Whispered In The Wind

Whispered In The Wind
Just a fairy blowing in the wind, singing tales to the west wind

Sunday, June 26, 2011

The Silver Fork

~Our first guest post,written by the fabulous Marrianne Morland, poetess and 'knitress' of the silver fairies! Here is a true recounted recounting,of an experience of a dear friend of the esteemed Marrianne.And of course,edited by yours truly ~

The Silver Fork

By Marrianne Morland

Once,long ago in a kingdom well known, there in a large castle, lived a king who ate only with enchanted silverware. He picked up his fork to aid his knife in cutting a tender parboiled potato. But suddenly, the delicate little fork took it in to her head to fly, thinking she was a fairy with silver wings. She flung herself from the king's hand and out the open stone window. Tipping and turning she smacked into walls and gutters until she landed with a splat in a muddy ditch. There she lay wishing she had not been so foolish.

However after a few minutes, a little boy scooped her up and shoved her in to his smelly dirty pocket. He ran home to his mama . He showed her his grand find, beaming with joy. His mother excited, snatched the shining fork and set it on the worn wooden table. Later she swooped up the fork and off she ran to the  cart of a merchant of considerable wealth. She placed the fork on his table, beaming with anticipation.The little fork was frightened and turned on her side, and there beside her was a wooden spoon.The wooden spoon did not like that there was such a fine fork on her table and so she would not speak to the poor little fork.

The merchant immediately bartered for it.With his new merchandise in hand, he handed a leather pouch of silver to the woman. The woman, still beaming, left his cart. The merchant packed up,and in his haste to sell his wares in the next town, dropped his wooden spoon.

After walking a long distance he became hungry and he heated some stew on a small fire. He plopped a large portion into a wooden bowl. But lo and behold he found he had no spoon.Luckily, he remembered his new ware, the shining silver fork.That would do! Thinking himself worthy of using the King's fork, he unpacked her from the box that he had placed her in. And then with much gusto, he began to shovel his chunky stew into his mouth. The fork was so disgusted by the slop in the bowl that she flung herself from his hand and into a thick patch of grass. The merchant, distressed, could not find her as hard as he tried.When the sun began to sink below the hills, he gave up his search. Soon he packed up his bag and resumed his traveling.

A few days passed.The little fork thought she was doomed to remain hidden in the grass forever when a toy maker was walking through the grass. He stumbled over a root and landed with his hand on the beautiful, elegantly wrought fork. He stared at the shining fork and an idea popped into his head. He hurried home with his newly found treasure.

He heated the fire and began carving an image in some strange material,she was only able to see over the edge of the strange bowl she was in. But then, oh then, the crazy man put her in the pot over the fire! She trembled and then fell into a dark deep sleep. She heard a slamming sound and awoke. She was in some weird box, and could not move. Terror swept over her. Panicked she thought “WHERE AM I?”

The slamming got louder and louder. Suddenly the box she was imprisoned in; cracked, and light began to pour in. The slammer got louder and the box shook.The box broke into pieces. Smiling, the toy maker brushed away the pieces of the box.
The fork felt woozy. She looked down at her handle to find she had two silver legs! She caught sight of her reflection in a little mirror the toy man showed her. She had wings! She rustled her wings and squinted her little silver eyes..she had real eyelashes and eyes and..everything. She realized she was a silver fairy! She stretched her wings and began to wobble around the work table she stood on. The toy man, his eyes shining, was not amazed by this at all.
He just chuckled lightly and his fingers tingled with little bits of pixie dust. He held out his hand to the silver fairy and she saw a small silver archer figurine was standing on the toy maker's wrinkled hand. The archer jumped off the hand and went to the fairy. The silver fairy just stared and wondered what she ought to say.

The archer looked her squarely in the eye, which made her uncomfortable and said

“She needs a name!”
The silver fairy nodded,and looked at the the wrinkled face of the toy maker for approval. She most definitely needed a name. He nodded, giving the handsome archer permission. The nameless silver fairy smiled for the first time.

"Alva-Hopea, Silver Fairy" said the archer
She smiled again. The archer seemed strangely familiar. She looked him up and down and finally thought 'Knife?' But as she thought it, she felt her little lips move and heard herself say it,"Knife?" rather than just think. She had a voice! It sounded to her like little silver bells.

