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 Zoey Pincelli holds a deep love (and a healthy respect) for all things fae. Find her on Twitter @ZoeyPincelli, where she promises she uses a fun username so you don’t get tired of reading her real one. Her work can be found in Whiskey Island Magazine, Wine Cellar Press, Stone of Madness Press, and perhappened magazine's earlier issue ROAD TRIP.