by Riley Shin

A pair of vapid, long-lashed eyes blink at me blankly from the equally lifeless page. I blink back, unsure whether the strange sensation bubbling up in my stomach is indigestion or murderous rage. Heat rises from my intestines to the confines of my cold little heart. Ah, it is murderous rage.

I cannot bear to live in my own scaly skin! It is as if invisible spiders are biting at every square inch exposed on my tiny body. My head pulses, wavering on the precipice of a venom-induced coma. I would certainly rather be in a coma right now.

Excuse my melodrama, but the Fairyfolk have been defamed—nay, disgraced—in print and color!

If I had not promised my nephew a trip to the Stormingale Seas, I would flutter my ancient, moth-torn wings and punch the man responsible immediately. Perhaps I shall settle things right now. Young Jiminy won't mind waiting for his auntie to beat up on a crook, surely.

Though, I must confess that this tragedy is partly my fault.

The incident, if you can call it that, occurred a treacherous fortnight ago. I remember that awful day in sticky, retrospectively shameful detail:

A buck-toothed and slimy old fellow from the Town Beyond, waltzed into the middle of Fairyfolk Central. His name was Mr. Artist. Now, a man with terrible posture and greasy side burns in the middle of a daisy meadow is not a sight to be ignored. And so we could not ignore Mr. Artist who came with a posh leather briefcase in tow, a despicable arrogance in his stride, and the presumption to demand a Fairyfolk representative.

I, with my superior wealth of human language skills, nobly obliged and asked him what he was looking for.

“A muse,” Mr. Artist answered, barring those awfully pointy teeth of his. I thought him like a wolf (if wolves were innately awkward and repulsive as he!).

But, for all his deficiencies in personality, the rude stranger piqued my interest. For us Fairyfolk, amusement stretches a longer way than silver or gold. Laughter is our most precious currency: whether we beguile a group of lost travelers or spook a Prince Charming, it is all in good fun.

So, out of sheer fascination, I allowed Mr. Artist to capture the likeness of several of our notable community members. Titania, the old vixen, reveled in having her portrait taken. Mr. Artist shuddered a little when Titania stretched out her wrinkly, barklike legs on the rock. I rather enjoyed myself on that agreeable afternoon, watching Mr. Artist wrinkle his nose at the reality of fairy anatomy.

Soon, the sun had set into blazing tangerine, and the bluejays returned to their nests for the night. I waved Mr. Artist goodbye (not daring to shake his grimy hand). Strangely, Mr. Artist asked if he might paint my portrait. Now, my beauty is far from interesting or notable, but I agreed heartily. An impish grin on my lips as I watched him strain in concentration by dying daylight.

When the whole affair was finished, Mr. Artist thanked me and assured the Fairyfolk that we would receive an advance copy of a “truthful, flattering depiction of the mythical creatures classified as fairies.”

On the wings of gluttonous pigs!

What a load of pretentious poppycock! Well, the copy we got came weeks after the prints were published in the Town Beyond and it was far from either truthful or flattering. Mr. Artist had erased every interesting aspect of our physical likeness and covered us in a guise of false humanoid plasticine! I have never seen such demure expressions, frail features, nor smooth, hairless skin on any Fairyfolk.

And, to my abject horror, my personal contribution was the worst offense of all: I was the bland, witless blonde thing in the center of the page staring stupidly at the reader! The ambrosia in my veins darkened to cool, unfeeling blood. So this is the anger which drives humans to do despicable things.

To think of fairies as benign, thoughtless dainty-boned vultures is a grave mistake. No fairy in all of history is as such. Take the Kibaan in the Southeast, with backwards feet and a penchant for thievery. Or, even the Light Elves in Norse. Sure, they may be fairer than the sun as many poets are apt to write, but they are infamous for taking mortal sight with their dangerous wattage.

It is important that the human children of this generation understand the biological and psychological necessity of fearing Fairyfolk. None of this “Tooth Fairy” nonsense. I should, at the very least, haunt a few children in the Town Beyond with night terrors of shadowy creatures. Sleep paralysis is a more merciful fate than confusing those vile, dainty-boned vultures for the fearsome creatures we are. Humans are such fickle, fragile things.

I must depart immediately. Huzzah! A toast to the ruination of many a childhood!

After all, we mustn't let our dear Mr. Artist have all the fun.

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Riley Shin (she/her) is a teenage miscreant who, like most teenage miscreants, possesses an intense passion for poetry and Poe. She has been critically recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers, and her work is published in various magazines including Sonder Literary and ManicWorld. Riley hopes you find something worthwhile in what you read of hers.