Holly’s looking at me with this really confused look upon her face. “So do you know which male and female are responsible for
laying each egg?”
I casually shake my head. “No. Several are born within a season and we’re all given the same birthday.” I sweep a random part of
the powder into a good pile and a smaller portion into the bad. “I suppose your right. I never really thought about the fact that two of
those pixies were responsible for my being alive. We’re just not raised to think that way. The entire village is responsible for our
upbringing.”“Come to think of it, I think Elm Hollow does that whole village raising thing. Is that where you’re from?”
I shrug. “We just call our home the Hollow.”“We all do. What type of tree do you live in?”“The Lauralyn.”“Then you’re from Lauralyn
Hollow. I’m from Ash.”“Is there anyone else here from my Hollow?” I ask excitedly, peeking down the line, examining the pixies with a
reddish hue.“Um, I don’t know. No one since I’ve been here, but maybe one of the older ones. You’d have to ask Juniper.”
Oh, my Mother Nature! Someone here might be from home! I’m pretty sure I passed Juniper somewhere in the middle when I came
in earlier. I pivot and take two steps in her direction when Holly snaps, “No!” I jump and freeze in place. Willow stirs on the ground but
doesn’t wake. “You can’t ask her now. Tonight.” My spirit dampens and I return to my post with my head hung low. “Don’t forget
where you are, Rosalie. We don’t have freedom anymore.”
Annoyed, I reply, “You mean, right now.”“What?”“You mean, we don’t have that freedom right now. Anymore means you have no faith
you’ll ever get it back.”“Whatever,” she gripes, clearly frustrated. She closes her eyes and sighs extra loud. “Just sort, Rosalie.”
I let out an exaggerated huff. What is it with these pixies? Don’t they want to be free? Don’t they want to go home again? Will it kill
them to keep a little faith and believe that someday someone’s going to come looking for one of them and set this nightmare
straight? Why is that so hard to flippin’ believe? There’s no way this prison is impenetrable. It’s run by a bunch of stupid sprigs for
crying out loud!
I decide not to engage Holly anymore. Clearly, we’re both a little moody and I don’t want to tick off one of the few pixies still willing to
talk. I focus on the task before me, but basically I just move the powder around in circles. At one point I even spit in it. Holly pauses
long enough to cock her eyebrow, then returns to her pile, not caring if I contaminate the powder any further.
I begin to think on Holly’s whole family idea. I mean, I’m used to what I grew up with, and I’m not knocking it. But when I really think
about it, there weren’t too many individuals that truly cared about me the way Holly described. I guess I can consider Maple, the pixie
that headed up the pixling home, as my mother. She was responsible for me, in a way. Truthfully, Poppy’s the only the pixie I would
consider a sister, and that’s because we’ve been roommates all our lives. She’s always been there for me, even though we seem to
like different things. Our friendship was easy because we accepted each other’s quirks. Me being total nature girl, always covered
with dirt and constantly sneaking out to sleep under the stars directly, and she being very primped and proper, a hair never out of
place. I wonder what it would have been like for us to grow up as real sisters, with a mother and father watching over us directly,
loving us and caring for us, actually taking responsibility for us.
Someone up front coughs a few times. Those poor pixies up front with the fires. I’m not looking forward to that station in the least,
even if Holly and I are on speaking terms those days. Holly rushes over to the pixie against the wall beside her and begins shaking
her.
Oh! Coughing!
I rush to Willow and shake her shoulders like crazy, remembering what she said about being a heavy sleeper, yet she doesn’t stir. I
look down the path and see a light growing brighter as it progresses our way. I shake harder and yell, “Willow!” in a hushed voice.
Still nothing, and I can almost make out the form of the thick spriggan as it nears. Desperation takes over and I throw the bucket of
water at her face. Willow gasps and spits, slinging the water off her face. Her eyes pinch with anger but I cut her off before she can
add the threatening commentary. “Move!”
She jumps to her feet without hesitation. Holly and the fourth pixie move the extra lanterns to light up the entire table and the four of
us bend over and sort through the particles in our respective areas.
