Pixie - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
A cornish wind blows in salty and cold. Winter is lurking in the sky and her clouds. As the dawn light filters through to the flora below, to the plants that grow ever slower, the pixies come out to play. Amongst the fallen petals their soft feet beat a steady rhythm, their faces alight with glee. This moorland of rugged grass is their home, their castle, and every night is one of frivolity. As a drum beat starts, a frisson of excitement passes from pixie to pixie, and the movements of their fragile limbs becomes quite unrestrained. Their voices pour out to bid farewell to lady night and greet her sister that comes to warm them. The nascent sunbeams sparkle on their wings, which shimmer every bit as much as the nearby sea.
In the shadow of the castle wall sat a pixie. Though they all look young, even after a century or two, he was barely full grown. His hair hung forward over his face as he turned the map in his hands, flexing his wings out of habit. Then all at once he let out a laugh that echoed to the turrets above. His brown clad arm flung into the air like some well practiced dance move, or else like a magician who has perfected his art. The map rained down as rainbow confetti and he proceeded to dance on the newly decorated soil.
Tara handed her sister a leather bound book and kept one finger over her lips, pointing at the worn cover. The golden lettering, though peeling, was easy to read, "Pixie Folklore." Her sister gave her a quizzical look.
"Are pixies real?" She furrowed her brow and ran her fingers over the dusty indentations of the letters. Tara pressed her finger further into her lips but nodded to the slightest degree. Her sister gave an involuntary jump into the air and snatched the volume before disappearing into her room. Tara closed her eyes. This was either the very smartest thing she'd ever done or the absolute worst. The pixies had come to her, but alone, how could she help them? Maddison had skills she didn't...
The folklore of the pixies told of the time mother earth would come to them, dressed like the earth with skin of brown and hair as golden as the sun. She would come to protect them from the men who had forgotten how to dance and sing. She would say to the ones who tore at her skin that they must stop. Never once did they doubt the folklore of their kin and so they remained in child-like innocence with their parties and song. Late into the night the air would be filled with a language few humans have heard and none would decipher. Those fortunate enough to catch a even a fragment of the pixie music on the breeze would find their spirits so elevated that their feet begin to dance on their own. Those notes carried not only song, but joy and love.
In the clearing were people of sorts, pixies I suppose they were. Even the ones with silver manes about their earthy hued skin had the spry movements of youth. It's in the folklore of these parts that the pixies will gather under moonlight. The tales say that none of human birth may hear their song, for their speech and music is not sound waves as we know them. Every utterance they make is a form of deep magic and only those blessed by mother earth are permitted to hear. Yet I hear their voices, their choir, I hear them raising their joy up to their creator and down to their mother below. It is as if the rivers and trees are singing back, that together they make a harmony that melts my soul.
The pixie market is nothing like you or I would ever call a market. They gather not to sell, but to give. The "vendors" lay out their wares that have taken many hours of loving toil to produce and beam with pride. The "buyers" come with no form of payment but a smile. Then the fun of giving away their produce and clothing begins. Always there is a song, often a dance, and by the end there is nothing left but a sea of happy faces. That is the pixie way, it is their creed. The creator and mother earth give to them, and so they bless each other.
The pixies threw a dust into the air. Unlike confetti or glitter, gravity had no way to make it fall. The pixie dust swirled in the air above, a glorious cloud. As they swirled their limbs, it swirled too, changing its colours with the rhythm of a beating heart.
Hiding in the bracken with her face cast milky by the moonlight, was a pixie. I can never tell how old they are, for they look like children to me with their slender limbs. From under a sage green cap tumbled auburn curls and her hazel eyes grew wide. I looked away. There is nothing noble is scaring these mythical creatures. They look so human but they don't think like we do. They dance, they sing, they make merry all their days. Wherever they walk they do so in harmony with the spirit of the earth and all creation. Their fear of us comes direct from their intuition. Though we love and create family bonds as they do, our inner natures still hold the violence our ancestors needed to survive in a warring world. When I turn back the spot she had crouched in was empty, though on the springy turf lay a handkerchief threaded with the purple colouring of the moorland heather.
Pixie dust hung low in the air while they all dove through it, elixir at last. Soon the pixies spun through the air, their flight fully restored. In the cool dusky air they were little more than blurs in the golden sparkles that reflected the last of the rays. The air smelled of apricots they way it always did when the pixie dust was released. A cloud this large took a month for the magical tree to produce, so when it finally came the pixies needed no more excuse for a party. The night was young, hours of mischief lay ahead.
You humans speak of our pixie dust, spreading rumours of our source. You know nothing. You humans speak of our lore, but the words of our kin are not for your ears. You men so tall of stature and small of joy, cannot be taught, cannot learn. You know of love and joy, but in such small measure that the rest of your being is filled with emotions we cast aside many centuries ago. Why hold onto hate when you can vibrate with the energy of mother earth? Why be so violent? Our ways are song, dance and storytelling. We joke, laugh and make merry. Our pixie dust is our own, for in your hands this wondrous beauty would only accelerate your evil deeds. For it is a form of power and we know how that affects you, twists you. So we say for your own sakes, humans, do not learn of our dust. Fuel for one is poison for another. Our worst is mischief, yours we have no words for.