The Prince of Mirkwood

Image Credit: Carly M., Hopedale, MA The author's comments: What inspiered me to write this was reading the Hobbit, watching the movie, and getting into LoTR. Legolas is my favorite charector in both books (and films). It was winter in the forests of the Undying Lands. Everything was silent except for the snow falling, no birds, no insects, nothing. Legolas watched from his window with a note of bitterness inside his gut. He hated these months of ice and lifelessness with a passion of loathing beyond what you and I have ever felt before, (Elves are very emotional in that sense) because there was nothing to do or see except watch the whiteness fall. He turned away with antipathy and stared listlessly around his room. His hair was still wet from his bath and it dripped down his neck and into his loose, green shirt. Legolas shivered, and figured that you couldn’t necessarily hate a season anyway, but when he looked back at the window and saw the utter bleakness and isolation the loathing repositioned itself in his mind. A strong wind battered against the pains. A few piles of snow moved across the ground like living things. He closed his eyes, remembering the message the The White had delivered from Galadriel: Legolas Greenleaf, long under tree, in joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea! If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore, Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more. That was correct, if there was a reason Legolas wasn’t at the ocean at this very moment, it was because of the winter storm. He sighed, and lay down yawning, pulling the thick blanket over him, relaxing his body until there was only a glimmer of wakefulness left, and that glimmer fading, and fading until he faded to. Legolas Greenleaf slept. Elves do not dream. They do not sleep, and when they do, it is a dreamless one with their eyes open. Legolas’s eyes were shut. He dreamed of a velvet sky and white sheets, of water and fire, warming and burning, of cool and freezing. He dreamed of people whose lives were rich with money, and those who were poor, of forests, and seas, deserts and mountains. He lived a thousand lives and he lived only a moment. He was a star and a sun, a speck of dust, and a planet, and learned that they are the same. He felt trees and rocks, given birth to, live and die, he was all things in one, and knew that even a planet is living a life. He saw colors dance in front of his eyes and a sky full of stars. He felt sleep drag him down once again, as a climax of pleasure ripped though his form as then was still. He opened his eyes. The sun had gone down and it was night once again. Snow was falling outside, stars twinkled and shone brightly in the ink black sky, and there was absolute silence, both in and outside the palace. Legolas was at peace. In the morning, a servant came to his room and knocked. There was no answer, and the servant became worried and opened the door with a spare key. Legolas was laying on bed with his eyes closed as if in sleep, his right hand curled around a pen and a letter. His chest didn’t move, his lips were parted but gave no air, and he was still. The servant pick up the paper and it read the following: To the person who reads this, I have become enlightened by a dream. I know my death is near, and since I do not have young kin to speak of, make Tauriel queen. The dream was filled of things that you will not understand, I fear for a long time, so long that only the youngest of you will live to see it. I have but one request; bury my body by the sea. Legolas Greenleaf And so ended the life of an elf and they buried him by the sea, and made a small temple, as elves always do with royalty. Some say he haunts the beaches there.


The Balloonman presents the poodle, smiles and begins another. The child lifts it overhead; refracted color splashes his face. Autumn engulfs the horizon—the carnival sags. The Balloonman squints as summer burns itself out. The swan completed, he bows to one last girl, sighs, and turns toward evening and home. Melody Leming-Wilson lives and teaches in … Continue reading MELODY LEMING-WILSON: Balloonman →


I’ve been collecting things since I was very small. Conkers, feathers, snow globes. Then onto stamps, butterflies, coins. It was only natural for me to progress to larger, more beautiful and precious things. Hard to find, harder to keep. People demand their freedom in a way that stamps never did. Charlie Swailes writes short and … Continue reading CHARLIE SWAILES: Assemblage →

KRISTA ROBEY: Birds of a Different Feather

Displayed in front of the Catholic school assembly, Lydia felt like an ostrich: swollen belly perched on teenaged stork-thin legs, dying to bury her head in the sand. Afterwards, the nuns expelled her. It was then she decided “pro-life” was a crow veiled in a habit, not an olive-branched dove. Krista Robey is an unapologetic … Continue reading KRISTA ROBEY: Birds of a Different Feather →

STORY OF THE MONTH: November 2019

The Story of the Month is chosen from the Story of the Week winners announced from the past month. The finalists for November were: Sundays by Una Nine Nine Rain Dance by Raymond Sloane Surrender by Eileen Hansen Shadows by Dmitri Christopher The winner of the November 2019 Story of the Month, and the $10 … Continue reading STORY OF THE MONTH: November 2019 →


When I saw him the other day, I felt the strangest urge to strike up a conversation. Most peculiar, seeing as we’ve hardly been close. But the moment passed and I saw it wasn’t him, remembered it couldn’t be so. A curiosity indeed that we’re always friendlier towards the dead. Gretchen wants to make being … Continue reading GRETCHEN IVERS: Hey →