Faery Dust

It's near midnight. The moon has long disappeared behind cloud cover. A single gaslight is all that illuminates the alley. A breeze pushes pockets of fog down a nearby street. The cold air stings my cheeks. I wonder how much longer I'll have to wait.

I hear the clip-clop sound of shoes thumping against the cobblestones. Sometimes they're barely audible, walking softly, afraid to make too much noise. It seems the first child has come to seek me out. Not long at all.

His head turns and he peers into the darkness of the alley. He begins walking anxiously towards me. He's no more than 11. He has wild curly hair, and beautiful brown eyes. His thin pink lips glisten from the moisture of his nervous licking. He isn't from around here of that I'm sure. His silk cloak and polished shoes with shiny gold buckles give that away.

He gives a nervous smile, showing his pearly perfect little teeth. His eyes dart to the alley's exits. Contemplating a quick retreat? His round brown eyes focus on me, then behind me to my companions. His gaze returns to me. He takes in the unkempt brown hair, the round face, the small frame, and the green, almond shaped eyes. He runs his eyes over the dirty brown breeches and green shirt. His lip curls in distaste at the clumpy leather boots. "Are y-you - ?" He speaks with a squeaky voice forcing the words through chattering teeth.

I nod. This plays out the same way for everyone's first time. I ask them, "You want to fly? You want to go to Never-neverland?"

They swallow hard, and nod. Sometimes they'll sputter out a "Yes." This one didn't. Then they reach into their pockets. The rich brats pull out coins; others might bring a treasure they've stolen. If they bring a worthless bauble, I send them away. They'll come back with something better. They always come back with something better.

I pull the small, one-inch square, white envelope from my pocket, shaking it to show the goods are inside. He gives a stupid grin, snatches the envelope, and gives it a soft shake. At this time, he runs out of the alley and back home. He seems to no longer care about the clip clopping of his shoes.

I imagine the child arriving home. He sneaks back in through a window. He places his clothes and shoes neatly in a pile. He clutches the envelope tightly, and then sets it down on the wooden floor. He peels it open carefully, not wanting to spill the contents. At first, he'll gaze as it sparkles in the night-light.

In a few minutes, he works up the courage to dip a finger in. He quizzically looks at how his finger glitters. He wonders if faery dust will make him fly, his finger does feel lighter. Bringing his finger to the tip of his tongue he licks off the powder.

He sits there with a stupefied look; his brown eyes glazed over staring at nothing. Were his parents to walk in, they wouldn't know it; but he's flying and headed straight for Never-neverland. It'll be a short trip, only a taste. He'll spend more and more time there. The envelope will be empty within days. Soon, he'll come clip clopping into my alley again.

They call me Peter Pan. I make your children fly. I take them to Never-neverland, and sometimes they don't come back.