The archer nodded his head and held out his little silver arm to the fairy. “Now my name is Scian, May I show you around Miss Alva?”
She blushed and took his arm. Enjoying belonging sound in which he spoke her new name.

 The two found they worked together as well as...well..a fork and a knife. It wasn't long before they fell terribly in love. Soon,the two former utensils were married and lived a very happy life in the toy maker's shop.
Alva sewed dresses for herself and suites for Scian, out of bits and scraps of velvet and linen. They lived in a gold cage and the inside was furnished and remodeled till it was made to resemble a most elegant parlor. They helped the dear toy maker refine and paint his toys,in ways only someone the size of a salt shaker could. 

It was in this way they live many long and happy years... until the pirates attacked,of course....
Check out Miss Marriane's new blog!

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Shake The Moon Dust From Your Hair, Sleepyhead

 By Hannah Yerington

 ~A fairytale..maybe~

"A dream is a wish your heart makes
When you're fast asleep

 Each night the moon yawns and little moon sprites fall down to earth, sliding down moon beams.They stretch and shake glittering moon dust from their hair.Then they fly around the sleeping world, searching for the dream giants. The dream giants, a nomadic tribe of magical creatures are hard to find. But usually they can be tracked by the large craters and rivers they create as they walk. Sometimes they are even mistaken for mountains. The moon sprites find the dream giants each night and barter for a bag of dreams weaved from the hopes and memories of humans, alive and passed. They love the moon lit hair of the moon sprites and so the moon sprites trade purses,cloth and clothing weaved from their own hair for a bag of the dream giant's best dreams. 

The strongest moon sprite will lift the bag on his back and off they will fly to the land of the Astens, the ancestors of a union between an elf and tree nymph. The Astens take the bag of dreams and open the bag a little bit. A wayward dream usually flies out when they do..a dream that is not strong enough by itself because it has not had proper wings weaved for it yet. So the dream flies high into the sky and begins to burn till it falls to the Earth. And that dear child, is what we call a shooting star.

They open the bag bit by bit and gently pluck the dreams out one by own. They hand the dreams out among their families; their children and fathers and mothers and elders. And every night the Astens weave little wings on each of the dreams. The wings the children weave are not as strong, but are bright and beautiful. The teenagers weave wings that are fiery and burning. The elders weave wings that are full of wisdom and sadness. The mothers and fathers weave wings that are strong and tender, unsure of themselves, yet strong. 

The moon sprites fly each weaved dream into the tiptop of the clouds and show the dreams the world. They point out Africa, Japan, America, China, England. They point everything, from the salty oceans with mermaids lurking in its depths to thatched huts with barefooted children. 

The North Wind leads her wind children, East,West and South to the clouds. They pick up the young new dreams into their strong arms and gently blow them down to Earth. The dreams are young and must learn to use their wings. Sometimes they do not make it and crash and burn on their way down. The moon sprites will pick up these broken and shattered dreams and turn them into seeds. From these seeds will grow little flowers. Because sometimes even broken dreams are beautiful. 

The ones that make it will find the sleeping world and fly into their rooms. They aloft on sleeping children, homeless men, grandmas and grandpas..everyone. They weave themselves into our hair, hearts and twinkle softly when we sleep. And sometimes if you looked hard enough at someone's face, you can see a little dream in their eyes or dimples or in their curve of their lips or red of their cheeks. And that my dearest, is where dreams come from.

"In dreams you lose your heartaches
Whatever you wish for, you keep
Have faith in your dreams and someday
Your rainbow will come smiling through"
No matter how your heart is grieving
If you keep on believing
the dream that you wish will come true"

Monday, June 20, 2011


 Poems are a warm cup of tea for the soul
-Poetry time! Here is a true story I wrote down,in poetry form.This is the story of my kindred spirit,Dorothy who is in her 80's. She has the best stories. She told me this one over orange sherbet and vanilla ice cream. She says that is the best combination,anyways-

