterial finger.

The spirit startled. She examined her other hand and glided it through and back the stone. She returned her gaze to the spider, now peacefully resting atop her finger, and blinked as it suddenly resumed its scurry, straight into the center of her palm. The spider stared back up at her, then started cleaning its paws and settling into a groove of her hand.
The spirit tilted her head back to the stalactite and paused, until eventually turning around. But, her foot bumped into a stone. She stumbled. Her eyes widened and she paused again, until bringing her trembling fingers up to feel at a pale flickering coming from within her chest. The spider paused its cleaning and took its opportunity to cross from her palm to her breast.

The spirit gently parted her lips and into her lungs wooshed the cave’s cool, misty air. The spider nipped at her soft skin.



Fairy

There was once a little, scintillating fairy sitting on a leaf. Delicate thing, gentle, formed of light and desire. Clumps of leaves surrounded her, and this was very important because in fact, fairies like her couldn’t risk peaking into sunlight.


She was born in a humid, summer rainstorm. The raincloud was the darkest, thickest, and angriest seen in the nine skies for a lapping century. Jagging across and blotting the sky, it was in a furious, terrible protest against the sun. Thunder rolled.
Still, the sun extended a wisp of her softest ray. She was so gentle that only when its vapors were already rolling in misty light did the raincloud notice. Impregnated in steamy warmth, a fairy was formed.


The fairy was finding the leaf to be too bouncy! She playfully pirouetted off the stalk and twirled towards a bubble of sugary sap lazily trailing to earth. Her little feet landed tip-toe on its very crest. As she lazily glided down the bark, she swayed from side to side like a windblown grass to avoid specks of sunlight.


The bubble hitched against a splinter, and the fairy gasped as her knees sunk deep inside. She was too delicate of a thing to free herself alone. Actually, for she was so fragile, it was a fluke of fate that she was even here. Still she fought for the right to remain: strained and screamed and wailed. She curled forward, blocking her head with open palms.


Siren

There was a siren, on the dark rocks lumped like black ink against the edge of the tide. Although the siren’s face was obstructed by shards of starlight, her scales glittered dark blue and indigo against moonlight, and her tail, gleaming and viperous, nestled comfortably against hard stone.
Her voice hauntingly crooned over the frothing, boiling sea, haunting through space, infecting across time.

Peacefully, soundlessly, this went on and on and on,
until the quality of the mists surrounding her shifted ever so slightly.
The air sharpened,
her tune froze, curdled,
and the shrieking wind developed an ear-ringing, deafening quality.

Mounting and mounting, higher and higher,
until a deafeningly silent crack whipped across the sky:
A world fractured and ruptured.


Falling away like soft, soft sand...



Ivy Clocktower

The wind blew around the high tower, swirling in a beautiful haze. The airs held the tower in an embrace, cushioning its gleaming spires with the soft promises of the earth down below from which it rushed.
At midnight, a gentle dove floated upwards with the current, holding a gentle message, a message only to be recognized by a single soul: the soul of the ivy clocktower.
The soul timidly peeked out from a corner of its perch: a single, shining eye gleamed out from within the center of the clock. Encircled by dripping time, it would flinch imperceptibly with every click of the face, never missing a beat.
The eye watched the dove with a dewy gaze, as it circled round, round, round. The little bird couldn’t seem to find where to land, for every slanted surface of the tower had been polished and marbled from a timeless dance against the elements.
However, with a soft flutter, the dove spotted the clock and landed above its face. It leaned over, peeking from upside down to take in the gleaming, startled eye.
Dove and eye blinked together.
The clock chimed fiercely. The message was delivered.
Sunrise silently struck– this morning, a flaming red bolt across the horizon.


Papier mache

My bones are made of papier mâché. I’m made of thin sheets of parchment paper, stacked the one atop the other, and it’s too easy to slip in a glinting knife, to slip, to twist, to slash.

My heart is made of glass. When voiceless screams ring too loud, it shatters. Hold my tears in your palm and you will be cut. I hold them all within my chest.

My heart is forever regenerating, and my cells ripple with every shade of the kaleidoscope. I am a kaleidoscope made of a thousand shivers of broken glass.

I am Cinderella inside the snowdome, frozen atop a tip-toe pirouette, and on a single pointed toe I eternally revolve. My insides turn, and like crumpled, wet paper I slowly dissolve, turn inside out.


Dark Opal

Sleepy, inky waters beneath a limpid surface.
Lightning strikes, pierces, and suddenly, sound is created. Sound in four dimensions: the ringing mounts until all shreds of disjunct hydrogen, helium, light, and chaos gather and compress into a pinprick dimension.
EXPLOSION.
The world is ocean.
And in the middle of indigo ocean, a lightning storm rages.
It does not rage.
Scroll forward and back through heaven and hell, It simply is.
Iridescent. Phasing gas, liquid, solid, intermingling electric, magnetic currents, sizzling, zapping, all set atop a deepest vibration upon which all things rest, the background radiation of our cosmos.
Single dark opal, down my cheeks.



I've written these all in the past year. I'm not sure what to do with them. I made a drawing with "Spider". I was thinking it'd be wonderful to someday publish a little book with a story on the left hand side and a matching artwork on the right hand side.

P.S. If anyone could tell me what this genre even is, that'd be great. I don't know how to describe it except for "prose-poetry fairytale vignettes"