Let me tell you something: Fairies might look lovely on the outside, but inside they are ugly, real ugly. Fairies are mean and vicious. I know. Let me tell you about my fairy in a jar. The kit was a birthday present from an aunt who had no idea what I liked.

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Let me tell you something: Fairies might look lovely on the outside, but inside they are ugly, real ugly. Fairies are mean and vicious. I know. Let me tell you about my fairy in a jar. The kit was a birthday present from an aunt who had no idea what I liked.

I might have used it once or twice, but mostly it just sat at the back of my closet under a pile of other junk. The whole adventure was. I was just about to quit when I saw a flash under the birch tree at the back of the yard near the woods.

Thinking about it later, I sort of remember that the flash was different. It was more glittery, almost a sparkle. I crept over and swung the net. Something heavy hit the bottom. I jumped. My skin crawled at that idea. I fumbled the jar lid open and slammed the net down. I felt a solid plunk against the glass. Got it, I thought. I needed two tries to get the lid on right. The jar kept shaking in my hand. So did the lid. A bat. My very own bat. The guys would go wild when I showed it to them.

I held the jar up to see my catch. Three fireflies were crawling around the sides. There was something else crumpled on the bottom. It was a she. She unfolded herself and rose slowly to her feet, shimmering in the light of the quarter moon. She was no more than five inches tall. Long dark hair. Green dress. She looked down at her body, as if checking for injuries. The jar was still shaking in short jerks that made her stagger and fight for balance.

She pressed her hands against the glass and stared straight at me. For an instant, so quick I thought at first it was my imagination, there was nothing in her gaze but pure hatred.

Then she smiled. Maybe I should have smashed the jar against the tree. Maybe I should have smashed it and run—just run and run forever. In a way, I understood how that kid at the playground must have felt last week when I punched him in the gut. Everything inside of me was stunned. I felt that my body had been filled with glue. I held the jar and stared at her. I grabbed the lid.

I started to twist it loose, but that look of hate flashed across her face again. I knew. In that thousandth of a second, I knew I could never set her free. She was mine. I had captured a prize no one else could even imagine. I took my hand off the lid and held it out, palm up. A thousand dollars. Right here. Still staring at me, she raised the struggling insect to her mouth. Still staring, she bit off the head of the firefly. I looked away. But I squeezed the jar, as if to make sure the glass was strong enough to keep her trapped.

It was one of those jars people put homemade stuff in. The lady next door had this wormy old apple tree. Each year she made applesauce for the whole neighborhood. Every house got a jar, tied with a red ribbon. No one ever eats it. We just toss out the whole thing, or dump the sauce and keep the jar. The glass felt solid. It would hold her. I took the jar up to my room, being careful that nobody saw it. I put it on the top shelf in my closet. The next morning, I almost convinced myself none of it had happened.

But the jar was there. And she was there. At first I thought she was dead. She was crumpled on the bottom again. Then, as I saw her let out a shallow breath, I realized she was sleeping—sleeping or in some sort of suspended state.

Creature of the night. I noticed something else. The bugs were gone—all three of them. Bon appetit. I shook the jar a bit, but she just slid around without waking. I could wait. I was pretty sure of that. Somehow, some way, I was going to get a payoff from her. Sure enough, when I checked that night, she was awake, sitting on the bottom of the jar.

I shall reward you with wonders beyond your imagining. A chill ran down my spine. What can you do? Promises were easy to make. It was a standoff, but I was the one with the power. She would give me something valuable. She had no choice. I owned her now. I closed the closet door and left the room. The next day, we had the same conversation, and the same again on the day after.

I wanted proof. She wanted freedom. But she was weakening. I could see that. I knew she had to give me a reward sooner or later. I was in charge. On the fifth day, she agreed to my request. Her voice was thinner, barely louder than a thought. Give me carbon.


In the Land of the Lawn Weenies and Other Warped and Creepy Tales

However, it should also be noted that not every story is played for horror. Quite a few are more lighthearted and embrace the weirdness of their premises ex. One tale is simply about a kid talking with the personification of bad luck , trying to make you laugh, some even pull a "Scooby-Doo" Hoax The series debuted in with In the Land of the Lawn Weenies, and is currently running today with a total of nine installments.


In the Land of the Lawn Weenies



David Lubar


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