My heart panics, pounding so hard I’m sure it’ll burst from my chest any second. When the spriggan arrives, he lingers on Willow
longer than usual, even moving the lantern closer to her head for examination. I feel awful for putting her under this scrutiny. What if
they punish her for wasting water or something? What if she’s beaten and it’s all my fault? Can I take the punishment myself? Will I
even step up and take the blame in that instant?
If Willow’s panicking, she hides it well. She keeps her head down and her hands sorting, as if her appearance wasn’t unusual at all.
The spriggan’s lantern jerks back and he slowly returns from where he came. A collective sigh releases at our table.“Sorry,” I say as
soon as possible. Willow is T-I-C-K-E-D. She glares at me and chews on her lower lip, and I’m wondering how long I have left to live.
The spare pixie doesn’t care either way and goes back to sleep. Willow drops her head back and sighs really loudly. Pleading my
case, I add, “I was out of time and it was all I could do to wake you.”“Next time,” she says in a calm but firm voice, lowering her eyes
to glare at mine, “just bring the light to my face and I’ll wake up.”“Okay,” I whisper, a slight tremble of fear coursing through my veins.
Willow rolls her eyes but returns to the floor, slicking her hair back out of her face. Is that it? She’s not going to kill me, or she’s not
going to kill me right now? I turn to Holly for confirmation but all I get is a smile she’s trying hard to fight. I can’t help but release a
small one myself before we return to our pointless task.
I manage to finish the day without Willow using me as her personal punching bag, and by the looks of her glares, it’s exactly what
she’d like to do. I leave Holly alone, deciding any questions I think of aren’t worth ticking her off any further. Juniper comes to visit
with me before bedtime again and lifts my mood from bleak to moderate. I like Juniper. She’s what I imagine this motherly figure I’ve
just learned about should be. Loving, caring, giving, protective. All these motherly traits I wish were offered to me growing up. Sure,
the village took care of me and protected me, but I always felt like something was missing. And now I know what that thing was. A
real mother. And perhaps this father Holly spoke of. One or two individuals that really step up and have an interest in your well-being.
Someone who makes me feel safer, makes sure I eat and bathe, tucks me in at night and tells me everything will be alright.
Someone like Juniper.
Four days of slave labor have passed and the lack of food is really starting to get to me. Every morning and every night I’m given
some sort of mash that contains one type of fruit and one type of nut or seed. I used to love these foods. Now they’re beginning to
make me want to hurl. I’m fed just enough to keep my stomach mad at me all the time, like it thinks I’m teasing it on purpose and I
deserve to be yelled at all day. Maybe it’s the consistency that does it to me. Normally I eat my seeds individually, not all mashed up
with fruit. But I understand why they grind it all together. It’s so much easier than trying to divide the individual pieces evenly between
the pixies.
But hunger is just one issue I’m facing. My muscles are really straining. I’m not used to this kind of labor; and even though we clearly
don’t care about the purity of the mushroom powder, it’s hard being on your feet all day, every day, bending over a table. My back
hurts, my feet hurt. My calves refuse to stretch and loosen.
Holly has explained the stations to me at this point, even though we haven’t gone that far in the line. At the front of the cave are the
fires. There are three chiseled out rectangles with heavy iron doors to keep the heat in. At the top of each fire are holes that allow
the heat to flow upward into another rectangle above it. That’s where the mushrooms are placed for half an hour to dry them out.
Every day a couple of pixies go into the forest (with an unwanted guard) and collects the hallucinogenic mushrooms from random
patches growing around the area. Once collected, they’re washed and tossed above the fires until they’re dehydrated. The next
table will chop them into fine pieces and pass them off to the next table, where they’ll be ground into a powder using a mortar and
pestle. That’s where Holly and I are today. I’m actually impressed by how much powder the pixies are capable of making in a single
day. And though they intentionally move slower when the guards aren’t around, my wrist and arm really aches from all the twisting I’
ve done with the pestle. Sadly, my left arm is terrible at it so my right is forced to do most of the work.
I groan and knead my fingers into my right arm muscles. How I was going to find the strength to reach up and pull the water lever
tonight for a shower was beyond me, because my left can’t do it alone.
