I decided to do something a little different today, this is a short story fairy tale that I’m working on about Falcon Ridge Folk Festival. At the moment it’s a little rough around the edges, but I’m hoping to find an illustrator eventually.
Also I don’t usually write fiction, so I’d love feedback on this.
Once upon a time there was a magical land that appeared once a year for three short days, the people who come every year think of it as a home of sorts; despite the fact that the weather is unpredictable and the hill is steep the anticipation of this land appearing starts the minute it disappears again. This year was an especially important for one boy, a boy who had been coming to this once a year land since before he was born. He felt at home in this place, like the many others who made their pilgrimage there he longed to see the sights and the sounds on his own. He had just had a very important birthday, he was now fourteen, the age that both he and his parents agreed was a good age for him to start his own adventure, make his own stories. It meant a lot to the boy that his parents trusted him to go and see all the wonderful things the place had to offer.
After setting up the campsite the boy wandered off, promising to be back right after the last song of the night was played from the big stage. He skipped off down the hill and the first person he saw was a Titan, directing fellow travelers to where they would find room to set up camp, the boy then walked over the troll bridge into the pop-up town he knew so well. He breathed in the smells and couldn’t pick which thing to look at first. The venders were already selling their many wonderful foods. Then he heard a few notes float over his head, the minstrels had started, they played tunes that he had heard for as long as he could remember; he hummed along while he walked down the alley to see the twirling dances, skin glowing even in the bright sunlight. It was then he realized why people called this place home, the magic had only just began. He turned onto another makeshift road only to be greeted by some friendly giants who waved hello and asked how the boy’s parents were doing. They offered him a hula-hoop and invited him to play with them, but he decided to watch from afar and get lost in the music for a little while. He liked to watch, to take everything in.
It wasn’t long that the boy noticed some clouds rolling over the mountain far far away, knowing the odds that it would start raining he pulled out a poncho. It drizzled a bit, nothing to worry about. Then, almost out of nowhere the skies opened up, he could barely, so he ran quickly towards the closest tent there was, the metalworkers tent. They were barely able to hear each other over the rain pounding on the tent, and barely able to see more than a foot in front of them, but they heard one of the giants yell, his foot had gotten stuck and the mud was getting deeper and deeper as the rain poured down. The quiet sweet boy out on his own for the first time, the boy who wanted to listen instead of play told the metalworker that they had to get him out. That they couldn’t let him get stuck any deeper. So the metalworker got the seamstress, and the seamstress got the musicians, and the musicians got the rest of the crowd, and together they all got the giant out of the mud. They rinsed off in the rain, knowing the downpour would end and the scorching sun will return to dry them all off.
The boy left, waving goodbye to the strange cast of characters he had grown quite fond of, a lot more excited to see what else this land has to offer. On his way back to the big stage he met a fairy that plays the harp, and a scarecrow with a top hat who told him all about the bees in his grand yard. As the day turned into dusk he saw the dancers again, this time glowing brightly and wearing even brighter paint around their arms. Of course as the grand finale the moon rose right over the land and the giant jellyfish that visited came out from hiding to sway to the music and play with the crowd. The last song ended and the boy hiked his way up the hill, when he entered the campsite his parents asked him how his day went. He was just about asleep but as his head hit the pillow he murmured “it was like coming home”