I grew up in Arkansas
We were as poor as mice
My daddy promised me a horse
He promised me a piano
But we were lucky to have food on the table
When our shoes wore out he would cut the leather out
and place cardboard in our little shoes
My feet would freeze when I walked to school
my heart crack when the kids teased me
I wanted to wear princess dresses
but my mom could barely patch together rags
every year we went to the city
to a crusty man on a corner with an ugly brown pickup
I hated that truck
The trunk was filled with old dusty clothing and ragged shoes
He would look at me and my siblings and pick up things
He would motion to my mom when he thought he find something to fit us
and then throw it into our arms
I despised that he wouldn't even look into my eyes
he just threw my clothing like I  had no say
because I didn't
But one day he picked up a pink dress
the skirt was covered in chiffon petals
light as air
the sleeves were pink and petaled
it was a fairy dress
and it was all mine
the most beautiful dress I had ever seen
and when I wore it I would spin around the lawn
watching the petals swirl around my little frame
The world a blur I would twirl and twirl
I was convinced if I twirled hard enough
for long enough
I would become a flower
I twirled till I felt I would puke
till I collapsed on the ground
We had  a seesaw
and my brother would spin around it
as fast as he could
and I would watch my dress dancing around me
see if my legs had become a stem
but I never became a flower
and finally the dress outgrew me
it pulled against the chest
was ragged at the bottom and frayed
I grew up
I had children and a husband
but I never forgot the dress
and in my dreams I would still see myself in the twirling pink dress
I woke up every three years or so from a dream
where I was little again, spinning, waiting to be a flower
Life passed
Children grew
my husband passed away
and I would spend nights on a swing swaying back and forth
under the full moon
But one night I had the dream again
I was covered in the pink dress
spinning to be a flower
and I woke up
Woke up at 2:47 am
and sighed in bed
But somewhere deep inside me
I heard a voice
felt a voice
in the depths of my heart
He said
"Dorothy, you don't have to spin anymore.
You are already a flower in my garden."

Hippy For A Week

A Yerington Adventure

Today is Father's day. You probably know this unless you live in a small hole in the arctic with a troupe of dancing polar bears. If you do a) I'm sorry and b) today is Father's day! My Dad is insane. I love him, and I inherited every one of his insanity genes. My Dad appears to be a charming normal man on the outside. But soon one learns he is far from normal. Believe me,it did not take me my 15 years to realize he not your average joe (and also he is not named joe,go figure).As today is Father's day which you may know by now, I of course, must tell a story about him...sort of. This story involves killer squirrels,midgets,hippies and black smoke. No,I am not exaggerating by one bit.

One day my dad brought home a 1969 VW Bus, without warning. Apparently he had been starring at the bus for a while and his friend had decided to sell it. Lo and behold suddenly he told my mom he bought a VW bus. The bus which I call the "Twinkie",which sadly never caught on with anyone else, is pretty much the emblem of all hippiness.And it was made the same year my dad was born,bringing in an apparently irresistible sentimental factor to my Father. And of course because my father was suddenly the proud owner of such a strangely endearing vehicle he opted for a family roadtrip in it.

My mother bought crazy plush pillows and decided the car needed curtains. My dear neighbors got so excited they sewed crazy polka dotted curtains for us and made us bags and pillows from the extra material. One of their sons even drew pictures of the van and hung them inside it. We even put a green shag carpet on the bottom of the van and hung a miniature disco ball.We were set.
Time to go surfing!

Of course, the rack was not attached to the top of the bus, so suddenly I was squished in the back of the van with 2 surfboards. Turns out there was only 2 seat belts,and 3 children. My brothers were squished against each other,sharing a very small seat belt.They almost killed each other several times. I love how legal this trip was. The van smokes. Like any old car, it guzzles gas and exhales them in little black clouds. So squished against my sweaty younger siblings, I found I also had a horrible headache. Every where we went people flashed us peace signs,waved and honked.If you want to know what it feels like to run a circus,drive the bus.

Every time we got out of the bus,(that is stumbled over bags and bags of camping gear)into civilization,we got the strangest looks.Now that was not a surprise,but soon I realized the extent of how strange we looked. We were all plastered with sweat, from driving for hours on end with no air conditioning,getting out of a car filled to the brim with enough bags to assume we lived in there. Great,now we appear to be homeless hippies as well! We also seemed to collect a lot of books that trip. At least we were SMART homeless hippies! We stopped at a hotel once on the way to the campsite, we were traveling to. I ate pickled tongue at a restaurant. MISTAKE. I was feeling adventurous. The black fumes from that bus were most definitely playing with my head.

