When You’re in the Mood for a Story
- about -
A Flighty Flower Fairy
Marigold had a kink in her wings—must have slept on them funny. She had tried to smooth them out before heading in to work, but even so, she flew at a slight slant. No worries—she would still make it to work in plenty of time—Marion would have no reason to chastise her. Again.
Marigold winged over Foxglove Field and Ranunculus Rows—both with barely buds peeking out of the earth. Spring had been slow in coming, and it felt like the Flower Fairies were already behind. Of course, the snowdrops and crocus flowers had already bloomed. As she soared over their fields, Marigold politely waved to her colleagues tending them, causing herself to teeter. They nodded back smugly, too busy smoothing the tender white and purple petals to have time for a proper hello.
Call it serendipity, but flying at such a skew allowed Marigold to see her surroundings in a whole new light. Specifically, as Marigold flew over Daisy Downs, she noticed a little creature, a bug, partially hidden under an errant bit of mulch. It looked as though it was flipped over on its back. She flew lower to investigate.
If flying with a bent wing was difficult, landing with one was even more so. Marigold skidded to a stop several feet farther away than intended, lost her balance, twisted halfway around, and fell on her derriere. She stood up, pushed her acorn cap back into place on top of her mop of unruly dark curls, and assessed any more damage to her person. She refluffed her bright orange and russet skirt. Oh, drat. Several petals were bruised. She would have to live with that for a few months before the next crop was ripe enough to harvest some replacements.
A breeze flew through Marigold’s hair, making her shiver. Even though the spring sun had melted away all the flakes, Jack Frost’s chill still lingered in the breeze. Marigold rubbed the goosebumps off her arms when she heard a tiny squeak from behind her. Oh, right, the bug! She hurried toward the sound and saw the little dear’s tiny legs flailing in the air.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Marigold said, righting the bug and brushing dirt off its wing. It was a ladybug, a young one judging by her sunshine coloring—she hadn’t even grown a spot yet. Marigold scanned the area. What was such a youngling doing out in the fields all by herself?
“Thank you, Miss,” the little insect said, her lisp making ‘Miss’ sound more like “Mith”.
“You are very welcome,” Marigold replied, her heart warming to this round, little creature. “I’m Marigold. What’s your name?”
“I’m Thnowflake. My mom named me that thince I was born in the thnow,” she answered, her eyes filling with tears.
“Where is your family?” Marigold asked her in a gentle voice.
“I don’t know,” Snowflake said, hiccupping. “I was helping to pollinate, and we had stopped to eat some aphids for a snack, and I had followed a particularly juicy one a few rows over, and then I tripped on a pebble and fell onto my back and couldn’t turn over and then, and then …” The bug’s waterfall of words dribbled to a stop and she started to cry.
Marigold picked her up and cradled her in her arms. “There, there,” she said, patting her hard, golden shell. “We’ll find your family. Together. They couldn’t have gone far. I’m sure they’re on their way back as we speak.”
Snowflake hiccupped, but more calmly.