*ahem*


When I was just a wee girl, I grew up in the emerald hills of Dublin, Ireland chasing fairies across the marsh. I played with their flittering forms all morning until my mother would call me in for lunch. We would have a sliver of fresh cheese, warm and soft. It was nothing like that cold, hard cheese the cold, hard people of England enjoy. And I would hear the low whistle of the leprechauns calling in the meadow and I would be off, in a dash. I stayed there playing with them until well after dusk. Many times, I would miss dinner just to frolic an hour or two longer. My mother let me stay with these fae folk because, as she oft said, they were my 'kin'. And so it was, that midway into my formative years, my own wings began to emerge. By the time I was eighteen I had flown so far and so high beyond the Isle that I was lost. I flitted about weakly, desperate to find land, until I found myself falling, tumbling and crashing into Antartica. Weakened and, taking refuge among the people of the winterstalked land of snow and ice, I would soon lose my wings to frost bite and depression. That is why, my child, I do not have the power to fly today.


But I can still see fairies.