All in the Golden Afternoon

Dawn breaks over the purple hills. Warmed by the light, iris buds twitch atop leggy stems. They bloom luxuriantly, stretching soft limbs and delicate, violet petal-wings. Tiny white hands ball into fists, rub golden pollen from newly split eyelids.

The iris pixies begin to drop from their stems, giggle as they hit the grass. A high buzz goes up over the field; thousands of small voices, jubilant to be alive. They frolic, admiring each other's wings, rubbing their pollen covered heads, and hugging 
en masse.

Tiny bodies rise from the grass on flickering purple wings, a thousand motile flowers. They flit and cavort under the sun, singing.

They hardly notice as dozens of their kind disappear in puffs of pollen, plucked from the air by keg-sized, hungry bees.

Horton looked up from his knitting. His cat, Dick, had hopped from the garden onto the porch. White and yellow crust covered the feline's muzzle. Something wriggled in its jaws.

Horton beckoned to the tabby. "Come 'ere, Dick. What's that you've got?"

The cat strutted to Horton's rocking chair, tail held high. It dipped its head, deposited a sticky, twitching yellow thing at the old man's feet. Horton squinted at it.

It was a chewed up tulip pixie, covered in its own sticky, yellow fluids. Its delicate, waxy pale arms were snapped, bent askew. One leg was gone entirely. It wriggled in distress.

"Oh, ye damn cat" said Horton. "I told ye not to kill me tulips."

Dick meowed, perked up his ears. He looked at the pixie and thwacked it with a paw. It produced a tiny scream.

"Damn silly cat, don' torture 'im" said Horton. He shifted in his chair, crushed the mangled pixie with the heel of his boot.

The rose reclines, purses her lips. She turns a glance to some pink lads on the toadstool across from her, narrows her pollen-crusted bead-eyes. They grin in unison, begin posing nonchalantly.

One, possessed of flowing, layered stamen-locks, flits his wings. The others cheer him on. He alights on the rose's toadstool. In a high, smooth voice, he begins to serenade her.

The rose closes her eyes, breathes deep. The lad's scent is succulent, heady. In the shaded, musty mushroom patch, his voice is bright and sweet. Slowly, the rose stretches her long pink legs, stands. She approaches the lad, runs a pale, nail-less thumb along his jaw. He flashes white, flat teeth, leans for a kiss.

A crunch sounds overhead. Sunlight breaches the mushroom patch. A giant, pudgy hand reaches from the sky, stubby nails smeared with mud. It seizes the rose round her tiny waist. With a yank, she disappears.

"Ma'm, these ones were gonna snog" says a muddy girl, waving the wriggling rose.

"Put it down, Dora" says her Governess. "We mustn't disturb the landscaping."


Few organisms have mastered the art of sexual reproduction quite like pixiferous plants. Pixifers produce blooms which, after several days of sun exposure, metamorphose into sapient, motile pixies. 

Pixies resemble humanoid flowers. They posses a sex, which may be determined by the presence of stamens or pistils atop their petaled heads.

Most species bloom in spring or throughout the summer. In this time, they sing and cavort in an attempt to attract other pixies, with whom they will mate repeatedly and creatively. A successful mating fertilizes the seed pod or bulb within females, which develops upon death.

Pixies live for up to a month, depending on species. By midsummer, gutters and roadsides are choked with their small, dry corpses. 

Pixies are the target of several predators, the chiefest of which are bees. As pixies tend to be oblivious, they may be gobbled up easily, even by tortoises. Other threats to pixies include cats, who kill them in droves, and small children, who are apt to play with them.

Though pixies do not use a language as humans understand it, they use a tonal mode of expression in their songs. Pixies are born with this knowledge. They appear to communicate basic concepts with it.

Not all species of pixie are humanoid and sapient. Exotic, tropical varieties, such as the lion poppy, resemble large, ferocious animals. 

Pixie Fancy

Pixies are fancied as ornamental plants in Coastal gardens. They are enjoyed for their beauty whilst on the stem, and for their behavior while motile. 

Some species are kept for their temperament; be they haughty, playful, or exceedingly lustful. Some are fancied for their song, the arrangement and choral nature of which also depends on species. Some are kept merely for their beauty.

  • Lilac pixies are small and slow. Tiny, soft, purple nodules cover their legs. They are prized for their scent and dust, which they waft lazily through the air. Their song is a low hum. Lilacs are prized for summer parties.
  • Roses are loud and romantic. Their song naturally divides into a series of solo pieces. Their enormous, many-layered heads keep them primarily land-bound. They lounge about and mate with luxuriant indolence.
  • Daffodils are especially joyous and communal. They fly in droves, reeling and playing in the air. Though their wings are a fine, bright gold, they are primarily a wild species. Most gardeners avoid daffodils, due to their propensity for orgies.
  • Irises are a prized, delicate species. Their heavy wings are billowy and desirable, but tear easily. Irises are both vain and oblivious. They rarely notice impending, or even present, doom.
  • Tulips are the most common garden pixie. They are easy to grow and sport a variety of colors. Tulips laugh all day, but sing only in the evening (pleasantly known as the golden afternoon.) They are well known for their friendliness, but also their foolishness.

Author's Note

You know how Pixar has a creative prompt which goes "what if X had feelings?" Cars have feelings. Fish have feelings. Feelings have feelings. I like this.

My longtime creative prompt is "what if X were people?" It's great.

Also, it might be cool to play a series of pixies in an RPG. Die, get a new pixie. Repeat.


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