As agonizing as the work is, the worst part of the day is the silence. The only pixies that really seem to have it all together are
Juniper and Willow, the latter I want nothing to do with, and unfortunately she works beside me. Holly and two other pixies, Ginger
and Spruce, are willing to talk about half the time, but completely clam up the other half. The other prisoners are pretty much out of it
completely. It still baffles me that they’re completely aware of what’s going on around them and can react when necessary, like
waking the sleeping pixies in the back, but completely tune out the world the rest of the time. They don’t want to chat at the work
tables to make the day go by faster, or curl up with the other pixies at night to keep warm. They just go about living a life without
expression or feeling, completely numb to the world. They’re living life on flippin’ auto-flight or something.
I sometimes wonder about their sanity…and if I’m soon to follow.
I awake earlier than normal. The sky is still a medium shade of blue and the stars a faded shade of cream. I catch movement out the
corner of my eye and turn to see a pixie standing beside me at the edge, gazing across the canyon to the other side. Can’t say I
blame her really; I do it every morning and night, trying to focus on anywhere but here.
She’s one of the blue pixies but I don’t know her name. “Hi,” I say softly, friendly. A few seconds later she looks down to me but I’m
not even sure she really sees me. Her face is void of expression and her eyes seem so empty. Without responding, she slowly turns
back to the canyon. I rarely get to see the canyon since we’re not here during the daytime. But the early evenings and mornings light
up the sky enough to see that a wonderful forest filled with luscious trees and animals lies just on the other side of the canyon, and a
fast-flowing river rushes just below.
The blue pixie steps forward and my heart suddenly pounds in my chest. I know what she’s doing and I try to lunge myself towards
her – but it’s too late. In an instant she’s gone. I’m left sitting on my knees, my arms outstretched and mouth wide open. I gasp – then
scream into my cupped hands. It arouses the attention of the pixies closest to me. My body language speaks louder than words and
the few that are still lucid these days jump to their feet and rush over. Those that remain in place look as dazed and lost as the pixie
that leapt to her death.
I’m choking on my screams and crying uncontrollably by the time Juniper wraps her arms around my heaving body, gently shushing
and saying it’ll be alright. Only it won’t. Not for me. Not for her. Certainly not for the poor pixie that’s no longer with us. At some point
she had friends, possibly family, and now they’ll never know what became of her. They’re left to worry and wonder about her forever
now.
And I didn’t even know her name.
Juniper holds my head as I wrap my arms around her waist, letting the tears flow freely. The convulsions have calmed but a tremble
still remains in my limbs. A bluish blur nears and whispers to Juniper, “It was Orchid.” I’m pretty sure the voice belongs to Willow.
Juniper must be nodding her head in acknowledgement because my body bounces softly. “See to it they get breakfast going, will
you?”“Yes, mum.” The bluish blur fades into a little dot before disappearing completely from my tear-soaked eyes.
Fingers lightly massage my scalp, and my eyes begin to daze. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Rosalie. We lose pixies every once in
a while to suicide, but it mostly happens late at night when we’re asleep.”
She leaves me soon after to comfort the less stable pixies. I wrap my arms around my knees and rock back and forth, watching the
birds fly around the trees on the opposite side of the canyon. It makes me think of life back home. Is Poppy flitting around the trees
like the birds before me? She has cross-pollination this month. Poppy loves pollinating; plucking the pollen from one flower and
flying around the forest searching for its match to keep the flowers thriving. Okay, that’s really why I love pollination. Poppy loves it
because it means she can fly anywhere she wants in the forest during work hours, which means she’ll be finding the necessary
flowers wherever Tin or Mustard is stationed. Did she even worry when she realized I was gone? I think of her each night before I
pass out from exhaustion, my lost sister.
At some point a bowl of mash is handed to me and I nibble mindlessly. I can still taste the flavors, today being raspberries and
sunflower seeds, but I hardly care anymore. My body is too tired and too stressed. My stomach is grateful for the attention but my
taste buds lack the same enthusiasm.