Finally we arrived at the campsite. It was about to rain,of course. After frantically setting up the tent,it was found the tent,was very small. Too small. It said six people,right? Yes,yes. THE PACKAGE WAS A TOTAL LIE.All that tent could fit was six flippin' midgets. I am still bitter about this. So I spent every 5 nights of this trip, literally squished up against my sweating brothers. It gets worse. The weather was absolutely,horribly hot. My father told my brothers that once they got in their sleeping bags they should sleep in their "birthday suits". So I was squished up against my dear little brothers with that disturbing knowledge. And my father,despite all his denial,snores.

We attempted to learn to surf. So there is a culture with surfing.Part of this culture is the guys do not wear anything under their wetsuits. Which is perfectly understandable, it is not like anyone knows and it is more comfortable then wearing baggy shorts under a skin tight wet suit. Some older guys do wear little speedos though and like to strip out of their wet suits on the beach and then walk around in their speedos. Not_pleasant. My father told my mother and I,the girls also do not wear anything under their wetsuits as well. He didn't know better. Well, yes they do, yes they do. And being a naive little child I just listened. NEVER AGAIN. Not_comfortable...for reasons. 

I didn't learn to surf. BUT I STOOD UP ONCE. I know,not impressive.

I had been told that there was no showers at the campsite.Thankfully,there was! A quarter for every two minutes.We had a running joke about "splurge showers." I would take the longest showers I possibly could without feeling guilty about the water conservation signs.However, I ran out of clean laundry very quickly.I ended up wearing my brother's very unattractive, short pajamas at night. Turns out wearing silk pajamas when it is over 70 degrees each night is undesirable. One day walking to the showers in my newly acquired pj's covered in racing flags and bears I totally triped, flat out. I fell and barely caught myself from completely scraping my face. Turned out I fell right in front of some very cute boys. I don't usually blush,but my face must have resembled a tomato at that moment.

There were squirrels all around the campsite. These big aggressive angry squirrels. Once we threw a watermelon rind to one of them,and it devoured the ENTIRE THING. It was literally gone.I really wanted eggs one morning. My father,who is not a morning person,agreed to make them. He cracked the eggs into the pan,and left the pan smoking on the fire. Then for whatever reason decide to let the eggs "smoke cook" and went back to bed..for oh,just a few minutes. Unsure of my father's actions I walked away from the eggs. When I came back,I witnessed a squirrel jump up on the fire-pit,grab the pan and flip it onto the ground!! Screaming,I went to save my precious eggs. But it was too late,my eggs were all over the ground, with a triumphant squirrel eating them. In anger,I screamed at the squirrel and chased it away. Thinking back,I should have just let the squirrel eat its eggs. Stupid smart squirrel.

The bus has a Hawaiian dancer on it's dashboard. But not your typical curvy girl in a grass skirt. Meet Bradda' Ed. We found Bradda' Ed at surf shop. He is an overweight man holding a small ukelele with a grass shirt on and large flowered panties (they are not boxers).He is the guardian of the bus and he is very loved. The bus is not meant to drive on ground that is not flat.But this story is not one that does what it is supposed to do. My father drove that bus over the Grapvine. As the name suggests, the grapvine is a generally insane road for miles, that is VERY busy and insanely steep and windy. We were being passed by truck drivers! The bus even died completely once. Bradda' Ed was bouncing up at down so hard at one point half of his body flew off into my mother's lap. (Thank you crazy glue!) Since then, Bradda' Ed has become famous for his famous moves in which half of his body flies off of him,in the most inopportune moments. I love that crazy Hawaii dude!

The trip was insane.None of us really learned to surf,but I'm trying again this summer.The bus is covered in stickers from our stops. My favorite reads "My child was an outstanding student at Pedro's tacos" Your kid was an outstanding student at school? Well,ha! I was an outstanding student at the Pedro's tacos! World's best tacos,man! At the mystery spot my brother attempted to get me to eat a cheddar and bacone flavored grasshopper. That alone about sums about the trip. Being a hippy for week was exciting and I am NEVER doing it again. EVER. Unless I get a seat big enough for me and a blow up matress..and no killer squirrels.On the way back we went to Disney land for a day and I looked at all the smiling faces. All these nice clean,smiling people and it was like a culture shock.

