Dust (Of Dust and Darkness) - By Devon Ashley Page 0,3

taste cool and crisp on my tongue. Essence of peppermint coats my silky skin and slightly burns my nostrils. We slow and drop our feet as we approach the river, my body jerking more as the movement of my wings lessen. I extend and deepen each flap, fighting to keep me airborne as I descend, until finally the soft blades of grass tickle the soles of my feet. About a dozen pixies of all teen ages have gathered here, each with colors shimmering off their wings, various blends that range from white to cream to pale yellow. I’ve never been told the difference, but it’s speculated that the more yellow your shade, the more in tune with nature you are – completely possible since mine seem the yellowest of the bunch.

I immediately notice that the males are painting the tips of their spiked hair with a greenish color. However, one pixie, Cumin, is quite upset as he dunks his head in the river, frantically trying to wash out his pink-shaded tips. A group of pixies hover over him laughing in hysterics. I’m guessing Cumin didn’t agree to the rosy color.

Pixies love to prank. However, a general consensus in the Hollow is that you can’t prank your fellow pixie. Of course that doesn’t keep a few from pulling a few lighter pranks, like painting a male’s hair pink. But the real pranks are reserved for the other creatures living in the forest: splinters and crushed pine cone shards on the forest floor, feces in the popular watering holes, skin-infecting fungus smeared on the rocks that animals love to scratch their backs on. Not surprisingly, most animals have learned to give our village a wide berth. It’s mostly just birds and bugs that share the immediate habitat with us, and probably only do so because they’re equals when it comes to flying ability. So with a lack of creatures to pull pranks on, we become victims of our own kind.

Predictably, Poppy lands a few feet shy of Tin and Mustard, who were still recovering from their fits of laughter at Cumin’s expense. Most of the males in our population are seven inches and the females six inches, but with the way Poppy braided her brown hair in some fancy updo, she practically levels out at their height. I scan the crowd to see who’s here – Tin, Mustard and Cumin, obviously; Petal, Ginger, Tracker, Patch, Pumpernickel, Seed, and standing at the end of the line with a pink streak through her almond-shaded hair, is Meg.

Her name is really Nutmeg. When we were just pixlings playing in the patch, some of her crazy antics earned her the name Nutty Nutmeg. She was proud of that name for awhile. Then we became teen pixies and suddenly she realized having a crazy nickname might keep pixies like Tin and Mustard from wanting to court her. So from there on out she was just Meg. A few pixies didn’t want to let go of that nickname though. Patch dared to continue calling her Nutty Nutmeg. When he napped on a Magnolia flower later that afternoon, Meg floated above and dropped a mushroom puff on him. She used a stinkhorn mushroom, and when the puff exploded upon impact, he was enveloped with tiny particles that absorbed into his skin. For a week he smelled like he was decaying before us. Needless to say, Patch was the last pixie to ever use that nickname – at least to her face.

Currently, Meg is glaring at Poppy. For the life of me I can’t figure out why. They both like Tin and Mustard and have yet to realize they could each be courted by one of them. I, for one, have no interest in those two. Or any of these pixies, to be honest. Though I will admit I’ve never taken the time to truly get to know anyone that well. Courting is overrated. I don’t need a companion to find enjoyment in life.

A few striped sunflower seeds and single red raspberry lay out on a green maple leaf. I tear a drupelet from the aggregate fruit and grab one of my absolute favorite seeds. I sort of skip towards a purple coneflower by the river, allowing my wings to flutter just enough to lift me off the ground for a second at a time, kicking my legs in a scissor-like motion. I love the coneflowers. They offer a soft seat with horizontal petals that arc downward, perfect for laying