After I’m rudely lifted above the pit and placed in line, the spriggans notice we’re down a pixie. Who knew the stinky baboons could
count? One walks the line, pausing at each pixie. When he comes to me he grabs my wrist and checks the number with his list. I
wonder what number Orchid is. Was. How long had she been here, suffering away in this hellhole, repeating the same repetitive
nightmare over and over and over again? How much time passed before she gave up hope and thought her best option was to
plummet over a cliff? Or was she even lucid enough to think about what she was doing?
The question that bothers me the most: will I do the same thing one day?
I hope not.
My stomach churns and queasiness takes the top spot in my current list of ailments: all-over achiness, headaches, back pains,
crankiness, malaise, calf cramps, exhaustion. And it burns when I pee, which is becoming rarer by the day. My skin is itchy and
drying out; I know I’m not drinking enough water due to the painful bloating going on in my belly. Lack of water is probably making
concentrated waste, which is why it burns coming out. I make a mental note to force several cups down my throat today whether I
like it or not.
I work through the day the same as all the other mindless pixies. I don’t say a word and hardly look at anything but the mushrooms I’
m chopping. I almost laugh when I pick up one of the pieces of flint I’m supposed to slice with. Are they afraid to give us knives? I
suppose they’re afraid we’ll try to kill ourselves, but I think…yep, the warm crimson liquid flowing from my wrist proves the flint can
nick us. Well, I know they don’t care too much if we die, so I guess the sprigs are afraid we’ll use the knives on them.
Heck yeah, I would. Every last one of them.
The day ends faster than I expect. I guess there’s something to being mindless after all. When we’re being carried back to the pit
floor, I can’t help but notice the pixie being carried by the sprig ahead of me. The sun is setting so the light is dimming, but somehow
I catch a glimmer shimmering off her wings. It’s weak, but the magic seems to be returning. I gasp because I didn’t think it was
possible. None of the pixies I’ve seen here have any magic in their wings. They’re all thin, pale and really dried out. This little green
pixie’s wings actually look like they’re recovering, at the beginning stages of becoming healthy and nourished once more. Weird her
body looks the complete opposite.
Once we land I can’t help but catch up and reach out to touch her wings. A slight tingle zaps my fingertips. I don’t know why I touch
them. Healthy wings always zap another’s touch, though does nothing if the wing-bearer herself touches them. I guess I do it to
confirm my suspicions – that her wings are healing, though there’s only a smidgen of magic in them so far. A healthy set of wings
would have zapped me hard. Surprisingly, she whips around in fear but eases when she sees me. I don’t know her name because
she’s one of the ones that rarely speak.“Your wings,” I say. “They’re healing.”
My words make her do something I never see coming. She screams in terror and curls up in a ball on the ground. Shaking, I step
back, not knowing what to do. My eyes scan the sky but the spriggans could care less that one of our kind is having a total meltdown
in the middle of the pit. The last of the pixies are dropping and the sprigs vacate for the evening.
The way Juniper’s rushing toward us makes me panic. My hands snap to the air before my shoulders in surrender. “I didn’t do
anything,” I blurt.“Elma, what’s wrong?” Juniper asks. When Elma continues to scream and cry into her rocking body, Juniper looks
to me for the answer. “What happened?”“All I did was tell Elma her wings were healing and she completely flipped out.” I left out the
part where I stupidly touched her wings and got a tiny zap for it.
Juniper sighs knowingly. “It’s alright. You didn’t do anything wrong, Rosalie.” Juniper searches the pit with her eyes, then calls,
“Willow!” I turn just as the powdery blue pixie appears beside me. “I’m going to need your help with Elma here. I’ll hold.”
Hold? Hold what?
Willow nods and falls to her knees.“Elma?” Juniper asks. “Tuck into a ball, honey. It’ll hurt less.”“Hurt? What’s going to hurt?” I ask
quickly, but no one pays me any mind. Elma rolls tight. Juniper hugs her shoulders and allows Elma to grasp her free hand, and
Willow braces her hands on the edge of Elma’s right wing, which she has to be getting zapped for. It comes to my attention what
Willow’s about to do and I hear a deafening crack. A horrible scream escapes Elma’s contorting body. Willow’s fast to snap the
second wing, and even though I know it’s coming, a violent tremor rushes through my body upon breakage. Elma’s cries are heart-
wrenching, and every nerve in my wings is screaming right along with her. Why would they do that? My head shakes in confusion as
Willow rises, leaving Juniper to rock the crying, trembling pixie.