The Bus continues to live peacefully and since then has not been used for any horrific trips of the like. Today my dad put it up for sale.It's had a good run and now it has been realized that the dear thing can barely drive over a hill and is not a day to day vehicle by any means. Lately,it just sits. I can't say I won't miss it..though I can't say I am sad about it either. It was never about the vehicle, but the magic my dad brought to it. He would talk to it when it was having trouble getting up a hill.
He was the one who hung the little disco ball in it and found Bradda' Ed. He made it magical,even if I didn't always like the magic. On my bat mitzah,at midnighta bunch of my friends and I piled into it. We left all the doors open and my dad drove us around the town. We starred up at the stars and screamed when my Dad sped up. I laughed so hard I couldn't breath. And as I look back,I realize I probably won't miss it at all. Because what made it special was the magic. And the magic is my dad. And I'll never lose that magic.
Love you,Daddy!
Bye Twinkie!

Maybe if I had these pants I would have been a happier hippy


Sunday, June 19, 2011

Welcome, Make Yourself Comfortable And Help Yourself To The Pixie Dust

 Greetings Earthlings!
The purpose of a blog would be of course, to write things on. We may define what a blog is for, many times over with many philosophical debates.In fact we might even take out our gold monocles and large computers and feathered pens and dispute back and forth the purpose of a blog with much vigor. However, in the end,it is just a public notebook onto which,ink is spilled. 

Many times it is like a diary that you open to the world.Or a long ramble on what you had for breakfast and why your brother's toes stink. However this particular virtual notebook is not my diary and I will not be spilling the agonies of my abnormal teenage life,triumphs and tribulations or my youthful angst in all its glory and teeth gnashing.Unless of course, it is called for. Nor, will I ramble about how I went to the market, bought cream spinach, didn't like the creamed spinach and oh by the way, clowns are frightening and probably eat small children. Though rambling is an especial talent of mine, I shall at least ramble with some purpose, which I will most likely miss by a mile. So dearest reader,now you may ask "Then why start a blog?!" You may ask,but I will answer anyways.


Yes, that simple.Just pure, unadulterated stories.(Yes, that is a fragment sentence. Please do not kill me.)The world is just a large book filled with the stories of past,present and future. And as an InkSpinner,collector of stories,avid reader and amateur eaves-dropper,I am embarking on a mission. This mission is dangerous and may involve fighting gnomes,sporks and large vats of mayonnaise. My mission is to collect stories and compile them here, for months on end. To search out stories in my own life, stories in others lives, the small tales that fell between the cracks or lie in the wrinkles of old ladies.(That was supposed to sound poetic and..it sounds creepy.)Since I was little,I've loved to listen to the fantastical tales of people's lives,the small moments that changed them forever,the journeys and trips.I have buried them one by one into my heart,embedded them unconsciously into stories. And now I must admit:I collect stories. I am a story pack rat.And now before they burst and I bleed ink,I must write them down.But not just actual stories.Of course not! Who wants only visible reality! Not me!I also want to record fairy-tales and fables,tales of hogwash,songs of old shoes and wrinkled leather,sonnets of fairies and goblins,stories of monkeys and wart remover. Because what good is any truth if it can't be mixed with a little pixie dust,eh? So welcome to my spider web,where I spin my inky tales and spill inked tales of old,past and future!

Do you have a story? Wonderful! Amazing! Fantabulous! "oh, frabjous day! Calloo! Callay!"(Or something around those lines.) Share it. Email it to me:hyerington@gmail.com. Be it a fable about a small pig who has insecurities about his curly tail and weight or how your aunt or maybe even you,was a hot dog eating champion, send it! Life is composed of stories and no matter how young or how old you are, you have a story or several. Do not let them collect dust! A good story should never be filed into a cardboard box in your brain to choke on dust and die, labeled,"A good story I never told anyone so now I am just leaving it here to die because I am a weirdo." Email it to me!I am surely not the only collector of stories nor only inkspinner. Take up a thread of ink and weave this web a bit with me. Of course I just realized that calling this my spider web is a most horribly delightful pun. Clever. 

InkSpinner-One who spins stories,dreams dreams practices the art of eavesdropping and rambling,wishes on shooting stars,collects tales and is drunk off words and pixie dust.


"I want warm summer nights, to lie in a hammock, staring at the stars, telling you stories. "

"I want warm summer nights, to lie in a hammock, staring at the stars, telling you stories. "
"When asked not to make waves, I just smiled and said, don't worry this is just a ripple"