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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Tresa faerie was excited. Today was the day assignments were coming out. She had been in training for six weeks. She wondered where she would be placed. Alaska? Paris? Tokyo? Hawaii? New Zealand? Kenya? Texas? Rome? California? She was quivering with pure excitement. Would she be an April Faerie? An April faerie gets to paint the flowers. She had put it down as her first choice. Second choice was not bad either. She might be assigned to a prophetess, Whispering premonitions in her ear, being rewarded with love and affection. Prophetesses were known to take especially good of their faeries. Third choice was tree faerie; she loved trees, especially the Cottonwoods, And the oaks, the elms, the weeping willows, the Rose of Sharons. Which reminded her of flowers. Yes, being an April faerie was her first choice. She sat up especially straight, wearing her favorite colors of pixie dust. Her faerie wings had never been more shiny. Her friend Garland winked at her. He waved his envelope at her and laughed. He was sitting up front; had his assignment first. The instructions were to wait until everyone had their envelope, but Garland never heard instructions; or followed them if he heard them. The way he was grinning, she knew he probably got his first choice – fire faerie. His job would be to inspire people to have campfires, sing, and listen to each other. Her envelope was placed in her hands. They were shaking now. She ripped it open. Desk faerie! One of the worst jobs of all, a muse to a writer! What? Disappointment flooded her; she was shaking now, and harder, for she was crying. The instructor came over, took both her hands and said, ”It is the most important job,” For writing the truth reminds people what mistakes have been made, and shows them how to correct them, live with each other, love each other, and it changes the world.” She was not convinced. A muse! She was a muse? She had never wanted to be one. Muses had bad reputations, like brownies and elves. She would HATE being a muse. She hated it already. Until she was assigned, and then she immediately loved it. It is all a matter of being assigned to the right person, you see, and she was…assigned to you.
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