Willow walks away, ignoring me completely, but my disgusted gaze forces Juniper to answer the question I have yet to ask. “If we
hadn’t done it, the spriggans would have, and they’re far less kind.”
Dumbfounded, I whisper, “Why?”“To keep us grounded. The steel weighs us down but it’s the broken wings that truly keep us from
taking flight.”
I groan. “How long does it take for our wings to heal?”“When we break them, we do small breaks so we can return to work the next
day, and they’ll begin healing in a matter of weeks. If the sprigs get a hold of you, they’re more aggressive and it’ll be painful for
several days. And your wings will probably take about six weeks before the magic begins to return.
Elma’s screams reduce to a whimper as Juniper continues to rock her soothingly. I think I’m going to be sick to my stomach. I truly
feel for Elma, but what’s mostly eating at me is the realization that in several weeks, Willow will have the pleasure of snapping mine.
Oh my Mother Nature this sucks! The heat from the fires suck every bit of moisture from my skin, literally sucking the life out of me. I’
ve endured the heat all day long, my first time at the fire pit station, and my body is just shy of collapsing right here, right now. The
only relief I get is when it’s my turn to go mushroom picking. It’s probably not the best idea to combine dazed-out pixies suffering
from heat-exhaustion with touching hallucinogenic mushrooms, but there’s no way any of us will make it without the chance to cool
off outside. And being at the station right up front under the spriggans’ noses means we can’t take several bathroom breaks to rest
without drawing unwanted attention.
Finally, it’s my turn to go mushroom collecting again. I splash some water on my face, neck and shoulders. As I step outside, there’s
not necessarily a breeze, but it’s definitely a few degrees cooler than the cave. I grab the basket made of dried woven vine and
follow Holly through the forest. Each time we’ve gone today she’s shown me a new route that leads to a different patch. They seem
to be scattered all around and plentiful, which confuses me given the decaying condition of every other living thing in this desolate
forest. Holly mentions the mushrooms thrive easily here, and it makes me wonder if a faerie doesn’t come along each day and
sprinkle a little pixie dust to maintain the number of mushrooms.
I spot the mushroom patch easily from a distance. The ones we collect for pixie dust have a white stalk and a red cap with several
white circular patches. Call me crazy, but I seem to be the only pixie that finds it odd that the only thing growing in this wasteland is
the one thing these spriggan jerks have us processing. We collect our bounty in silence while a spriggan hovers above us. Thank
Mother Nature there’s no wind – otherwise we’d be downwind of his stench. Before we return to the cave, we dip the mushrooms
into a fresh pail of water to rinse the dirt off. I use the term rinse pretty loosely. If we were making the mushroom powder for our own
use, we’d take the time to thoroughly clean them. However, since we don’t give a crap about the purity of their dust, we only dip to
make the spriggans believe we’re doing our job properly.
By sundown I’m utterly exhausted; more so than on previous days of slave labor. I’ve never been so wiped out, so drained of energy
in my life. When the spriggan drops me onto the pit floor, I practically collapse right there. I lay there so long Juniper brings me a cup
of water and my share of crappy mash. She tries to soothe me with her positive words, but my mind can’t process anything more
than hello.
I’m just about to rise and be the last person to take a shower when something in the sky catches my attention. I’m not the only one to
notice, and soon most pairs of eyes are watching two spriggans fly overhead. But it’s not the spriggans we’re really looking at. It’s
the unconscious pixie they carry between them, feet dangling lifelessly in the air.
Oh, no. My heart sinks deeper in my chest. They’ve already replaced Orchid.
I feel pity for that pixie. Those first days of isolation still weigh heavy on my mind; some of the scars still faintly line my skin. I can only
hope what happened to me doesn’t happen to her, and they remember to get her after three days.
