In my childhood garden (a rectangle of yard, threadbare with patchy grass) the flowers are all mid-bloom, raveling petals (a half-dead rose bush, heads curled in like they’re already pressed) and fairies dwell under a woodland throne. (a tipped-over swinging bench, mice scuffling beneath)
This is where, the fairies told me, small hands reaching, you leave broken things. Set them there, say a prayer, return in seven nights.
In my childhood garden (beside our trailer; we get more, being a corner lot) the leaves weave a canopy above (the lone tree drops a branch on our roof during a storm) and music always plays, beats felt through the ground. (I dance alone.)
On the last night I creep back, find my teddy bear sitting where I left him, ruling. My fingers lift him, check for the tear on his belly—it’s sewn, fixed, and the price comes in parentheses.
Aspiring kitchen witch Jack Apollo Hartley holds a deep love (and a healthy respect) for all things fae. Find him on Twitter @jackpollyharts. His work can be found in Whiskey Island Magazine, Wine Cellar Press, Stone of Madness Press, and perhappened magazine's earlier issue ROAD TRIP.