Come in, come in, the mist is rising from the river, but here you’ll find some warmth, some tales, so make yourself comfortable. There’s tea in the pot, or perchance, you brought some wee dram of your own.
The chairs by the window give the best view, allow the best hearing. Ignore the cats, no matter what they say, and don’t open the window for the tapping crows.
I’ll be working at the table in the corner, if you have any need, or she knocks upon the door. And until you stop by again, may your wonderings be bold and your imaginings be wise.
Until your next visit, until the next photograph, the next 12-line story, good fortune and safe wanderings.
The Bottle Garden
“Why won’t you just admit it, you placed them there didn’t you?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Where did you get the bottles?”
“I’ve told you, I didn’t do it.”
“It’s brilliant you know, the bottles will act as tiny greenhouses, catching the sunlight, holding it inside, and keep the wind out. So don’t think you did something wrong.”
“I didn’t do it, even if it’s a good idea, but I think I know who did,” said Brinnon.
“Not that again, there are no such creatures as elves, or brownies, or whatever that old man told you he was,” said Miranda turning away, shaking her head.
“A helper, a gardener, anyway he called himself Old Stump, says he always helps folks with their gardening chores. Says he likes helping folks grow vegetables, flowers and especially trees.”
“Next time the old guy shows up, come get me, I want to meet him,” said Miranda stooping, pulling up a solitary tuft of weed.
“Can’t do that, he’ll decide whether or not he’ll meet you, anyway I didn’t invite him in the first place, Old Stump just showed up one morning, asked questions, then he spoke to the garden, now he’s brought the bottles,” explained Brinnon, turning, leaving his unbelieving sister alone among the bottles planted in the garden.
Thank you for visiting and I hope you enjoyed this River Mist Tale.