Yesterday I got to catch up on some desperately needed rest so today wasn’t too bad working the back station. I sort of envy Holly.
Tonight the new recruit – er, slave – should arrive, so she’ll be back at the end of the line again tomorrow and get another day of
rest. From what I understand, newbies don’t come that often; two of us entering within a few weeks of one another is rare. But still,
that’s two more days of rest Holly gets over the rest of us this month. There are definite perks to being the tour guide around here.
I’m finishing up my nightly mash, waiting for my turn at the shower, like always. I’m not even sure what dinner is tonight. My taste
buds are practically nonexistent now, so it all tastes pretty much the same these days. I’m still swirling half my mash around in my
bowl when two spriggans appear and unceremoniously dump the new pixie into the pit.
Juniper rushes towards her; her right leg seems to limp a little. “Rosalie,” she calls. “Come help me.”
I automatically do as she asks, taking my mash and grabbing a cup of water on my way. Good thing I have little desire to eat my
mash because we probably don’t have provisions to cover her. I lay the cup and bowl on the ground and gently lift the pixie to
support her at an incline from behind. She’s a sage green pixie, not too unlike one of the quiet ones we have here. Perhaps they’re
from the same Hollow, but good luck to her finding that out. The mind of that particular pixie seems long gone.
She looks younger than me, maybe fifteen. Why must they steal ones so young? Her sienna-colored hair is chopped short and
probably looks cute when it’s not all matted down with sweat. She’ll have to learn to deal with long hair because she’s had her last
official haircut. Whimsical swirls made of henna cover her skin and the inflamed scratches all over her body bring an eerie orange
glow to the effect. A blackish bruise paints the right side of her forehead. She’s wearing a reddish-orange dress I find absolutely
adorable, with a strap over one shoulder, fitted all the way to her waist, which then fans out and hangs loosely over the hips, creating
gentle waves in the fabric all the way to her knees. So much material. I can’t help but look to my clothes and realize the beating they’
ve taken in just a few short weeks.
Juniper wets the pixie’s lips. It doesn’t take long for her to lick her lips and her limbs to slowly come to life. She tries to open her
eyes but they’re weak and close right back. “Here, dear,” Juniper says soothingly. “Drink this carefully.” Juniper tips the cup and pulls
on the pixie’s lower jaw to separate her lips, which are more dried out than a crystallized raisin. A slow and gentle stream flows into
her mouth, but Juniper only allows a little. Her tongue works, swishing the water around to coat the dehydrated membranes within
her mouth. She swallows without choking, then clears her throat. A weak moan escapes and her body suddenly weighs heavier in
my arms. After a moment, the young pixie drinks a few more sips of water.
Juniper pours the remaining water into my mash and stirs to make it really thin. Then she pours it into the cup and begins feeding
the pixie. When she’s done, I gently lay her back on the ground and she seems to fall asleep instantly.“Hopefully she’ll sleep well,”
Juniper says as she brushes the pixie’s bangs out of her eyes.“She’s so young.”“I know. They used to bring pixies in their twenties,
but now they’re bringing in younger and younger pixies.”“What’s next? Eight year olds?” I snap bitterly. I want to be angry and spout
my opinion but my body is so tired. No wonder most of the pixies lay around all lifeless. It’s not that their minds aren’t capable of
contemplating things, it’s that their bodies are so flippin’ exhausted it’s all they can do. By the time I make my way to my spot near
the edge, I just collapse. I don’t even make it to the shower this time.
Chilling screams wake me from a dead sleep. Confused, I spin madly, searching the sky for spriggans, the ground for deadly
beasts, or just about anything that could cause the abnormal shrieks that fill the air. Juniper figures it out first and rushes to the new
pixie, who’s the creator of the noise that awakes the entire pit. I’d head over myself but Holly’s already on her way. Lucky for the new
pixie it isn’t Willow. She’d probably just punch the girl in the face to shut her up, not hug her and rock her like Holly’s doing. The pixie
is still frantic and whatever words she’s choking on don’t make sense at this distance. I have no doubt Juniper will be able to
whisper sweet thoughts to calm her eventually.
It’s early. Most pixies are lying back down, trying to get a bit more sleep before the sky completely lightens. Half tempted to do it
myself, the coarseness of my skin reminds me I never showered last night. The new pixie’s going to need time for a thorough
washing, so I decide to beat her to the shower and rinse the grit and grime off my skin. Afterwards, as much as my muscles ache
and whine, I’m too alert to fall back asleep. The navy blue sky is already fading to a lighter shade and streaks of orange and pink
color the wispy clouds above. Deciding to help out, I grab a fresh bucket of water and head over to our so-called kitchen area. I
wash the cups and bowls piled up from last night. Not much washing is needed as everyone pretty much licks the bowl clean
regardless of how unappetizing the meals are. When everything is clean, I dump the water and fill the bucket with fresh once more.
As I’m carrying the water back, a spriggan appears and lays our food carefully on the ground. It surprises me, seeing how every
spriggan that’s carried me before had no scruples about letting me drop to the ground with at least six inches to go. I catch the eye
of the spriggan and I immediately realize it’s a female. Maybe that’s why she’s so careful with the food. She nods her head at me
before taking off and I stare until she’s out of sight. Careful with our food and attempts to be cordial? I didn’t think spriggans had it in
them. Maybe it’s just the males who are vulgar.
Our morning meal is a miniature pumpkin, but even that’s a huge size for a pixie. It’s not easy, but I manage to cut the pumpkin in
half using one of those lovely pieces of flint they allow us to use. I separate the strings from the seeds, figuring no one here will want
to deal with eating those. But just in case, I pile them into a bowl until Holly wakes up and confirms it’s garbage. I use one of our
flimsy spoons to carve out the meat and mash it down in our mixing bowl. I’m trying to figure out what to do with the seeds. I’ve
always eaten them roasted in some way. I’m not even sure how well they’ll go down raw. Too bad we need to eat them this morning;
otherwise I’d take them to the fire pit in the cave and dry them out. I experiment with one using the mortar and pestle. The seed
packs more crunch than anticipated, so I start grinding the rest of them, then mix them back into the pumpkin mash.
Another exciting meal in crappy pixieland.
Apparently, a crowd is forming behind me, anxiously awaiting their breakfast. They’re so flippin’ quiet! I spoon out the portions
evenly amongst twenty-five bowls, not forgetting our newest addition. There’s zero excitement as they each grab their serving.
Holly approaches with a smile. “Thank you, Rosalie,” she says as she grabs her mash, releasing an extended yawn. “Everyone
between us and the back will be pushed up a slot so I can take Fern to the back. So that means either Willow or Peppermint will be
your new station partner.”
I groan. No way was I lucky enough to get Peppermint. Guess it doesn’t really matter. Willow’s been working beside me for about
two weeks anyway. I can’t see having her as my official station partner really making the glares or annoyed sighs that come off her
any worse.“Fern, huh?” Sometime while I was making breakfast, Juniper had taken her to the showers. Fern cringes and hugs her
knees closer to her body as Juniper tries to wash the base of her wings to prevent further infection.
I remember the pain behind that face.
Surprise, surprise. Willow is my new station partner. Maybe she gets off on seeing others in misery. Maybe that’s what drives her
and keeps her more lucid than the others.
I won’t say I hate having Willow as my partner – hate is such a strong word – but I don’t like not having any one to talk to. Yeah, Holly
shuts down quite a bit, but at least she’s willing to talk some of the time. Going through the day speechless is making me absolutely
miserable. And really lonely.
Another night, another scream. Like every two hours. Fern isn’t taking to this new life very well. I can hardly say I blame her. It’s bad
enough being forced into slave labor, but at her age…it’s just cruel to strip the freedom from a pixling that’s just beginning to
experience it for the first time.
Fern cries a lot. And begs for her momma. Poor Juniper consoles her as best she can, but I guess those that grew up with a mother
find it hard to let another take her place. I sort of envy her for having one to begin with.
I never thought I would wish to be like the other pixies spread out around me, all dazed out and immune to emotion, but today I wish I
could keep the sobs and pleas coming off this little pixling from breaking what’s left of my heart.